Miss Ley had the characteristics of the true phrase-maker, for so long as her period was well rounded off she did not mind how much nonsense it contained. Coming to the end of her tirade, she looked at the doctor for the signs of disapproval which she thought her right; but he merely laughed.
“I see you want to rub it in,” he said.
“What on earth does the creature mean?” Miss Ley asked herself.
“I confess I did believe things would turn out badly,” the doctor proceeded. “And I couldn’t help thinking he’d be tempted to play ducks and drakes with the whole property. Well, I don’t mind frankly acknowledging that Bertha couldn’t have chosen a better husband; he’s a thoroughly good fellow, no one realized what he had in him, and there’s no knowing how far he’ll go.”
A man would have expressed Miss Ley’s feeling with a little whistle, but that lady merely raised her eyebrows. Then Dr Ramsay shared the opinion of Miss Glover?
“And what precisely is the opinion of the county?” she asked. “Of that odious Mrs Branderton, of Mrs Ryle (she has no right to the Mayston at all), of the Hancocks and the rest?”
“Edward Craddock has won golden opinions all round. Everyone likes him and thinks well of him. He’s not conceited—he never had an ounce of conceit and he’s not a bit changed. No, I assure you, although I’m not so fond as all that of confessing I was wrong, he’s the right man in the right place. It’s extraordinary how people look up to him and respect him already. I give you my word for it, Bertha has reason to congratulate herself; a girl doesn’t pick up a husband like that every day of the week.”
Miss Ley smiled; it was a great relief to find that she really was no more foolish than most people (so she modestly put it), for a doubt on the subject had for a short while given her some uneasiness.
“So everyone thinks they’re as happy as turtle-doves?”
“Why, so they are,” cried the doctor. “Surely you don’t think otherwise?”
Miss Ley never considered it a duty to dispel the error of her fellow-creatures, and whenever she had a little piece of knowledge, vastly preferred keeping it to herself.
“I?” she answered. “I make a point of thinking with the majority; it’s the only way to get a reputation for wisdom.” But Miss Ley, after all, was only human. “Which do you think is the predominant partner?” she asked, smiling drily.
“The man, as he should be,” gruffly replied the doctor.
“Do you think he has more brains?”
“Ah, you’re a feminist,” said Dr Ramsay, with great scorn.
“My dear doctor, my gloves are sixes, and perceive my shoes.” She put out for the old gentleman’s inspection a very pointed, high-heeled shoe, displaying at the same time the elaborate openwork of a silk stocking.
“Do you intend me to take that as an acknowledgement of the superiority of man?”
“Heavens, how argumentative you are!” Miss Ley laughed, for she was getting into her own particular element. “I knew you wished to quarrel with me. Do you really want my opinion?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it seems to me that if you take the very clever woman and set her beside an ordinary man, you prove nothing. That is how we women mostly argue. We place George Eliot (who, by the way, had nothing of the woman but petticoats, and those not always) beside plain John Smith and ask tragically if such a woman can be considered inferior to such a man. But that’s silly. The question I’ve been asking myself for the last five-and-twenty years is whether the average fool of a woman is a greater fool than the average fool of a man.”
“And the answer?”
“Well, upon my word, I don’t think there’s much to choose between them.”
“Then you haven’t really an opinion on the subject at all?” cried the doctor.
“That is why I give it to you,” said Miss Ley.
“H’m!” grunted Dr Ramsay. “And how does that apply to the Craddocks?”
“It doesn’t apply to them. I don’t think Bertha is a fool.”
“She couldn’t be, having had the discretion to be born your niece, eh?”
“Why, doctor, you are growing quite pert,” answered Miss Ley, with a smile.
They had finished the tour of the garden, and Mrs Ramsay was seen in the drawing-room bidding Bertha good-bye.
“Now, seriously, Miss Ley,” said the doctor, “they’re quite happy, aren’t they? Everyone thinks so.”
“Everyone is always right,” said Miss Ley.
“And what is your opinion?”
