With the summer Edward began to teach Bertha lawn-tennis; and in the
long evenings, when he had finished his work and changed into the
flannels which suited him so well, they played innumerable sets. He
prided himself upon his skill in this pursuit and naturally found it
dull to play with a beginner; but he was very patient, hoping that
eventually Bertha would acquire sufficient skill to give him a good
game. To be doing something with her husband sufficiently amused Bertha.
She liked him to correct her mistakes, to show her this stroke and that;
she admired his good nature and his inexhaustible spirits. But her
greatest delight was to lie on the long chair by the lawn when they had
finished, and enjoy the feeling of exhaustion, gossiping of the little
nothings which love made absorbingly interesting.
Miss Ley had been persuaded to prolong her stay. She had vowed to go at
the end of her week; but Edward, in his high-handed fashion, had ordered
the key of the box-room to be given him, and refused to surrender it.
“Oh no,” he said, “I can’t make people come here, but I can prevent them
from going away. In this house every one has to do as I tell them; isn’t
that so, Bertha?”
“If you say it, Edward,” replied his wife.
Miss Ley gracefully acceded to her nephew’s desire, which was the more
easy, since the house was comfortable, she had really no pressing
engagements, and her mind was set upon making further examination into
the married life of her relations. It would have been a weakness,
unworthy of her, to maintain her intention for consistence’ sake.
Why for days together were Edward and Bertha the happiest lovers, and
then suddenly why did Bertha behave almost brutally towards her
husband, while he remained invariably good-tempered and amiable? The
obvious reason was that some little quarrel had arisen, such as, since
Adam and Eve, has troubled every married couple in the world; but the
obvious reason was that which Miss Ley was least likely to credit. She
never saw anything in the way of a disagreement, Bertha assented to all
her husband’s proposals; and with such docility on the one hand, such
good-humour on the other, what on earth could form a bone of contention?
Miss Ley had discovered that when the green leaves of life are turning
red and golden with approaching autumn, most pleasure can be obtained by
a judicious mingling in simplicity of the gifts of nature and the
resources of civilisation. She was satisfied to come in the evenings to
the tennis-lawn and sit on a comfortable chair shaded by trees, and
protected by a red parasol from the rays of the setting sun. She was not
a woman to find distraction in needlework, and brought with her,
therefore, a volume of Montaigne, her favourite writer. She read a page
and then lifted her sharp eyes to the players. Edward was certainly very
handsome--he looked so clean, and it was obvious to the most casual
observer that he bathed himself daily: he was one of those men who carry
the morning tub stamped on every line of their faces. You felt that
Pear’s Soap was as essential to him as his belief in the Conservative
Party, Derby Day, and the Depression of Agriculture. As Bertha often
said, his energy was superabundant. Notwithstanding his increasing size
he was most agile, and perpetually did unnecessary feats of strength,
such as jumping and hopping over the net, holding chairs with
outstretched arm.
“If health and a good digestion are all that is necessary in a husband,
Bertha certainly ought to be the most contented woman alive.”
Miss Ley never believed so implicitly in her own theories that she was
prevented from laughing at them. She had an impartial mind and saw the
two sides of a question clearly enough to find little to choose between
them; consequently she was able and willing to argue with equal force
from either point of view.
The set was finished, and Bertha threw herself on a chair, panting.
“Find the balls, there’s a dear,” she cried.
Edward went off on the search, and Bertha looked at him with a
delightful smile.
“He is such a good-tempered person,” she said to Miss Ley. “Sometimes he
makes me feel positively ashamed.”
“He has all the virtues. Dr. Ramsay, the Glovers, even Mrs. Branderton,
have been dinning his praise into my ears.”
“Yes, they all like him. Arthur Branderton is always here, asking his
advice about something or other. He’s a dear, good thing.”
“Who? Arthur Branderton?”
“No, of course not--Eddie.”
Bertha took off her hat and stretched herself more comfortably on the
long chair. Her hair was somewhat disarranged, and the rich locks
wandered about her forehead and on the nape of her neck in a way that
would have distracted any minor poet under seventy. Miss Ley looked at
her niece’s fine profile, and wondered again at the complexion, made up
of the softest colours in the setting sun. Her eyes now were liquid with
love, languorous with the shade of long lashes; and her full, sensual
mouth was half open with a smile.
