CHAPTER XXV

Evie heard of her father’s engagement when she was in for a tennis

tournament, and her play went simply to pot. That she should marry and

leave him had seemed natural enough; that he, left alone, should do the

same was deceitful; and now Charles and Dolly said that it was all her

fault. “But I never dreamt of such a thing,” she grumbled. “Dad took

me to call now and then, and made me ask her to Simpson’s. Well, I’m

altogether off dad.” It was also an insult to their mother’s memory;

there they were agreed, and Evie had the idea of returning Mrs. Wilcox’s

lace and jewellery “as a protest.” Against what it would protest she was

not clear; but being only eighteen, the idea of renunciation appealed

to her, the more as she did not care for jewellery or lace. Dolly then

suggested that she and Uncle Percy should pretend to break off their

engagement, and then perhaps Mr. Wilcox would quarrel with Miss

Schlegel, and break off his; or Paul might be cabled for. But at this

point Charles told them not to talk nonsense. So Evie settled to marry

as soon as possible; it was no good hanging about with these Schlegels

eyeing her. The date of her wedding was consequently put forward from

September to August, and in the intoxication of presents she recovered

much of her good-humour.

Margaret found that she was expected to figure at this function, and to

figure largely; it would be such an opportunity, said Henry, for her

to get to know his set. Sir James Bidder would be there, and all the

Cahills and the Fussells, and his sister-in-law, Mrs. Warrington Wilcox,

had fortunately got back from her tour round the world. Henry she loved,

but his set promised to be another matter. He had not the knack of

surrounding himself with nice people--indeed, for a man of ability and

virtue his choice had been singularly unfortunate; he had no guiding

principle beyond a certain preference for mediocrity; he was content to

settle one of the greatest things in life haphazard, and so, while his

investments went right, his friends generally went wrong. She would be

told, “Oh, So-and-so’s a good sort--a thundering good sort,” and find,

on meeting him, that he was a brute or a bore. If Henry had shown real

affection, she would have understood, for affection explains everything.

But he seemed without sentiment. The “thundering good sort” might at

any moment become “a fellow for whom I never did have much use, and have

less now,” and be shaken off cheerily into oblivion. Margaret had done

the same as a schoolgirl. Now she never forgot any one for whom she had

once cared; she connected, though the connection might be bitter, and

she hoped that some day Henry would do the same.

Evie was not to be married from Ducie Street. She had a fancy for

something rural, and, besides, no one would be in London then, so she

left her boxes for a few weeks at Oniton Grange, and her banns were

duly published in the parish church, and for a couple of days the little

town, dreaming between the ruddy hills, was roused by the clang of our

civilisation, and drew up by the roadside to let the motors pass. Oniton

had been a discovery of Mr. Wilcox’s--a discovery of which he was not

altogether proud. It was up towards the Welsh border, and so difficult

of access that he had concluded it must be something special. A ruined

castle stood in the grounds. But having got there, what was one to do?

The shooting was bad, the fishing indifferent, and womenfolk reported

the scenery as nothing much. The place turned out to be in the wrong

part of Shropshire, and though he never ran down his own property to

others, he was only waiting to get it off his hands, and then to let

fly. Evie’s marriage was its last appearance in public. As soon as a

tenant was found, it became a house for which he never had had much use,

and had less now, and, like Howards End, faded into Limbo.

But on Margaret Oniton was destined to make a lasting impression. She

regarded it as her future home, and was anxious to start straight with

the clergy, etc., and, if possible, to see something of the local life.

It was a market-town--as tiny a one as England possesses--and had for

ages served that lonely valley, and guarded our marches against the

Celt. In spite of the occasion, in spite of the numbing hilarity that

greeted her as soon as she got into the reserved saloon at Paddington,

her senses were awake and watching, and though Oniton was to prove one

of her innumerable false starts, she never forgot it, or the things that

happened there.

The London party only numbered eight--the Fussells, father and son,

two Anglo-Indian ladies named Mrs. Plynlimmon and Lady Edser, Mrs.

Warrington Wilcox and her daughter, and, lastly, the little girl,

very smart and quiet, who figures at so many weddings, and who kept a

watchful eye on Margaret, the bride-elect. Dolly was absent--a domestic

event detained her at Hilton; Paul had cabled a humorous message;

Charles was to meet them with a trio of motors at Shrewsbury; Helen had

refused her invitation; Tibby had never answered his. The management was

excellent, as was to be expected with anything that Henry undertook; one

was conscious of his sensible and generous brain in the background. They

were his guests as soon as they reached the train; a special label

for their luggage; a courier; a special lunch; they had only to look

pleasant and, where possible, pretty. Margaret thought with dismay

of her own nuptials--presumably under the management of Tibby. “Mr.