“Good Heavens, what an insistent man it is! Well, Dr Ramsay, all I would suggest is that for Bertha, you know, the book of life is written throughout in italics; for Edward it is all in the big round hand of the copy-book heading. Don’t you think it will make the reading of the book somewhat difficult?”
13
Rural pastimes had been one of the pleasures to which Bertha had chiefly looked forward, and with the summer Edward began to teach her the noble game of lawn tennis.
In the long evenings, when Craddock had finished his work and changed into the flannels that suited him so well, they played set after set. He prided himself upon his skill in this pursuit, and naturally found it trying to play with a beginner; but on the whole he was very patient, hoping that eventually Bertha would acquire sufficient skill to give him a good game. She did not find the sport so exhilarating as she had expected; it was difficult and she was slow at learning. However, to be doing something with her husband sufficiently amused her; she liked him to correct her mistakes, to show her this stroke and that, she admired his good-nature and inexhaustible spirits; with him she would have found endless entertainment even in such dull games as Beggar-my-Neighbour and Bagatelle. And now she looked for fine days so that their amusement might not be hindered. Those evenings were always pleasant; but the greatest delight for Bertha was to lie on the long chair by the lawn when the game was over and enjoy her fatigue, gossiping of the little nothings that love made absorbingly interesting.
Miss Ley had been persuaded to prolong her stay; she had vowed to go at the end of her week, but Edward, in his high-handed fashion, had ordered the key of the box-room to be given him, and refused to surrender it.
“Oh, no,” he said, “I can’t make people come here, but I can prevent them from going away. In this house everyone has to do as I tell them. Isn’t that so, Bertha?”
“If you say it, my dear,” replied his wife.
Miss Ley gracefully acceded to her nephew’s desire, which was the more easy since the house was comfortable; she had really no pressing engagements and her mind was set upon making further examination into the married life of her relatives. It would have been weakness, unworthy of her, to maintain her intention for consistence’ sake. Why, for days and days, were Edward and Bertha the happiest lovers, and then suddenly why did Bertha behave almost brutally towards her husband, while he remained invariably good-tempered and amiable? The obvious reason was that some little quarrel had arisen, such as, since Adam and Eve, has troubled every married couple in the world; but the obvious reason was that which Miss Ley was least likely to credit. She never saw anything in the way of a disagreement; Bertha acceded to all her husband’s proposals; and with such docility on the one hand, such good humour on the other, what on earth could form a bone of contention?
Miss Ley had discovered that when the green leaves of life are turning red and golden with approaching autumn more pleasure can be obtained by a judicious mingling in simplicity of the gifts of nature and the resources of civilization; she was satisfied to come in the evenings to the tennis lawn and sit on a comfortable chair, shaded by trees and protected by a red parasol from the rays of the setting sun. She was not a woman to find distraction in needlework, and brought with her, therefore, a volume of Montaigne, who was her favourite writer. She read a page and then lifted her sharp eyes to the players. Edward was certainly very handsome; he looked very clean; he was one of those men who carry the morning tub st
amped on every line of their faces. You felt that Pears’ Soap was as essential to him as his belief in the Conservative Party, Derby Day and the Depression of Agriculture.
As Bertha often said, his energy was superabundant; notwithstanding his increasing size he was most agile; he was perpetually doing unnecessary feats of strength, such as jumping and hopping over the net, and holding chairs with outstretched arm.
“If health and a good digestion are all that is necessary in a husband, Bertha certainly ought to be the most contented woman alive.”
Miss Ley never believed so implicitly in her own theories that she was prevented from laughing at them; she had an impartial mind, and saw the two sides of a question clearly enough to find little to choose between them; consequently she was able and willing to argue with equal force from either point of view.
The set was finished, and Bertha threw herself on a chair, panting.
“Find the balls, there’s a dear,” she cried.
Edward went off on the search, and Bertha looked at him with a delighted smile.
“He is such a good-tempered person,” she said to Miss Ley. “Sometimes he makes me feel positively ashamed.”
