Bab Bab 31 · Houses have their own ways of dying, falling as variously as the

. Houses have their own ways of dying, falling as variously as the

generations of men, some with a tragic roar, some quietly, but to an

after-life in the city of ghosts, while from others—and thus was the

death of Wickham Place—the spirit slips before the body perishes. It

had decayed in the spring, disintegrating the girls more than they

knew, and causing either to accost unfamiliar regions. By September it

was a corpse, void of emotion, and scarcely hallowed by the memories of

thirty years of happiness. Through its round-topped doorway passed

furniture, and pictures, and books, until the last room was gutted and

the last van had rumbled away. It stood for a week or two longer,

open-eyed, as if astonished at its own emptiness. Then it fell. Navvies

came, and spilt it back into the grey. With their muscles and their

beery good temper, they were not the worst of undertakers for a house

which had always been human, and had not mistaken culture for an end.

The furniture, with a few exceptions, went down into Hertfordshire, Mr.

Wilcox having most kindly offered Howards End as a warehouse. Mr. Bryce

had died abroad—an unsatisfactory affair—and as there seemed little

guarantee that the rent would be paid regularly, he cancelled the

agreement, and resumed possession himself. Until he relet the house,

the Schlegels were welcome to stack their furniture in the garage and

lower rooms. Margaret demurred, but Tibby accepted the offer gladly; it

saved him from coming to any decision about the future. The plate and

the more valuable pictures found a safer home in London, but the bulk

of the things went country-ways, and were entrusted to the guardianship

of Miss Avery.

Shortly before the move, our hero and heroine were married. They have

weathered the storm, and may reasonably expect peace. To have no

illusions and yet to love—what stronger surety can a woman find? She

had seen her husband’s past as well as his heart. She knew her own

heart with a thoroughness that commonplace people believe impossible.

The heart of Mrs. Wilcox was alone hidden, and perhaps it is

superstitious to speculate on the feelings of the dead. They were

married quietly—really quietly, for as the day approached she refused

to go through another Oniton. Her brother gave her away, her aunt, who

was out of health, presided over a few colourless refreshments. The

Wilcoxes were represented by Charles, who witnessed the marriage

settlement, and by Mr. Cahill. Paul did send a cablegram. In a few

minutes, and without the aid of music, the clergyman made them man and

wife, and soon the glass shade had fallen that cuts off married couples

from the world. She, a monogamist, regretted the cessation of some of

life’s innocent odours; he, whose instincts were polygamous, felt

morally braced by the change, and less liable to the temptations that

had assailed him in the past.

They spent their honeymoon near Innsbruck. Henry knew of a reliable

hotel there, and Margaret hoped for a meeting with her sister. In this

she was disappointed. As they came south, Helen retreated over the

Brenner, and wrote an unsatisfactory postcard from the shores of the

Lake of Garda, saying that her plans were uncertain and had better be

ignored. Evidently she disliked meeting Henry. Two months are surely

enough to accustom an outsider to a situation which a wife has accepted

in two days, and Margaret had again to regret her sister’s lack of

self-control. In a long letter she pointed out the need of charity in

sexual matters: so little is known about them; it is hard enough for

those who are personally touched to judge; then how futile must be the

verdict of Society. “I don’t say there is no standard, for that would

destroy morality; only that there can be no standard until our impulses

are classified and better understood.” Helen thanked her for her kind

letter—rather a curious reply. She moved south again, and spoke of

wintering in Naples.

Mr. Wilcox was not sorry that the meeting failed. Helen left him time

to grow skin over his wound. There were still moments when it pained

him. Had he only known that Margaret was awaiting him—Margaret, so

lively and intelligent, and yet so submissive—he would have kept

himself worthier of her. Incapable of grouping the past, he confused

the episode of Jacky with another episode that had taken place in the

days of his bachelorhood. The two made one crop of wild oats, for which

he was heartily sorry, and he could not see that those oats are of a

darker stock which are rooted in another’s dishonour. Unchastity and

infidelity were as confused to him as to the Middle Ages, his only

moral teacher. Ruth (poor old Ruth!) did not enter into his

calculations at all, for poor old Ruth had never found him out.

His affection for his present wife grew steadily. Her cleverness gave

him no trouble, and, indeed, he liked to see her reading poetry or

something about social questions; it distinguished her from the wives

of other men. He had only to call, and she clapped the book up and was

ready to do what he wished. Then they would argue so jollily, and once

or twice she had him in quite a tight corner, but as soon as he grew

really serious, she gave in. Man is for war, woman for the recreation

of the warrior, but he does not dislike it if she makes a show of

fight. She cannot win in a real battle, having no muscles, only nerves.

