The passion to analyse the casual fellow-creature was the most absorbing
vice that Miss Ley possessed; and no ties of relationship or affection
(the two go not invariably together) prevented her from exercising her
talents in that direction. She observed Bertha and Edward during
luncheon: Bertha was talkative, chattering with a vivacity that seemed
suspicious, about the neighbours--Mrs. Branderton’s new bonnets and new
hair, Miss Glover’s good works and Mr. Glover’s visits to London; Edward
was silent, except when he pressed Miss Ley to take a second helping. He
ate largely, and the maiden lady noticed the enormous mouthfuls he took
and the heartiness with which he drank his beer. Of course she drew
conclusions; and she drew further conclusions, when, having devoured
half a pound of cheese and taken a last drink of ale, he pushed back his
chair and with a sort of low roar, reminding one of a beast of prey
gorged with food, said--
“Ah, well, I suppose I must set about my work. There’s no rest for the
weary.”
He pulled a new briar-wood pipe from his pocket, filled and lit it.
“I feel better now.... Well, so-long; I shall be in to tea.”
Conclusions buzzed about Miss Ley, like midges on a summer’s day. She
drew them all the afternoon; she drew them all through dinner. Bertha
was effusive too, unusually so; and Miss Ley asked herself a dozen times
if this stream of chatter, these peals of laughter, proceeded from a
light heart or from a base desire to deceive a middle-aged and inquiring
aunt. After dinner, Edward, telling her that of course she was one of
the family so he hoped she did not wish him to stand on ceremony, began
to read the paper. When Bertha, at Miss Ley’s request, played the piano,
good manners made him put it aside, and he yawned a dozen times in a
quarter of an hour.
“I mustn’t play any more,” said Bertha, “or Eddie will go to
sleep--won’t you, darling?”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” he replied, laughing. “The fact is that the things
Bertha plays when we’ve got company give me the fair hump!”
“Edward only consents to listen when I play _The Blue Bells of Scotland_
or _Yankee Doodle_.”
Bertha made the remark, smiling good-naturedly at her husband, but Miss
Ley drew conclusions.
“I don’t mind confessing that I can’t stand all this foreign music. What
I say to Bertha is--why can’t you play English stuff?”
“If you must play at all,” interposed his wife.
“After all’s said and done _The Blue Bells of Scotland_ has got a tune
about it that a fellow can get his teeth into.”
“You see, there’s the difference,” said Bertha, strumming a few bars of
_Rule Britannia_, “it sets mine on edge.”
“Well, I’m patriotic,” retorted Edward. “I like the good, honest, homely
English airs. I like ’em because they’re English. I’m not ashamed to say
that for me the best piece of music that’s ever been written is _God
Save the Queen_.”
“Which was written by a German, dear Edward,” said Miss Ley, smiling.
“That’s as it may be,” said Edward, unabashed, “but the sentiment’s
English and that’s all I care about.”
“Hear! hear!” cried Bertha. “I believe Edward has aspirations towards a
political career. I know I shall finish up as the wife of the local
M.P.”
“I’m patriotic,” said Edward, “and I’m not ashamed to confess it.”
“Rule Britannia,” sang Bertha, “Britannia rules the waves, Britons
never, never shall be slaves. Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay! Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay!”
“It’s the same everywhere now,” proceeded the orator. “We’re choke full
of foreigners and their goods. I think it’s scandalous. English music
isn’t good enough for you--you get it from France and Germany. Where do
you get your butter from? Brittany! Where d’you get your meat from? New
Zealand!” This he said with great scorn, and Bertha punctuated the
observation with a resounding chord. “And as far as the butter goes, it
isn’t butter--it’s margarine. Where does your bread come from? America.
Your vegetables from Jersey.”
“Your fish from the sea,” interposed Bertha.
“And so it is all along the line--the British farmer hasn’t got a
chance!”
To this speech Bertha played a burlesque accompaniment, which would have
irritated a more sensitive man than Craddock; but he merely laughed
good-naturedly.