“Is my hair very untidy?” asked Bertha, catching Miss Ley’s look and its
meaning.
“No, I think it suits you when it is not done too severely.”
“Edward hates it; he likes me to be prim.... And of course I don’t care
how I look so long as he’s pleased. Don’t you think he’s very
good-looking?” Then without waiting for an answer, she asked a second
question.
“Do you think me a great fool for being so much in love, Aunt Polly?”
“My dear, it’s surely the proper behaviour with one’s lawful spouse.”
Bertha’s smile became a little sad as she replied--
“Edward seems to think it unusual.” She followed him with her eyes,
picking up the balls one by one, hunting among bushes: she was in the
mood for confidences that afternoon. “You don’t know how different
everything has been since I fell in love. The world is fuller.... It’s
the only state worth living in.” Edward advanced with the eight balls on
his racket. “Come here and be kissed, Eddie,” she cried.
“Not if I know it,” he replied, laughing. “Bertha’s a perfect terror.
She wants me to spend my whole life in kissing her.... Don’t you think
it’s unreasonable, Aunt Polly? My motto is: everything in its place and
season.”
“One kiss in the morning,” said Bertha, “one kiss at night, will do to
keep your wife quiet; and the rest of the time you can attend to your
work and read your paper.”
Again Bertha smiled charmingly, but Miss Ley saw no amusement in her
eyes.
“Well, one can have too much of a good thing,” said Edward, balancing
his racket on the tip of his nose.
“Even of proverbial philosophy,” remarked Bertha.
* * * * *
A few days later, his guest having definitely announced that she must
go, Edward proposed a tennis-party as a parting honour. Miss Ley would
gladly have escaped an afternoon of small-talk with the notabilities of
Leanham, but Edward was determined to pay his aunt every attention, and
his inner consciousness assured him that at least a small party was
necessary to the occasion. They came, Mr. and Miss Glover, the
Brandertons, the Hancocks, Mr. Atthill Bacot, the great politician (of
the district). But Mr. Atthill Bacot was more than political, he was
gallant, and he devoted himself to the entertainment of Miss Ley. He
discussed with her the sins of the government and the incapacity of the
army.
“More men, more guns!” he said. “An elementary education in common
sense for the officers, and the rudiments of grammar if there’s time!”
“Good heavens, Mr. Bacot, you mustn’t say such things. I thought you
were a Conservative.”
“Madam, I stood for the constituency in ’85. I may say that if a
Conservative member could have got in, I should have been elected. But
there are limits. Even the staunch Conservative will turn. Now look at
General Hancock.”
“Please don’t talk so loud,” said Miss Ley, with alarm, for Mr. Bacot
had instinctively adopted his platform manner, and his voice could be
heard through the whole garden.
“Look at General Hancock, I say,” he repeated, taking no notice of the
interruption. “Is that the sort of man whom you would wish to have the
handling of ten thousand of your sons?”
“Oh, but be fair,” cried Miss Ley, laughing. “They’re not all such fools
as poor General Hancock.”
“I give you my word, madam, I think they are.... As far as I can make
out, when a man has shown himself incapable of doing anything else they
make him a general, just to encourage the others. I understand the
reason. It’s a great thing, of course, for parents sending their sons
into the army to be able to say, ‘Well, he may be a fool, but there’s no
reason why he shouldn’t become a general.’”
“You wouldn’t rob us of our generals,” said Miss Ley; “they’re so useful
at tea-parties. In my young days the fool of the family was sent into
the Church, but now, I suppose, he’s sent into the army.”
Mr. Bacot was about to make a very heated retort when Edward called to
him--
“We want you to make up a set at tennis. Will you play with Miss Hancock
against my wife and the General? Come on, Bertha.”
“Oh no, I mean to sit out, Eddie,” said Bertha, quickly. She saw that
Edward was putting all the bad players into one set, so that they might
be got rid of. “I’m not going to play.”
“You must, or you’ll disarrange the next lot. It’s all settled; Miss
Glover and I are going to take on Miss Jane Hancock and Arthur
Branderton.”
