Mrs Craddock

by W. Somerset Maugham

  “Don’t you know it’s very rude to stare like that?” said Bertha, with a smile, turning round suddenly.

  “I beg your pardon, I didn’t know you were looking.”

  “I wasn’t, but I saw you all the same.”

  She smiled at him most engagingly and she saw a sudden flame leap into his eyes. He was a pretty boy; of course a mere child.

  A married woman is always gratified by the capture of a boy’s fickle heart; it is an unsolicited testimonial to her charms, and has the advantage of being completely free from danger. She tells herself that there is no better training for a young man than to fall in love with a really nice woman a good deal older than himself. It teaches him how to behave and keeps him from getting into scrapes. How often have callow youths been known to ruin their lives by falling into the clutches of an adventuress with yellow hair and painted cheeks! Since she’s old enough to be his mother, the really nice woman thinks there can be no harm in flirting with the poor boy, and it seems to please him; so she makes him fetch and carry, and dazzles him, and generally drives him quite distracted, till his youthful fickleness comes to the rescue and he falls passionately in love with a barmaid; when, of course, she calls him an ungrateful and low-minded wretch, regrets she was so mistaken in his character, and tells him never to come near her again. This, of course, only refers to the women whom men fall in love with; it is well known that the others have the strictest views on the subject and would sooner die than flirt.

  Gerald had the charming gift of becoming intimate with people at the shortest notice, and a cousin is an agreeable relation (especially when she’s pretty) with whom it is easy to get on. The relationship is not so close as to warrant chronic disagreeableness, and close enough to permit personalities, which are the most amusing part of conversation.

  Within a week Gerald took to spending his whole day with Bertha, and she found the London season much more amusing than she had expected. She looked back with distaste to her only two visits to town; one had been her honeymoon, and the other the first separation from her husband; it was odd that in retrospect they both seemed equally dreary. Edward had almost disappeared from her thoughts, and she exulted like a captive free from chains. Her only worry was his often-expressed desire to see her. Why could he not leave her alone, as she left him? He was perpetually asking when she would return to Court Leys, and she had to invent excuses to prevent his coming to London. She loathed the idea of seeing him again.

  But she put aside these thoughts when Gerald came. It is no wonder that the English are a populous race, when one observes how many are the resorts supplied by the munificence of governing bodies for the express purpose of philandering. On a hot day what spot can be more enchanting than the British Museum, cool, and silent, and roomy, with harmless statues that tell no tales and afford matter for conversation to break an awkward pause? The parks also are eminently suited for those whose fancy turns to thoughts of platonic love. Hyde Park is the fitting scene for an idyll in which Corydon wears patent-leather boots and a shiny top-hat, and Phyllis67 an exquisite frock. The well-kept lawns, the artificial water and the trim paths give a mock rurality that is infinitely amusing to persons who do not wish to take things too seriously. Here, in the summer mornings, Gerald and Bertha spent much time. It pleased her to listen to his chatter and to look into his green eyes; he was such a very nice boy, and seemed attached to her. Besides, he was only in London for a month, and she could afford to let him fall in love with her a little.

  “Are you sorry you’re going away so soon?” she asked.

  “I shall be miserable at leaving you.”

  “It’s nice of you to say so,” she answered, smiling.

  Bit by bit she extracted from him his discreditable history. Bertha was possessed by a curiosity to know details, which she elicited artfully, making him confess his iniquities so that she might pretend to be angry. It gave her a curious thrill, partly of admiration, to think that he was such a depraved young person, and she looked at him with a sort of amused wonder. He was very different from the virtuous Edward. A childlike innocence shone out of his handsome eyes, and yet he had already tasted the wine of many emotions. Bertha felt somewhat envious of the sex that gave opportunity, and the spirit that gave power, to seize life boldly and wring from it all it had to offer.

  “I ought to refuse to speak to you any more,” she said; “I ought to be ashamed of you.”

