Chapter: Houses have their own ways of dying, falling as variously as the
generations of men, some with a tragic roar, some quietly, but to an
after-life in the city of ghosts, while from others--and thus was the
death of Wickham Place--the spirit slips before the body perishes. It
had decayed in the spring, disintegrating the girls more than they knew,
and causing either to accost unfamiliar regions. By September it was a
corpse, void of emotion, and scarcely hallowed by the memories of thirty
years of happiness. Through its round-topped doorway passed furniture,
and pictures, and books, until the last room was gutted and the last van
had rumbled away. It stood for a week or two longer, open-eyed, as if
astonished at its own emptiness. Then it fell. Navvies came, and spilt
it back into the grey. With their muscles and their beery good temper,
they were not the worst of undertakers for a house which had always been
human, and had not mistaken culture for an end.

The furniture, with a few exceptions, went down into Hertfordshire, Mr.
Wilcox having most kindly offered Howards End as a warehouse. Mr. Bryce
had died abroad--an unsatisfactory affair--and as there seemed little
guarantee that the rent would be paid regularly, he cancelled the
agreement, and resumed possession himself. Until he relet the house, the
Schlegels were welcome to stack their furniture in the garage and lower
rooms. Margaret demurred, but Tibby accepted the offer gladly; it saved
him from coming to any decision about the future. The plate and the
more valuable pictures found a safer home in London, but the bulk of the
things went country-ways, and were entrusted to the guardianship of Miss
Avery.

Shortly before the move, our hero and heroine were married. They
have weathered the storm, and may reasonably expect peace. To have no
illusions and yet to love--what stronger surety can a woman find? She
had seen her husband's past as well as his heart. She knew her own heart
with a thoroughness that commonplace people believe impossible. The
heart of Mrs. Wilcox was alone hidden, and perhaps it is superstitious
to speculate on the feelings of the dead. They were warned
quietly--really quietly, for as the day approached she refused to go
through another Oniton. Her brother gave her away, her aunt, who was
out of health, presided over a few colourless refreshments. The Wilcoxes
were represented by Charles, who witnessed the marriage settlement, and
by Mr. Cahill. Paul did send a cablegram. In a few minutes, and without
the aid of music, the clergyman made them man and wife, and soon the
glass shade had fallen that cuts off married couples from the world.
She, a monogamist, regretted the cessation of some of life's innocent
odours; he, whose instincts were polygamous, felt morally braced by the
change and less liable to the temptations that had assailed him in the
past.

They spent their honeymoon near Innsbruck. Henry knew of a reliable
hotel there, and Margaret hoped for a meeting with her sister. In this
she was disappointed. As they came south, Helen retreated over the
Brenner, and wrote an unsatisfactory post-card from the shores of the
Lake of Garda, saying that her plans were uncertain and had better be
ignored. Evidently she disliked meeting Henry. Two months are surely
enough to accustom an outsider to a situation which a wife has accepted
in two days, and Margaret had again to regret her sister's lack of
self-control. In a long letter she pointed out the need of charity in
sexual matters; so little is known about them; it is hard enough for
those who are personally touched to judge; then how futile must be the
verdict of Society. "I don't say there is no standard, for that would
destroy morality; only that there can be no standard until our impulses
are classified and better understood." Helen thanked her for her kind
letter--rather a curious reply. She moved south again, and spoke of
wintering in Naples.

Mr. Wilcox was not sorry that the meeting failed. Helen left him time to
grow skin over his wound. There were still moments when it pained him.
Had he only known that Margaret was awaiting him--Margaret, so lively
and intelligent, and yet so submissive--he would have kept himself
worthier of her. Incapable of grouping the past, he confused the episode
of Jacky with another episode that had taken place in the days of his
bachelorhood. The two made one crop of wild oats, for which he was
heartily sorry, and he could not see that those oats are of a darker
stock which are rooted in another's dishonour. Unchastity and infidelity
were as confused to him as to the Middle Ages, his only moral teacher.
Ruth (poor old Ruth!) did not enter into his calculations at all, for
poor old Ruth had never found him out.

His affection for his present wife grew steadily. Her cleverness gave
him no trouble, and, indeed, he liked to see her reading poetry or
something about social questions; it distinguished her from the wives
of other men. He had only to call, and she clapped the book up and was
ready to do what he wished. Then they would argue so jollily, and once
or twice she had him in quite a tight corner, but as soon as he grew
really serious, she gave in. Man is for war, woman for the recreation
of the warrior, but he does not dislike it if she makes a show of fight.
She cannot win in a real battle, having no muscles, only nerves.
Nerves make her jump out of a moving motor-car, or refuse to be
married fashionably. The warrior may well allow her to triumph on such
occasions; they move not the imperishable plinth of things that touch
his peace.

Margaret had a bad attack of these nerves during the honeymoon. He told
her--casually, as was his habit--that Oniton Grange was let. She showed
her annoyance, and asked rather crossly why she had not been consulted.

"I didn't want to bother you," he replied. "Besides, I have only heard
for certain this morning."

"Where are we to live?" said Margaret, trying to laugh. "I loved the
place extraordinarily. Don't you believe in having a permanent home,
Henry?"

