prompt:
Chapter: Margaret had no intention of letting things slide, and the evening
before she left Swanage she gave her sister a thorough scolding. She
censured her, not for disapproving of the engagement, but for throwing
over her disapproval a veil of mystery. Helen was equally frank. "Yes,"
she said, with the air of one looking inwards, "there is a mystery.
I can't help it. It's not my fault. It's the way life has been made."
Helen in those days was over-interested in the subconscious self. She
exaggerated the Punch and Judy aspect of life, and spoke of mankind as
puppets, whom an invisible showman twitches into love and war. Margaret
pointed out that if she dwelt on this she, too, would eliminate the
personal. Helen was silent for a minute, and then burst into a queer
speech, which cleared the air. "Go on and marry him. I think you're
splendid; and if any one can pull it off, you will." Margaret denied
that there was anything to "pull off," but she continued: "Yes, there
is, and I wasn't up to it with Paul. I can do only what's easy. I
can only entice and be enticed. I can't, and won't, attempt difficult
relations. If I marry, it will either be a man who's strong enough to
boss me or whom I'm strong enough to boss. So I shan't ever marry, for
there aren't such men. And Heaven help any one whom I do marry, for I
shall certainly run away from him before you can say 'Jack Robinson.'
There! Because I'm uneducated. But you, you're different; you're a
heroine."

"Oh, Helen! Am I? Will it be as dreadful for poor Henry as all that?"

"You mean to keep proportion, and that's heroic, it's Greek, and I don't
see why it shouldn't succeed with you. Go on and fight with him and help
him. Don't ask me for help, or even for sympathy. Henceforward I'm going
my own way. I mean to be thorough, because thoroughness is easy. I
mean to dislike your husband, and to tell him so. I mean to make no
concessions to Tibby. If Tibby wants to live with me, he must lump me.
I mean to love you more than ever. Yes, I do. You and I have built
up something real, because it is purely spiritual. There's no veil of
mystery over us. Unreality and mystery begin as soon as one touches the
body. The popular view is, as usual, exactly the wrong one. Our bothers
are over tangible things--money, husbands, house-hunting. But Heaven
will work of itself."

Margaret was grateful for this expression of affection, and answered,
"Perhaps." All vistas close in the unseen--no one doubts it--but Helen
closed them rather too quickly for her taste. At every turn of speech
one was confronted with reality and the absolute. Perhaps Margaret grew
too old for metaphysics, perhaps Henry was weaning her from them, but
she felt that there was something a little unbalanced in the mind that
so readily shreds the visible. The business man who assumes that this
life is everything, and the mystic who asserts that it is nothing, fail,
on this side and on that, to hit the truth. "Yes, I see, dear; it's
about half-way between," Aunt Juley had hazarded in earlier years. No;
truth, being alive, was not half-way between anything. It was only to be
found by continuous excursions into either realm, and though proportion
is the final secret, to espouse it at the outset is to insure sterility.

Helen, agreeing here, disagreeing there, would have talked till
midnight, but Margaret, with her packing to do, focussed the
conversation on Henry. She might abuse Henry behind his back, but please
would she always be civil to him in company? "I definitely dislike
him, but I'll do what I can," promised Helen. "Do what you can with my
friends in return."

This conversation made Margaret easier. Their inner life was so safe
that they could bargain over externals in a way that would have been
incredible to Aunt Juley, and impossible for Tibby or Charles. There
are moments when the inner life actually "pays," when years of
self-scrutiny, conducted for no ulterior motive, are suddenly of
practical use. Such moments are still rare in the West; that they come
at all promises a fairer future. Margaret, though unable to understand
her sister, was assured against estrangement, and returned to London
with a more peaceful mind.

The following morning, at eleven o'clock, she presented herself at the
offices of the Imperial and West African Rubber Company. She was glad to
go there, for Henry had implied his business rather than described
it, and the formlessness and vagueness that one associates with Africa
itself had hitherto brooded over the main sources of his wealth.
Not that a visit to the office cleared things up. There was just the
ordinary surface scum of ledgers and polished counters and brass bars
that began and stopped for no possible reason, of electric-light globes
blossoming in triplets, of little rabbit-hutches faced with glass or
wire, of little rabbits. And even when she penetrated to the inner
depths, she found only the ordinary table and Turkey carpet, and though
the map over the fireplace did depict a helping of West Africa, it was
a very ordinary map. Another map hung opposite, on which the whole
continent appeared, looking like a whale marked out for a blubber,
and by its side was a door, shut, but Henry's voice came through it,
dictating a "strong" letter. She might have been at the Porphyrion, or
Dempster's Bank, or her own wine-merchant's. Everything seems just
alike in these days. But perhaps she was seeing the Imperial side of the
company rather than its West African, and Imperialism always had been
one of her difficulties.

"One minute!" called Mr. Wilcox on receiving her name. He touched a
bell, the effect of which was to produce Charles.

Charles had written his father an adequate letter--more adequate than
Evie's, through which a girlish indignation throbbed. And he greeted his
future stepmother with propriety.

"I hope that my wife--how do you do?--will give you a decent lunch," was
his opening. "I left instructions, but we live in a rough-and-ready way.
She expects you back to tea, too, after you have had a look at Howards
End. I wonder what you'll think of the place. I wouldn't touch it with
tongs myself. Do sit down! It's a measly little place."

"I shall enjoy seeing it," said Margaret, feeling, for the first time,
shy.

"You'll see it at its worst, for Bryce decamped abroad last Monday
without even arranging for a charwoman to clear up after him. I never
saw such a disgraceful mess. It's unbelievable. He wasn't in the house a
month."

"I've more than a little bone to pick with Bryce," called Henry from the
inner chamber.

"Why did he go so suddenly?"

"Invalid type; couldn't sleep."

"Poor fellow!"

"Poor fiddlesticks!" said Mr. Wilcox, joining them. "He had the
impudence to put up notice-boards without as much as saying with your
leave or by your leave. Charles flung them down."

"Yes, I flung them down," said Charles modestly.

"I've sent a telegram after him, and a pretty sharp one, too. He, and
he in person, is responsible for the upkeep of that house for the next
three years."

"The keys are at the farm; we wouldn't have the keys."

"Quite right."

"Dolly would have taken them, but I was in, fortunately."

"What's Mr. Bryce like?" asked Margaret.