  “But you’re not. That’s why you’re such a ripper.”

  How could she be angry with a boy who adored her? He might be utterly vicious, in fact he was; but his perversity fascinated her. Here was a man who would never hesitate to go to the devil for a woman, and Bertha was pleased at the compliment to her sex.

  One evening Miss Ley was dining out, and Gerald asked Bertha to come to dinner with him, and then to the opera. She refused, thinking of the expense; but he was so eager, and she really so anxious to go, that at last she consented.

  “Poor boy, he’s going away so soon, I may as well be nice to him.”

  Gerald arrived in high spirits. Evening clothes suited him admirably, but he looked even more boyish than usual.

  “I’m really afraid to go out with you,” said Bertha. “People will think you’re my son. ‘Dear me, who’d have thought she was forty!’”

  “What rot!” He looked at her beautiful gown. Like all nice women, Bertha was extremely careful to be always well dressed. “By Jove, you are a stunner!”

  “My dear child, I’m old enough to be your mother.”

  They drove off, to a restaurant which Gerald, boy-like, had chosen because common report pronounced it the dearest in London. Bertha was amused by the bustle, the glitter of women in diamonds, the busy waiters gliding to and fro, the glare of the electric light; and her eyes rested with approval on the handsome lad in front of her. She could not keep in check the recklessness with which he insisted on ordering the most expensive things; and when they arrived at the opera she found he had a box.

  “Oh, you wretch,” she cried. “You must be utterly ruined.”

  “Oh, I’ve got five hundred quid,” he replied, laughing. “I must blue68 some of it.”

  “But why on earth did you get a box?”

  “I remembered that you hated any other part of the theatre.”

  “But you promised to get cheap seats.”

  “And I wanted to be alone with you.”

  He was by nature a flatterer; and few women could withstand the cajolery of his eyes and his charming smile.

  “He must be very fond of me,” thought Bertha, as they drove home, and she put her arm in his to express her thanks and her appreciation.

  “It’s very nice of you to have been so good to me. I always thought you were a nice creature.”

  “I’d do more than that for you.”

  He would have given the rest of his five hundred pounds for one kiss. She knew it and was pleased; but gave him no encouragement, and for once he was bashful. They separated at her doorstep with a discreet handshake.

  “It’s awfully kind of you to have come.”

  He appeared immensely grateful to her. Her conscience pricked her now that he had spent so much money; but she liked him all the more. A woman would rather have a bunch of weeds that cost a fortune than a basket of roses that cost a shilling.

  * * *

  Gerald’s month was nearly over, and Bertha was astonished that he occupied her thoughts so much. She did not know that she was so fond of him; it had never occurred to her that she would miss him.

  “I wish he weren’t going,” she said, and then quickly: “But of course it’s much better that he should.”

  At that moment the boy appeared.

  “This day week you’ll be on the sea, Gerald,” she said. “Then you’ll be sorry for all your iniquities.”

  “No,” he answered, sitting in the position he most affected, at Bertha’s feet.

  “No—which?”

  “I shan’t be sorry,” he r
eplied, with a smile, “and I’m not going away.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “I’ve changed my plans. The man I’m going to said I could start at the end of this month or at the end of next. And I shall start at the end of next.”

  “But why?” It was a foolish question, because she knew.

  “I had nothing to stay for. Now I have, that’s all.”

  Bertha looked at him and caught his shining eyes, fixed intently upon her. She became grave.

  “You’re not angry?” he asked, changing his tone. “I thought you wouldn’t mind. I don’t want to leave you.”

  He looked at her earnestly, and tears were in his eyes. Bertha could not help being touched.

  “I’m very glad that you should stay, dear. I didn’t want you to go so soon. We’ve been such good friends.”

  She passed her fingers through his curly hair and over his ears; but he started, and shivered.

  “Don’t do that,” he said, pushing her hand away.

  “Why not?” she cried, laughing. “Are you frightened of me?”

