The Kentish coast is bleak and grey between Leanham and Blackstable;
through the long winter months the winds of the North Sea sweep down
upon it, bowing the trees before them; and from the murky waters
perpetually arise the clouds, and roll up in heavy banks. It is a
country that offers those who live there, what they give: sometimes the
sombre colours and the silent sea express only restfulness and peace;
sometimes the chill breezes send the blood racing through the veins; but
also the solitude can answer the deepest melancholy, or the cheerless
sky a misery which is more terrible than death. The moment’s mood seems
always reproduced in the surrounding scenes, and in them may be found,
as it were, a synthesis of the emotions. Bertha stood upon the high road
which ran past Court Leys, and from the height looked down upon the
lands which were hers. Close at hand the only habitations were a pair of
humble cottages, from which time and rough weather had almost effaced
the obtrusiveness of human handiwork. They stood away from the road,
among fruit trees--a part of nature and not a blot upon it, as Court
Leys had never ceased to be. All around were fields, great stretches of
ploughed earth and meadows of coarse herbage. The trees were few, and
stood out here and there in the distance, bent before the wind. Beyond
was Blackstable, straggling grey houses with a border of new villas
built for the Londoners who came in summer; and the sea was dotted with
the smacks of the fishing town.
Bertha looked at the scene with sensations that she had never known; the
heavy clouds hung above her, shutting out the whole world, and she felt
an invisible barrier between herself and all other things. This was the
land of her birth out of which she, and her fathers before her, had
arisen; they had their day, and one by one returned whence they came and
became again united with the earth. She had withdrawn from the pomps and
vanities of life to live as her ancestors had lived, ploughing the land,
sowing and reaping; but her children, the sons of the future, would
belong to a new stock, stronger and fairer than the old. The Leys had
gone down into the darkness of death, and her children would bear
another name. All these things she gathered out of the brown fields and
the grey sea mist. She was a little tired and the physical sensation
caused a mental fatigue so that she felt in her suddenly the weariness
of a family that had lived too long; she knew she was right to choose
new blood to mix with the old blood of the Leys. It needed freshness and
youth, the massive strength of her husband, to bring life to the decayed
race. Her thoughts wandered to her father, the dilettante who wandered
through Italy in search of beautiful things and emotions which his
native country could not give him; of Miss Ley, whose attitude towards
life was a shrug of the shoulders and a well-bred smile of contempt. Was
not she, the last of them, wise? Feeling herself too weak to stand
alone, she had taken a mate whose will and vitality would be a pillar of
strength to her defaillance: her husband had still in his sinews the
might of his mother, the Earth, a barbaric power which knew not the
subtleties of weakness; he was the conqueror, and she was his
handmaiden. But an umbrella was being waved at Mrs. Craddock from the
bottom of the hill, and she smiled, recognising the masculine walk of
Miss Glover.
Even from a distance the maiden’s determination and strength of mind
were apparent; she approached, her face redder even than usual after the
climb, encased in the braided jacket that fitted her as severely as
sardines are fitted in their tin.
“I was coming to see you, Bertha,” she cried. “I heard you were back.”
“We’ve been home several days, getting to rights.”
Miss Clover shook Bertha’s hand with much vigour, and together they
walked back to the house, along the avenue bordered with leafless trees.
“Now, do tell me all about your honeymoon, I’m so anxious to hear
everything.”
But Bertha was not very communicative, she had an instinctive dislike to
telling her private affairs, and never had any overpowering desire for
sympathy.
“Oh, I don’t think there’s much to tell,” she answered, when they were
in the drawing-room and she was pouring out tea for her guest. “I
suppose all honeymoons are more or less alike.”
“You funny girl,” said Miss Glover. “Didn’t you enjoy it?”
“Yes,” said Bertha, with a smile that was almost ecstatic; then after a
little pause: “We had a very good time--we went to all the theatres.”
Miss Glover felt that marriage had caused a difference in Bertha, and it
made her nervous to realise the change. She looked uneasily at the
married woman and occasionally blushed.
“And are you really happy?” she blurted out suddenly. Bertha smiled, and
reddening, looked more charming than ever.
“Yes--I think I’m perfectly happy.”
“Aren’t you sure?” asked Miss Glover, who cultivated precision in every
part of life and strongly disapproved of persons who did not know their
own minds.
Bertha looked at her for a moment, as if considering the question.
“You know,” she answered, at last, “happiness is never quite what one
expected it to be. I hardly hoped for so much; but I didn’t imagine it
quite like it is.”
“Ah, well, I think it’s better not to go into these things,” replied
Miss Glover, a little severely, thinking the suggestion of analysis
scarcely suitable in a young married woman. “We ought to take things as
they are, and be thankful.”
“Ought we?” said Bertha lightly, “I never do.... I’m never satisfied
with what I have.”
They heard the opening of the front door and Bertha jumped up.
“There’s Edward! I must go and see him. You don’t mind, do you?”
She almost skipped out of the room; marriage, curiously enough, had
dissipated the gravity of manner which had made people find so little
girlishness about her. She seemed younger, lighter of heart.
