Chapter: 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.

 Evie hears about Mr. Wilcox's engagement while she's playing tennis, and it totally throws her game off. She, Charles, and Dolly are all upset about their new stepmother, and in order to cope, Evie moves her own wedding up by a month, to August. Margaret, it turns out, is expected to participate actively in Evie's wedding, and to meet all of Mr. Wilcox's friends and associates. This is not exciting to her - she loves Henry, but hates all of his friends. He doesn't seem to have any feelings himself for any of these people, but instead, has a sense of whether they're useful or not. Evie decides to get married at the house at Oniton Grange, in Shropshire. Mr. Wilcox isn't too fond of the house, and intends to lease it out once Evie is married. Margaret, however, thinks of it as her future home, and decides to make the best impression possible there. There aren't many people at the wedding, considering that Paul can't make it, Dolly has to stay home and Tibby and Helen both refused to come. Margaret thinks forward rather wearily to her own wedding. The group of guests coming from London travel together on the train, and when they get a rest stop at Shrewsbury before driving to Oniton, Margaret takes the opportunity to do some sightseeing. She overhears Charles complaining about how the women are making them late. Finally, they get on the road, and they chat about politics on the way. Just before they arrive at the Grange, one of the cars hits a dog. Charles doesn't even stop - he doesn't care. Margaret, however, is horribly upset, and demands that they stop and go back. She gets so upset that she actually hurls herself out of the car. It turns out that it was a cat, not a dog, and the little girl who owned it was understandably very upset. When they get to the Grange, Margaret offers a little playful explanation to Henry, and when she goes away to change, Charles tells his father all about the incident. They agree that it was probably just "nerves." Charles is upset - he can't stand any of the Schlegels, and he can't believe how crazy Margaret is. Charles clearly has a chip on his shoulder about everything, and he feels quite put upon as he observes the wedding guests coming and going. He clearly really hates Margaret. Secretly watched by her future son-in-law, Margaret wanders around the grounds, enchanted by the scenery. He's sure that she's up to trouble.