“He has all the virtues. Dr Ramsay, Miss Glover, even Mrs Branderton have been drumming his praise into my ears.”
“Yes, they all like him. Arthur Branderton is always here, asking his advice about something or other. He’s a dear good thing.”
“Who? Arthur Branderton?”
“No, of course not. Eddie.”
Bertha took off her hat and stretched herself more comfortably in the long chair; her hair was somewhat disarranged, and the rich locks wandered about her forehead and the nape of her neck in a way that would have distracted any minor poet under seventy. Miss Ley looked at her niece’s fine profile, and wondered again at the complexion made of the softest colours in the setting sun. Her eyes now were liquid with love, languorous with the shade of long lashes, and her full, sensual mouth was half-open with a smile.
“Is my hair very untidy?” asked Bertha, catching Miss Ley’s look and its meaning.
“No, I think it suits you when it is not done too severely.”
“Edward hates it; he likes me to be trim. And of course I don’t care how I look as long as he’s pleased. Don’t you think he’s very good-looking?”
Then, without waiting for an answer, she asked a second question.
“Do you think me a great fool for being so much in love, Aunt Polly?”
“My dear, it’s surely the proper behaviour with one’s lord and master.”
Bertha’s smile became a little sad as she replied:
“Edward seems to think it unusual.” She followed him with her eyes, picking up the balls one by one, hunting among bushes; she was in the mood for confidences that afternoon. “You don’t know how different everything has been since I fell in love. The world is fuller. It’s the only state worth living in.” Edward advanced with the eight balls on his racket. “Come here and be kissed, Eddie,” she cried.
“Not if I know it,” he replied, laughing. “Bertha’s a perfect terror. She wants me to spend my whole life in kissing her. Don’t you think it’s unreasonable, Aunt Polly? My motto is: everything in its place and season.”
“One kiss in the morning,” said Bertha, “one kiss at night will do to keep your wife quiet, and the rest of the time you can attend to your work and read your paper.”
Again Bertha smiled charmingly, but Miss Ley saw no amusement in her eyes.
“Well, one can have too much of a good thing,” said Edward, balancing his racket on the tip of his nose.
“Even of proverbial philosophy,” remarked Bertha.
A few days later, his guest having definitely announced that she must go, Edward proposed a tennis-party as a parting honour. Miss Ley would gladly have escaped an afternoon of small-talk with the notabilities of Leanham, but Edward was determined to pay his aunt every attention, and his inner consciousness assured him that at least a small party was necessary to the occasion. They came, Mr and Miss Glover, the Brandertons, Mr Atthill Bacot, the great politician (of the district), and the Hancocks. But Mr Atthill Bacot was more than political, he was gallant; he devoted himself to the entertainment of Miss Ley. He discussed with her the sins of the Government and the incapacity of the army.
“More men, more guns,” he said. “An elementary education in common sense for the officers, and the rudiments of grammar if there’s time.”
“Good Heavens, Mr Bacot, you mustn’t say such things. I thought you were a Conservative.”
“Madam, I stood for the constituency in ’85. I may say that if a Conservative member could have got in, I should have. But there are limits. Even the staunch Conservative will turn. Now look at General Hancock.”
“Please don’t talk so loud,” said Miss Ley with alarm; for Mr Bacot had instinctively adopted his platform manner, and his voice could be heard through the whole garden.
“Look at General Hancock, I say,” he repeated, taking no notice of the interruption. “Is that the sort of man whom you would wish to have the handling of ten thousand of your sons?”
“Oh, but be fair,” cried Miss Ley, laughing, “they’re not all such fools as poor General Hancock.”
“I give you my word, madam, I think they are. As far as I can make out, when a man has shown himself incapable of doing anything else they make him a general, just to encourage the others. I understand the reason. It’s a great thing, of course, for parents sending their sons into the army to be able to say: ‘Well, he may be a fool, but there’s no reason why he shouldn’t become a general.’”
“You wouldn’t rob us of our generals,” said Miss Ley; “they’re so useful at tea-parties.”
