Some days later, after the due preliminaries which Mrs. Branderton would
on no account have neglected, the Craddocks received an invitation to
dinner. Bertha silently passed it to her husband.
“I wonder who she’ll ask to meet us,” he said.
“D’you want to go?” asked Bertha.
“Why, don’t you? We’ve got no engagement, have we?”
“Have you ever dined there before?” said Bertha.
“No. I’ve been to tennis-parties and that sort of thing, but I’ve hardly
set foot inside their house.”
“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 the other Sunday; it would be funny if we didn’t accept.”
“Did you think she was nice? Didn’t you see that she was patronising you
as if you were a groom. 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 her horrid dinner-party.”
“Then I shall go by myself,” he replied, laughing.
Bertha 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 did not wish to.”
“We must be neighbourly. I want to be friends with everybody.”
She sat on the side of his chair, putting 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.
She knew Edward would be bitterly criticised, 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
occupied in Leanham; the Brandertons and their like, knowing him all his
life, had treated him as a mere acquaintance: for them 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 entirely 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; of course his character was
charming, and he could bear ill will to no one. He neither resented the
former neglect of the Brandertons nor their present impertinence.
“I wish I could make him understand.”
Bertha passed the intervening week in a tremor of anxiety. She divined
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 upon her breeding; but Edward was shy, and among strangers
awkward. To Bertha this was a charm rather than a defect; his
half-bashful candour touched her, and she compared it favourably with
the foolish worldliness of the imaginary man-about-town, whose
dissipations 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 which surrounded those places. Mrs.
Mayston Ryle was there in a wonderful jete-black wig, and a voluminous
dress of violet silk. Lady Wagget 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 fuzzy-haired daughters, who were
dreadfully plain, but pretended not to know it. They had walked; and
while the soldier toddled in, blowing like a grampus, the girls (whose
united ages made the respectable total of sixty-five years) stayed
behind to remove their boots and put on the shoes which they had brought
in a bag. Then, in a little while, came the Dean, meek and somewhat
talkative; Mr. Glover had been invited for his sake, and of course
Charles’ 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 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 costume; she really had much taste,
and her frock would have looked charming on a woman half her age.
Thinking also that it was part of woman’s duty to be amiable, Mrs.
Branderton smiled and ogled at the old gentlemen in a way that quite
alarmed them, and Mr. Atthill Bacot really thought she had designs upon
his virtue.
The dinner just missed being eatable. Mrs. Branderton was a woman of
fashion and disdained the solid fare of a country dinner-party--thick
soup, fried soles, mutton cutlets, roast mutton, pheasant, Charlotte
russe, and jellies. (The earlier dishes are variable according to
season, but the Charlotte russe and the jelly are inevitable.) No, Mrs.
Branderton said she must be a little more “distangay” than that, and
provided her guests with clear soup, _entrees_ from the Stores, a fluffy
sweet which looked pretty and tasted horrid. The feast was extremely
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 a 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,
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. Arthill 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 detested the
thoughts that ran through her head, for that they should come to her at
all was disparaging to him; but still she was horribly anxious. Was he
not perfect, and handsome, and adorable? Why should she tremble before
the opinion of a dozen stupid people? But she could not help it. However
much she despised her neighbours, she could not prevent herself from
being miserably affected by their judgment. And what did Edward feel?
Was he as nervous as she? She could not bear the thought that he should
suffer 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, to his humiliation, those old squires should pointedly
ignore him.
On reaching the drawing-room Miss Glover found herself by Bertha’s side,
a little separated from the others, and the accident seemed 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 considered an apology
distinctly needful. But Miss Glover suffered terribly from nervousness,
and the idea of broaching so delicate a subject caused her indescribable
torture; yet 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 to her own 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, every one 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 Craddock’s 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.
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?” said 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; she had no ancestors herself,
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.
And I think she ought to be told that it’s hardly well bred for a young
married woman to leave a house before anybody else as if she were
royalty, when there are present women of a certain age and of a position
undoubtedly not inferior to her own.”
“Oh, they’re so newly married they like to be alone, poor things,” said
Lady Waggett. “I know I used to when I was first married to Sir Samuel.”
“My dear Lady Waggett,” answered Mrs. Mayston Ryle in tones of thunder,
“the cases are not similar; Mrs. Craddock was a Miss Ley, and really
should know something of the usages of good society.”
“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, but soon recovered.
“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.”
Somehow 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 gaiters!” cried Edward, shouting with
merriment.
The more he laughed, the more hysterical became Bertha; and as they
drove through the silent night they screamed and yelled and shook with
uncontrollable mirth.