Part 33 (2/2)
Thus she spoke before the wedding ceremony and the physical union, before the astonis.h.i.+ng gla.s.s shade had fallen that interposes between married couples and the world. She was to keep her independence more than do most women as yet. Marriage was to alter her fortunes rather than her character, and she was not far wrong in boasting that she understood her future husband. Yet he did alter her character--a little.
There was an unforeseen surprise, a cessation of the winds and odours of life, a social pressure that would have her think conjugally.
”So with him,” she continued. ”There are heaps of things in him--more especially things that he does that will always be hidden from me. He has all those public qualities which you so despise and which enable all this--” She waved her hand at the landscape, which confirmed anything.
”If Wilc.o.xes hadn't worked and died in England for thousands of years, you and I couldn't sit here without having our throats cut. There would be no trains, no s.h.i.+ps to carry us literary people about in, no fields even. Just savagery. No--perhaps not even that. Without their spirit life might never have moved out of protoplasm. More and more do I refuse to draw my income and sneer at those who guarantee it. There are times when it seems to me--”
”And to me, and to all women. So one kissed Paul.”
”That's brutal.” said 'Margaret. ”Mine is an absolutely different case.
I've thought things out.”
”It makes no difference thinking things out. They come to the same.”
”Rubbis.h.!.+”
There was a long silence, during which the tide returned into Poole Harbour. ”One would lose something,” murmured Helen, apparently to herself. The water crept over the mud-flats towards the gorse and the blackened heather. Branksea Island lost its immense foresh.o.r.es, and became a sombre episode of trees. Frome was forced inward towards Dorchester, Stour against Wimborne, Avon towards Salisbury, and over the immense displacement the sun presided, leading it to triumph ere he sank to rest. England was alive, throbbing through all her estuaries, crying for joy through the mouths of all her gulls, and the north wind, with contrary motion, blew stronger against her rising seas. What did it mean? For what end are her fair complexities, her changes of soil, her sinuous coast? Does she belong to those who have moulded her and made her feared by other lands, or to those who have added nothing to her power, but have somehow seen her, seen the whole island at once, lying as a jewel in a silver sea, sailing as a s.h.i.+p of souls, with all the brave world's fleet accompanying her towards eternity?
CHAPTER XX
Margaret had often wondered at the disturbance that takes place in the world's waters, when Love, who seems so tiny a pebble, slips in. Whom does Love concern beyond the beloved and the lover? Yet his impact deluges a hundred sh.o.r.es. No doubt the disturbance is really the spirit of the generations, welcoming the new generation, and chafing against the ultimate Fate, who holds all the seas in the palm of her hand. But Love cannot understand this. He cannot comprehend another's infinity; he is conscious only of his own--flying sunbeam, falling rose, pebble that asks for one quiet plunge below the fretting interplay of s.p.a.ce and time. He knows that he will survive at the end of things, and be gathered by Fate as a jewel from the slime, and be handed with admiration round the a.s.sembly of the G.o.ds. ”Men did produce this”
they will say, and, saying, they will give men immortality. But meanwhile--what agitations meanwhile! The foundations of Property and Propriety are laid bare, twin rocks; Family Pride flounders to the surface, puffing and blowing and refusing to be comforted; Theology, vaguely ascetic, gets up a nasty ground swell. Then the lawyers are aroused--cold brood--and creep out of their holes. They do what they can; they tidy up Property and Propriety, rea.s.sure Theology and Family Pride. Half-guineas are poured on the troubled waters, the lawyers creep back, and, if all has gone well, Love joins one man and woman together in Matrimony.
Margaret had expected the disturbance, and was not irritated by it.
For a sensitive woman she had steady nerves, and could bear with the incongruous and the grotesque; and, besides, there was nothing excessive about her love-affair. Good-humour was the dominant note of her relations with Mr. Wilc.o.x, or, as I must now call him, Henry. Henry did not encourage romance, and she was no girl to fidget for it. An acquaintance had become a lover, might become a husband, but would retain all that she had noted in the acquaintance; and love must confirm an old relation rather than reveal a new one.
In this spirit she promised to marry him.
He was in Swanage on the morrow bearing the engagement ring.
They greeted one another with a hearty cordiality that impressed Aunt Juley. Henry dined at The Bays, but had engaged a bedroom in the princ.i.p.al hotel; he was one of those men who know the princ.i.p.al hotel by instinct. After dinner he asked Margaret if she wouldn't care for a turn on the Parade. She accepted, and could not repress a little tremor; it would be her first real love scene. But as she put on her hat she burst out laughing. Love was so unlike the article served up in books; the joy, though genuine was different; the mystery an unexpected mystery.
For one thing, Mr. Wilc.o.x still seemed a stranger.
For a time they talked about the ring; then she said: ”Do you remember the Embankment at Chelsea? It can't be ten days ago.”
”Yes,” he said, laughing. ”And you and your sister were head and ears deep in some Quixotic scheme. Ah well!”
”I little thought then, certainly. Did you?”
”I don't know about that; I shouldn't like to say.”
”Why, was it earlier?” she cried. ”Did you think of me this way earlier!
How extraordinarily interesting, Henry! Tell me.”
But Henry had no intention of telling. Perhaps he could not have told, for his mental states became obscure as soon as he had pa.s.sed through them. He misliked the very word ”interesting,” connoting it with wasted energy and even with morbidity. Hard facts were enough for him.
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