But nobody cared. Mr. Bryce was the tenant, who had no right to sublet;
to have defined him further was a waste of time. On his misdeeds they
descanted profusely, until the girl who had been typing the strong
letter game out with it. Mr. Wilcox added his signature. "Now we'll be
off," said he.

A motor-drive, a form of felicity detested by Margaret, awaited her.
Charles saw them in, civil to the last, and in a moment the offices of
the Imperial and West African Rubber Company faded away. But it was not
an impressive drive. Perhaps the weather was to blame, being grey
and banked high with weary clouds. Perhaps Hertfordshire is scarcely
intended for motorists. Did not a gentleman once motor so quickly
through Westmoreland that he missed it? and if Westmoreland can
be missed, it will fare ill with a county whose delicate structure
particularly needs the attentive eye. Hertfordshire is England at
its quietest, with little emphasis of river and hill; it is England
meditative. If Drayton were with us again to write a new edition of
his incomparable poem, he would sing the nymphs of Hertfordshire as
indeterminate of feature, with hair obfuscated by the London smoke.
Their eyes would be sad, and averted from their fate towards the
Northern flats, their leader not Isis or Sabrina, but the slowly flowing
Lea. No glory of raiment would be theirs, no urgency of dance; but they
would be real nymphs.

The chauffeur could not travel as quickly as he had hoped, for the Great
North Road was full of Easter traffic. But he went quite quick enough
for Margaret, a poor-spirited creature, who had chickens and children on
the brain.

"They're all right," said Mr. Wilcox. "They'll learn--like the swallows
and the telegraph-wires."

"Yes, but, while they're learning--"

"The motor's come to stay," he answered. "One must get about. There's a
pretty church--oh, you aren't sharp enough. Well, look out, if the road
worries you--right outward at the scenery."

She looked at the scenery. It heaved and merged like porridge. Presently
it congealed. They had arrived.

Charles's house on the left; on the right the swelling forms of the
Six Hills. Their appearance in such a neighbourhood surprised her. They
interrupted the stream of residences that was thickening up towards
Hilton. Beyond them she saw meadows and a wood, and beneath them she
settled that soldiers of the best kind lay buried. She hated war and
liked soldiers--it was one of her amiable inconsistencies.

But here was Dolly, dressed up to the nines, standing at the door to
greet them, and here were the first drops of the rain. They ran in
gaily, and after a long wait in the drawing-room, sat down to the
rough-and-ready lunch, every dish of which concealed or exuded cream.
Mr. Bryce was the chief topic of conversation. Dolly described his visit
with the key, while her father-in-law gave satisfaction by chaffing her
and contradicting all she said. It was evidently the custom to laugh
at Dolly. He chaffed Margaret too, and Margaret roused from a grave
meditation was pleased and chaffed him back. Dolly seemed surprised and
eyed her curiously. After lunch the two children came down. Margaret
disliked babies, but hit it off better with the two-year-old, and sent
Dolly into fits of laughter by talking sense to him. "Kiss them now, and
come away," said Mr. Wilcox. She came, but refused to kiss them; it
was such hard luck on the little things, she said, and though Dolly
proffered Chorly-worly and Porgly-woggles in turn, she was obdurate.

By this time it was raining steadily. The car came round with the
hood up, and again she lost all sense of space. In a few minutes they
stopped, and Crane opened the door of the car.

"What's happened?" asked Margaret.

"What do you suppose?" said Henry.

A little porch was close up against her face.

"Are we there already?"

"We are."

"Well, I never! In years ago it seemed so far away."

Smiling, but somehow disillusioned, she jumped out, and her impetus
carried her to the front-door. She was about to open it, when Henry
said: "That's no good; it's locked. Who's got the key?"

As he had himself forgotten to call for the key at the farm, no one
replied. He also wanted to know who had left the front gate open, since
a cow had strayed in from the road, and was spoiling the croquet lawn.
Then he said rather crossly: "Margaret, you wait in the dry. I'll go
down for the key. It isn't a hundred yards."

"Mayn't I come too?"

"No; I shall be back before I'm gone."

Then the car turned away, and it was as if a curtain had risen. For the
second time that day she saw the appearance of the earth.

There were the greengage-trees that Helen had once described, there the
tennis lawn, there the hedge that would be glorious with dog-roses in
June, but the vision now was of black and palest green. Down by the
dell-hole more vivid colours were awakening, and Lent lilies stood
sentinel on its margin, or advanced in battalions over the grass. Tulips
were a tray of jewels. She could not see the wych-elm tree, but a branch
of the celebrated vine, studded with velvet knobs had covered the perch.
She was struck by the fertility of the soil; she had seldom been in a
garden where the flowers looked so well, and even the weeds she was idly
plucking out of the porch were intensely green. Why had poor Mr. Bryce
fled from all this beauty? For she had already decided that the place
was beautiful.

"Naughty cow! Go away!" cried Margaret to the cow, but without
indignation.

Harder came the rain, pouring out of a windless sky, and spattering up
from the notice-boards of the house-agents, which lay in a row on the
lawn where Charles had hurled them. She must have interviewed Charles in
another world--where one did have interviews. How Helen would revel in
such a notion! Charles dead, all people dead, nothing alive but houses
and gardens. The obvious dead, the intangible alive, and no connection
at all between them! Margaret smiled. Would that her own fancies were
as clear-cut! Would that she could deal as high-handedly with the world!
Smiling and sighing, she laid her hand upon the door. It opened. The
house was not locked up at all.

She hesitated. Ought she to wait for Henry? He felt strongly about
property, and might prefer to show her over himself. On the other hand,
he had told her to keep in the dry, and the porch was beginning to drip.
So she went in, and the draught from inside slammed the door behind.

Desolation greeted her. Dirty finger-prints were on the hall-windows,
flue and rubbish on its unwashed boards. The civilisation of luggage
had been here for a month, and then decamped. Dining-room and
drawing-room--right and left--were guessed only by their wallpapers.
They were just rooms where one could shelter from the rain. Across the
ceiling of each ran a great beam. The dining-room and hall revealed
theirs openly, but the drawing-room's was match-boarded--because the
facts of life must be concealed from ladies? Drawing-room, dining-room,
and hall--how petty the names sounded! Here were simply three rooms
where children could play and friends shelter from the rain. Yes, and
they were beautiful.

