“The man who planted beeches in a hedgerow was about the silliest jackass I’ve ever heard of. Any tree’s bad enough, but a beech of all things—why, it’s drip, drip, drip, all the time, and not a thing will grow under them. That’s the sort of thing that has been done all over the estate for years. It’ll take me a life-time to repair the blunders of your—of the former owners.”
It is one of the curiosities of sentiment that its most abject slave rarely permits it to interfere with his temporal concerns; it appears as unusual for a man to sentimentalize in his own walk in life as for him to pick his own pocket. Edward, having passed his whole life in contact with the earth, might have been expected to cherish a certain love of Nature: the pathos of transpontine44 melodrama made him cough and blow his nose, and in literature he affected the titled and consumptive heroine and the soft-hearted, burly hero. But when it came to business, it was another matter: the sort of sentiment that asks a farmer to spare a sylvan glade for aesthetic reasons is absurd. Edward would have willingly allowed advertisement-mongers to put up boards on the most beautiful part of his estate if thereby he could have surreptitiously increased the profits on his farm.
“Whatever you may think of my ancestors,” said Bertha, “you will kindly pay attention to me. The land is mine, and I refuse to let you spoil it.”
“It isn’t spoiling it. It’s the proper thing to do. You’ll soon get used to not seeing the wretched trees, and I tell you I’m only going to take three down. I’ve given orders to cut the others tomorrow.”
“D’you mean to say you’re going to ignore me absolutely?”
“I’m going to do what’s right, and if you don’t approve of it, I’m very sorry, but I shall do it all the same.”
“I shall give the men orders to do nothing of the kind.”
Edward laughed: “Then you’ll make an ass of yourself. You try giving them orders contrary to mine and see what they do.”
Bertha gave a cry. In her fury she looked round for something to throw, she would have liked to hit him; but he stood there, calm and self-possessed, very much amused.
“I think you must be mad,” she said. “You do all you can to destroy my love for you.”
She was in too great a passion for words. This was the measure of his affection, he must indeed utterly despise her; and this was the only result of the love she had humbly laid at his feet. She asked herself what she could do: she could do nothing—but submit. She knew as well as he that her orders would be disobeyed if they did not agree with his; and that he would keep his word she did not for a moment doubt. To do so was his pride. She did not speak for the rest of the day, but next morning, when he was going out, asked what was his intention with regard to the trees.
“Oh, I thought you’d forgotten all about them,” he replied. “I mean to do as I said.”
“If you have the trees cut down, I shall leave you. I shall go to Aunt Polly’s.”
“And tell her that you wanted the moon and I was so unkind as not to give it you?” he replied, smiling. “She’ll laugh at you.”
“You will find me as careful to keep my word as you.”
Before luncheon she went out and walked to Carter’s field: the men were still at work, but a second tree had gone; the third would doubtless fall in the afternoon. The men looked at her, and she thought they laughed. She stood looking at them for some while, so that she might thoroughly digest the humiliation. Then she went home and wrote her aunt the following letter.
MY DEAR AUNT POLLY,
I have been so seedy these last few weeks that Edward, poor dear, has been quite alarmed, and has been bothering me to come up to town to see a specialist. He’s as urgent as if he wanted to get me out of the way, and I’m already half-jealous of my new parlour-maid, who has pink cheeks and golden hair, which is just the type that Edward really admires. I also think that Dr Ramsay hasn’t the ghost of an idea what is the matter with me, and not being particularly desirous to depart this life just yet, I think it would be discreet to see somebody who will at least change my medicine. I have taken gallons of iron and quinine, and I’m frightfully afraid that my teeth will go black. My own opinion coinciding so exactly with Edward’s (that horrid Mrs Ryle calls us the humming-birds, meaning the turtle-doves, her knowledge of natural history arouses dear Edward’s contempt), I have gracefully acceded to his desire, and if you can put me up, will come at your earliest convenience.
