“We’re going to be married quite privately,” answered Bertha. “We neither of us want to make a fuss.”
“I think you’re very wise. Most people when they get married fancy they’re doing a very original thing. It never occurs to them that quite a number of persons have committed matrimony since Adam and Eve.”
“I’ve asked Edward to come to luncheon tomorrow,” said Bertha.
5
Next day, after luncheon, Miss Ley retired to the drawing-room and unpacked the books that had just arrived from Mudie. She looked through them and read a page here and there to see what they were like, thinking meanwhile of the meal they had just finished. Edward Craddock had been rather nervous, sitting uncomfortably on his chair, and too officious perhaps in handing things to Miss Ley, salt and pepper and such like, as he saw she wanted them; he evidently wished to make himself amiable. At the same time he was subdued, and not gaily enthusiastic, as might be expected from a happy lover. Miss Ley could not help asking herself if he really loved her niece. Bertha was obviously without a doubt on the subject; she had been radiant, keeping her eyes all the while fixed upon the young man as if he were the most delightful and wonderful thing she had ever seen. Miss Ley was surprised at the girl’s expansiveness, contrasting with her old reserve; she seemed now not to care a straw if all the world saw her emotions. She was not only happy to be in love, she was proud. Miss Ley laughed aloud at the doctor’s idea that he could disturb the course of such passion. But if Miss Ley, well aware that the watering-pots of reason could not put out those raging fires, had no intention of hindering the match, neither had she a desire to witness the preliminaries thereof; and after luncheon, remarking that she felt tired and meant to lie down, she had gone into the drawing-room alone. It pleased her to think that she could at the same time suit the lovers’ pleasure and her own convenience.
She chose the book from the bundle that seemed most promising and began to read. Presently the door was opened by a servant and Miss Glover was announced. A look of annoyance passed over Miss Ley’s face, but it was immediately succeeded by one of mellifluous amiability.
“Oh, don’t get up, dear Miss Ley,” said the visitor as her hostess slowly rose from the sofa upon which she had been so comfortably lying.
Miss Ley shook hands and began to talk. She said she was delighted to see Miss Glover, thinking meanwhile that this estimable person’s sense of etiquette was very tiresome. The Glovers had dined at Court Leys during the previous week, and punctually seven days afterwards Miss Glover was paying a ceremonious call.
Miss Glover was a worthy person, but tedious; and that Miss Ley could not forgive. Better ten thousand times, in her opinion, was it to be Becky Sharp and a monster of wickedness than Amelia14 and a monster of stupidity.
Miss Glover was one of the best-natured and most charitable creatures upon the face of the earth, a miracle of abnegation and unselfishness; but a person to be amused by her could have been only an absolute lunatic.
“She’s a dear kind thing,” said Miss Ley of her, “and she does endless good in the parish; but she’s really too dull, she’s only fit for heaven.”
And the image passed through Miss Ley’s mind, unsobered by advancing years, of Miss Glover, with her colourless hair hanging down her back, wings and a golden harp, singing hymns in a squeaky voice, morning, noon and night. Indeed, the general conception of paradisaical costume suited Miss Glover very ill. She was a woman of about eight and twenty, but might have been any age between one score and two; you felt that she had always been the same and that years would have no power over her strength of mind. She had no figure, and her clothes were so stiff and unyielding as to give an impression of armour. She was always dressed in a tight black jacket of ribbed cloth that was evidently most durable, the plainest of skirts, and strong, really strong, boots. Her hat was suited to wear in all weathers, and she had made it herself. She never wore a veil, and her skin was dry and hard, drawn so tightly over the bones as to give her face extraordinary angularity; over her prominent cheek-bones was a red flush, the colour of which was not uniformly suffused, but with the capillaries standing out distinctly forming a network. Her nose and mouth were what is politely termed of a determined character, her pale blue eyes slightly protruded; ten years of East Anglian winds had blown all the softness out of her face, and their bitter fury seemed to have bleached even her hair. One could not tell if this was brown and had lost its richness, or gold from which the shimmer had vanished; the roots sprang from the cranium with a curious apartness, so that Miss Ley always thought how easy in her case it would be to number the hairs. But notwithstanding the hard, uncompromising exterior which suggested extreme determination, she was so bashful, so absurdly self-conscious as to blush at every opportunity, and in the presence of a stranger to go through utter misery from inability to think of a single word to say. At the same time she had the tenderest of hearts, sympathetic, compassionate; she overflowed with love and pity for her fellow-creatures. She was excessively sentimental.