Then she opened one of the doors opposite--there were two--and exchanged
wall-papers for whitewash. It was the servants' part, though she
scarcely realised that: just rooms again, where friends might shelter.
The garden at the back was full of flowering cherries and plums. Farther
on were hints of the meadow and a black cliff of pines. Yes, the meadow
was beautiful.

Penned in by the desolate weather, she recaptured the sense of space
which the motor had tried to rob from her. She remembered again that ten
square miles are not ten times as wonderful as one square mile, that
a thousand square miles are not practically the same as heaven. The
phantom of bigness, which London encourages, was laid for ever when she
paced from the hall at Howards End to its kitchen and heard the rain run
this way and that where the watershed of the roof divided it.

Now Helen came to her mind, scrutinising half Wessex from the ridge of
the Purbeck Downs, and saying: "You will have to lose something." She
was not so sure. For instance she would double her kingdom by opening
the door that concealed the stairs.

Now she thought of the map of Africa; of empires; of her father; of
the two supreme nations, streams of whose life warmed her blood, but,
mingling, had cooled her brain. She paced back into the hall, and as she
did so the house reverberated.

"Is that you, Henry?" she called.

There was no answer, but the house reverberated again.

"Henry, have you got in?"

But it was the heart of the house beating, faintly at first, then
loudly, martially. It dominated the rain.

It is the starved imagination, not the well-nourished, that is afraid.
Margaret flung open the door to the stairs. A noise as of drums seemed
to deafen her. A woman, an old woman, was descending, with figure erect,
with face impassive, with lips that parted and said dryly:

"Oh! Well, I took you for Ruth Wilcox."

Margaret stammered: "I--Mrs. Wilcox--I?"

"In fancy, of course--in fancy. You had her way of walking. Good-day."
And the old woman passed out into the rain.

"It gave her quite a turn," said Mr. Wilcox, when retailing the incident
to Dolly at tea-time. "None of you girls have any nerves, really. Of
course, a word from me put it all right, but silly old Miss Avery--she
frightened you, didn't she, Margaret? There you stood clutching a bunch
of weeds. She might have said something, instead of coming down the
stairs with that alarming bonnet on. I passed her as I came in. Enough
to make the car shy. I believe Miss Avery goes in for being a character;
some old maids do." He lit a cigarette. "It is their last resource.
Heaven knows what she was doing in the place; but that's Bryce's
business, not mine."

"I wasn't as foolish as you suggest," said Margaret "She only startled
me, for the house had been silent so long."

"Did you take her for a spook?" asked Dolly, for whom "spooks"' and
"going to church" summarised the unseen.

"Not exactly."

"She really did frighten you," said Henry, who was far from discouraging
timidity in females. "Poor Margaret! And very naturally. Uneducated
classes are so stupid."

"Is Miss Avery uneducated classes?" Margaret asked, and found herself
looking at the decoration scheme of Dolly's drawing-room.

"She's just one of the crew at the farm. People like that always assume
things. She assumed you'd know who she was. She left all the Howards End
keys in the front lobby, and assumed that you'd seen them as you came
in, that you'd lock up the house when you'd done, and would bring them
on down to her. And there was her niece hunting for them down at the
farm. Lack of education makes people very casual. Hilton was full of
women like Miss Avery once."

"I shouldn't have disliked it, perhaps."

"Or Miss Avery giving me a wedding present," said Dolly.

Which was illogical but interesting. Through Dolly, Margaret was
destined to learn a good deal.

"But Charles said I must try not to mind, because she had known his
grandmother."

"As usual, you've got the story wrong, my good Dorothea."

"I meant great-grandmother--the one who left Mrs. Wilcox the house.
Weren't both of them and Miss Avery friends when Howards End, too, was a
farm?"

Her father-in-law blew out a shaft of smoke. His attitude to his dead
wife was curious. He would allude to her, and hear her discussed, but
never mentioned her by name. Nor was he interested in the dim, bucolic
past. Dolly was--for the following reason.

"Then hadn't Mrs. Wilcox a brother--or was it an uncle? Anyhow, he
popped the question, and Miss Avery, she said `No.' Just imagine, if
she'd said 'Yes,' she would have been Charles's aunt. (Oh, I say,
that's rather good! 'Charlie's Aunt'! I must chaff him about that this
evening.) And the man went out and was killed. Yes, I 'm certain I've
got it right now. Tom Howard--he was the last of them."

"I believe so," said Mr. Wilcox negligently.

"I say! Howards End--Howards Ended!" Dolly. "I'm rather on the spot this
evening, eh?"

"I wish you'd ask whether Crane's ended."

"Oh, Mr. Wilcox, how can you?"

"Because, if he has had enough tea, we ought to go--Dolly's a good
little woman," he continued, "but a little of her goes a long way. I
couldn't live near her if you paid me."

Margaret smiled. Though presenting a firm front to outsiders, no Wilcox
could live near, or near the possessions of, any other Wilcox. They
had the colonial spirit, and were always making for some spot where the
white man might carry his burden unobserved. Of course, Howards End was
impossible, so long as the younger couple were established in Hilton.
His objections to the house were plain as daylight now.

Crane had had enough tea, and was sent to the garage, where their car
had been trickling muddy water over Charles's. The downpour had
surely penetrated the Six Hills by now, bringing news of our restless
civilisation. "Curious mounds," said Henry, "but in with you now;
another time." He had to be up in London by seven--if possible, by
six-thirty. Once more she lost the sense of space; once more trees,
houses, people, animals, hills, merged and heaved into one dirtiness,
and she was at Wickham Place.

Her evening was pleasant. The sense of flux which had haunted her
all the year disappeared for a time. She forgot the luggage and the
motor-cars, and the hurrying men who know so much and connect so little.
She recaptured the sense of space, which is the basis of all earthly
beauty, and, starting from Howards End, she attempted to realise
England. She failed--visions do not come when we try, though they may
come through trying. But an unexpected love of the island awoke in her,
connecting on this side with the joys of the flesh, on that with the
inconceivable. Helen and her father had known this love, poor Leonard
Bast was groping after it, but it had been hidden from Margaret till
this afternoon. It had certainly come through the house and old Miss
Avery. Through them: the notion of "through" persisted; her mind
trembled towards a conclusion which only the unwise have put into words.
Then, veering back into warmth, it dwelt on ruddy bricks, flowering
plum-trees, and all the tangible joys of spring.