Yours affectionately,
B.C.
P.S. I shall take the opportunity of getting clothes (I am positively in rags), so you will have to keep me some little time.
Edward came in shortly afterwards, looking much pleased with himself, and glanced slily at Bertha, thinking himself so clever that he could scarcely help laughing: had he not the habit of being most particular in his behaviour, he would undoubtedly have put his tongue in his cheek.
“With women, my dear sir, you must be firm. When you’re putting them to a fence, close your legs and don’t check ’em; but mind you keep ’em under control, or they’ll lose their little heads. A man should always let a woman see that he’s got her well in hand.”
Bertha was silent, able to eat nothing for luncheon; she sat opposite her husband, wondering how he could gorge so disgracefully when she was angry and unhappy. But in the afternoon her appetite returned and, going to the kitchen, she ate so many sandwiches that at dinner she could again touch nothing. She hoped Edward would notice that she refused all food, and be properly alarmed and sorry. But he demolished enough for two, and never saw that his wife fasted.
At night Bertha went to bed and bolted herself in their room. Presently Edward came up and tried the door. Finding it locked, he knocked and cried to her to open it. She did not answer. He knocked again more loudly and shook the handle.
“I want to have my room to myself,” she cried out. “I’m ill. Please don’t try to come in.”
“What? Where am I to sleep?”
“Oh, you can sleep in one of the spare rooms.”
“Nonsense!” he said, and without further ado put his shoulder to the door. He was a strong man; one heave and the old hinges cracked. He entered laughing.
“If you wanted to keep me out, you ought to have barricaded yourself up with the furniture.”
Bertha was disinclined to treat the matter lightly. “I’m not going to sleep with you,” she said. “If you come in here I shall go out.”
“Oh, no, you won’t,” he said.
Bertha got up and put on a dressing-gown.
“I’ll spend the night on the sofa then,” she said. “I don’t want to quarrel with you any more or to make a scene. I have written to Aunt Polly, and the day after tomorrow I shall go to London.”
“I was going to suggest that a change of air would do you good,” he replied. “I think your nerves are a bit groggy.”
“It’s very good of you to take an interest in my nerves,” she replied, with a scornful glance, settling herself on the sofa.
“Are you really going to sleep there?” he said, getting into bed.
“It looks like it.”
“You’ll find it awfully cold.”
“I’d rather freeze than sleep with you.”
“You’ll have the snuffles in the morning; but I daresay you’ll think better of it in an hour. I’m going to turn the light out. Good night!”
Bertha did not answer, and in a few minutes she was angrily listening to his snores. Could he really be asleep? Did it mean nothing to him that she should refuse to share her bed, that she should arrange to go away? It was infamous that he slept so calmly.
“Edward,” she called.
There was no answer, but she could not bring herself to believe that he was sleeping. She could never even close her eyes. He must be pretending—to annoy her. She wanted to touch him, but feared that he would burst out laughing. She felt indeed horribly cold, and piled rugs and dresses over her. It required great fortitude not to sneak back to bed. She was extremely unh
appy, and soon became very thirsty. Nothing is so horrid as the water in toilet-bottles, with the glass tasting of tooth-wash; she gulped some down, though it almost made her sick, and then walked about the room, turning over her manifold wrongs. Edward slept on insufferably. She made a noise to wake him, but he did not stir; she knocked down a table which made a clatter sufficient to disturb the dead, but her husband was insensible. Then she looked at the bed, wondering whether she dared lie down for an hour and trust to waking up before him. She was so cold that she determined to risk it, feeling certain that she would not sleep long; she walked to the bed.
“Coming to bed after all?” said Edward in a sleepy voice.
She stopped and her heart rose to her mouth.
“I was coming for my pillow,” she replied, indignantly, thanking her stars that he had not spoken a moment later.
She returned to the sofa, and eventually making herself very comfortable fell asleep. In this blissful condition she continued till the morning, and when she awoke Edward was drawing up the blinds.