Mr Bacot was about to make a heated retort, when Edward called to him: “We want you to make up a set at tennis. Will you play with Miss Hancock against my wife and the General? Come on, Bertha.”
“Oh, no, I mean to sit out, Eddie,” said Bertha quickly. She saw that Edward was putting all the bad players into one set, so that they might be got rid of. “I’m not going to play.”
“You must, or you’ll disarrange the next lot,” said her husband. “It’s all settled; Miss Glover and I are going to take on Miss Jane Hancock and Arthur Branderton.”
Bertha looked at him with eyes flashing angrily; of course he did not notice her vexation. He preferred playing with Miss Glover. The parson’s sister played well, and for a good game he would never hesitate to sacrifice his wife’s feelings. Didn’t he know that she cared nothing for the game, but merely for the pleasure of playing with him? Only Miss Glover and young Branderton were within earshot, and in his jovial, pleasant manner, Edward laughingly said:
“Bertha’s such a duffer. Of course she’s only just beginning. You don’t mind playing with the General, do you, dear?”
Arthur Branderton laughed, and Bertha smiled at the sally, but she flushed.
“I’m not going to play at all; I must see to the tea, and I daresay some more people will be coming in presently.”
“Oh, I forgot that,” said Edward. “No, perhaps you oughtn’t to.” And then, putting his wife out of his thoughts and linking his arm with young Branderton’s, he sauntered off: “Come along, old chap, we must find someone else to make up the pat-ball set.”
Edward had such a charming, frank manner, one could not help liking him. Bertha watched the two men go, and turned very white.
“I must just go into the house a moment,” she said to Miss Glover. “Go and entertain Mrs Branderton, there’s a dear.”
And precipitately she fled. She ran to her bedroom and, flinging herself on the bed, burst into a flood of tears. To her the humiliation seemed dreadful. She wondered how Eddie, whom she loved above all else in the world, could treat her so cruelly. What had she done? He knew—ah, yes, he knew well enough the happiness he could cause her—and he went out of his way to be brutal. She wept bitterly, and jealousy of Miss Glover (Miss Glover,
of all people!) stabbed her to the heart with sudden pain.
“He doesn’t love me,” she moaned, her tears redoubling.
Presently there was a knock at the door.
“Who is it?” she cried.
The handle was turned and Miss Glover came in, red-faced with nervousness.
“Forgive me for coming in, Bertha. But I thought you seemed unwell. Can’t I do something for you?”
“Oh, I’m all right,” said Bertha, drying her tears. “Only the heat upset me, and I’ve got a headache.”
“Shall I send Edward up to you?” asked Miss Glover, compassionately.
“What do I want with Edward?” replied Bertha, petulantly. “I shall be all right in five minutes; I often have attacks like this.”
“I’m sure he didn’t mean to say anything unkind. He’s kindness itself, I know.”
Bertha flushed: “What on earth d’you mean, Fanny? Who didn’t say anything unkind?”
“I thought you were hurt by Edward’s saying you were a duffer and a beginner.”
“Oh, my dear, you must think me a fool,” Bertha laughed hysterically. “It’s quite true that I’m a duffer. I tell you it’s only the weather. Why, if my feelings were hurt each time Eddie said a thing like that I should lead a miserable life.”
“I wish you’d let me send him up to you,” said Miss Glover, unconvinced.
“Good Heavens, why? See, I’m all right now.” She washed her eyes and passed the powder-puff over her face. “My dear, it was only the sun.”
With an effort she braced herself, and burst into a laugh joyful enough almost to deceive the vicar’s sister.
“Now, we must go down, or Mrs Branderton will complain more than ever of my bad manners.”
She put her arm round Miss Glover’s waist and ran her down the stairs, to the mingled terror and amazement of that good lady. For the rest of the afternoon, though her eyes never rested on Edward, she was perfectly charming, in the highest spirits, chattering incessantly, and laughing; everyone noticed her high spirits and commented upon her happiness.
“It does one good to see a couple like that,” said General Hancock. “Just as happy as the day is long.”
Mrs Craddock Page 15