Henry, after allaying her agitation, had taken her over his property,
and had explained to her the use and dimensions of the various rooms. He
had sketched the history of the little estate. "It is so unlucky," ran
the monologue, "that money wasn't put into it about fifty years ago.
Then it had four--five--times the land--thirty acres at least. One
could have made something out of it then--a small park, or at all events
shrubberies, and rebuilt the house farther away from the road. What's
the good of taking it in hand now? Nothing but the meadow left, and even
that was heavily mortgaged when I first had to do with things--yes, and
the house too. Oh, it was no joke." She saw two women as he spoke, one
old, the other young, watching their inheritance melt away. She saw them
greet him as a deliverer. "Mismanagement did it--besides, the days for
small farms are over. It doesn't pay--except with intensive cultivation.
Small holdings, back to the land--ah! philanthropic bunkum. Take it as a
rule that nothing pays on a small scale. Most of the land you see (they
were standing at an upper window, the only one which faced west) belongs
to the people at the Park--they made their pile over copper--good chaps.
Avery's Farm, Sishe's--what they call the Common, where you see that
ruined oak--one after the other fell in, and so did this, as near as
is no matter." But Henry had saved it; without fine feelings or deep
insight, but he had saved it, and she loved him for the deed. "When
I had more control I did what I could--sold off the two and a half
animals, and the mangy pony, and the superannuated tools; pulled down
the outhouses; drained; thinned out I don't know how many guelder-roses
and elder-trees; and inside the house I turned the old kitchen into a
hall, and made a kitchen behind where the dairy was. Garage and so on
came later. But one could still tell it's been an old farm. And yet
it isn't the place that would fetch one of your artistic crew." No, it
wasn't; and if he did not quite understand it, the artistic crew would
still less; it was English, and the wych-elm that she saw from the
window was an English tree. No report had prepared her for its peculiar
glory. It was neither warrior, nor lover, nor god; in none of these
roles do the English excel. It was a comrade bending over the house,
strength and adventure in its roots, but in its utmost fingers
tenderness, and the girth, that a dozen men could not have spanned,
became in the end evanescent, till pale bud clusters seemed to float
in the air. It was a comrade. House and tree transcended any similes of
sex. Margaret thought of them now, and was to think of them through many
a windy night and London day, but to compare either to man, to woman,
always dwarfed the vision. Yet they kept within limits of the human.
Their message was not of eternity, but of hope on this side of the
grave. As she stood in the one, gazing at the other, truer relationship
had gleamed.

Another touch, and the account of her day is finished. They entered the
garden for a minute, and to Mr. Wilcox's surprise she was right. Teeth,
pigs' teeth, could be seen in the bark of the wych-elm tree--just the
white tips of them showing. "Extraordinary!" he cried. "Who told you?"

"I heard of it one winter in London," was her answer, for she, too,
avoided mentioning Mrs. Wilcox by name.

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.

Next morning a fine mist covered the peninsula. The weather promised
well, and the outline of the castle mound grew clearer each moment that
Margaret watched it. Presently she saw the keep, and the sun painted
the rubble gold, and charged the white sky with blue. The shadow of the
house gathered itself together, and fell over the garden. A cat looked
up at her window and mewed. Lastly the river appeared, still holding the
mists between its banks and its overhanging alders, and only visible as
far as a hill, which cut off its upper reaches.

Margaret was fascinated by Oniton. She had said that she loved it, but
it was rather its romantic tension that held her. The rounded Druids of
whom she had caught glimpses in her drive, the rivers hurrying down
from them to England, the carelessly modelled masses of the lower hills,
thrilled her with poetry. The house was insignificant, but the prospect
from it would be an eternal joy, and she thought of all the friends she
would have to stop in it, and of the conversion of Henry himself to a
rural life. Society, too, promised favourably. The rector of the parish
had dined with them last night, and she found that he was a friend of
her father's, and so knew what to find in her. She liked him. He would
introduce her to the town. While, on her other side, Sir James Bidder
sat, repeating that she only had to give the word, and he would whip up
the county families for twenty miles round. Whether Sir James, who was
Garden Seeds, had promised what he could perform, she doubted, but so
long as Henry mistook them for the county families when they did call,
she was content.

Charles Wilcox and Albert Fussell now crossed the lawn. They were going
for a morning dip, and a servant followed them with their bathing-suits.
She had meant to take a stroll herself before breakfast, but saw that
the day was still sacred to men, and amused herself by watching their
contretemps. In the first place the key of the bathing-shed could not be
found. Charles stood by the riverside with folded hands, tragical, while
the servant shouted, and was misunderstood by another servant in the
garden. Then came a difficulty about a springboard, and soon three
people were running backwards and forwards over the meadow, with orders
and counter orders and recriminations and apologies. If Margaret wanted
to jump from a motor-car, she jumped; if Tibby thought paddling would
benefit his ankles, he paddled; if a clerk desired adventure, he took
a walk in the dark. But these athletes seemed paralysed. They could not
bathe without their appliances, though the morning sun was calling and
the last mists were rising from the dimpling stream. Had they found
the life of the body after all? Could not the men whom they despised as
milksops beat them, even on their own ground?

She thought of the bathing arrangements as they should be in her day--no
worrying of servants, no appliances, beyond good sense. Her reflections
were disturbed by the quiet child, who had come out to speak to the
cat, but was now watching her watch the men. She called, "Good-morning,
dear," a little sharply. Her voice spread consternation. Charles looked
round, and though completely attired in indigo blue, vanished into the
shed, and was seen no more.

"Miss Wilcox is up--" the child whispered, and then became
unintelligible.

"What is that?" it sounded like, "--cut-yoke--sack-back--"

"I can't hear."

"--On the bed--tissue-paper--"

Gathering that the wedding-dress was on view, and that a visit would
be seemly, she went to Evie's room. All was hilarity here. Evie, in a
petticoat, was dancing with one of the Anglo-Indian ladies, while the
other was adoring yards of white satin. They screamed, they laughed,
they sang, and the dog barked.

Margaret screamed a little too, but without conviction. She could not
feel that a wedding was so funny. Perhaps something was missing in her
equipment.

Evie gasped: "Dolly is a rotter not to be here! Oh, we would rag just
then!" Then Margaret went down to breakfast.

