With swinging step Bertha returned to the house, and like a swarm of
birds a hundred amorets flew about her head; Cupid leapt from tree to
tree and shot his arrows into her willing heart; her imagination clothed
the naked branches with tender green, and in her happiness the gray sky
turned to azure.... It was the first time that Edward Craddock had shown
his love in a manner which was unmistakable; if before, much had
suggested that he was not indifferent, nothing had been absolutely
convincing, and the doubt had caused her every imaginable woe. As for
her, she made no effort to conceal it from herself; she was not ashamed,
she loved him passionately, she worshipped the ground he trod on; she
confessed boldly that he of all men was the one to make her happy; her
life she would give into his strong and manly hands. She had made up her
mind firmly that Craddock should lead her to the altar.
Times without number already had she fancied herself resting in his
arms--in his strong arms--the very thought of which was a protection
against all the ills of the world. Oh yes, she wanted him to take her in
his arms and kiss her; in imagination she felt his lips upon hers, and
the warmth of his breath made her faint with the anguish of love.
She asked herself how she could wait till the evening; how on earth was
she to endure the slow passing of the hours? And she must sit opposite
her aunt and pretend to read, or talk on this subject and on that. It
was insufferable. Then, inconsequently, she asked herself if Edward knew
that she loved him; he could not dream how intense was her desire.
“I’m sorry I’m late for tea,” she said, on entering the drawing-room.
“My dear,” said Miss Ley, “the buttered toast is probably horrid, but I
don’t see why you should not eat cake.”
“I don’t want anything to eat,” cried Bertha, flinging herself on a
chair.
“But you’re dying with thirst,” added Miss Ley, looking at her niece
with sharp eyes. “Wouldn’t you like your tea out of a breakfast cup?”
Miss Ley had come to the conclusion that the restlessness and the long
absence could only be due to some masculine cause. Mentally she shrugged
her shoulders, hardly wondering who the creature was.
“Of course,” she thought, “it’s certain to be some one quite ineligible.
I hope they won’t have a long engagement.”
Miss Ley could not have supported for several months the presence of a
bashful and love-sick swain. She found lovers invariably ridiculous. She
watched Bertha drink six cups of tea: of course those shining eyes, the
flushed cheeks and the breathlessness, indicated some amorous
excitement; it amused her, but she thought it charitable and wise to
pretend that she noticed nothing.
“After all it’s no business of mine,” she thought; “and if Bertha is
going to get married at all, it would be much more convenient for her to
do it before next quarter-day, when the Browns give up my flat.”
Miss Ley sat on the sofa by the fireside, a woman of middle-size, very
slight, with a thin and much wrinkled face. Of her features the mouth
was the most noticeable, not large, with lips that were a little too
thin; it was always so tightly compressed as to give her an air of great
determination, but there was about the corners an expressive mobility,
contradicting in rather an unusual manner the inferences which might be
drawn from the rest of her person. She had a habit of fixing her cold
eyes on people with a steadiness that was not a little embarrassing.
They said Miss Ley looked as if she thought them great fools, and as a
matter of fact that usually was her precise opinion. Her thin gray hair
was very plainly done; and the extreme simplicity of her costume gave a
certain primness, so that her favourite method of saying rather absurd
things in the gravest and most decorous manner often disconcerted the
casual stranger. She was a woman who, one felt, had never been handsome,
but now, in middle-age, was distinctly prepossessing.
Young men thought her somewhat terrifying till they discovered that they
were to her a constant source of amusement; while elderly ladies
asserted that she was a little queer.
“You know, Aunt Polly,” said Bertha, finishing her tea and getting up,
“I think you should have been christened Martha or Matilda. I don’t
think Polly suits you.”
“My dear, you need not remind me so pointedly that I’m forty-five and
you need not smile in that fashion because you know that I’m really
forty-seven. I say forty-five merely as a round number; in another year
I shall call myself fifty. A woman never acknowledges such a nondescript
age as forty-eight unless she is going to marry a widower with seventeen
children.”
“I wonder why you never married, Aunt Polly?” said Bertha, looking away.
Miss Ley smiled almost imperceptibly, finding Bertha’s remark highly
significant. “My dear,” she said, “why should I? I had five hundred a
year of my own.... Ah yes, I know it’s not what might have been
expected; I’m sorry for your sake that I had no hopeless amour. The only
excuse for an old maid is, that she has pined thirty years for a lover
who is buried under the snow-drops, or has married another.”
Bertha made no answer; she was feeling that the world had turned good,
and wanted to hear nothing that could suggest imperfections in human
nature: suddenly there had come over the universe a Sunday-school air
which appealed to her better self. Going upstairs she sat at the window,
gazing towards the farm where lived her heart’s desire. She wondered
what Edward was doing! was he awaiting the night as anxiously as she? It
gave her quite a pang that a sizeable hill should intervene between
herself and him. During dinner she hardly spoke, and Miss Ley was
mercifully silent. Bertha could not eat; she crumbled her bread and
toyed with the various meats put before her. She looked at the clock a
dozen times, and started absurdly when it struck the hour.
She did not trouble to make any excuse to Miss Ley, whom she left to
think as she chose. The night was dark and cold; Bertha slipped out of
the side-door with a delightful feeling of doing something venturesome.
