“Well, I think it’s an impertinence of her to ask you now.”
Edward opened his mouth wide: “What on earth d’you mean?”
“Oh, don’t you see?” cried his wife. “They’re merely asking you because you’re my husband. It’s humiliating.”
“Nonsense!” replied Edward, laughing. “And if they are, what do I care? I’m not so thin-skinned as that. Mrs Branderton was very nice to me on Sunday; it would be funny if we didn’t accept.”
“Did you think she was nice? Didn’t you see that she was patronizing you as if you were a groom.27 It made me boil with rage. I could hardly hold my tongue.”
Edward laughed again. “I never noticed anything. It’s just your fancy, Bertha.”
“I’m not going to the horrid dinner-party.”
“Then I shall go by myself.”
Bertha started and turned white; it was as if she had received a sudden blow; but he was laughing. Of course he did not mean what he said. She hurriedly agreed to all he asked.
“Of course if you want to go, Eddie, I’ll come too. It was only for your sake that I didn’t wish to.”
“We must be neighbourly. I want to be friends with everybody.”
She sat on the arm of his chair, and put her arm round his neck. Edward patted her hand, and she looked at him with eyes full of eager love. She bent down and kissed his hair. How foolish had been her sudden thought that he did not love her!
But Bertha had another reason for not wishing to go to Mrs Branderton’s. She knew Edward would be bitterly criticized, and the thought made her wretched; they would talk of his appearance and manner, and wonder how they got on together. Bertha understood well enough the position Edward had occupied in Leanham: the Branderton’s and their like, knowing him all his life, had treated him as a mere acquaintance, for then he had been a person to whom you are civil and that is all. This was the first occasion upon which he had been dealt with as an equal; it was his introduction into what Mrs Branderton was pleased to call the upper ten of Leanham. It did indeed make Bertha’s blood boil; and it cut her to the heart to think that for years he had been used in so infamous a fashion. He did not seem to mind.
“If I were he,” she said, “I’d rather die than go. They’ve ignored him always, and now they take him up as a favour to me.”
But Edward appeared to have no pride. He neither resented the former neglect of the Brandertons nor their present impertinence.
Bertha was in a tremor of anxiety. She guessed who the other guests would be. Would they laugh at him? Of course, not openly; Mrs Branderton, the least charitable of them all, prided herself on her breeding; but Edward was shy and among strangers rather awkward. To Bertha this was a charm rather than a defect; his bashful candour touched her, and she compared it favourably with the foolish worldliness of the imaginary man about town whose dissipation she always opposed to her husband’s virtues. But she knew that a spiteful tongue would find another name for what she called a delightful naïveté.
* * *
When at last the great day arrived and they trundled off in the old-fashioned brougham, Bertha was thoroughly prepared to take mortal offence at the merest shadow of a slight offered to her husband. The Lord Chief Justice himself could not have been more careful of a company promoter’s fair name than was Mrs Craddock of her husband’s susceptibilities; Edward, like the financier, treated the affair with indifference.
Mrs Branderton had routed out the whole countryside for her show of gentlefolk. They had come from Blackstable and Tercanbury and Faversley, and from the seats and mansions that surrounded those places. Mrs Mayston Ryle was there in a wonderful black wig and a voluminous dress of violet silk; Lady Waggett was there.
“Merely the widow of a city knight, my dear,” said the hostess to Bertha; “but if she isn’t distinguished, she’s good, so one mustn’t be too hard upon her.”
General Hancock arrived with two frizzle-haired daughters, who were dreadfully plain, but pretended not to know it. They had walked, and while the old soldier toddled in, blowing like a grampus;28 the girls (whose united ages made the respectable total of sixty-five years) stayed behind to remove their boots and put on the shoes that they had brought in a bag. Then in a little while came the Dean, meek and rather talkative; Mr Glover had been invited for his sake, and of course Charles’s sister could not be omitted. She was looking almost festive in very shiny black satin.
“Poor dear,” said Mrs Branderton to another guest, “it’s her only dinner dress; I’ve seen it for years. I’d willingly give her one of my old ones, only I’m afraid I should offend her by offering it. People in that class are so ridiculously sensitive.”