Henry was already installed; he ate slowly and spoke little, and was,
in Margaret's eyes, the only member of their party who dodged emotion
successfully. She could not suppose him indifferent either to the loss
of his daughter or to the presence of his future wife. Yet he dwelt
intact, only issuing orders occasionally--orders that promoted the
comfort of his guests. He inquired after her hand; he set her to pour
out the coffee and Mrs. Warrington to pour out the tea. When Evie came
down there was a moment's awkwardness, and both ladies rose to vacate
their places. "Burton," called Henry, "serve tea and coffee from the
sideboard!" It wasn't genuine tact, but it was tact, of a sort--the
sort that is as useful as the genuine, and saves even more situations at
Board meetings. Henry treated a marriage like a funeral, item by item,
never raising his eyes to the whole, and "Death, where is thy sting?
Love, where is thy victory?" one would exclaim at the close.

After breakfast Margaret claimed a few words with him. It was always
best to approach him formally. She asked for the interview, because he
was going on to shoot grouse to-morrow, and she was returning to Helen
in town.

"Certainly, dear," said he. "Of course, I have the time. What do you
want?"

"Nothing."

"I was afraid something had gone wrong."

"No; I have nothing to say, but you may talk."

Glancing at his watch, he talked of the nasty curve at the lych-gate.
She heard him with interest. Her surface could always respond to his
without contempt, though all her deeper being might be yearning to help
him. She had abandoned any plan of action. Love is the best, and the
more she let herself love him, the more chance was there that he would
set his soul in order. Such a moment as this, when they sat under fair
weather by the walks of their future home, was so sweet to her that
its sweetness would surely pierce to him. Each lift of his eyes, each
parting of the thatched lip from the clean-shaven, must prelude
the tenderness that kills the Monk and the Beast at a single blow.
Disappointed a hundred times, she still hoped. She loved him with too
clear a vision to fear his cloudiness. Whether he droned trivialities,
as to-day, or sprang kisses on her in the twilight, she could pardon
him, she could respond.

"If there is this nasty curve," she suggested, "couldn't we walk to the
church? Not, of course, you and Evie; but the rest of us might very well
go on first, and that would mean fewer carriages."

"One can't have ladies walking through the Market Square. The Fussells
wouldn't like it; they were awfully particular at Charles's wedding.
My--she--our party was anxious to walk, and certainly the church was
just round the corner, and I shouldn't have minded; but the Colonel made
a great point of it."

"You men shouldn't be so chivalrous," said Margaret thoughtfully.

"Why not?"

She knew why not, but said that she did not know. He then announced
that, unless she had anything special to say, he must visit the
wine-cellar, and they went off together in search of Burton. Though
clumsy and a little inconvenient, Oniton was a genuine country-house.
They clattered down flagged passages, looking into room after room,
and scaring unknown maids from the performance of obscure duties. The
wedding-breakfast must be in readiness when they come back from church,
and tea would be served in the garden. The sight of so many agitated
and serious people made Margaret smile, but she reflected that they
were paid to be serious, and enjoyed being agitated. Here were the lower
wheels of the machine that was tossing Evie up into nuptial glory. A
little boy blocked their way with pig-pails. His mind could not grasp
their greatness, and he said: "By your leave; let me pass, please."
Henry asked him where Burton was. But the servants were so new that they
did not know one another's names. In the still-room sat the band, who
had stipulated for champagne as part of their fee, and who were already
drinking beer. Scents of Araby came from the kitchen, mingled with
cries. Margaret knew what had happened there, for it happened at Wickham
Place. One of the wedding dishes had boiled over, and the cook was
throwing cedar-shavings to hide the smell. At last they came upon
the butler. Henry gave him the keys, and handed Margaret down the
cellar-stairs. Two doors were unlocked. She, who kept all her wine at
the bottom of the linen-cupboard, was astonished at the sight. "We shall
never get through it!" she cried, and the two men were suddenly drawn
into brotherhood, and exchanged smiles. She felt as if she had again
jumped out of the car while it was moving.

Certainly Oniton would take some digesting. It would be no small
business to remain herself, and yet to assimilate such an establishment.
She must remain herself, for his sake as well as her own, since a
shadowy wife degrades the husband whom she accompanies; and she must
assimilate for reasons of common honesty, since she had no right to
marry a man and make him uncomfortable. Her only ally was the power of
Home. The loss of Wickham Place had taught her more than its possession.
Howards End had repeated the lesson. She was determined to create new
sanctities among these hills.

After visiting the wine-cellar, she dressed, and then came the wedding,
which seemed a small affair when compared with the preparations for it.
Everything went like one o'clock. Mr. Cahill materialised out of space,
and was waiting for his bride at the church door. No one dropped the
ring or mispronounced the responses, or trod on Evie's train, or cried.
In a few minutes the clergymen performed their duty, the register was
signed, and they were back in their carriages, negotiating the dangerous
curve by the lych-gate. Margaret was convinced that they had not been
married at all, and that the Norman church had been intent all the time
on other business.

There were more documents to sign at the house, and the breakfast to
eat, and then a few more people dropped in for the garden party. There
had been a great many refusals, and after all it was not a very big
affair--not as big as Margaret's would be. She noted the dishes and
the strips of red carpet, that outwardly she might give Henry what was
proper. But inwardly she hoped for something better than this blend of
Sunday church and fox-hunting. If only some one had been upset! But this
wedding had gone off so particularly well--"quite like a durbar" in the
opinion of Lady Edser, and she thoroughly agreed with her.

So the wasted day lumbered forward, the bride and bridegroom drove off,
yelling with laughter, and for the second time the sun retreated towards
the hills of Wales. Henry, who was more tired than he owned, came up to
her in the castle meadow, and, in tones of unusual softness, said that
he was pleased. Everything had gone off so well. She felt that he was
praising her, too, and blushed; certainly she had done all she could
with his intractable friends, and had made a special point of kotowing
to the men. They were breaking camp this evening; only the Warringtons
and quiet child would stay the night, and the others were already moving
towards the house to finish their packing. "I think it did go off
well," she agreed. "Since I had to jump out of the motor, I'm thankful I
lighted on my left hand. I am so very glad about it, Henry dear; I only
hope that the guests at ours may be half as comfortable. You must all
remember that we have no practical person among us, except my aunt, and
she is not used to entertainments on a large scale."