Theobald Schlegel and Miss Helen Schlegel request the pleasure of Mrs.

Plynlimmon’s company on the occasion of the marriage of their sister

Margaret.” The formula was incredible, but it must soon be printed and

sent, and though Wickham Place need not compete with Oniton, it must

feed its guests properly, and provide them with sufficient chairs. Her

wedding would either be ramshackly or bourgeois--she hoped the latter.

Such an affair as the present, staged with a deftness that was almost

beautiful, lay beyond her powers and those of her friends.

The low rich purr of a Great Western express is not the worst background

for conversation, and the journey passed pleasantly enough. Nothing

could have exceeded the kindness of the two men. They raised windows

for some ladies, and lowered them for others, they rang the bell for the

servant, they identified the colleges as the train slipped past Oxford,

they caught books or bag-purses in the act of tumbling on to the floor.

Yet there was nothing finicking about their politeness--it had the

public-school touch, and, though sedulous, was virile. More battles than

Waterloo have been won on our playing-fields, and Margaret bowed to a

charm of which she did not wholly approve, and said nothing when the

Oxford colleges were identified wrongly. “Male and female created He

them”; the journey to Shrewsbury confirmed this questionable statement,

and the long glass saloon, that moved so easily and felt so comfortable,

became a forcing-house for the idea of sex.

At Shrewsbury came fresh air. Margaret was all for sight-seeing, and

while the others were finishing their tea at the Raven, she annexed a

motor and hurried over the astonishing city. Her chauffeur was not

the faithful Crane, but an Italian, who dearly loved making her late.

Charles, watch in hand, though with a level brow, was standing in front

of the hotel when they returned. It was perfectly all right, he

told her; she was by no means the last. And then he dived into the

coffee-room, and she heard him say, “For God’s sake, hurry the women up;

we shall never be off,” and Albert Fussell reply, “Not I; I’ve done

my share,” and Colonel Fussell opine that the ladies were getting

themselves up to kill. Presently Myra (Mrs. Warrington’s daughter)

appeared, and as she was his cousin, Charles blew her up a little; she

had been changing her smart travelling hat for a smart motor hat. Then

Mrs. Warrington herself, leading the quiet child; the two Anglo-Indian

ladies were always last. Maids, courier, heavy luggage, had already

gone on by a branch-line to a station nearer Oniton, but there were five

hat-boxes and four dressing-bags to be packed, and five dust-cloaks

to be put on, and to be put off at the last moment, because Charles

declared them not necessary. The men presided over everything with

unfailing good-humour. By half-past five the party was ready, and went

out of Shrewsbury by the Welsh Bridge.

Shropshire had not the reticence of Hertfordshire. Though robbed of half

its magic by swift movement, it still conveyed the sense of hills. They

were nearing the buttresses that force the Severn eastward and make it

an English stream, and the sun, sinking over the Sentinels of Wales,

was straight in their eyes. Having picked up another guest, they

turned southward, avoiding the greater mountains, but conscious of an

occasional summit, rounded and mild, whose colouring differed in quality

from that of the lower earth, and whose contours altered more slowly.

Quiet mysteries were in progress behind those tossing horizons: the

West, as ever, was retreating with some secret which may not be worth

the discovery, but which no practical man will ever discover.

They spoke of Tariff Reform.

Mrs. Warrington was just back from the Colonies. Like many other critics

of Empire, her mouth had been stopped with food, and she could only

exclaim at the hospitality with which she had been received, and warn

the Mother Country against trifling with young Titans. “They threaten to

cut the painter,” she cried, “and where shall we be then? Miss Schlegel,

you’ll undertake to keep Henry sound about Tariff Reform? It is our last

hope.”

