For many hours Margaret did nothing; then she controlled herself, and
wrote some letters. She was too bruised to speak to Henry; she could
pity him, and even determine to marry him, but as yet all lay too deep
in her heart for speech. On the surface the sense of his degradation
was too strong. She could not command voice or look, and the gentle
words that she forced out through her pen seemed to proceed from some
other person.
“My dearest boy,” she began, “this is not to part us. It is everything
or nothing, and I mean it to be nothing. It happened long before we
ever met, and even if it had happened since, I should be writing the
same, I hope. I do understand.”
But she crossed out “I do understand”; it struck a false note. Henry
could not bear to be understood. She also crossed out, “It is
everything or nothing. “Henry would resent so strong a grasp of the
situation. She must not comment; comment is unfeminine.
“I think that’ll about do,” she thought.
Then the sense of his degradation choked her. Was he worth all this
bother? To have yielded to a woman of that sort was everything, yes, it
was, and she could not be his wife. She tried to translate his
temptation into her own language, and her brain reeled. Men must be
different, even to want to yield to such a temptation. Her belief in
comradeship was stifled, and she saw life as from that glass saloon on
the Great Western, which sheltered male and female alike from the fresh
air. Are the sexes really races, each with its own code of morality,
and their mutual love a mere device of Nature to keep things going?
Strip human intercourse of the proprieties, and is it reduced to this?
Her judgment told her no. She knew that out of Nature’s device we have
built a magic that will win us immortality. Far more mysterious than
the call of sex to sex is the tenderness that we throw into that call;
far wider is the gulf between us and the farmyard than between the
farmyard and the garbage that nourishes it. We are evolving, in ways
that Science cannot measure, to ends that Theology dares not
contemplate. “Men did produce one jewel,” the gods will say, and,
saying, will give us immortality. Margaret knew all this, but for the
moment she could not feel it, and transformed the marriage of Evie and
Mr. Cahill into a carnival of fools, and her own marriage—too miserable
to think of that, she tore up the letter, and then wrote another:
Dear Mr. Bast,
I have spoken to Mr. Wilcox about you, as I promised, and am sorry to
say that he has no vacancy for you.
Yours truly,
M. J. Schlegel
She enclosed this in a note to Helen, over which she took less trouble
than she might have done; but her head was aching, and she could not
stop to pick her words:
Dear Helen,
Give him this. The Basts are no good. Henry found the woman drunk on
the lawn. I am having a room got ready for you here, and will you
please come round at once on getting this? The Basts are not at all the
type we should trouble about. I may go round to them myself in the
morning, and do anything that is fair.
M
In writing this, Margaret felt that she was being practical. Something
might be arranged for the Basts later on, but they must be silenced for
the moment. She hoped to avoid a conversation between the woman and
Helen. She rang the bell for a servant, but no one answered it; Mr.
Wilcox and the Warringtons were gone to bed, and the kitchen was
abandoned to Saturnalia. Consequently she went over to the George
herself. She did not enter the hotel, for discussion would have been
perilous, and, saying that the letter was important, she gave it to the
waitress. As she recrossed the square she saw Helen and Mr. Bast
looking out of the window of the coffee-room, and feared she was
already too late. Her task was not yet over; she ought to tell Henry
what she had done.
This came easily, for she saw him in the hall. The night wind had been
rattling the pictures against the wall, and the noise had disturbed
him.
“Who’s there?” he called, quite the householder.
Margaret walked in and past him.
“I have asked Helen to sleep,” she said. “She is best here; so don’t
lock the front-door.”
“I thought someone had got in,” said Henry.
“At the same time I told the man that we could do nothing for him. I
don’t know about later, but now the Basts must clearly go.”
“Did you say that your sister is sleeping here, after all?”
“Probably.”
“Is she to be shown up to your room?”
“I have naturally nothing to say to her; I am going to bed. Will you
tell the servants about Helen? Could someone go to carry her bag?”
He tapped a little gong, which had been bought to summon the servants.
“You must make more noise than that if you want them to hear.”
Henry opened a door, and down the corridor came shouts of laughter.
“Far too much screaming there,” he said, and strode towards it.
Margaret went upstairs, uncertain whether to be glad that they had met,
or sorry. They had behaved as if nothing had happened, and her deepest
instincts told her that this was wrong. For his own sake, some
explanation was due.
And yet—what could an explanation tell her? A date, a place, a few
details, which she could imagine all too clearly. Now that the first
shock was over, she saw that there was every reason to premise a Mrs.
Bast. Henry’s inner life had long laid open to her—his intellectual
confusion, his obtuseness to personal influence, his strong but furtive
passions. Should she refuse him because his outer life corresponded?
Perhaps. Perhaps, if the dishonour had been done to her, but it was
done long before her day. She struggled against the feeling. She told
herself that Mrs. Wilcox’s wrong was her own. But she was not a bargain
theorist. As she undressed, her anger, her regard for the dead, her
desire for a scene, all grew weak. Henry must have it as he liked, for
she loved him, and some day she would use her love to make him a better
man.
Pity was at the bottom of her actions all through this crisis. Pity, if
one may generalize, is at the bottom of woman. When men like us, it is
for our better qualities, and however tender their liking, we dare not
be unworthy of it, or they will quietly let us go. But unworthiness
stimulates woman. It brings out her deeper nature, for good or for
evil.
Here was the core of the question. Henry must be forgiven, and made
better by love; nothing else mattered. Mrs. Wilcox, that unquiet yet
kindly ghost, must be left to her own wrong. To her everything was in
proportion now, and she, too, would pity the man who was blundering up
and down their lives. Had Mrs. Wilcox known of his trespass? An
interesting question, but Margaret fell asleep, tethered by affection,
and lulled by the murmurs of the river that descended all the night
from Wales. She felt herself at one with her future home, colouring it
and coloured by it, and awoke to see, for the second time, Oniton
Castle conquering the morning mists.