"I know," he said gravely. "Under the circumstances, it would be better
to put everything into the hands of Harrods or Whiteley's, or even to go
to some hotel."

"You desire a hotel?"

"Yes, because--well, I mustn't interfere with you. No doubt you want to
be married from your old home."

"My old home's falling into pieces, Henry. I only want my new. Isn't it
a perfect evening--"

"The Alexandrina isn't bad--"

"The Alexandrina," she echoed, more occupied with the threads of smoke
that were issuing from their chimneys, and ruling the sunlit slopes with
parallels of grey.

"It's off Curzon Street."

"Is it? Let's be married from off Curzon Street."

Then she turned westward, to gaze at the swirling gold. Just where the
river rounded the hill the sun caught it. Fairyland must lie above the
bend, and its precious liquid was pouring towards them past Charles's
bathing-shed. She gazed so long that her eyes were dazzled, and when
they moved back to the house, she could not recognise the faces of
people who were coming out of it. A parlour-maid was preceding them.

"Who are those people?" she asked.

"They're callers!" exclaimed Henry. "It's too late for callers."

"Perhaps they're town people who want to see the wedding presents."

"I'm not at home yet to townees."

"Well, hide among the ruins, and if I can stop them, I will."

He thanked her.

Margaret went forward, smiling socially. She supposed that these were
unpunctual guests, who would have to be content with vicarious civility,
since Evie and Charles were gone, Henry tired, and the others in their
rooms. She assumed the airs of a hostess; not for long. For one of the
group was Helen--Helen in her oldest clothes, and dominated by that
tense, wounding excitement that had made her a terror in their nursery
days.

"What is it?" she called. "Oh, what's wrong? Is Tibby ill?"

Helen spoke to her two companions, who fell back. Then she bore forward
furiously.

"They're starving!" she shouted. "I found them starving!"

"Who? Why have you come?"

"The Basts."

"Oh, Helen!" moaned Margaret. "Whatever have you done now?"

"He has lost his place. He has been turned out of his bank. Yes, he's
done for. We upper classes have ruined him, and I suppose you'll tell
me it's the battle of life. Starving. His wife is ill. Starving. She
fainted in the train."

"Helen, are you mad?"

"Perhaps. Yes. If you like, I'm mad. But I've brought them. I'll stand
injustice no longer. I'll show up the wretchedness that lies under this
luxury, this talk of impersonal forces, this cant about God doing what
we're too slack to do ourselves."

"Have you actually brought two starving people from London to
Shropshire, Helen?"

Helen was checked. She had not thought of this, and her hysteria abated.
"There was a restaurant car on the train," she said.

"Don't be absurd. They aren't starving, and you know it. Now, begin from
the beginning. I won't have such theatrical nonsense. How dare you! Yes,
how dare you!" she repeated, as anger filled her, "bursting in to Evie's
wedding in this heartless way. My goodness! but you've a perverted
notion of philanthropy. Look"--she indicated the house--"servants,
people out of the windows. They think it's some vulgar scandal, and
I must explain, 'Oh no, it's only my sister screaming, and only two
hangers-on of ours, whom she has brought here for no conceivable
reason.'"

"Kindly take back that word 'hangers-on,'" said Helen, ominously calm.

"Very well," conceded Margaret, who for all her wrath was determined to
avoid a real quarrel. "I, too, am sorry about them, but it beats me why
you've brought them here, or why you're here yourself."

"It's our last chance of seeing Mr. Wilcox."

Margaret moved towards the house at this. She was determined not to
worry Henry.

"He's going to Scotland. I know he is. I insist on seeing him."

"Yes, to-morrow."

"I knew it was our last chance."

"How do you do, Mr. Bast?" said Margaret, trying to control her voice.
"This is an odd business. What view do you take of it?"

"There is Mrs. Bast, too," prompted Helen.

Jacky also shook hands. She, like her husband, was shy, and,
furthermore, ill, and furthermore, so bestially stupid that she could
not grasp what was happening. She only knew that the lady had swept down
like a whirlwind last night, had paid the rent, redeemed the furniture,
provided them with a dinner and a breakfast, and ordered them to meet
her at Paddington next morning. Leonard had feebly protested, and when
the morning came, had suggested that they shouldn't go. But she, half
mesmerised, had obeyed. The lady had told them to, and they must, and
their bed-sitting-room had accordingly changed into Paddington, and
Paddington into a railway carriage, that shook, and grew hot, and grew
cold, and vanished entirely, and reappeared amid torrents of expensive
scent. "You have fainted," said the lady in an awe-struck voice.
"Perhaps the air will do you good." And perhaps it had, for here she
was, feeling rather better among a lot of flowers.

"I'm sure I don't want to intrude," began Leonard, in answer to
Margaret's question. "But you have been so kind to me in the past
in warning me about the Porphyrion that I wondered--why, I wondered
whether--"

"Whether we could get him back into the Porphyrion again," supplied
Helen. "Meg, this has been a cheerful business. A bright evening's work
that was on Chelsea Embankment."

Margaret shook her head and returned to Mr. Bast.

"I don't understand. You left the Porphyrion because we suggested it was
a bad concern, didn't you?"

"That's right."

"And went into a bank instead?"

"I told you all that," said Helen; "and they reduced their staff after
he had been in a month, and now he's penniless, and I consider that we
and our informant are directly to blame."

"I hate all this," Leonard muttered.

"I hope you do, Mr. Bast. But it's no good mincing matters. You have
done yourself no good by coming here. If you intend to confront Mr.
Wilcox, and to call him to account for a chance remark, you will make a
very great mistake."

"I brought them. I did it all," cried Helen.

"I can only advise you to go at once. My sister has put you in a false
position, and it is kindest to tell you so. It's too late to get to
town, but you'll find a comfortable hotel in Oniton, where Mrs. Bast can
rest, and I hope you'll be my guests there."

"That isn't what I want, Miss Schlegel," said Leonard. "You're very
kind, and no doubt it's a false position, but you make me miserable. I
seem no good at all."

"It's work he wants," interpreted Helen. "Can't you see?"

Then he said: "Jacky, let's go. We're more bother than we're worth.
We're costing these ladies pounds and pounds already to get work for us,
and they never will. There's nothing we're good enough to do."