Mr Atthill Bacot was announced. He had once contested the seat, and ever after been regarded as an authority upon the nation’s affairs. Mr James Lycett and Mr Molson came next, both red-faced squires with dogmatic opinions. They were as alike as two peas, and it had been the local joke for thirty years that no one but their wives could tell them apart. Mrs Lycett was thin and quiet and staid, wearing two little strips of lace on her hair to represent a cap; Mrs Molson was so insignificant that no one had ever noticed what she was like. It was one of Mrs Branderton’s representative gatherings; moral excellence was joined to perfect gentility, and the result could not fail to edify. She was herself in high spirits, and her cracked voice rang high and shrill. She was conscious of a successful frock; it was quite pretty, and would have looked charming on a woman half her age.
The dinner just missed being eatable. Mrs Branderton, a woman of fashion, disdained the solid fare of a country dinner-party—thick soup, fried soles, mutton cutlets, roast mutton, pheasant, charlotte russe and jellies—and saying she must be a little more “distangay” than that, provided her guests with clear soup, entreés from the Stores, chicken en casserole and a fluffy sweet that looked pretty and tasted horrid. The feast was elegant, but it was not filling, which is unpleasant to elderly squires with large appetites.
“I never get enough to eat at the Brandertons’,” said Mr Atthill Bacot indignantly.
“Well, I know the old woman,” replied Mr Molson. (Mrs Branderton was the same age as himself, but he was rather a dog, and thought himself quite young enough to flirt with the least plain of the two Miss Hancocks.) “I know her well, and I make a point of drinking a glass of sherry with a couple of eggs beaten up in it before I come.”
“The wines are positively immoral,” said Mrs Mayston Ryle, who prided herself on her palate. “I’m always inclined to bring with me a flask with a little good whisky in it.”
But if the food was not heavy, the conversation was. It is an axiom of narration that truth should coincide with probability, and the realist is perpetually hampered by the wild exaggeration of actual facts. A verbatim report of the conversation at Mrs Branderton’s dinner-party would read like shrieking caricature. The anecdote reigned supreme. Mrs Mayston Ryle was a specialist in the clerical anecdote; she successively related the story of Bishop Thorold and his white hands and the story of Bishop Wilberforce and the bloody shovel. (This somewhat shocked the ladies, but Mrs Mayston Ryle could not spoil her point by the omission of a swear word.) The Dean gave an anecdote about himself, to which Mrs Mayston Ryle retorted with one about the Archbishop of Canterbury and the tedious curate. Mr Atthill Bacot gave political anecdotes—Mr Gladstone and the table of the House of Commons, Dizzy and the agricultural labourer. The climax came when General Hancock gave his celebrated stories about the Duke of Wellington. Edward laughed heartily at them all.
Bertha’s eyes were constantly upon her husband. She was horribly anxious. She felt it mean to think the thoughts that ran through her head; that they should ever come to her was disparaging to him and made her despise herself. Was he not perfect and handsome and adorable? Why should she tremble before the opinion of a dozen stupid people? She could not help it. However much she despised her neighbours, she could not prevent herself from being miserably affected by their judgement. And what d
id Edward feel? Was he as nervous as she? She could not bear the thought of him suffering pain. It was an immense relief when Mrs Branderton rose from the table. Bertha looked at Arthur holding open the door; she would have given anything to ask him to look after Edward, but dared not. She was terrified lest those horrid old men should leave him in the cold and he be humiliated. On reaching the drawing-room, Miss Glover found herself by Bertha’s side, a little apart from the others, and the accident seemed to be designed by higher powers to give her an opportunity for the amends which she felt it her duty to make Mrs Craddock for her former disparagement of Edward. She had been thinking the matter over, and she thought an apology distinctly needful. But Miss Glover suffered terribly from nervousness, and the notion of broaching so delicate a subject caused her indescribable tortures. The very unpleasantness of it reassured her: if speech was so disagreeable it must obviously be her duty. But the words stuck in her throat, and she began talking of the weather; she reproached herself for cowardice, she set her teeth and grew scarlet.
“Bertha, I want to beg your pardon,” she blurted out suddenly.
“What on earth for?” Bertha opened her eyes wide and looked at the poor woman with astonishment.