“And how is your brother?” asked Miss Ley.
Mr Glover was the Vicar of Leanham, which was about a mile from Court Leys on the Tercanbury Road, and Miss Glover had kept house for him since his appointment to the living.
“Oh, he’s very well. Of course he’s rather worried about the dissenters.15 You know they’re putting up a new chapel in Leanham? It’s perfectly dreadful.”
“Mr Craddock mentioned the fact at luncheon.”
“Oh, was he lunching with you? I didn’t know you knew him well enough for that.”
“I suppose he’s here now,” said Miss Ley, “he’s not been in to say good-bye.”
Miss Glover looked at her with some want of intelligence. But it was not to be expected that Miss Ley would explain before making the affair a good deal more complicated.
“And how is Bertha?” asked Miss Glover, whose conversation was chiefly concerned with inquiries about common acquaintances.
“Oh, of course, she’s in the seventh heaven of delight.”
“Oh!” said Miss Glover, not understanding at all what Miss Ley meant. She was somewhat afraid of the elder lady: even though her brother Charles said he feared she was worldly, Miss Glover could not fail to respect a woman who had lived in London and on the Continent, who had met Dean Farrar16 and seen Miss Marie Corelli.17 “Of course,” she said, “Bertha is young, and naturally high-spirited.”
“Well, I’m sure I hope she’ll be happy.”
“You must be very anxious about her future, Miss Ley.”
Miss Glover found her hostess’s observations cryptic, and feeling foolish blushed a fiery red.
“Not at all,” said Miss Ley. “She’s her own mistress and as ablebodied and reasonable-minded as most young women. But, of course, it’s a great risk.”
“I’m very sorry, Miss Ley,” said the vicar’s sister, in such distress as to give Miss Ley certain qualms of conscience, “but I really don’t understand. What is a great risk?”
“Matrimony, my dear.”
“Is Bertha—going—to get married? Oh, dear Miss Ley, let me congratulate you. How happy and proud you must be!”
“My dear Miss Glover, please keep calm. And if you want to congratulate anybody congratulate Bertha—not me.”
“But I’m so glad, Miss Ley. To think of dear Bertha getting married! Charles will be so pleased.”
“It’s to Mr Edward Craddock,” drily said Miss Ley, interrupting these transports.
“Oh!” Miss Glover’s jaw dropped and she changed colour; then recovering herself: “You don’t say so!”
“You seem surprised, dear Miss Glover,” said the elder lady with a thin smile.
“I am surprised. I thought they scarcely knew one another; and besides—” Miss Glover stopped with embarrassment.
“And besides what?” inquired Miss Ley sharply.
“Well, Miss Ley, of course Mr Craddock is a very good young man, and I like him; but I shouldn’t have t
hought him a suitable match for Bertha.”
“It depends on what you mean by a suitable match,” answered Miss Ley.
“I was always hoping Bertha would marry young Mr Branderton of the Towers.”
“H’m!” said Miss Ley, who did not like the neighbouring squire’s mother. “I don’t know what Mr Branderton has to recommend him beyond the possession of four or five generations of particularly stupid ancestors and two or three thousand acres that he can neither let nor sell.”
“Of course Mr Craddock is a very worthy young man,” added Miss Glover, who was afraid she had said too much. “If you approve of the match no one else can complain.”
“I don’t approve of the match, Miss Glover, but I’m not such a fool as to oppose it. Marriage is always a hopeless idiocy for a woman who has enough of her own to live upon.”
“It’s an institution of the Church, Miss Ley,” replied Miss Glover.
“Is it?” retorted Miss Ley. “I always thought it was an institution to provide work for the judges in the Divorce Court.”
To this Miss Glover very properly made no answer.
“Do you think they’ll be happy together?” she asked finally.