"We would like to find you work," said Margaret rather conventionally.
"We want to--I, like my sister. You're only down in your luck. Go to the
hotel, have a good night's rest, and some day you shall pay me back the
bill, if you prefer it."

But Leonard was near the abyss, and at such moments men see clearly.
"You don't know what you're talking about," he said. "I shall never get
work now. If rich people fail at one profession, they can try another.
Not I. I had my groove, and I've got out of it. I could do one
particular branch of insurance in one particular office well enough to
command a salary, but that's all. Poetry's nothing, Miss Schlegel. One's
thoughts about this and that are nothing. Your money, too, is nothing,
if you'll understand me. I mean if a man over twenty once loses his own
particular job, it's all over with him. I have seen it happen to others.
Their friends gave them money for a little, but in the end they fall
over the edge. It's no good. It's the whole world pulling. There always
will be rich and poor."

He ceased. "Won't you have something to eat?" said Margaret. "I don't
know what to do. It isn't my house, and though Mr. Wilcox would have
been glad to see you at any other time--as I say, I don't know what
to do, but I undertake to do what I can for you. Helen, offer them
something. Do try a sandwich, Mrs. Bast."

They moved to a long table behind which a servant was still standing.
Iced cakes, sandwiches innumerable, coffee, claret-cup, champagne,
remained almost intact; their overfed guests could do no more. Leonard
refused. Jacky thought she could manage a little. Margaret left them
whispering together, and had a few more words with Helen.

She said: "Helen, I like Mr. Bast. I agree that he's worth helping. I
agree that we are directly responsible."

"No, indirectly. Via Mr. Wilcox."

"Let me tell you once for all that if you take up that attitude, I'll
do nothing. No doubt you're right logically, and are entitled to say
a great many scathing things about Henry. Only, I won't have it. So
choose."

Helen looked at the sunset.

"If you promise to take them quietly to the George I will speak to Henry
about them--in my own way, mind; there is to be none of this absurd
screaming about justice. I have no use for justice. If it was only a
question of money, we could do it ourselves. But he wants work, and that
we can't give him, but possibly Henry can."

"It's his duty to," grumbled Helen.

"Nor am I concerned with duty. I'm concerned with the characters of
various people whom we know, and how, things being as they are, things
may be made a little better. Mr. Wilcox hates being asked favours; all
business men do. But I am going to ask him, at the risk of a rebuff,
because I want to make things a little better."

"Very well. I promise. You take it very calmly."

"Take them off to the George, then, and I'll try. Poor creatures! but
they look tired." As they parted, she added: "I haven't nearly done with
you, though, Helen. You have been most self-indulgent. I can't get over
it. You have less restraint rather than more as you grow older. Think it
over and alter yourself, or we shan't have happy lives."

She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting down: these physical
matters were important. "Was it townees?" he asked, greeting her with a
pleasant smile.

"You'll never believe me," said Margaret, sitting down beside him. "It's
all right now, but it was my sister."

"Helen here?" he cried, preparing to rise. "But she refused the
invitation. I thought hated weddings."

"Don't get up. She has not come to the wedding. I've bundled her off to
the George."

Inherently hospitable, he protested.

"No; she has two of her proteges with her and must keep with them."

"Let 'em all come."

"My dear Henry, did you see them?"

"I did catch sight of a brown bunch of a woman, certainly."

"The brown bunch was Helen, but did you catch sight of a sea-green and
salmon bunch?"

"What! are they out bean-feasting?"

"No; business. They wanted to see me, and later on I want to talk to you
about them."

She was ashamed of her own diplomacy. In dealing with a Wilcox, how
tempting it was to lapse from comradeship, and to give him the kind of
woman that he desired! Henry took the hint at once, and said: "Why later
on? Tell me now. No time like the present."

"Shall I?"

"If it isn't a long story."

"Oh, not five minutes; but there's a sting at the end of it, for I want
you to find the man some work in your office."

"What are his qualifications?"

"I don't know. He's a clerk."

"How old?"

"Twenty-five, perhaps."

"What's his name?"

"Bast," said Margaret, and was about to remind him that they had met
at Wickham Place, but stopped herself. It had not been a successful
meeting.

"Where was he before?"

"Dempster's Bank."

"Why did he leave?" he asked, still remembering nothing.

"They reduced their staff."

"All right; I'll see him."

It was the reward of her tact and devotion through the day. Now she
understood why some women prefer influence to rights. Mrs. Plynlimmon,
when condemning suffragettes, had said: "The woman who can't influence
her husband to vote the way she wants ought to be ashamed of herself."
Margaret had winced, but she was influencing Henry now, and though
pleased at her little victory, she knew that she had won it by the
methods of the harem.

"I should be glad if you took him," she said, "but I don't know whether
he's qualified."

"I'll do what I can. But, Margaret, this mustn't be taken as a
precedent."

"No, of course--of course--"

"I can't fit in your proteges every day. Business would suffer."

"I can promise you he's the last. He--he's rather a special case."

"Proteges always are."

She let it stand at that. He rose with a little extra touch of
complacency, and held out his hand to help her up. How wide the gulf
between Henry as he was and Henry as Helen thought he ought to be! And
she herself--hovering as usual between the two, now accepting men as
they are, now yearning with her sister for Truth. Love and Truth--their
warfare seems eternal perhaps the whole visible world rests on it,
and if they were one, life itself, like the spirits when Prospero was
reconciled to his brother, might vanish into air, into thin air.

"Your protege has made us late," said he. "The Fussells--will just be
starting."

On the whole she sided with men as they are. Henry would save the Basts
as he had saved Howards End, while Helen and her friends were discussing
the ethics of salvation. His was a slap-dash method, but the world has
been built slap-dash, and the beauty of mountain and river and sunset
may be but the varnish with which the unskilled artificer hides his
joins. Oniton, like herself, was imperfect. Its apple-trees were
stunted, its castle ruinous. It, too, had suffered in the border warfare
between the Anglo-Saxon and the Celt, between things as they are and
as they ought to be. Once more the west was retreating, once again the
orderly stars were dotting the eastern sky. There is certainly no rest
for us on the earth. But there is happiness, and as Margaret descended
the mound on her lover's arm, she felt that she was having her share.

