When Lord Roseberry makes a speech, even the journals of his own party
report him in the first person and at full length; and this is said to
be the politician’s supreme ambition. Having reached such distinction,
there is nothing left him but an honourable death and a public funeral
in Westminster Abbey. Now, the _Blackstable Times_ accorded this honour
to Edward’s first effort; it was printed with numberless _I’s_ peppered
boldly over it; the grammar was corrected, and the stops inserted, just
as for the most important orators. Edward bought a dozen copies and read
the speech right through in each, to see that his sentiments were
correctly expressed, and that there were no misprints. He gave it to
Bertha, and stood over her while she read.
“Looks well, don’t it?” he said.
“Splendid!”
“By the way, is Aunt Polly’s address 72 Eliot Mansions?”
“Yes. Why?”
Her jaw fell as she saw him roll up half-a-dozen copies of the
_Blackstable Times_ and address the wrapper.
“I’m sure she’d like to read my speech. And it might hurt her feelings
if she heard about it and I’d not sent her the report.”
“Oh, I’m sure she’d like to see it very much. But if you send six copies
you’ll have none left--for other people.”
“Oh, I can easily get more. The editor chap told me I could have a
thousand if I liked. I’m sending her six, because I dare say she’d like
to forward some to her friends.”
By return of post came Miss Ley’s reply.
_My dear Edward,--I perused all six copies of your speech with the
greatest interest; and I think you will agree with me that it is
high proof of its merit that I was able to read it the sixth time
with as unflagging attention as the first. The peroration, indeed,
I am convinced that no acquaintance could stale. It is so true that
“every Englishman has a mother” (supposing, of course, that an
untimely death has not robbed him of her). It is curious how one
does not realise the truth of some things till they are pointed
out; when one’s only surprise is at not having seen them before. I
hope it will not offend you if I suggest that Bertha’s handiwork
seems to me not invisible in some of the sentiments (especially in
that passage about the Union Jack). Did you really write the whole
speech yourself? Come, now, confess that Bertha helped you.--Yours
very sincerely,_
_MARY LEY_.
Edward read the letter and tossed it, laughing, to Bertha. “What cheek
her suggesting that you helped me! I like that.”
“I’ll write at once and tell her that it was all your own.”
* * * * *
Bertha still could hardly believe genuine the admiration which her
husband excited. Knowing his extreme incapacity, she was astounded that
the rest of the world should think him an uncommonly clever fellow. To
her his pretensions were merely ridiculous; she marvelled that he should
venture to discuss, with dogmatic glibness, subjects of which he knew
nothing; but she marvelled still more that people should be impressed
thereby: he had an astonishing faculty of concealing his ignorance.
At last the polling-day arrived, and Bertha waited anxiously at Court
Leys for the result. Edward eventually appeared, radiant.
“What did I tell you?” said he.
“I see you’ve got in.”
“Got in isn’t the word for it! What did I tell you, eh? My dear girl,
I’ve simply knocked ’em all into a cocked hat. I got double the number
of votes that the other chap did, and it’s the biggest poll they’ve
ever had.... Aren’t you proud that your hubby should be a County
Councillor? I tell you I shall be an M.P. before I die.”
“I congratulate you--with all my heart,” said Bertha drily; but trying
to be enthusiastic.
Edward in his excitement did not observe her coolness. He was walking up
and down the room concocting schemes--asking himself how long it would
be before Miles Campbell, the member, was confronted by the inevitable
dilemma of the unopposed M.P., one horn of which is the Kingdom of
Heaven, and the other--the House of Lords.
Presently he stopped. “I’m not a vain man,” he remarked, “but I must say
I don’t think I’ve done badly.”
Edward, for a while, was somewhat overwhelmed by his own greatness, but
the opinion came to his rescue that the rewards were only according to
his deserts; and presently he entered energetically into the not very
arduous duties of the County Councillor.
Bertha continually expected to hear something to his disadvantage; but,
on the contrary, everything seemed to proceed very satisfactorily; and
Edward’s aptitude for business, his keenness in making a bargain, his
common sense, were heralded abroad in a manner that should have been
most gratifying to his wife.
But as a matter of fact these constant praises exceedingly disquieted
Bertha. She asked herself uneasily whether she was doing him an
injustice. Was he really so clever; had he indeed the virtues which
common report ascribed to him? Perhaps she was prejudiced; or
perhaps--he was cleverer than she. This thought came like a blow, for
she had never doubted that her intellect was superior to Edward’s. Their
respective knowledge was not comparable: she occupied herself with ideas
that Edward did not conceive; his mind was ever engaged in the utterest
trivialities. He never interested himself in abstract things, and his
conversation was tedious, as only the absence of speculation could make
it. It was extraordinary that every one but herself should so highly
estimate his intelligence. Bertha knew that his mind was paltry and his
ignorance phenomenal: his pretentiousness made him a charlatan. One day
he came to her, his head full of a new idea.
“I say, Bertha, I’ve been thinking it over and it seems a pity that your
name should be dropped entirely. And it sounds funny that people called
Craddock should live at Court Leys.”
“D’you think so? I don’t know how you can remedy it--unless you think of
advertising for tenants with a more suitable name.”
“Well, I was thinking it wouldn’t be a bad idea, and it would have a
good effect on the county, if we took your name again.”
He looked at Bertha, who stared at him icily, but answered nothing.
“I’ve talked to old Bacot about it and he thinks it would be just the
thing; so I think we’d better do it.”
“I suppose you’re going to consult me on the subject.”
“That’s what I’m doing now.”
“Do you think of calling yourself Ley-Craddock or Craddock-Ley, or
dropping the Craddock altogether?”
“Well, to tell you the truth, I hadn’t gone so far as that yet.”
Bertha gave a little scornful laugh. “I think the idea is perfectly
ridiculous.”
“I don’t see that; I think it would be rather an improvement.”
“Really, Edward, if I was not ashamed to take your name, I don’t think
that _you_ need be ashamed to keep it.”
“I say, I think you might be reasonable--you’re always standing in my
way.”
“I have no wish to do that. If you think my name will add to your
importance, use it by all means.... You may call yourself Tompkins for
all I care.”
“What about you?”
“Oh I--I shall continue to call myself Craddock.”
“I do think it’s rough. You never do anything to help me.”
“I am sorry you’re dissatisfied. But you forget that you have impressed
one ideal on me for years: you have always given me to understand that
your pattern female animal was the common or domestic cow.”
Edward did not understand what Bertha meant, and it occurred to him
dimly that it was perhaps not altogether proper.
“You know, Edward, I always regret that you didn’t marry Fanny Glover.
You would have suited one another admirably. And I think she would have
worshipped you as you desire to be worshipped. I’m sure she would not
have objected to your calling yourself Glover.”
“I shouldn’t have wanted to take her name. That’s no better than
Craddock. The only thing in Ley is that it’s an old county name, and has
belonged to your people.”
“That is why I don’t choose that you should use it.”