“Miss Glover, how kind of you to come! How d’you do, Dr Ramsay? By the way, I think I must ask you not to interfere in future with my private concerns.”
“Dearest,” broke in Miss Glover, “it’s all for the best.”
Bertha turned to her, and the flush on her face deepened. “Ah, I see you’ve been discussing the matter. How good of you! Edward has been asking me to release him.”
Dr Ramsay nodded with satisfaction.
“But I refused!”
Dr Ramsay sprang up, and Miss Glover, lifting her hands, cried: “Oh, dear! Oh, dear!”
This was one of the rare occasions in her life upon which Miss Ley was known to laugh outright. Bertha now was simply beaming with happiness. “He pretended that he wanted to break the engagement, but I utterly declined.”
“You mean to say you wouldn’t let him go when he asked you?” said the doctor.
“Did you think I was going to let my happiness be destroyed by you?” she asked contemptuously. “I found out that you had been meddling, Dr Ramsay. Poor boy, he thought his honour required him not to take advantage of my inexperience. I told him, what I’ve told him a thousand times, that I love him and that I can’t live without him. Oh, I think you ought to be ashamed of yourself, Dr Ramsay. What d’you mean by coming between me and Edward?”
Bertha said the last words passionately. She was breathing hard. Dr Ramsay was taken aback, and Miss Glover, thinking such a manner of speech unladylike, looked down. Miss Ley’s sharp eyes played from one to the other.
“Do you think he really loves you?” said Miss Glover at last. “It seems to me that if he had, he would not have been so ready to give you up.”
Miss Ley smiled; it was certainly curious that a creature of quite angelic goodness should make so Machiavellian a suggestion.
“He offered to give me up because he loved me,” said Bertha proudly. “I adore him ten thousand times more for the suggestion.”
“I have no patience with you,” cried the doctor, unable to contain himself. “He’s marrying you for your money.”
Bertha gave a little laugh. She was standing by the fire, and turned to the glass. She looked at her hands, resting on the edge of the chimney-piece, small and exquisitely modelled, the fingers tapering, the nails of the softest pink; they were the gentlest hands in the world, made for caresses; and, conscious of their beauty, she wore no rings. With them Bertha was well satisfied. Then, raising her glance, she saw herself in the mirror. For a while she gazed into her dark eyes, flashing sometimes and at others conveying the burning messages of love. She looked at her ears, small and pink like a shell; they made one feel that no materials were so grateful to the artist’s hands as the materials that make up the body of man. Her hair was dark too, so abundant that she scarcely knew how to wear it, curling, and one wanted to pass one’s hands through it, imagining that its touch must be delightful. She put her fingers to one side, to arrange a stray lock; they might say what they liked, she thought, but her hair was good. Bertha wondered why she was so dark; her olive skin suggested, indeed, the South with its burning passion; she had the complexion of the women of Umbria, clear and soft beyond description: a painter once had said that her skin had in it all the colours of the setting sun, of the setting sun at its borders, where the splendour mingles with the sky; it had a hundred mellow tints—cream and ivory, the palest yellow of the heart of roses and the faintest, the very faintest green, all flushed with radiant light. She looked at her full red lips, almost passionately sensual; it made the heart beat to imagine the kisses of that mouth. Bertha smiled at herself, and saw the even, glistening teeth. The scrutiny had made her blush, and the colour rendered still more exquisite the pallid, marvellous complexion. She turned slowly and faced the three persons looking at her.
“Do you think it impossible for a man to love me for myself? You are not flattering, dear doctor.”
Miss Ley thought Bertha certainly very bold thus to challenge the criticism of two women, both unmarried; but she silenced it. Miss Ley’s eyes went from the statuesque neck to the arms as finely formed, and to the shapely body.
“You’re looking your best, my dear,” she said with a smile.
The doctor uttered an expression of annoyance: “Can you do nothing to hinder this madness, Miss Ley?”