Bertha looked at him with eyes flashing angrily. Of course he did not
notice her vexation. He preferred to play with Miss Glover, she told
herself; the parson’s sister played well, and for a good game he would
never hesitate to sacrifice his wife’s feelings. Besides Bertha, only
Miss Glover and young Branderton were within earshot, and in his jovial,
pleasant manner, Edward laughingly said--
“Bertha’s such a duffer. Of course she’s only just beginning. You don’t
mind playing with the General, do you, dear?”
Arthur Branderton laughed and Bertha smiled at the sally, but she
reddened.
“I’m not going to play at all. I must see to the tea; and I dare say
more people will be coming in presently.”
“Oh, I forgot that,” said Edward. “No; perhaps you oughtn’t to play.”
And then putting his wife out of his thoughts, and linking his arm with
young Branderton’s, he sauntered off. “Come along, old chap; we must
find some crock to make up the pat-ball set.” Edward had such a
charming, frank manner, one could not help liking him.
Bertha watched the two men go and turned very white.
“I must just go into the house a moment,” she said to Miss Glover. “Go
and entertain Mrs. Branderton, there’s a dear.” And precipitately she
fled.
She ran to her room, and flinging herself on the bed, burst into a flood
of tears. The humiliation seemed dreadful. She wondered how Eddie, whom
she loved above all else in the world, could treat her so cruelly. What
had she done? He knew--ah, yes, he knew well enough the happiness he
could cause her--and he went out of his way to be brutal. She wept
bitterly, and jealousy of Miss Glover (Miss Glover, of all people!)
stabbed her to the heart.
“He doesn’t love me,” she moaned, her tears redoubling.
Presently there was a knock at the door.
“Who is it?” she cried.
The handle was turned and Miss Glover came in, red with nervousness.
“Forgive me for coming in, Bertha. But I thought you seemed unwell.
Can’t I do something for you?”
“Oh, I’m all right,” said Bertha, drying her tears, “Only the heat upset
me and I’ve got a headache.”
“Shall I send Edward to you?”
“What do I want with Edward?” replied Bertha, petulantly. “I shall be
all right in five minutes. I often have attacks like this.”
“I’m sure he didn’t mean to say anything unkind. He’s kindness itself, I
know.”
Bertha flushed. “What on earth do you mean, Fanny? Who didn’t say
anything unkind?”
“I thought you were hurt by Edward’s saying you were a duffer and a
beginner.”
“Oh, my dear, you must think me a fool.” Bertha laughed hysterically.
“It’s quite true that I’m a duffer. I tell you it’s only the weather.
Why, if my feelings were hurt each time Eddie said a thing like that I
should lead a miserable life.”
“I wish you’d let me send him up to you,” said Miss Glover, unconvinced.
“Good heavens! Why? See, I’m all right now.” She washed her eyes and
passed the powder-puff over her face. “My dear, it was only the sun.”
With an effort she braced herself, and burst into a laugh joyful enough
almost to deceive the Vicar’s sister.
“Now, we must go down, or Mrs. Branderton will complain more than ever
of my bad manners.”
She put her arm round Miss Glover’s waist and ran her down the stairs to
the mingled terror and amazement of that good creature. For the rest of
the afternoon, though her eyes never rested on Edward, she was perfectly
charming--in the highest spirits, chattering incessantly, laughing;
every one noticed her good humour and commented upon her obvious
felicity.
“It does one good to see a couple like that,” said General Hancock,
“just as happy as the day is long.”
But the little scene had not escaped Miss Ley’s sharp eyes, and she
noticed with agony that Miss Glover had gone to Bertha. She could not
stop her, being at the moment in the toils of Mrs. Branderton.
“Oh, these good people are too officious! Why can’t she leave the girl
alone to have it out with herself!”
But the explanation of everything now flashed across Miss Ley.
“What a fool I am!” she thought, and she was able to cogitate quite
clearly while exchanging honeyed impertinences with Mrs. Branderton. “I
noticed it the first day I saw them together. How could I ever forget
it!” She shrugged her shoulders and murmured the maxim of La
Rochefoucauld--
“_Entre deux amants il-y-a toujours un qui aime, et un qui se laisse
aimer._”
And to this she added another, in the same language, which, knowing no
original, she ventured to claim as her own; it seemed to summarise the
situation.
“_Celui qui aime a toujours tort._”