“I think it very improbable,” said Miss Ley.
“Well, don’t you think it’s your duty—excuse my mentioning it, Miss Ley—to do something?”
“My dear Miss Glover, I don’t think they’ll be more unhappy than most married couples; and one’s greatest duty in this world is to leave people alone.”
“There I cannot agree with you,” said Miss Glover, bridling. “If duty was not more difficult than that, there would be no credit in doing it.”
“Ah, my dear, your idea of a happy life is always to do the disagreeable thing; mine is to gather the roses—with gloves on, so that the thorns should not prick me.”
“That’s not the way to win the battle, Miss Ley. We must all fight.”
Miss Ley raised her eyebrows. She fancied it somewhat impertinent for a woman twenty years younger than herself to exhort her to lead a better life. But the picture of that poor, scraggy, ill-dressed creature fighting with a devil, cloven-footed, betailed and behorned, was as pitiful as it was comic; and with difficulty Miss Ley repressed an impulse to argue and startle a little her estimable friend. But at that moment Dr Ramsay came in. He shook hands with the two ladies.
“I thought I’d look in to see how Bertha was,” he said.
“Poor Mr Craddock has another adversary,” remarked Miss Ley. “Miss Glover thinks I ought to take the affair—seriously.”
“I do indeed,” said Miss Glover.
“Ever since I was a young girl,” said Miss Ley, “I’ve been trying not to take things seriously; and I’m afraid now I’m hopelessly frivolous.”
The contrast between this assertion and Miss Ley’s prim manner was really funny; but Miss Glover saw only something quite incomprehensible.
“After all,” added Miss Ley, “nine marriages out of ten are more or less unsatisfactory. You say young Branderton would have been more suitable; but really a string of ancestors is no particular assistance to matrimonial felicity, and otherwise I see no marked difference between him and Edward Craddock. Mr Branderton has been to Eton and Oxford, but he conceals the fact with very great success. Practically he’s just as much a gentleman-farmer as Mr Craddock; but one family is working itself up and the other is working itself down. The Brandertons represent the past and the Craddocks the future; and though I detest reform and progress, so far as matrimony is concerned I myself prefer the man who founds a family to the man who ends it. But, good Heavens, you’re making me sententious!”
Opposition was making Miss Ley almost a champion of Edward Craddock.
“Well,” said the doctor in his heavy way, “I’m in favour of everyone sticking to his own class. Nowadays, whoever a man is he wants to be the next thing better; the labourer apes the tradesman, the tradesman apes the professional man.”
“And the professional man is worst of all, dear doctor,” said Miss Ley, “for he apes the noble lord, who seldom affords a very admirable example. And the amusing thing is that each set thinks itself quite as good as the set above it and has a profound contempt for the set below it. In fact the only members of society who hold themselves in proper estimation are the servants. I always think that the domestics of gentlemen’s houses in South Kensington are several degrees less odious than their masters.”
This was not a subject that Miss Glover and Dr Ramsay could discuss, and there was a momentary pause. “What single point can you bring in favour of this marriage?” asked the doctor suddenly.
Miss Ley looked at him as if she were thinking, then with a dry smile: “My dear doctor, Mr Craddock is so matter of fact—the moon will never arouse him to poetic ecstasies.”
“Miss Ley!” said the parson’s sister in a tone of entreaty.
Miss Ley glanced from one to the other. “Do you want my serious opinion?” she asked, rather more gravely than usual. “The girl loves him, my dear doctor. Marriage, after all, is such a risk that only passion makes it worth while.”
Miss Glover looked up rather uneasily at the word.
“Yes, I know what you all think in England,” said Miss Ley, catching the glance and its meaning. “You expect people to marry from every reason except the proper one—and that is the instinct of reproduction.”
“Miss Ley!” exclaimed Miss Glover, blushing.
“Oh, you’re old enough to take a sensible view of the matter,” answered Miss Ley brutally. “Bertha is merely the female attracted to the male, and that is the only decent foundation of marriage; the other way seems to me merely pornographic. And what does it matter if the man is not of the same station? The instinct has nothing to do with the walk in life. If I’d ever been in love I shouldn’t have cared if it was a pot-boy,18 I’d have married him—if he asked me.”
