Howards End - E. M. Forster (world of reading .txt) 📗

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 anyone. Those Shropshire valleys are notorious. The only possible place for a house in Shropshire is on a hill; but, for my part, I think the country is too far from London, and the scenery nothing special.”

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

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

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

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

“Certainly not.”

“I shouldn’t like her to know that she nearly let me in for a very bad bargain. No sooner did I sign the agreement than she got engaged. Poor little girl! She was so keen on it all, and wouldn’t even wait to make proper inquiries about the shooting. Afraid it would get snapped up⁠—just like all of your sex. Well, no harm’s done. She has had her country wedding, and I’ve got rid of my 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 someone else. As for theatres and discussion societies, they attracted her less and less. She began to “miss” new movements, and to spend her spare time rereading 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.

She was looking at plans one day in the following spring⁠—they had finally decided to go down into Sussex and build⁠—when Mrs. Charles Wilcox was announced.

“Have you heard the news?” Dolly cried, as soon as she entered the room. “Charles is so ang⁠—I mean he is sure you know about it, or, rather, that you don’t know.”

“Why, Dolly!” said Margaret, placidly kissing her. “Here’s a surprise! How are the boys and the baby?”

Boys and the baby were well, and in describing a great row that there had been at the Hilton Tennis Club, Dolly forgot her news. The wrong people had tried to get in. The rector, as representing the older inhabitants, had said⁠—Charles had said⁠—the tax-collector had said⁠—Charles had regretted not saying⁠—and she closed the description with, “But lucky you, with four courts of your own at Midhurst.”

“It will be very jolly,” replied Margaret.

“Are those the plans? Does it matter my seeing them?”

“Of course not.”

“Charles has never seen the plans.”

“They have only just arrived. Here is the ground floor⁠—no, that’s rather difficult. Try the elevation. We are to have a good many gables and a picturesque skyline.”

“What makes it smell so funny?” said