Margaret playfully confessed herself on the other side, and they began

to quote from their respective handbooks while the motor carried them

deep into the hills. Curious these were rather than impressive, for

their outlines lacked beauty, and the pink fields on their summits

suggested the handkerchiefs of a giant spread out to dry. An occasional

outcrop of rock, an occasional wood, an occasional “forest,” treeless

and brown, all hinted at wildness to follow, but the main colour was an

agricultural green. The air grew cooler; they had surmounted the last

gradient, and Oniton lay below them with its church, its radiating

houses, its castle, its river-girt peninsula. Close to the castle was

a grey mansion unintellectual but kindly, stretching with its grounds

across the peninsula’s neck--the sort of mansion that was built all over

England in the beginning of the last century, while architecture was

still an expression of the national character. That was the Grange,

remarked Albert, over his shoulder, and then he jammed the brake on, and

the motor slowed down and stopped. “I’m sorry,” said he, turning round.

“Do you mind getting out--by the door on the right. Steady on.”

“What’s happened?” asked Mrs. Warrington.

Then the car behind them drew up, and the voice of Charles was heard

saying: “Get the women out at once.” There was a concourse of males,

and Margaret and her companions were hustled out and received into the

second car. What had happened? As it started off again, the door of a

cottage opened, and a girl screamed wildly at them.

“What is it?” the ladies cried.

Charles drove them a hundred yards without speaking. Then he said: “It’s

all right. Your car just touched a dog.”

“But stop!” cried Margaret, horrified.

“It didn’t hurt him.”

“Didn’t really hurt him?” asked Myra.

“No.”

“Do PLEASE stop!” said Margaret, leaning forward. She was standing up in

the car, the other occupants holding her knees to steady her. “I want to

go back, please.”

Charles took no notice.

“We’ve left Mr. Fussell behind,” said another; “and Angelo, and Crane.”

“Yes, but no woman.”

“I expect a little of”--Mrs. Warrington scratched her palm--“will be

more to the point than one of us!”

“The insurance company see to that,” remarked Charles, “and Albert will

do the talking.”

“I want to go back, though, I say!” repeated Margaret, getting angry.

Charles took no notice. The motor, loaded with refugees, continued to

travel very slowly down the hill. “The men are there,” chorused the

others. “They will see to it.”

“The men CAN’T see to it. Oh, this is ridiculous! Charles, I ask you to

stop.”

“Stopping’s no good,” drawled Charles.

“Isn’t it?” said Margaret, and jumped straight out of the car. She fell

on her knees, cut her gloves, shook her hat over her ear. Cries of alarm

followed her. “You’ve hurt yourself,” exclaimed Charles, jumping after

her.

“Of course I’ve hurt myself!” she retorted.

“May I ask what--”

“There’s nothing to ask,” said Margaret.

“Your hand’s bleeding.”

“I know.”

“I’m in for a frightful row from the pater.”

“You should have thought of that sooner, Charles.”

Charles had never been in such a position before. It was a woman in

revolt who was hobbling away from him--and the sight was too strange to

leave any room for anger. He recovered himself when the others caught

them up: their sort he understood. He commanded them to go back.

Albert Fussell was seen walking towards them.

“It’s all right!” he called. “It was a cat.”

“There!” exclaimed Charles triumphantly. “It’s only a rotten cat.”

“Got room in your car for a little un? I cut as soon as I saw it wasn’t

a dog; the chauffeurs are tackling the girl.” But Margaret walked

forward steadily. Why should the chauffeurs tackle the girl? Ladies

sheltering behind men, men sheltering behind servants--the whole

system’s wrong, and she must challenge it.

“Miss Schlegel! ’Pon my word, you’ve hurt your hand.”

“I’m just going to see,” said Margaret. “Don’t you wait, Mr. Fussell.”

The second motor came round the corner. “It is all right, madam,” said

Crane in his turn. He had taken to calling her madam.

“What’s all right? The cat?”

“Yes, madam. The girl will receive compensation for it.”

“She was a very ruda girla,” said Angelo from the third motor

thoughtfully.

“Wouldn’t you have been rude?”

The Italian spread out his hands, implying that he had not thought of

rudeness, but would produce it if it pleased her. The situation became

absurd. The gentlemen were again buzzing round Miss Schlegel with offers

of assistance, and Lady Edser began to bind up her hand. She yielded,

apologising slightly, and was led back to the car, and soon the

landscape resumed its motion, the lonely cottage disappeared, the castle

swelled on its cushion of turf, and they had arrived. No doubt she had

disgraced herself. But she felt their whole journey from London had

been unreal. They had no part with the earth and its emotions. They were

dust, and a stink, and cosmopolitan chatter, and the girl whose cat had

been killed had lived more deeply than they.