“Well, upon my word!” said the doctor.
But Miss Ley was roused now, and interrupted him: “The particular function of a woman is to propagate her species, and if she’s wise she’ll choose a strong and healthy man to be the father of her children. I have no patience with those women who marry a man because he’s got brains. What is the good of a husband who can make abstruse mathematical calculations? A woman wants a man with strong arms and the digestion of an ox.”
“Miss Ley,” broke in Miss Glover, “I’m not clever enough to argue with you, but I know you’re wrong. I don’t think I ought to listen to you; I’m sure Charles wouldn’t like it.”
“My dear, you’ve been brought up like the majority of English girls, that is, like a fool.”
Poor Miss Glover blushed. “At all events I’ve been brought up to regard marriage as a holy institution. We’re here upon earth to mortify the flesh, not to indulge it. I hope I shall never be tempted to think of such matters in the way you’ve suggested. If ever I marry, I know that nothing will be further from me than carnal thoughts. I look upon marriage as a spiritual union in which it’s my duty to love, honour and obey my husband, to assist and sustain him, to live with him such a life that when the end comes we may be prepared for it.”
“Fiddlesticks!” said Miss Ley.
“I should have thought you of all people,” said Dr Ramsay, “would object to Bertha’s marrying beneath her.”
“They can’t be happy,” said Miss Glover.
“Why not? I used to know in Italy Lady Justitia Shawe, who married her footman. She made him take her name, and they drank like fishes. They lived for forty years in complete happiness, and when he drank himself to death, poor Lady Justitia was so grieved that her next attack of delirium tremens carried her off. It was most pathetic.”
“I can’t think you look forward with pleasure to such a fate for your only niece, Miss Ley,” said Miss Glover, who took everything seriously.
“I have another niece, you know,” answered Miss Ley. “My sister, who married Sir James Courte, has three children.”
But the doctor broke in: “Well, I don’t think you need trouble yourselves about the matter, for I have authority to announce to you that the marriage of Bertha and young Craddock is broken off.”
“What!” cried Miss Ley. “I don’t believe it.”
“You don’t say so,” ejaculated Miss Glover at the same moment. “Oh, I am relieved!”
Dr Ramsay rubbed his hands, beaming with delight. “I knew I should stop it,” he said. “What do you think now, Miss Ley?”
He was evidently rejoicing over her discomfiture. It made her cross.
“How can I think anything till you explain yourself?” she asked.
“He came to see me last night—you remember he asked for an interview of his own accord—and I put the case before him. I talked to him, I told him that the marriage was impossible, and I said the Leanham and Blackstable people would call him a fortune-hunter. I appealed to him for Bertha’s sake. He’s an honest, straightforward fellow. I always said he was. I made him see he wasn’t doing the straight thing, and at last he promised to break it off.”
“He won’t keep a promise of that sort,” said Miss Ley.
“Oh, won’t he!” cried the doctor. “I’ve known him all his life, and he’d rather die than break his word.”
“Poor fellow,” said Miss Glover, “it must have pained him terribly.”
“He bore it like a man.”
Miss Ley pursed her lips till they practically disappeared. “And when is he supposed to carry out your ridiculous suggestion, Dr Ramsay?” she asked.
“He told me he was lunching here today, and would take the opportunity to ask Bertha for his release.”
“The man’s a fool!” muttered Miss Ley to herself, but quite audibly.
“I think it’s very noble of him,” said Miss Glover, “and I shall make a point of telling him so.”
“I wasn’t thinking of Mr Craddock,” snapped Miss Ley, “but of Dr Ramsay.”
Miss Glover looked at the worthy man to see how he took the rudeness; but at that moment the door opened and Bertha walked in. Miss Ley caught her mood at a glance. Bertha was evidently not at all distressed, there was no sign of tears, but her cheeks showed more colour than usual and her lips were firmly compressed; Miss Ley concluded that her niece was in a very pretty passion. She drove away the appearance of anger, and her face was full of smiles, however, as she greeted her visitors.
Mrs Craddock Page 8