He assured her that she misunderstood him. It is home life that
distinguishes us from the foreigner. But he did not believe in a damp
home.

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

"My dear girl!"--he flung out his hand--"have you eyes? have you a skin?
How could it be anything but damp in such a situation? In the first
place, the Grange is on clay, and built where the castle moat must have
been; then there's that detestable little river, steaming all night like
a kettle. Feel the cellar walls; look up under the eaves. Ask Sir James
or any one. Those Shropshire valleys are notorious. The only possible
place for a house in Shropshire is on a hill; but, for my part, I think
the country is too far from London, and the scenery nothing special."

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

"I--because--" He drew his head back and grew rather angry. "Why have
we come to the Tyrol, if it comes to that? One might go on asking such
questions indefinitely."

One might; but he was only gaining time for a plausible answer. Out it
came, and he believed it as soon as it was spoken.

"The truth is, I took Oniton on account of Evie. Don't let this go any
further."

"Certainly not."

"I shouldn't like her to know that she nearly let me in for a very bad
bargain. No sooner did I sign the agreement than she got engaged. Poor
little girl! She was so keen on it all, and wouldn't even wait to
make proper inquiries about the shooting. Afraid it would get snapped
up--just like all of your sex. Well, no harm's done. She has had her
country wedding, and I've got rid of my goose to some fellows who are
starting a preparatory school."

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

"I have not yet decided. What about Norfolk?"

Margaret was silent. Marriage had not saved her from the sense of
flux. London was but a foretaste of this nomadic civilisation which is
altering human nature so profoundly, and throws upon personal
relations a stress greater than they have ever borne before. Under
cosmopolitanism, if it comes, we shall receive no help from the earth.
Trees and meadows and mountains will only be a spectacle, and the
binding force that they once exercised on character must be entrusted to
Love alone. May Love be equal to the task!

"It is now what?" continued Henry. "Nearly October. Let us camp for the
winter at Ducie Street, and look out for something in the spring."

"If possible, something permanent. I can't be as young as I was, for
these alterations don't suit me."

"But, my dear, which would you rather have--alterations or rheumatism?"

"I see your point," said Margaret, getting up. "If Oniton is really
damp, it is impossible, and must be inhabited by little boys. Only, in
the spring, let us look before we leap. I will take warning by Evie,
and not hurry you. Remember that you have a free hand this time.
These endless moves must be bad for the furniture, and are certainly
expensive."

"What a practical little woman it is! What's it been reading?
Theo--theo--how much?"

"Theosophy."

So Ducie Street was her first fate--a pleasant enough fate. The house,
being only a little larger than Wickham Place, trained her for the
immense establishment that was promised in the spring. They were
frequently away, but at home life ran fairly regularly. In the
morning Henry went to business, and his sandwich--a relic this of some
prehistoric craving--was always cut by her own hand. He did not rely
upon the sandwich for lunch, but liked to have it by him in case he grew
hungry at eleven. When he had gone, there was the house to look after,
and the servants to humanise, and several kettles of Helen's to keep on
the boil. Her conscience pricked her a little about the Basts; she
was not sorry to have lost sight of them. No doubt Leonard was worth
helping, but being Henry's wife, she preferred to help some one else. As
for theatres and discussion societies, they attracted her less and
less. She began to "miss" new movements, and to spend her spare time
re-reading or thinking, rather to the concern of her Chelsea friends.
They attributed the change to her marriage, and perhaps some deep
instinct did warn her not to travel further from her husband than
was inevitable. Yet the main cause lay deeper still; she had outgrown
stimulants, and was passing from words to things. It was doubtless a
pity not to keep up with Wedekind or John, but some closing of the gates
is inevitable after thirty, if the mind itself is to become a creative
power.

 It's moving time at Wickham Place. The Schlegels' furniture is mostly moved to Howards End; the guy leasing the house actually died abroad, so it's empty until someone else comes along to rent it. Right before the big move, Henry and Margaret are married quietly. There's no big wedding - Tibby gives Margaret away, and Aunt Juley organizes food and drink. The marriage goes off uneventfully. Henry and Margaret spend their honeymoon in the Alps. Margaret hopes to see her sister, who's still in Germany, but Helen evades her sister and brother-in-law. Margaret, thinking that Helen just doesn't want to see Mr. Wilcox, writes her a long, critical letter about how Helen shouldn't be so judgmental. Helen simply thanks her for her letter. Mr. Wilcox doesn't mind being apart from Helen, since she reminds him of his shameful behavior in the past . He grows fonder and fonder of Margaret, who seems to be becoming more submissive and feminine in her married state. He enjoys her intellect, but in a condescending way - he always has to win an argument. One real problem with the marriage, however, is where they're going to live. Henry has leased Oniton Grange out, which annoys Margaret, who'd assumed that they'd live there. They end up moving to the Ducie Street house for the winter. Margaret and Henry move to Ducie Street and properly settle into married life. Margaret loses touch with her old friends and old life, and begins to lose track of her liberal agendas and intellectual concerns. We're informed that she's moved from "words to things" - is this a good thing?