“Bertha won’t take these things seriously,” he said, passing his hand
affectionately over her hair.
She suddenly stopped playing, and his good-humour, joined with the
loving gesture, filled her with remorse. Her eyes filled with tears.
“You are a dear, good thing,” she faltered, “and I’m utterly horrid.”
“Now don’t talk stuff before Aunt Polly. You know she’ll laugh at us.”
“Oh, I don’t care,” said Bertha, smiling happily. She stood up and
linked her arm with his. “Eddie’s the best tempered person in the
world--he’s perfectly wonderful.”
“He must be, indeed,” said Miss Ley, “if you have preserved your faith
in him after six months of marriage.”
But the maiden lady had stored so many observations that she felt an
urgent need to retire to the privacy of her bed-chamber, and sort them.
She kissed Bertha and held out her hand to Edward.
“Oh, if you kiss Bertha, you must kiss me too,” said he, bending forward
with a laugh.
“Upon my word!” said Miss Ley, somewhat taken aback; then as he was
evidently insisting she embraced him on the cheek. She positively
blushed.
* * * * *
The upshot of Miss Ley’s investigations was that once again the hymeneal
path had been found strewn with roses; and the idea crossed her head as
she laid it on the pillow, that Dr. Ramsay would certainly come and crow
over her: it was not in masculine human nature, she thought, to miss an
opportunity of exulting over a vanquished foe.
“He’ll vow that I was the direct cause of the marriage. The dear man,
he’ll be so pleased with my discomfiture that I shall never hear the
last of it. He’s sure to call to-morrow.”
Indeed the news of Miss Ley’s arrival had been by Edward industriously
spread abroad, and promptly Mrs. Ramsay put on her blue velvet
calling-dress, and in the doctor’s brougham drove with him to Court
Leys. The Ramsays found Miss Glover and the Vicar of Leanham already in
possession of the field. Mr. Glover looked thinner and older than when
Miss Ley had last seen him; he was more weary, meek and brow-beaten;
Miss Glover never altered.
“The parish?” said the parson, in answer to Miss Ley’s polite inquiry,
“I’m afraid it’s in a bad way. The dissenters have got a new chapel, you
know--and they say the Salvation Army is going to set up ‘barracks’ as
they call them. It’s a great pity the government doesn’t step in: after
all we are established by law and the law ought to protect us from
encroachment.”
“You don’t believe in liberty of conscience?” asked Miss Ley.
“My dear Miss Ley,” said the Vicar, in his tired voice, “everything has
its limits. I should have thought there was in the Established Church
enough liberty of conscience for any one.”
“Things are becoming dreadful in Leanham,” said Miss Glover.
“Practically all the tradesmen go to chapel now, and it makes it so
difficult for us.”
“Yes,” replied the Vicar, with a weary sigh; “and as if we hadn’t enough
to put up with, I hear that Walker has ceased coming to church.”
“Oh dear, oh dear!” said Miss Glover.
“Walker, the baker?” asked Edward.
“Yes; and now the only baker in Leanham who goes to church is Andrews.”
“Well, we can’t possibly deal with him, Charles,” said Miss Glover, “his
bread is too bad.”
“My dear, we must,” groaned her brother. “It would be against all my
principles to deal with a tradesman who goes to chapel. You must tell
Walker to send his book in, unless he will give an assurance that he’ll
come to church regularly.”
“But Andrews’s bread always gives you indigestion, Charles,” cried Miss
Glover.
“I must put up with it. If none of our martyrdoms were more serious than
that, we should have no cause to complain.”
“Well, it’s quite easy to get your bread from Tercanbury,” said Mrs.
Ramsay, who was severely practical.
Mr. Glover and his sister threw up their hands in dismay.
“Then Andrews would go to chapel too. The only thing that keeps them at
church, I’m sorry to say, is the Vicarage custom, or the hope of getting
it.”
Presently Miss Ley found herself alone with the parson’s sister.
“You must be very glad to see Bertha again, Miss Ley.”
“Now she’s going to crow,” thought the good lady. “Of course I am.”