“Slept well?” he asked.
“I haven’t slept a wink.”
“Oh, what a crammer.45 I’ve been looking at you for the last hour.”
“I’ve had my eyes closed for about ten minutes, if that’s what you mean.”
Bertha was quite justly annoyed that her husband should have caught her napping soundly; it robbed her proceeding of half its effect. Moreover, Edward was as fresh as a bird, while she felt old and haggard, and hardly dared look at herself in the glass.
In the middle of the morning came a telegram from Miss Ley, telling Bertha to come whenever she liked and hoping Edward would come too. Bertha left it in a conspicuous place, so that he could not fail to see it.
“So you’re really going?” he said.
“I told you I was as able to keep my word as you.”
“Well, I think it’ll do you no end of good. How long will you stay?”
“How do I know! Perhaps for ever.”
“That’s a big word, though it has only two syllables.”
It cut Bertha to the heart that Edward should be so indifferent. He could not care for her at all. He seemed to think it natural that she should leave him. He pretended it was good for her health. Oh, what did she care about her health? As she made the needful preparations her courage failed her; she felt it impossible to leave him, and her tears came rapidly as she thought of the difference between their present state and the ardent love of a year ago. She would have welcomed the poorest excuse that forced her to stay and yet saved her self-respect. If Edward would only express grief at the parting it might not be too late. But her boxes were packed and her train was fixed; he told Miss Glover that his wife was going away for change of air, and regretted that his farm prevented him from accompanying her. The trap was brought to the door, and Edward jumped up, taking his seat. Now there was no hope, and go she must. She wished she had the courage to tell Edward that she could not leave him. She was afraid. They drove along in silence. Bertha waited for her husband to speak, herself daring to say nothing lest he should hear the tears in her voice. At last she made an effort.
“Are you sorry I’m going?”
“I think it’s for your good, and I don’t want to stand in the way of that.”
Bertha asked herself what love a man had for his wife who could bear her out of his sight, no matter what the necessity. She stifled a sigh.
They reached the station and he took her ticket. They waited in silence for the train, and Edward bought Punch and the Sketch from the newspaper boy. The horrible train steamed up, Edward helped her into a carriage, and the tears in her eyes now could not be concealed. She put out her lips.
“Perhaps for the last time,” she whispered.
22
April 18 72 Eliot Mansions,
Chelsea, S.W.
DEAR EDWARD,
I think we were wise to part. We were too unsuited to one another, and our difficulties could only have increased. The knot of marriage between two persons of different temperament is so intricate that it can only be cut; you may try to unravel it, and think you are succeeding; but another turn shows you that the tangle is only worse than ever. Even time is powerless. Some things are impossible: you cannot heap water up like stones, you cannot measure one man by another man’s rule. I am certain we were wise to separate. I see that if we had continued to live together our quarrels would have perpetually increased. It is horrible to look back upon those vulgar brawls. We wrangled like fishwives. I cannot understand how my mouth could have uttered such things.
It is very bitter to look back and compare my anticipations with what has really happened. Did I expect too much from life? Ah, me, I only expected that my husband would love me. It is because I asked so little that I have received nothing; in this world you must ask much, you must spread your praises abroad, you must trample underfoot those that stand in your path, you must take up all the room you can, or you will be elbowed away. You must be irredeemably selfish, or you will be a thing of no account, a frippery that man plays with and flings aside.