“My dear Dr Ramsay, I have trouble enough in arranging my own life; do not ask me to interfere with other people’s.”
6
Bertha gave herself over completely to the enjoyment of her love. Her sanguine temperament never allowed her to do anything half-heartedly, and she took no care now to conceal her feelings; love was a great sea into which she boldly plunged, uncaring whether she would swim or sink.
“I am such a fool,” she told Craddock. “I can’t realize that anyone has loved before. I feel that the world is only now beginning.”
She hated any separation from him. In the morning she existed for nothing but her lover’s visit at luncheon time and the walk back with him to his farm; then the afternoon seemed endless, and she counted the hours that must pass before she saw him again. But what bliss it was when, after his work was over, he arrived and they sat side by side near the fire, talking! Bertha would have no other light than the fitful flaming of the coals: but for the little space where they sat the room was dark, and the redness of the fire threw on Edward’s face a glow and weird shadows. She loved to look at him, at his clean-cut features and his curly hair, into his grey eyes. Then her passion knew no restraint.
“Shut your eyes,” she whispered, and kissed the closed lids; she passed her lips slowly over his lips, and the soft contact made her shudder and laugh. She buried her face in his clothes inhaling those masterful scents of the countryside that had always fascinated her. “What have you been doing today, my dearest?”
“Oh, there’s nothing much doing on the farm just now. We’ve just been ploughing and root-carting.”
It enchanted her to receive information on agricultural subjects, and she could have listened to him for hours. Every word that Edward spoke was charming and original. Bertha never took her eyes off him, she loved to hear him speak but often scarcely listened to what he said, merely watching the play of his expression. It puzzled him sometimes to catch her smile of intense happiness when he was discussing the bush-drainage of a field. However, she really took a deep interest in all his stock, and never failed to inquire after a bullock that was indisposed; it pleased her to think of the strong man among his beasts, and the thought gave a tautness to her own muscles. She determined to learn riding and tennis and golf, so that she might accompany him in all his amusements. Her own accomplishments seemed unnecessary and even humiliating. Looking at Edward Craddock she realized that Man was indeed the lord of creation. She saw him striding over his fields with long steps, ordering his labourers here and there, able to direct their operations, fearless, brave and free. It was astonishing how many excellent traits she derived from the examination of his profile.
He talked of the men he employed, and she could imagine no felicity greater than to have such a master.
“I should like to be a milkmaid on your farm,” she said.
“I don’t keep milkmaids,” he replied. “I have a milkman, it’s more useful.”
“You dear old thing,” she cried. “How matter-of-fact you are!”
She caught hold of his hands and looked at them.
“I’m rather frightened of you sometimes,” she said, laughing. “You’re so strong. I feel so utterly weak and helpless beside you.”
“Are you afraid I shall beat you?” he asked, with a smile.
She looked up at him and then down at the strong hands she was still holding.
“I don’t think I should mind if you did,” she said. “I think I should only love you more.”
He burst out laughing and kissed her.
“I’m not joking,” she said. “I understand now those women who love beasts of men. It’s a commonplace that some wives will sta
nd anything from their husbands; it seems they love them all the more because they’re brutal. I think I’m like that. But I’ve never seen you in a passion, Eddie. What are you like when you’re angry?”
“I never am angry,” he answered.
“Miss Glover told me that you had the best temper in the world. I’m terrified of all these perfections.”
“Don’t expect too much from me, Bertha. I’m not a model man, you know.”
“I’m pleased,” she answered. “I don’t want perfection. Of course you’ve got faults, though I can’t see them yet. But when I do, I know I shall only love you better. When a woman loves an ugly man, they say his ugliness only makes him more attractive, and I shall love your faults as I love everything that is yours.”
They sat for a while without speaking, and the silence was even more entrancing than the speech. Bertha wished she could remain thus for ever, resting in his arms; she forgot that soon Craddock would develop a healthy appetite and demolish a substantial dinner.