“Oh, Henry,” she exclaimed, “I have been so naughty,” for she had

decided to take up this line. “We ran over a cat. Charles told me not to

jump out, but I would, and look!” She held out her bandaged hand. “Your

poor Meg went such a flop.”

Mr. Wilcox looked bewildered. In evening dress, he was standing to

welcome his guests in the hall.

“Thinking it was a dog,” added Mrs. Warrington.

“Ah, a dog’s a companion!” said Colonel Fussell. “A dog’ll remember you.”

“Have you hurt yourself, Margaret?”

“Not to speak about; and it’s my left hand.”

“Well, hurry up and change.”

She obeyed, as did the others. Mr. Wilcox then turned to his son.

“Now, Charles, what’s happened?”

Charles was absolutely honest. He described what he believed to have

happened. Albert had flattened out a cat, and Miss Schlegel had lost her

nerve, as any woman might. She had been got safely into the other car,

but when it was in motion had leapt out again, in spite of all that they

could say. After walking a little on the road, she had calmed down and

had said that she was sorry. His father accepted this explanation, and

neither knew that Margaret had artfully prepared the way for it.

It fitted in too well with their view of feminine nature. In the

smoking-room, after dinner, the Colonel put forward the view that Miss

Schlegel had jumped it out of devilry. Well he remembered as a young

man, in the harbour of Gibraltar once, how a girl--a handsome girl,

too--had jumped overboard for a bet. He could see her now, and all the

lads overboard after her. But Charles and Mr. Wilcox agreed it was much

more probably nerves in Miss Schlegel’s case. Charles was depressed.

That woman had a tongue. She would bring worse disgrace on his father

before she had done with them. He strolled out on to the castle mound to

think the matter over. The evening was exquisite. On three sides of him

a little river whispered, full of messages from the West; above his head

the ruins made patterns against the sky. He carefully reviewed their

dealings with this family, until he fitted Helen, and Margaret, and Aunt

Juley into an orderly conspiracy. Paternity had made him suspicious.

He had two children to look after, and more coming, and day by day

they seemed less likely to grow up rich men. “It is all very well,”

he reflected, “the pater’s saying that he will be just to all, but one

can’t be just indefinitely. Money isn’t elastic. What’s to happen if

Evie has a family? And, come to that, so may the pater. There’ll not be

enough to go round, for there’s none coming in, either through Dolly or

Percy. It’s damnable!” He looked enviously at the Grange, whose windows

poured light and laughter. First and last, this wedding would cost a

pretty penny. Two ladies were strolling up and down the garden terrace,

and as the syllables “Imperialism” were wafted to his ears, he guessed

that one of them was his aunt. She might have helped him, if she too had

not had a family to provide for. “Every one for himself,” he repeated--a

maxim which had cheered him in the past, but which rang grimly enough

among the ruins of Oniton. He lacked his father’s ability in business,

and so had an ever higher regard for money; unless he could inherit

plenty, he feared to leave his children poor.

As he sat thinking, one of the ladies left the terrace and walked into

the meadow; he recognised her as Margaret by the white bandage that

gleamed on her arm, and put out his cigar, lest the gleam should betray

him. She climbed up the mound in zigzags, and at times stooped down, as

if she was stroking the turf. It sounds absolutely incredible, but for

a moment Charles thought that she was in love with him, and had come out

to tempt him. Charles believed in temptresses, who are indeed the strong

man’s necessary complement, and having no sense of humour, he could not

purge himself of the thought by a smile. Margaret, who was engaged to

his father, and his sister’s wedding-guest, kept on her way without

noticing him, and he admitted that he had wronged her on this point. But

what was she doing? Why was she stumbling about amongst the rubble and

catching her dress in brambles and burrs? As she edged round the

keep, she must have got to windward and smelt his cigar-smoke, for she

exclaimed, “Hullo! Who’s that?”

Charles made no answer.

“Saxon or Celt?” she continued, laughing in the darkness. “But it

doesn’t matter. Whichever you are, you will have to listen to me. I love

this place. I love Shropshire. I hate London. I am glad that this will

be my home. Ah, dear”--she was now moving back towards the house--“what

a comfort to have arrived!”

“That woman means mischief,” thought Charles, and compressed his lips.

In a few minutes he followed her indoors, as the ground was getting

damp. Mists were rising from the river, and presently it became

invisible, though it whispered more loudly. There had been a heavy

downpour in the Welsh hills.