“What a funny creature she is!” thought Miss Glover. “When she was a
girl she had all the ways of a married woman, and now that she’s really
married she might be a schoolgirl.”
The parson’s sister was not certain whether the irresponsibility of
Bertha was fit to her responsible position, whether her unusual bursts
of laughter were proper to a mystic state demanding gravity.
“I hope she’ll turn out all right,” she sighed.
But Bertha impulsively rushed to her husband and kissed him. She helped
him off with his coat.
“I’m so glad to see you again,” she cried, laughing a little at her own
eagerness; for it was only after luncheon that he had left her.
“Is any one here?” he asked, noticing Miss Glover’s umbrella. He
returned his wife’s embrace somewhat mechanically.
“Come and see,” said Bertha, taking his arm and dragging him along. “You
must be dying for tea, you poor thing.”
“Miss Glover!” he said, shaking the lady’s hand as energetically as she
shook his. “How good of you to come and see us. I _am_ glad to see you.
You see we came home sooner than we expected--there’s no place like the
country, is there?”
“You’re right there, Mr. Craddock; I can’t bear London.”
“Oh, you don’t know it,” said Bertha; “for you it’s Aerated Bread shops,
Exeter Hall, and Church Congresses.”
“Bertha!” cried Edward, in a tone of surprise; he could not understand
frivolity with Miss Glover.
That good creature was far to kind-hearted to take offence at any remark
of Bertha’s, and smiled grimly: she could smile in no other way.
“Tell me what you did in London. I can’t get anything out of Bertha.”
Craddock’s mind was communicative, nothing pleased him more than to give
people information, and he was always ready to share his knowledge with
the world at large. He never picked up a fact without rushing to tell it
to somebody else. Some persons when they know a thing immediately lose
interest and it bores them to discuss it, but Craddock was not of these.
Nor could repetition exhaust his eagerness to enlighten his fellows, he
would tell an hundred people the news of the day and be as fresh as ever
when it came to the hundred and first. Such a characteristic is
undoubtedly a gift, useful in the highest degree to schoolmasters and
politicians, but slightly tedious to their hearers. Craddock favoured
his guest with a detailed account of all their adventures in London, the
plays they had seen, the plots thereof and the actors who played them.
He gave the complete list of the museums and churches and public
buildings they had visited, while Bertha looked at him, smiling happily
at his enthusiasm. She cared little what he spoke of, the mere sound of
his voice was music in her ears, and she would have listened delightedly
while he read aloud from end to end _Whitaker’s Almanack_: that was a
thing, by the way, which he was quite capable of doing. Edward
corresponded far more with Miss Glover’s conception of the newly married
man than did Bertha with that of the newly married woman.
“He is a nice fellow,” she said to her brother afterwards, when they
were eating their supper of cold mutton, solemnly seated at either end
of a long table.
“Yes,” answered the Vicar, in his tired, patient voice, “I think he’ll
turn out a good husband.”
Mr. Glover was patience itself, which a little irritated Miss Ley, who
liked a man of spirit; and of that Mr. Glover had never a grain. He was
resigned to everything; he was resigned to his food being badly cooked,
to the perversity of human nature, to the existence of dissenters
(almost), to his infinitesimal salary; he was resignation driven to
death. Miss Ley said he was like those Spanish donkeys that one sees
plodding along in a string, listlessly bearing over-heavy
loads--patient, patient, patient. But not so patient as Mr. Glover; the
donkey sometimes kicked, the Vicar of Leanham never.
“I do hope it will turn out well, Charles,” said Miss Glover.
“I hope it will,” he answered; then after a pause: “Did you ask them if
they were coming to church to-morrow?” He helped himself to mashed
potatoes, noticing long-sufferingly that they were burnt again; the
potatoes were always burnt, but he made no comment.
“Oh, I quite forgot,” said his sister, answering the question. “But I
think they’re sure to. Edward Craddock was always a regular attendant.”
Mr. Glover made no reply, and they kept silence for the rest of the
meal. Immediately afterwards the parson went into his study to finish
the morrow’s sermon, and Miss Glover took out of her basket her
brother’s woollen socks and began to darn them. She worked for more than
an hour, thinking meanwhile of the Craddocks; she liked Edward better
and better each time she saw him, and she felt he was a man who could be
trusted. She upbraided herself a little for her disapproval of the
marriage; her action was unchristian, and she asked herself whether it
was not her duty to apologise to Bertha or to Craddock; the thought of
doing something humiliating to her own self-respect attracted her
wonderfully. But Bertha was different from other girls; Miss Glover,
thinking of her, grew confused.
But a tick of the clock to announce an hour about to strike made her
look up, and she saw it wanted but five minutes to ten.
“I had no idea it was so late.”
She got up and tidily put away her work, then taking from the top of the
harmonium the Bible and the big prayer-book which were upon it, placed
them at the end of the table. She drew forward a chair for her brother,
and sat patiently to await his coming. As the clock struck she heard the
study door open, and the Vicar walked in. Without a word he went to the
books, and sitting down, found his place in the Bible.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
He looked up one moment over his spectacles. “Yes.”