But her legs would scarcely carry her, she had a sensation that was
entirely novel; never before had she experienced that utter weakness of
the knees so that she feared to fall; her breathing was strangely
oppressive, and her heart beat almost painfully. She walked down the
carriage-drive scarcely knowing what she did. She had forced herself to
wait indoors till the desire to go out became uncontrollable, and she
dared not imagine her dismay if there was no one to meet her when she
reached the gate. It would mean he did not love her; she stopped with a
sob. Ought she not to wait longer? It was still early. But her
impatience forced her on.
She gave a little cry. Craddock had suddenly stepped out of the
darkness.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, “I frightened you. I thought you wouldn’t mind
my coming this evening. You’re not angry?”
She could not answer; it was an immense load off her heart. She was
extremely happy, for then he did love her; and he feared she was angry
with him.
“I expected you,” she whispered. What was the good of pretending to be
modest and bashful? She loved him and he loved her. Why should she not
tell him all she felt?
“It’s so dark,” he said, “I can’t see you.”
She was too deliriously happy to speak, and the only words she could
have said were, _I love you_, _I love you_. She moved a step nearer so
as to touch him. Why did he not open his arms and take her in them, and
kiss her as she had dreamt that he would kiss her?
But he took her hand and the contact thrilled her; her knees were giving
way, and she almost tottered.
“What’s the matter?” he said. “Are you trembling?”
“I’m only a little cold.” She was trying with all her might to speak
naturally. Nothing came into her head to say.
“You’ve got nothing on,” he said. “You must wear my coat.” He began to
take it off.
“No,” she said, “then you’ll be cold.”
“Oh no, I shan’t.”
What he was doing seemed to her a marvel of unselfish kindness; she was
beside herself with gratitude.
“It’s awfully good of you, Edward,” she whispered, almost tearfully.
When he put it round her shoulders, the touch of his hands made her lose
the little self-control she had left. A curious spasm passed through
her, and she pressed herself closer to him; at the same time his hands
sank down, dropping the cloak, and encircled her waist. Then she
surrendered herself entirely to his embrace and lifted her face to his.
He bent down and kissed her. The kiss was such utter madness that she
almost groaned. She could not tell if it was pain or pleasure. She flung
her arms round his neck and drew him to her.
“What a fool I am,” she said at last, with something between a sob and a
laugh. She drew herself a little away, though not so violently as to
make him withdraw the arm which so comfortably encircled her.
But why did he say nothing? Why did he not swear he loved her? Why did
he not ask what she was so willing to grant? She rested her head on his
shoulder.
“Do you like me at all, Bertha?” he asked. “I’ve been wanting to ask you
almost ever since you came home.”
“Can’t you see?” She was reassured; she understood that it was only
timidity that clogged his tongue. “You’re so absurdly bashful.”
“You know who I am, Bertha; and----“ he hesitated.
“And what, foolish boy?” she nestled still more closely to him.
“And you’re Miss Ley of Court Leys, while I’m just one of your tenants,
with nothing whatever to my back.”
“I’ve got very little,” she said. “And if I had ten thousand a year, my
only wish would be to lay it at your feet.”
“Bertha, what d’you mean? Don’t be cruel to me. You know what I want,
but----“
“As far as I can make out,” she said, laughing, “you want me to propose
to you.”
“Oh, Bertha, don’t laugh at me. I love you; I want to ask you to marry
me. But I haven’t got anything to offer you, and I know I
oughtn’t--don’t be angry with me, Bertha.”
“But I love you with all my heart,” she cried. “I want no better
husband; you can give me happiness, and I want nothing else in the
world.”
Then he caught her again in his arms, quite passionately, and kissed
her.
“Didn’t you see that I loved you?” she whispered.
“I thought perhaps you did; but I wasn’t sure, and I was afraid that you
wouldn’t think me good enough.”
“Oh yes, I love you with all my heart. I never imagined it possible to
love a person as I love you. Oh, Eddie, you don’t know how happy you
have made me.”
He kissed her again, and again she flung her arms around his neck.
“Oughtn’t you to be going in,” he said at last; “what will Miss Ley
think?”
“Oh no--not yet,” she cried.
“How will you tell her? D’you think she’ll like me? She’ll try and make
you give me up.”
“Oh, I’m sure she’ll love you; besides, what does it matter if she
doesn’t?--she isn’t going to marry you.”
“She can take you abroad again and then you may see some one you like
better.”
“But I’m twenty-one to-morrow, Edward--didn’t you know? And I shall be
my own mistress. I shan’t leave Blackstable till I’m your wife.”
They were walking slowly towards the house, whither he, in his anxiety
lest she should stay out too long, had guided her steps. They went arm
in arm, and Bertha enjoyed her happiness.
“Dr. Ramsay is coming to luncheon to-morrow,” she said, “and I shall
tell them both that I’m going to be married to you.”
“He won’t like it,” said Craddock, rather nervously.
“I’m sure I don’t care. If you like it and I like it, the rest can think
as they choose.”
“I leave everything in your hands,” he said.
They had arrived at the portico, and Bertha looked at it doubtfully.
“I suppose I ought to go in,” she said, wishing Edward to persuade her
to take one more turn round the garden.
“Yes, do,” he said. “I’m so afraid you’ll catch cold.”
It was charming of him to be so solicitous about her health, and of
course he was right. Everything he did and said was right; for the
moment Bertha forgot her wayward nature, and wished suddenly to subject
herself to his strong guidance. His very strength made her feel
curiously weak.
“Good-night, my beloved,” she whispered, passionately.
She could not tear herself away from him; it was utter madness. Their
kisses never ended.
“Good-night!”
She watched him at last disappear into the darkness, and finally shut
the door behind her.