Of course I expected the impossible. I was not satisfied with the conventional unity of marriage. I wanted to be really one with you. Oneself is the whole world and all other people are merely strangers. At first in my vehement desire I used to despair because I knew you so little; I was heart-broken at the impossibility of really understanding you, of getting right down into your heart of hearts. Never, to the best of my knowledge, have I seen your veritable self; you are really as much a stranger to me as if I had known you but an hour. I bared my soul to you, concealing nothing—there is in you a man I do not know and have never seen. We are so absolutely different, I don’t know a single thing that we have in common; often when we have been talking and fallen into silence, our thoughts, starting from the same standpoint, have travelled in different directions, and on speaking again we found how widely they had diverged. I hoped to know you to the bottom of your soul; oh, I hoped that we should be united so as to have but one soul between us; and yet on the most commonplace occasion I can never know your thoughts. Perhaps it might have been different if we had had children; they might have formed between us a truer link, and perhaps in the delight of them I should have forgotten my impracticable dreams. But fate was against us, I come from a rotten stock; it is written in the book that the Leys should depart from the sight of man, and return to their mother earth to be incorporated with her; and who knows in the future what may be our lot? I like to think that in the course of ages I may be the wheat on a fertile plain or the smoke from a fire of brambles on the common. I wish I could be buried in the open fields, rather than in the grim coldness of a churchyard, so that I might anticipate the change and return more quickly to the life of Nature.
Believe me, separation was the only possible outcome. I loved you too passionately to be content with the cold regard which you gave me. Oh, of course I was exacting and tyrannical and unkind; I can confess all my faults now; my only excuse is that I was very unhappy. For all the pain I have caused you I beg you to forgive me. We may as well part friends, and I freely forgive you for all you have made me suffer. Now I can afford also to tell you how near I was to not carrying out my intention. Yesterday and this morning I scarcely held back my tears, the parting seemed too hard, I felt I could not leave you. If you had asked me not to go, if you had even showed the smallest sign of regretting my departure, I think I should have broken down. Yes, I can tell you now that I would have given anything to stay. Alas! I am so weak. In the train I cried bitterly. It is the first time we have been apart since our marriage, the first time that we have slept under different roofs. But now the worst is over. I have taken the step and I shall adhere to what I have done. I am sure I have acted for the best. I see no harm in our writing to one another occasionally if it pleases you to receive letters from me. I think I had better not see you—at all events for some time. Perhaps when we are both a good deal older we may without danger s
ee one another now and then; but not yet. I should be afraid to see your face.
Aunt Polly has no suspicion. I can assure you it has been an effort to laugh and talk during the evening, and I was glad to get to my room. Now it is past midnight, and I am still writing to you. I felt I ought to let you know my thoughts, and I can tell them more easily by letter than by word of mouth. Does it not show how separated in heart we have become that I shall hesitate to say to you what I think? And I had hoped to have my heart always open to you; I fancied that I need never conceal a thing, nor hesitate to show you every emotion and every thought. Good-bye.
Bertha.
April 23 72 Eliot Mansions,
Chelsea, S.W.
MY POOR EDWARD,
You say you hope I shall soon get better and come back to Court Leys. You misunderstood my meaning so completely that I almost laughed. It is true I was out of spirits and tired when I wrote, but that was not the reason of my letter. Cannot you conceive emotions not entirely due to one’s physical condition? You cannot understand me, you never have; and yet I would not take up the vulgar and hackneyed position of a femme incomprise.46 There is nothing to understand about me. I am very simple and unmysterious; I only wanted love, and you could not give it me. No, our parting is final and irrevocable. What can you want me back for? You have Court Leys and your farms, everyone likes you in the neighbourhood, I was the only bar to your complete happiness. Court Leys I freely give you for my life; until you came it brought in nothing, and the income now arising from it is entirely due to your efforts; you earn it and I beg you to keep it. For me the small income I have from my mother is sufficient.
Aunt Polly still thinks I am on a visit, and constantly speaks of you; I throw dust in her eyes, but I cannot hope to keep her in ignorance for long. At present I am engaged in periodically seeing the doctor for an imaginary ill and getting one or two new things.
Shall we write to one another once a week? I know writing is a trouble to you; but I do not wish you to forget me altogether. If you like I will write to you every Sunday, and you may answer or not as you please.
Mrs Craddock Page 22