“Let me look at your hands,” she said.
She loved them too. They were large and roughly made, hard with work and exposure, ten times nicer, she thought, than the soft hands of the townsman. She felt them firm and intensely masculine; they reminded her of a hand in an Italian museum, sculptured in porphyry,19 but for some reason left unfinished; the lack of detail gave the same impression of massive strength. His hands too might have been those of a demi-god or of a hero. She stretched out the long, strong fingers. Craddock looked at her with some wonder, mingled with amusement; he knew her really very little. She caught his glance, and with a smile bent down to kiss the upturned palms. She wanted to abase herself before the strong man, to be low and humble before him. She would have been his handmaiden, and nothing could have satisfied her so much as to perform for him menial services. She knew not how to show the immensity of her passion.
It pleased Bertha to walk into Blackstable with her lover and catch the people’s glances, knowing how intensely the marriage interested them. What did she care if they were surprised at her choosing Edward Craddock, whom they had known all his life? She was proud of him, proud to be his wife.
One day, when it was very warm for the time of the year, she was resting on a stile, while Craddock stood by her side. They did not speak, but looked at one another in ecstatic happiness.
“Look,” said Craddock suddenly, “there’s Arthur Branderton.” He glanced up at Bertha, then from side to side uneasily, as if he wished to avoid a meeting.
“He’s been away, hasn’t he?” asked Bertha. “I wanted to meet him.” She was quite willing that all the world should see them. “Good afternoon, Arthur,” she called out as the youth approached.
“Oh, is it you, Bertha? Hulloa, Craddock.”
He looked at Edward, wondering what he did there with Miss Ley.
“We’ve just been walking into Leanham and I was tired.”
“Oh!”
Young Branderton thought it queer that Bertha should take walks with Craddock.
Bertha burst out laughing. “Oh, he doesn’t know, Edward. He’s the only person in the county who hasn’t heard the news.”
“What news?” asked Branderton. “I’ve been in Yorkshire for the last week at my brother-in-law’s.”
“Edward and I are going to be married.”
“Are you, by Jove?”
He looked at Craddock, and then awkwardly offered his congratulations. They could not help seeing his astonishment, and Craddock flushed, knowing it was due to the fact that Bertha had consented to marry a penniless beggar like himself and a man of no family.
“I hope you’ll invite me to the wedding,” said the young man to cover his confusion.
“Oh, it’s going to be very quiet. There will only be ourselves, Dr Ramsay, my aunt and Edward’s best man.”
“Then mayn’t I come?” asked Branderton.
Bertha looked quickly at Edward. It had caused her some uneasiness to think that he might be supported by a person of no great consequence in the place. After all she was Miss Ley; and she had already discovered that some of her lover’s friends were not too desirable. Chance offered her means of surmounting the difficulty.
“I’m afraid it’s impossible,” she said, “unless you can get Edward to offer you the important post of best man.”
She succeeded in making the two men very uncomfortable. Branderton had no great wish to perform that office for Edward—“Of course, Craddock is a very good fellow and a fine sportsman, but not the sort of chap you’d expect a girl like Bertha Ley to marry.” And Edward, understanding the young man’s feelings, was silent. But Branderton had some knowledge of polite society, and broke the momentary silence.
“Who is going to be your best man, Craddock?” he asked. He could do nothing else.
“I don’t know; I haven’t thought of it.”
But Branderton, catching Bertha’s eye, suddenly realized her desire and the reason of it.
“Won’t you have me?” he said quickly. “I daresay you’ll find me intelligent enough to learn the duties.”
“I should like it very much,” answered Craddock. “It’s very good of you.”
Branderton looked at Bertha, and she smiled her thanks; he saw she was pleased.
“Where are you going for your honeymoon?” he asked now, to make conversation.
“I don’t know,” answered Craddock. “We’ve hardly had time to think of it yet.”