Nerves make her jump out of a moving motor-car, or refuse to be married

fashionably. The warrior may well allow her to triumph on such

occasions; they move not the imperishable plinth of things that touch

his peace.

Margaret had a bad attack of these nerves during the honeymoon. He told

her—casually, as was his habit—that Oniton Grange was let. She showed

her annoyance, and asked rather crossly why she had not been consulted.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” he replied. “Besides, I have only heard

for certain this morning.”

“Where are we to live?” said Margaret, trying to laugh. “I loved the

place extraordinarily. Don’t you believe in having a permanent home,

Henry?”

He assured her that she misunderstood him. It is home life that

distinguishes us from the foreigner. But he did not believe in a damp

home.

“This is news. I never heard till this minute that Oniton was damp.”

“My dear girl!”—he flung out his hand—“have you eyes? have you a skin?

How could it be anything but damp in such a situation? In the first

place, the Grange is on clay, and built where the castle moat must have

been; then there’s that destestable little river, steaming all night

like a kettle. Feel the cellar walls; look up under the eaves. Ask Sir

James or anyone. Those Shropshire valleys are notorious. The only

possible place for a house in Shropshire is on a hill; but, for my

part, I think the country is too far from London, and the scenery

nothing special.”

Margaret could not resist saying, “Why did you go there, then?”

“I—because—” He drew his head back and grew rather angry. “Why have we

come to the Tyrol, if it comes to that? One might go on asking such

questions indefinitely.”

One might; but he was only gaining time for a plausible answer. Out it

came, and he believed it as soon as it was spoken.

“The truth is, I took Oniton on account of Evie. Don’t let this go any

further.”

“Certainly not.”

“I shouldn’t like her to know that she nearly let me in for a very bad

bargain. No sooner did I sign the agreement than she got engaged. Poor

little girl! She was so keen on it all, and wouldn’t even wait to make

proper inquiries about the shooting. Afraid it would get snapped

up—just like all of your sex. Well, no harm’s done. She has had her

country wedding, and I’ve got rid of my house to some fellows who are

starting a preparatory school.”

“Where shall we live, then, Henry? I should enjoy living somewhere.”

“I have not yet decided. What about Norfolk?”

Margaret was silent. Marriage had not saved her from the sense of flux.

London was but a foretaste of this nomadic civilization which is

altering human nature so profoundly, and throws upon personal relations

a stress greater than they have ever borne before. Under

cosmopolitanism, if it comes, we shall receive no help from the earth.

Trees and meadows and mountains will only be a spectacle, and the

binding force that they once exercised on character must be entrusted

to Love alone. May Love be equal to the task!

“It is now what?” continued Henry. “Nearly October. Let us camp for the

winter at Ducie Street, and look out for something in the spring.

“If possible, something permanent. I can’t be as young as I was, for

these alterations don’t suit me.”

“But, my dear, which would you rather have—alterations or rheumatism?”

“I see your point,” said Margaret, getting up. “If Oniton is really

damp, it is impossible, and must be inhabited by little boys. Only, in

the spring, let us look before we leap. I will take warning by Evie,

and not hurry you. Remember that you have a free hand this time. These

endless moves must be bad for the furniture, and are certainly

expensive.”

“What a practical little woman it is! What’s it been reading?

Theo—theo—how much?”

“Theosophy.”

So Ducie Street was her first fate—a pleasant enough fate. The house,

being only a little larger than Wickham Place, trained her for the

immense establishment that was promised in the spring. They were

frequently away, but at home life ran fairly regularly. In the morning

Henry went to the business, and his sandwich—a relic this of some

prehistoric craving—was always cut by her own hand. He did not rely

upon the sandwich for lunch, but liked to have it by him in case he

grew hungry at eleven. When he had gone, there was the house to look

after, and the servants to humanize, and several kettles of Helen’s to

keep on the boil. Her conscience pricked her a little about the Basts;

she was not sorry to have lost sight of them. No doubt Leonard was

worth helping, but being Henry’s wife, she preferred to help someone

else. As for theatres and discussion societies, they attracted her less

and less. She began to “miss” new movements, and to spend her spare

time re-reading or thinking, rather to the concern of her Chelsea

friends. They attributed the change to her marriage, and perhaps some

deep instinct did warn her not to travel further from her husband than

was inevitable. Yet the main cause lay deeper still; she had outgrown

stimulants, and was passing from words to things. It was doubtless a

pity not to keep up with Wedekind or John, but some closing of the

gates is inevitable after thirty, if the mind itself is to become a

creative power.