And so the Craddocks began their journey along the great road nowhither
which 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 snowbells; 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. 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
hedge-rows. March roared in boisterously, and the clouds, high above,
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 whom 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 recognised his 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 so long as they
lived they would be always together, always inseparable. She followed
him like a dog, with a subjection that was really touching; her pride
had utterly 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 climbing 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
around 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 which need never end; for
her happiness was not of that boisterous sort which needs 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 pitch-pine, highly varnished pews, and the odours of hair-pomade and
Reckitt’s Blue. 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 intensely prosaic. Those two hours of church
gave Bertha just the touch of earthliness which was necessary to make
her realize that life was not entirely spiritual.
* * * * *
Now came April. The elms before Court Leys were beginning to burst into
leaf; the green buds covered the branches like a delicate rain, a
verdant haze that was visible from a little distance and vanished when
one came near. The brown fields also clothed themselves with a summer
garment; the clover sprang up green and luxurious, and the crops showed
good promise for the future. There were days when the air was almost
balmy, when the sun was warm and the heart leapt, certain at last that
the spring was at hand. The warm and comfortable rain soaked into the
ground; and from the branches continually hung the countless drops,
glistening in the succeeding sun. The self-conscious tulip unfolded her
petals and carpeted the ground with gaudy colour. The clouds above
Leanham were lifted up and the world was stretched out in a greater
circle. The birds now sang with no uncertain notes as in March, but from
a full throat, filling the air; and in the hawthorn behind Court Leys
the first nightingale poured out his richness. And the full scents of
the earth rose up, the fragrance of the mould and of the rain, the
perfumes of the sun and of the soft breezes.
But sometimes, without ceasing, it rained from morning till night, and
then Edward rubbed his hands.
“I wish this would keep on for a week; it’s just what the country
wants.”
One such day Bertha was lying on a sofa while Edward stood at the
window, looking at the pattering rain. She thought of the November
afternoon when she had stood at the same window considering the
dreariness of the winter, but her heart full of hope and love.
“Come and sit down beside me, Eddie dear,” she said. “I’ve hardly seen
you all day.”
“I’ve got to go out,” he said, without turning round.
“Oh no, you haven’t. Come here and sit down.”
“I’ll come for two minutes, while they’re putting the trap in.”
“Kiss me.”
He kissed her and she laughed. “You funny boy, I don’t believe you care
about kissing me a bit.”
He could not answer this, for at that moment the trap came to the door
and he sprang up.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m driving over to see old Potts at Herne about some sheep.”
“Is that all? Don’t you think you might stay in for an afternoon when I
ask you?”
“Why?” he replied. “There’s nothing to do in here. Nobody is coming, I
suppose.”
“I want to be with you, Eddie,” she said, plaintively.
He laughed. “I’m afraid I can’t break an appointment just for that.”
“Shall I come with you then?”
“What on earth for?” he asked, with surprise.
“I want to be with you; I hate being always separated from you.”
“But we’re not always separated. Hang it all, it seems to me that we’re
always together.”
“You don’t notice my absence as I notice yours,” said Bertha in a low
voice, looking down.
“But it’s raining cats and dogs, and you’ll get wet through, if you
come.”
“What do I care about that if I’m with you!”
“Then come by all means if you like.”
“You don’t care if I come or not; it’s nothing to you.”
“Well, I think it would be very silly of you to come in the rain. You
bet, I shouldn’t go if I could help it.”
“Then go,” she said. She kept back with difficulty the bitter words
which were on the tip of her tongue.
“You’re much better at home,” said her husband, cheerfully. “I shall be
in to tea at five. Ta-ta!”
He might have said a thousand things. He might have said that nothing
would please him more than that she should accompany him, that the
appointment could go to the devil and he would stay with her. But he
went off, cheerfully whistling. He didn’t care. Bertha’s cheeks grew red
with the humiliation of his refusal.
“He doesn’t love me,” she said, and suddenly burst into tears--the first
tears of her married life, the first she had wept since her father’s
death; and they made her ashamed. She tried to control them, but could
not and wept ungovernably. Edward’s words seemed terribly cruel; she
wondered how he could have said them.
“I might have expected it,” she said; “he doesn’t love me.”
She grew angry with him, remembering the little coldnesses which had
often pained her. Often he almost pushed her away when she came to
caress him--because he had at the moment something else to occupy him;
often he had left unanswered her protestations of undying affection. Did
he not know that he cut her to the quick? When she said she loved him
with all her heart, he wondered if the clock was wound up! Bertha
brooded for two hours over her unhappiness, and, ignorant of the time,
was surprised to hear the trap again at the door; her first impulse was
to run and let Edward in, but she restrained herself. She was very
angry. He entered, and shouting to her that he was wet and must change,
pounded upstairs. Of course he had not noticed that for the first time
since their marriage his wife had not met him in the hall when he came
in--he never noticed anything.
Edward entered the room, his face glowing with the fresh air.
“By Jove, I’m glad you didn’t come. The rain simply poured down. How
about tea? I’m starving.”
He thought of his tea when Bertha wanted apologies, humble excuses, a
plea for pardon. He was as cheerful as usual and quite unconscious that
his wife had been crying herself into a towering passion.
“Did you buy your sheep?” she said, in an indignant tone. She was
anxious for Edward to notice her discomposure, so that she might
reproach him for his sins; but he noticed nothing.
“Not much,” he cried. “I wouldn’t have given a fiver for the lot.”
“You might as well have stayed with me, as I asked you.”
“As far as business goes, I really might. But I dare say the drive
across country did me good.” He was a man who always made the best of
things.
Bertha took up a book and began reading.
“Where’s the paper?” asked Edward. “I haven’t read the leading articles
yet.”
“I’m sure I don’t know.”
They sat till dinner, Edward methodically going through the _Standard_,
column after column; Bertha turning over the pages of her book, trying
to understand, but occupied the whole time only with her injuries. They
ate the meal almost in silence, for Edward was not talkative. He merely
remarked that soon they would be having new potatoes and that he had met
Dr. Ramsay. Bertha answered in mono-syllables.
“You’re very quiet, Bertha,” he remarked, later in the evening. “What’s
the matter?”
“Nothing!”
“Got a headache?”
“No!”
He made no more inquiries, satisfied that her silence was due to natural
causes. He did not seem to notice that she was in any way different from
usual. She held herself in as long as she could, but finally burst out,
referring to his remark of an hour before.
“Do you care if I have a headache or not?” It was hardly a question so
much as a taunt.
He looked up with surprise. “What’s the matter?”
She looked at him and then, with a gesture of impatience, turned away.
But coming to her, he put his arm round her waist.
“Aren’t you well, dear?” he asked, with concern.
She looked at him again, but now her eyes were full of tears and she
could not repress a sob.
“Oh, Eddie, be nice to me,” she said, suddenly weakening.
“Do tell me what’s wrong.”
He put his arms round her and kissed her lips. The contact revived the
passion which for an hour had lain a-dying, and she burst into tears.
“Don’t be angry with me, Eddie,” she sobbed; it was she who apologised
and made excuses. “I’ve been horrid to you; I couldn’t help it. You’re
not angry, are you?”
“What on earth for?” he asked, completely mystified.
“I was so hurt this afternoon because you didn’t seem to care about me
two straws. You must love me, Eddie; I can’t live without it.”
“You _are_ silly,” he said, laughing.
She dried her tears, smiling. His forgiveness comforted her and she felt
now trebly happy.