“You certainly are very vague in all your plans.”
He shook hands with them, receiving from Bertha a grateful pressure, and went off.
“Have you really not thought of our honeymoon, foolish boy?” asked Bertha.
“No.”
“Well, I have. I’ve made up my mind and settled it all. We’re going to Italy, and I mean to show you Florence and Pisa and Sienna. It’ll be simply heavenly. We won’t go to Venice, because it’s too sentimental; self-respecting people can’t make love in gondolas at the end of the nineteenth century. Oh, I long to be with you in the South, beneath the blue sky and the countless stars of night.”
“I’ve never been abroad before,” he said, without much enthusiasm.
But her fire was quite enough for two: “I know. I shall have the pleasure of unfolding it all to you. I shall enjoy it more than I ever have before; it’ll all be so new to you. And we can stay six months if we like.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” he cried. “Think of the farm.”
“Oh, bother the farm. It’s our honeymoon, sposo mio.”20
“I don’t think I could possibly stay away more than a fortnight.”
“What nonsense! We can’t go to Italy for a fortnight. The farm can get on without you.”
“And in January and February, too, when all the lambing is coming on.”
He did not want to distress Bertha, but really half his lambs would die if he were not there to superintend their entrance into the world.
“But you must go,” said Bertha. “I’ve set my heart upon it.”
He looked down for a while, looking rather unhappy.
“Wouldn’t a month do?” he asked. “I’ll do anything you really want, Bertha.”
But his obvious dislike to the suggestion cut Bertha’s heart. She was only inclined to be stubborn when she saw he might resist her; and his first word of surrender made her veer round penitently.
“What a selfish beast I am!” she said. “I don’t want to make you miserable, Eddie. I thought it would please you to go abroad, and I’d planned it all so well. But we won’t go; I hate Italy. Let’s just go up to town for a fortnight like two country bumpkins.”
“Oh, but you won’t like that,” he said.
“Of course I shall. I like everything you like. D’you think I care where we go as long as I’m with you? You’re not angry with me, darling, are you?”
Mr Craddock was good enough to intimate that he was not.
* * *
Miss Ley, much against h
er will, had been driven by Miss Glover into working for some charitable institution, and was knitting babies’ socks (as the smallest garments she could make) when Bertha told her of the altered plans. She dropped a stitch. She was too wise to say anything, but she wondered if the world was coming to an end; Bertha’s schemes were shattered like brittle glass and she really seemed delighted; a month ago opposition would have made Bertha traverse seas and scale precipices rather than abandon a notion that she had got into her head. Verily love is a prestidigitator who can change the lion into the lamb as easily as a handkerchief into a flower-pot! Miss Ley began to admire Edward Craddock.
* * *
He, on his way home after leaving Bertha, was met by the Vicar of Leanham. Mr Glover was a tall man, angular, fair, thin and red-cheeked, a somewhat feminine edition of his sister, but smelling in the most remarkable fashion of antiseptics; Miss Ley vowed he peppered his clothes with iodoform21 and bathed daily in carbolic acid. He was strenuous and charitable, he hated a dissenter and was over forty.
“Ah, Craddock, I wanted to see you.”
“Not about the banns, vicar, is it? We’re going to be married by special licence.”
Like many countrymen, Edward saw something funny in the clergy—one should not grudge it them, for it is the only jest in their lives—and he was given to treating the parson with more humour than he used in the other affairs of this world. The vicar laughed; it is one of the best traits of the country clergy that they are willing to be amused with their parishioners’ jocosity.
“The marriage is all settled then? You’re a very lucky young man.”
Craddock put his arm through Mr Glover’s with the unconscious friendliness that had gained him a hundred friends.
“Yes, I am lucky,” he said. “I know you people think it rather queer that Bertha and I should get married, but—we’re very much attached to one another, and I mean to do my best by her. You know I’ve never racketted about, vicar, don’t you?”
Mrs Craddock Page 9