“I feel I’ve been unjust to your husband. I thought he wasn’t a proper match for you, and I said things about him which I shouldn’t even have thought. I’m very sorry. He’s one of the best and kindest men I’ve ever seen, and I’m very glad you married him, and I’m sure you’ll be very happy.”
Tears came to Bertha’s eyes as she laughed; she felt inclined to throw her arms round the grim Miss Glover’s neck, for such a speech at that moment was very comforting.
“Of course, I know you didn’t mean what you said.”
“Oh, yes, I did, I’m sorry to say,” replied Miss Glover, who could allow no extenuation of her crime.
“I’d quite forgotten all about it, and I believe you’ll soon be as madly in love with Edward as I am.”
“My dear Bertha,” replied Miss Glover, who never jested. “With your husband? You must be joking.”
But Mrs Branderton interrupted them with her high voice.
“Bertha, dear, I want to talk to you.”
Bertha, smiling, sat down beside her, and Mrs Branderton proceeded in undertones:
“I must tell you. Everyone has been saying you’re the handsomest couple in the county, and we all think your husband is so nice.”
“He laughed at all your jokes,” replied Bertha.
“Yes,” said Mrs Branderton, looking upwards and sideways like a canary, “he has such a merry disposition. But I’ve always liked him, dear. I was telling Mrs Mayston Ryle that I’ve known him intimately ever since he was born. I thought it would please you to know that we all think your husband is nice.”
“I’m very much pleased. I hope Edward will be equally satisfied with all of you.”
The Craddocks’ carriage came early, and Bertha offered to drive the Glovers home.
“I wonder if that lady has swallowed a poker,” said Mr Molson, as soon as the drawing-room door was closed upon them.
The two Miss Hancocks went into shrieks of laughter at this sally, and even the Dean smiled gently.
“Where did she get her diamonds from?” asked the elder Miss Hancock. “I thought they were as poor as church mice.”
“The diamonds and the pictures are the only things they have left,” said Mrs Branderton. “Her family always refused to sell them; though of course it’s absurd for people in that position to have such jewels.”
“He’s a remarkably nice fellow,” said Mrs Mayston Ryle in her deep, authoritative voice. “But I agree with Mr Molson, she’s distinctly inclined to give herself airs.”
“The Leys for generations have been as proud as turkey-cocks,” added Mrs Branderton.
“I shouldn’t have thought Mrs Craddock had much to be proud of now, at all events,” said the elder Miss Hancock, who had no ancestors and thought people who had were snobs.
“Perhaps she was a little nervous,” said Lady Waggett, who, though not distinguished, was good. “I know when I was a bride I used to be all of a tremble when I went to dinner-parties.”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs Mayston Ryle. “She was extremely self-possessed. I don’t think it looks well for a young woman to have so much assurance.”
“Well, what do you think she said to me?” said Mrs Branderton, waving her thin arms. “I was telling her that we were all so pleased with her husband; I thought it would comfort her a little, poor thing; and she said she hoped he would be equally satisfied with us.”
Mrs Mayston Ryle for a moment was stupefied. “How very amusing!” she cried, rising from her chair. “Ha! Ha! She hopes Mr Edward Craddock will be satisfied with Mrs Mayston Ryle.”
The two Miss Hancocks said “Ha! Ha!” in chorus. Then, the great lady’s carriage being announced, she bade the assembly good night and swept out with a great rustling of her violet silk. The party might now really be looked upon as concluded, and the others obediently flocked off.
* * *
When they had put the Glovers down, Bertha nestled close to her husband.
“I’m so glad it’s all over,” she whispered; “I’m only happy when I’m alone with you.”
“It was a jolly evening, wasn’t it?” he said. “I thought they were all ripping.”
“I’m so glad you enjoyed it, dear; I was afraid you’d be bored.”
“Good Heavens, that’s the last thing I should be. It does one good to hear conversation like that now and then; it brightens one up.”
Bertha started a little.
“Old Bacot is a very well-informed man, isn’t he? I shouldn’t wonder if he was right in thinking that the Government would go out at the end of their six years.”
“He always leads one to believe that he’s in the Prime Minister’s confidence,” said Bertha.