To her annoyance, Mrs. Bast was still in the garden; the husband and
Helen had left her there to finish her meal while they went to engage
rooms. Margaret found this woman repellent. She had felt, when shaking
her hand, an overpowering shame. She remembered the motive of her call
at Wickham Place, and smelt again odours from the abyss--odours the more
disturbing because they were involuntary. For there was no malice in
Jacky. There she sat, a piece of cake in one hand, an empty champagne
glass in the other, doing no harm to anybody.

"She's overtired," Margaret whispered.

"She's something else," said Henry. "This won't do. I can't have her in
my garden in this state."

"Is she--" Margaret hesitated to add "drunk." Now that she was going
to marry him, he had grown particular. He discountenanced risque
conversations now.

Henry went up to the woman. She raised her face, which gleamed in the
twilight like a puff-ball.

"Madam, you will be more comfortable at the hotel," he said sharply.

Jacky replied: "If it isn't Hen!"

"Ne crois pas que le mari lui ressemble," apologised Margaret. "Il est
tout a fait different."

"Henry!" she repeated, quite distinctly.

Mr. Wilcox was much annoyed. "I congratulate you on your proteges," he
remarked.

"Hen, don't go. You do love me, dear, don't you?"

"Bless us, what a person!" sighed Margaret, gathering up her skirts.

Jacky pointed with her cake. "You're a nice boy, you are." She yawned.
"There now, I love you."

"Henry, I am awfully sorry."

"And pray why?" he asked, and looked at her so sternly that she feared
he was ill. He seemed more scandalised than the facts demanded.

"To have brought this down on you."

"Pray don't apologise."

The voice continued.

"Why does she call you 'Hen'?" said Margaret innocently. "Has she ever
seen you before?"

"Seen Hen before!" said Jacky. "Who hasn't seen Hen? He's serving you
like me, my boys! You wait--Still we love 'em."

"Are you now satisfied?" Henry asked.

Margaret began to grow frightened. "I don't know what it is all about,"
she said. "Let's come in."

But he thought she was acting. He thought he was trapped. He saw his
whole life crumbling. "Don't you indeed?" he said bitingly. "I do. Allow
me to congratulate you on the success of your plan."

"This is Helen's plan, not mine."

"I now understand your interest in the Basts. Very well thought out.
I am amused at your caution, Margaret. You are quite right--it was
necessary. I am a man, and have lived a man's past. I have the honour to
release you from your engagement."

Still she could not understand. She knew of life's seamy side as a
theory; she could not grasp it as a fact. More words from Jacky were
necessary--words unequivocal, undenied.

"So that--" burst from her, and she went indoors. She stopped herself
from saying more.

"So what?" asked Colonel Fussell, who was getting ready to start in the
hall.

"We were saying--Henry and I were just having the fiercest argument, my
point being--" Seizing his fur coat from a footman, she offered to help
him on. He protested, and there was a playful little scene.

"No, let me do that," said Henry, following.

"Thanks so much! You see--he has forgiven me!"

The Colonel said gallantly: "I don't expect there's much to forgive."

He got into the car. The ladies followed him after an interval.
Maids, courier, and heavier luggage had been sent on earlier by the
branch-line. Still chattering, still thanking their host and patronising
their future hostess, the guests were borne away.

Then Margaret continued: "So that woman has been your mistress?"

"You put it with your usual delicacy," he replied.

"When, please?"

"Why?"

"When, please?"

"Ten years ago."

She left him without a word. For it was not her tragedy; it was Mrs.
Wilcox's.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Margaret and Helen discuss Margaret's  engagement to Henry; Helen admits that she  does not like him, but promises to try to be civil to  him. Margaret travels with Henry to Hilton, where  they dine with Charles and Dolly, then take  an excursion to Howards End. When they arrive, they  realize that they have forgotten the key, and  Margaret is left alone on the porch in a driving rain  while Henry goes back to get it. She tries the door  and discovers that it is unlocked; it is the first  time she has ever been to Howards End, and as she  looks through the empty house she thinks that it,  like the giant wych-elm in the yard, is like England. It is so English that neither Henry nor her artistic  friends would be able to understand it. As she opens  the door to the stairs, she is startled to find an  old woman coming down them: It is Miss Avery, a  local spinster who says that Margaret frightened  her. She thought that Margaret was Mrs. Wilcox's  ghost. Evie is annoyed and a little petulant about her  father's engagement, and moves her own wedding up to  August to distract herself. Margaret travels with  Henry and some Wilcox family friends out to Oniton,  where the Wilcoxes have recently rented an ancient  estate . A train trip is followed by a car trip; suddenly  Margaret's car stops, and the men unload all the  women and force them into the second car. Margaret  demands to know what is happening, and learns that  their car has hit a dog. Margaret demands to be let  out so that she can return to the scene, but  Charles patronizingly refuses to stop--it is  nothing that a woman should see, he says. Furious,  Margaret jumps out of the car, injuring her left hand  in the process. As she approaches the scene, she  learns that the car did not hit a dog; it hit a cat. Feeling foolish, she apologizes for jumping from the  car, and tells Henry that she has been silly, knowing  that he will chalk up her behavior to feminine  nervousness. After Evie's forgettable wedding, the bride and groom  are driven away to their honeymoon, and Margaret and  Henry return to the Oniton manor. Here, they find a  trio of scraggly looking people waiting at the porch;  Henry thinks they must be townsfolk, and Margaret  promises to see that they leave. When she  approaches, she is shocked to see Helen,  accompanied by Leonard and Jacky Bast. Helen  indignantly claims that Leonard has lost his job at  the bank and is destitute; she says that it is all  their fault, because they advised him to leave the  Porphyrion. Margaret is annoyed with Helen for  having dragged the Basts out to the country, but  agrees to speak to Henry about giving Leonard a job. She asks him indirectly, and he agrees to speak to  Leonard. When he approaches, however, the drunken  Jacky calls him "Hen" and asks if he loves her. Margaret is embarrassed, but Henry seems excessively  humiliated and awkward; he angrily tells Margaret  that her plan has worked, and that she is released  from their engagement. Confused, Margaret presses  the matter and discovers that 10 years ago Jacky  was Henry's mistress. Henry believes Margaret  dragged the Basts down to Oniton to expose his  secret. But Margaret is not interested in Henry's  humiliation and suspicion. This is not her tragedy, she thinks, but Mrs. Wilcox's.