  And caressingly she passed her hand over his ears again.

  “Oh, you don’t know what pain that gives me.”

  He sprang up, and to her astonishment Bertha saw that he was pale and trembling.

  “I feel I shall go mad when you touch me.”

  Suddenly she saw the burning passion in his eyes: it was love that made him tremble. Bertha gave a little cry, and a curious sensation pressed her heart. Then without warning, the boy seized her hands and falling on his knees before her kissed them repeatedly. His hot breath made Bertha tremble too, and the kisses burnt themselves into her flesh. She snatched her hands away.

  “I’ve wanted to do that so long,” he whispered.

  She was too much moved to answer, but stood looking at him.

  “You must be mad, Gerald.”

  “Bertha!”

  They stood very close together. He was about to put his arms around her, and for an instant she had an insane desire to let him do what he would, to let him kiss her lips as he had kissed her hands; she wanted to kiss his mouth and his curly hair and his cheek as soft as a girl’s. But she recovered herself.

  “Oh, it’s absurd! Don’t be silly, Gerald.”

  He could not speak, he looked at her with his green eyes sparkling with desire.

  “I love you,” he whispered.

  “My dear boy, do you want me to succeed your mother’s maid?”

  “Oh!” He gave a groan and turned red.

  “I’m glad you’re staying on. You’ll be able to see Edward, who’s coming to town next week. You’ve never met my husband, have you?”

  His lips twitched and he seemed to struggle to compose himself. Then he threw himself on a chair and buried his face in his hands. He seemed so little, so young—and he loved her. Bertha looked at him for a moment, and the tears came to her eyes. She put her hand on his shoulder.

  “Gerald!” He did not look up. “Gerald, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I’m sorry for what I said.”

  She bent down and drew his hands away from his face.

  “Are you cross with me?” he asked, almost tearfully.

  “No,” she answered, caressingly. “But you musn’t be silly, dearest. You know I’m old enough to be your mother.”

  He did not seem consoled, and she felt still that she had been horrid. She took his face between her hands and kissed his lips. And as if he were a little child she kissed away the teardrops that shone in his eyes.

  30

  Bertha still felt on her hands Gerald’s passionate kisses; they were like little patches of fire; and on her lips was still the touch of his boyish mouth. What magic current had passed from him to her that she should feel this sudden happiness? It was enchanting to think that Gerald loved her; she remembered how his eyes had sparkled, how his voice had grown hoarse so that he could hardly speak: ah, those were the signs of real love, of the love that is mighty and triumphant. Bertha put her hands to her heart with a rippling laugh of pure joy—for she was loved. The kisses tingled on her fingers so that she looked at them with surprise; she seemed almost to see a mark of burning. She was very grateful to him, she wanted to take his head in her hands and kiss his hair and his boyish eyes and again the soft lips. She told herself that she would be a mother to him.

  The following day he had come to her almost shyly, afraid that she would be angry, and the bashfulness contrasting with his usual happy audacity had charmed her. It flattered her extremely to think that he was her humble slave, to see the pleasure he took in doing as she bade; but she could hardly believe it true that he loved her, and she wished to reassure herself. It gave her a queer thrill to see him turn white when she held his hand, to see him tremble when she leant on his arm. She stroked his hair, and was delighted with the anguish she saw in his eyes.

  “Don’t do that,” he cried. “Please. You don’t know how it hurts.”

  “I was hardly touching you,” she replied, laughing.

  She saw in his eyes glistening tears: they were tears of passion, and she could scarcely restrain a cry of triumph. At last she was loved as she wished; she gloried in her power: here at last was one who would not hesitate to lose his soul for her sake. She was grateful. But her heart grew cold when she thought that it was too late, that it was no good; he was only a boy, and she was married and nearly thirty.