“And it must be such a relief to you to see how well it’s all turned
out.”
Miss Ley looked sharply at Miss Glover, but saw no trace of irony.
“Oh, I think it’s beautiful to see a married couple so thoroughly happy.
It really makes me feel a better woman when I come here and see how
those two worship one another.”
“Of course the poor thing’s a perfect idiot,” thought Miss Ley. “Yes,
it’s very satisfactory,” she said, drily.
She glanced round for Dr. Ramsay, looking forward, notwithstanding that
she was on the losing side, to the tussle she foresaw. She had the
instincts of a good fighter, and, even though defeat was inevitable,
never avoided an encounter. The doctor approached.
“Well, Miss Ley. So you have come back to us. We’re all delighted to see
you.”
“How cordial these people are,” thought Miss Ley, somewhat crossly,
thinking Dr. Ramsay’s remark preliminary to coarse banter or to
reproach. “Shall we take a turn in the garden; I’m sure you wish to
quarrel with me.”
“There’s nothing I should like better--to walk in the garden, I mean: of
course, no one could quarrel with so charming a person as yourself.”
“He would never be so polite if he did not mean afterwards to be very
rude,” thought Miss Ley. “I’m glad you like the garden.”
“Craddock has improved it so wonderfully. It’s a perfect pleasure to
look at all he’s done.”
This Miss Ley considered a gibe, and searched for a repartee, but
finding none was silent: Miss Ley was a wise woman! They walked a few
steps without a word, and then Dr. Ramsay suddenly burst out--
“Well, Miss Ley, you were right after all.”
She stopped and looked at the speaker--he seemed quite serious.
“Yes,” he said, “I don’t mind acknowledging it. I was wrong. It’s a
great triumph for you, isn’t it?”
He looked at her, and shook with good-tempered laughter.
“Is he making fun of me?” Miss Ley asked herself, with something not
very distantly removed from agony. This was the first occasion upon
which she had failed to understand not only the good doctor, but his
inmost thoughts as well. “So you think the estate has been improved?”
she said hurriedly.
“I can’t make out how the man’s done so much in so short a time. Why,
just look at it!”
Miss Ley pursed her lips. “Even in its most dilapidated days Court Leys
looked gentlemanly: now all this,” she glanced round with upturned nose,
“might be the country mansion of a pork-butcher.”
“My dear Miss Ley, you must pardon my saying so, but the place wasn’t
even respectable.”
“But it is now; that is my complaint. My dear doctor, in the old days,
the passer-by could see that the owners of Court Leys were decent
people; that they could not make both ends meet was a detail--it was
possibly because they burnt one end too rapidly, which is the sign of a
rather delicate mind.” Miss Ley was mixing her metaphors. “And the
passer-by moralised accordingly. For a gentleman there are only two
decorous states, absolute poverty or overpowering wealth; the middle
condition is vulgar. Now the passer-by sees thrift and careful
management, the ends meet, but they do it aggressively, as if it were
something to be proud about. Pennies are looked at before they are
spent; and, good heavens! the Leys serve to point a moral and adorn a
tale. The Leys, who gambled and squandered their substance, who bought
diamonds when they hadn’t bread, and pawned the diamonds to give the
King a garden-party, now form the heading of a copybook and the ideal of
a market-gardener.”
Miss Ley had the characteristics of the true phrase-maker, for so long
as her period was well rounded, 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 realised 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 thin 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. Every one likes him,
and thinks well of him. 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 took 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 given her some uneasiness.
“So every one 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 to the doctor’s question. “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 open-work of a silk stocking.
“Do you intend me to take that as an acknowledgment 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 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 you.”
“Hm!” 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’re growing quite pert.”
They had finished the tour of the garden and Mrs. Ramsay was seen in the
drawing-room, bidding Bertha good-by.
“Now, seriously, Miss Ley,” said the doctor, “they’re quite happy,
aren’t they? Every one thinks so.”
“Every one 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
copybook headings.... Don’t you think it will make the reading of the
book somewhat difficult?”