“And the General is a funny old chap,” added Edward. “That was a good story he told about the Duke of Wellington.”
This remark had a curious effect upon Bertha; she could not restrain herself, but burst suddenly into shrieks of hysterical laughter. Her husband, thinking she was laughing at the anecdote, burst also into peal upon peal.
“And the story about the Bishop’s gaiter!” cried Edward, shouting with merriment.
The more he laughed, the more hysterical became Bertha, and as they drove through the silent night they both screamed and yelled and shook with uncontrollable mirth.
10
And so the Craddocks began their journey along the great road that is called the road of Holy Matrimony. The spring came and with it a hundred new delights. Bertha watched the lengthening days, the coloured crocus spring from the ground, the snowdrops; the warm damp days of February brought the primroses and then the violets. February is a month of languors; the world’s heart is heavy, listless of the unrest of April and the vigorous life of May; throughout nature the seed is germinating and the pulse of all things throbs, like a woman when first she is with child. The sea mists arose from the North Sea and covered the Kentish land with a veil of moisture, white and almost transparent, so that through it the leafless trees were seen strangely distorted, their branches like long arms writhing to free themselves from the shackles of winter; the grass was very green in the marshes and the young lambs frisked and gambolled, bleating to their mothers. Already the thrushes and the blackbirds were singing in the hedgerows. March roared in boisterously, and the clouds, higher than usual, swept across the sky before the tearing winds, sometimes heaped up in heavy masses and then blown asunder, flying westwards, tripping over one another’s heels in their hurry. Nature was resting, holding her breath, as it were, before the great effort of birth.
Gradually Bertha came to know her husband better. At her marriage she had really known nothing but that she loved him; the senses only had spoken, she and he were merely puppets that nature had thrown together and made attractive in one another’s eyes that the race
might be continued. Bertha, desire burning within her like a fire, had flung herself into her husband’s arms, loving as the beasts love—and as the gods. He was the man and she was the woman, and the world was a garden of Eden conjured up by the power of passion. But greater knowledge brought only greater love. Little by little, reading in Edward’s mind, Bertha discovered to her delight an unexpected purity; it was with a feeling of curious happiness that she recognized his extreme innocence. She saw that he had never loved before, that woman to him was a strange thing, a thing he had scarcely known. She was proud that her husband had come to her unsoiled by foreign embraces, the lips that kissed hers were clean: no speech on the subject had passed between them, and yet she felt certain of his extreme chastity. His soul was truly virginal.
And this being so how could she fail to adore him? Bertha was only happy in her husband’s company, and it was an exquisite pleasure for her to think that their bonds could not be sundered, that as long as they lived they would always be together, always inseparable. She followed him like a dog, with a subjection that was really touching; her pride had vanished, and she desired to exist only in Edward, to fuse her character with his and be entirely one with him. She wanted him to be her only individuality, likening herself to ivy clinging to the oak tree, for he was an oak tree, a pillar of strength, and she was very weak. In the morning after breakfast she accompanied him on his walk round the farms, and only when her presence was impossible did she stay at home to look after her house. The attempt to read was hopeless, and she had thrown aside her books. Why should she read? Not for entertainment, since her husband was a perpetual occupation, and if she knew how to love what other knowledge was useful? Often, left alone, for a while, she would take up some volume, but her mind quickly wandered and she thought of Edward again, wishing to be with him.
Bertha’s life was an exquisite dream, a dream that need never end, for her happiness was not of that boisterous sort that breeds excursions and alarums, but equable and smooth; she dwelt in a paradise of rosy tints, in which were neither violent shadows nor glaring lights. She was in heaven, and the only link attaching her to earth was the weekly service at Leanham. There was a delightful humanity about the bare church with its pitchpine, highly varnished pews, and the odours of hair-pomade29 and Reckitt’s Blue.30 Edward was in his sabbath garments, the organist made horrid sounds and the village choir sang out of tune; Mr Glover’s mechanical delivery of the prayers cleverly extracted all beauty from them and his sermon was matter-of-fact. Those two hours of church gave Bertha just the touch of earthliness that was necessary to make her realize that life was not entirely spiritual.
Mrs Craddock Page 12