CHAPTER XXIII

em!Margaretsmiled.Wouldthatherownfancieswereasclear-cut!Wouldthatshecoulddealashigh-handedlywiththeworld!Smilingandsighing,shelaidherhanduponthedoor.Itopened.Thehousewasnotlockedupatall. Shehesitated.OughtshetowaitforHenry?Hefeltstronglyaboutproperty,andmightprefertoshowheroverhimself.Ontheotherhand,hehadtoldhertokeepinthedry,andtheporchwasbeginningtodrip.Soshewentin,andthedraughtfrominsideslammedthedoorbehind. Desolationgreetedher.Dirtyfinger-printswereonthehall-windows,flueandrubbishonitsunwashedboards.Thecivilisationofluggagehadbeenhereforamonth,andthendecamped.Dining-roomanddrawing-room—rightandleft—wereguessedonlybytheirwallpapers.Theywerejustroomswhereonecouldshelterfromtherain.Acrosstheceilingofeachranagreatbeam.Thedining-roomandhallrevealedtheirsopenly,butthedrawing-room’swasmatch-boarded—becausethefactsoflifemustbeconcealedfromladies?Drawing-room,dining-room,andhall—howpettythenamessounded!Hereweresimplythreeroomswherechildrencouldplayandfriendsshelterfromtherain.Yes,andtheywerebeautiful. Thensheopenedoneofthedoorsopposite—thereweretwo—andexchangedwall-papersforwhitewash.Itwastheservants’part,thoughshescarcelyrealisedthat:justroomsagain,wherefriendsmightshelter.Thegardenatthebackwasfulloffloweringcherriesandplums.Fartheronwerehintsofthemeadowandablackcliffofpines.Yes,themeadowwasbeautiful. Pennedinbythedesolateweather,sherecapturedthesenseofspacewhichthemotorhadtriedtorobfromher.Sherememberedagainthattensquaremilesarenottentimesaswonderfulasonesquaremile,thatathousandsquaremilesarenotpracticallythesameasheaven.Thephantomofbigness,whichLondonencourages,waslaidforeverwhenshepacedfromthehallatHowardsEndtoitskitchenandheardtherainrunthiswayandthatwherethewatershedoftheroofdividedit. NowHelencametohermind,scrutinisinghalfWessexfromtheridgeofthePurbeckDowns,andsaying:“Youwillhavetolosesomething.”Shewasnotsosure.Forinstanceshewoulddoubleherkingdombyopeningthedoorthatconcealedthestairs. NowshethoughtofthemapofAfricaofempiresofherfatherofthetwosupremenations,streamsofwhoselifewarmedherblood,but,mingling,hadcooledherbrain.Shepacedbackintothehall,andasshedidsothehousereverberated. “Isthatyou,Henry?”shecalled. Therewasnoanswer,butthehousereverberatedagain. “Henry,haveyougotin?” Butitwastheheartofthehousebeating,faintlyatfirst,thenloudly,martially.Itdominatedtherain. Itisthestarvedimagination,notthewell-nourished,thatisafraid.Margaretflungopenthedoortothestairs.Anoiseasofdrumsseemedtodeafenher.Awoman,anoldwoman,wasdescending,withfigureerect,withfaceimpassive,withlipsthatpartedandsaiddryly: “Oh!Well,ItookyouforRuthWilcox.” Margaretstammered:“I—Mrs.Wilcox—I?” “Infancy,ofcourse—infancy.Youhadherwayofwalking.Good-day.”Andtheoldwomanpassedoutintotherain.