Miss Glover leant forward and rang the bell--the servant appeared with a
basket of eggs, which she placed on the table. Mr. Glover looked at her
till she was settled on her chair, and began the lesson. Afterwards the
servant lit two candles and bade them good-night. Miss Glover counted
the eggs.
“How many are there to-day?” asked the parson.
“Seven,” she answered, dating them one by one, and entering the number
in a book kept for the purpose.
“Are you ready?” now asked Mr. Glover.
“Yes, Charles,” she said, taking one of the candles.
He put out the lamp, and with the other candle followed her upstairs.
She stopped outside her door and bade him good-night; he kissed her
coldly on the forehead and they went into their respective rooms.
* * * * *
There is always a certain flurry in a country-house on Sunday morning.
There is in the air a feeling peculiar to the day, a state of alertness
and expectation; for even when they are repeated for years, week by
week, the preparations for church cannot be taken coolly. The odour of
clean linen is unmistakable, every one is highly starched and somewhat
ill-at-ease; the members of the household ask one another if they’re
ready, they hunt for prayer-books; the ladies are never dressed in time
and sally out at last, buttoning their gloves; the men stamp and fume
and take out their watches. Edward, of course, wore a tail-coat and a
top-hat, which is quite the proper costume for the squire to go to
church in, and no one gave more thought to the proprieties than Edward.
He held himself very upright, cultivating the slightly self-conscious
gravity considered fit to the occasion.
“We shall be late, Bertha,” he said. “It will look so bad--the first
time we come to church since our marriage, too.”
“My dear,” said Bertha, “you may be quite certain that even if Mr.
Glover is so indiscreet as to start, for the congregation the ceremony
will not really begin till we appear.”
They drove up in an old-fashioned brougham used only for going to church
and to dinner-parties, and the word was immediately passed by the
loungers at the porch to the devout within; there was a rustle of
attention as Mr. and Mrs. Craddock walked up the aisle to the front pew
which was theirs by right.
“He looks at home, don’t he?” murmured the natives, for the behaviour of
Edward interested them more than that of his wife, who was sufficiently
above them to be almost a stranger.
Bertha sailed up with a royal unconsciousness of the eyes upon her; she
was pleased with her personal appearance, and intensely proud of her
good-looking husband. Mrs. Branderton, the mother of Craddock’s best
man, fixed her eye-glass upon her and stared as is the custom of great
ladies in the suburbs. Mrs. Branderton was a woman who cultivated the
mode in the depths of the country, a little, giggling, grey-haired
creature who talked stupidly in a high, cracked voice and had her too
juvenile bonnets straight from Paris. She was a gentlewoman, and this,
of course, is a very fine thing to be. She was proud of it (in quite a
nice way), and in the habit of saying that gentlefolk were gentlefolk;
which, if you come to think of it, is a most profound remark.
“I mean to go and speak to the Craddocks afterwards,” she whispered to
her son. “It will have a good effect on the Leanham people; I wonder if
poor Bertha feels it yet.”
Mrs. Branderton had a self-importance which was almost sublime; it never
occurred to her that there might be persons sufficiently ill-conditioned
as to resent her patronage. She did it all in kindness--she showered
advice upon all and sundry, besides soups and jellies upon the poor, to
whom when they were ill she even sent her cook to read the Bible. She
would have gone herself, only she strongly disapproved of familiarity
with the lower classes, which made them independent and often rude. Mrs.
Branderton knew without possibility of question that she and her equals
were made of different clay from common folk; but, being a gentlewoman,
did not throw this fact in the latters’ faces, unless, of course, they
gave themselves airs, when she thought a straight talking-to did them
good. Without any striking advantages of birth, money, or intelligence,
Mrs. Branderton never doubted her right to direct the affairs and
fashions, even the modes of thought of her neighbours; and by sheer
force of self-esteem had caused them to submit for thirty years to her
tyranny, hating her and yet looking upon her invitations to a bad
dinner, as something quite desirable.
Mrs. Branderton had debated with herself how she should treat the
Craddocks.
“I wonder if it’s my duty to cut them,” she said. “Edward Craddock is
_not_ the sort of man a Miss Ley ought to marry. But there are so few
gentlefolk in the neighbourhood, and of course people do make marriages
which they wouldn’t have dreamed of twenty years ago. Even the best
society is very mixed nowadays. Perhaps I’d better err on the side of
mercy!”
Mrs. Branderton was a little pleased to think that the Leys required her
support--as was proved by the request of her son’s services at the
wedding.
“The fact is gentlefolk are gentlefolk, and they must stand by one
another in these days of pork-butchers and furniture people.”
After the service, when the parishioners were standing about the
churchyard, Mrs. Branderton sailed up to the Craddocks followed by
Arthur, and in her high, cracked voice began to talk with Edward. She
kept an eye on the Leanham people to see that her action was being duly
noticed, speaking to Craddock in the manner a gentlewoman should adopt
with a man whose gentility was a little doubtful. Of course he was very
much pleased and flattered.