  But even then, why should she attempt to stop him? If it was the love she dreamt of, nothing could destroy it. And there was no harm; Gerald said nothing to which she might not listen, and he was so much younger than she; he was going away in less than a month and it would all be over. Why should she not enjoy the modest crumbs that the gods let fall from their table? It was little enough in all conscience! How foolish is he who will not bask in the sun of St Martin’s summer because it heralds the winter as surely as the east wind!

  They spent the whole day together, to Miss Ley’s amusement, who for once did not use her sharp eyes to much effect.

  “I’m so thankful to you, Bertha, for looking after the boy. His mother ought to be eternally grateful to you for keeping him out of mischief.”

  “I’m very glad if I have,” said Bertha. “He’s such a nice boy and I’m so fond of him. I should be very sorry if he got into trouble. I’m rather anxious about him afterwards.”

  “My dear, don’t be; because he’s certain to get into scrapes—it’s his nature; but it’s likewise his nature to get out of them. He’ll swear eternal devotion to half a dozen fair damsels, and ride away rejoicing, while they are left to weep upon one another’s bosoms. It’s some men’s nature to break women’s hearts.”

  “I think he’s only a little wild; he means no harm.”

  “Those sort of people never do; that’s what makes their wrong-doing so much more fatal.”

  “And he’s so affectionate.”

  “My dear, I shall really believe that you’re in love with him.”

  “I am,” said Bertha, “madly!”

  The plain truth is often the surest way to hoodwink people, more especially when it is told unconsciously. Women of fifty have an irritating habit of treating as contemporaries all persons of their own sex who are over twenty-five, and it never struck Miss Ley that Bertha might look upon Gerald as anything but a little boy.

  But Edward could no longer be kept in the country. Bertha was astonished that he should wish to see her, and a little annoyed, for now of all times his presence would be importunate. She did not wish to have her dream disturbed, she knew it was nothing else; it was a mere spring day of happiness in the long winter of life.

  She looked at Gerald now with a heavy heart, and she could not bear to think of the future. How empty would existence be without that joyous smile; above all, without that ardent passion! His love was wonderful; it surrounded her like a mystic fire and lifted her up so that she seemed to walk on air. But things always come too late or come by halves. Why should all her passion have
been squandered and flung to the winds, so that now when a beautiful youth offered her his virgin heart she had nothing to give in exchange?

  She was a little nervous at the meeting between him and Edward; she wondered what they would think of one another, and she watched—Gerald. Edward came in like a country wind, obstreperously healthy, jovial, large and rather bald. Miss Ley trembled lest he should knock her china over as he went round the room. He kissed her on one cheek and Bertha on the other.

  “Well, how are you all? And this is my young cousin, eh? How are you? Pleased to meet you.”

  He wrung Gerald’s hand, towering over him, beaming good-naturedly; then sat on a chair much too small for him, which creaked and grumbled at his weight. There are few sensations more amusing to a woman than to look at the husband she has once adored and to think how very unnecessary he is; but it is apt to make conversation a little difficult.

  Miss Ley soon carried Gerald off, thinking that husband and wife should enjoy a little of that isolation to which marriage had indissolubly doomed them. Bertha had been awaiting, with great discomfort, the necessary ordeal. She had nothing to tell Edward, and she was much afraid that he would be sentimental.

  “Where are you staying?” she asked.

  “Oh, I’m putting up at the ‘Inns of Court,’ I always go there.”

  “I thought you might care to go to the theatre tonight. I’ve got a box so that Aunt Polly and Gerald can come too.”

  “I’m game for anything you like.”

  “You always were the best-tempered man,” said Bertha, smiling gently.

  “You don’t seem to care very much for my society all the same.”

  Bertha looked up quickly. “What makes you think that?”

  “Well, you’re a precious long time coming back to Court Leys,” he replied, laughing.

  Bertha was relieved, for he was evidently not taking the matter seriously. She had not the courage to say that she meant never to return; the endless explanation, his wonder, the impossibility of making him understand, were more than she could bear.