But if the human soul, or the heart, or the mind--call it what you
will--is an instrument upon which countless melodies may be played, it
is capable of responding for very long to no single one. Time dulls the
most exquisite emotions, softens the most heartrending grief. The story
is old of the philosopher who sought to console a woman in distress by
the account of tribulations akin to hers, and upon losing his only son
was sent by her a list of all kings similarly bereaved. He read it,
acknowledged its correctness, but wept none the less. Three months later
the philosopher and the lady were surprised to find one another quite
gay, and erected a fine monument to Time with the inscription: _A celui
qui console_.
When Bertha vowed that life had lost all savour, that her ennui was
unending, she exaggerated as usual, and almost grew angry on discovering
that existence could be more supportable than she supposed.
One gets used to all things. It is only very misanthropic persons who
pretend that they cannot accustom themselves to the stupidity of their
fellows; for, after a while, one gets hardened to the most desperate
bores, and monotony even ceases to be quite monotonous. Accommodating
herself to circumstances, Bertha found life less tedious; it was a calm
river, and presently she came to the conclusion that it ran more easily
without the cascades and waterfalls, the eddies, whirlpools and rocks,
which had disturbed its course. The man who can still dupe himself with
illusions has a future not lacking in brightness.
The summer brought a certain variety, and Bertha found amusement in
things which before had never interested her. She went to sheltered
parts to see if favourite wild flowers had begun to blow: her love of
liberty made her prefer the hedge-roses to the pompous blooms of the
garden, the buttercups and daisies of the field to the prim geranium,
and the calcellaria. Time fled and she was surprised to find the year
pass imperceptibly. She began to read with greater zest, and in her
favourite seat, on the sofa by the window, spent long hours of pleasure.
She read as fancy prompted her, without a plan, because she wished and
not because she ought (how can they say that England is decadent when
its young ladies are so strenuous!). She obtained pleasure by
contrasting different writers, gaining emotions from the gravity of one
and the frivolity of the next. She went from the latest novel to the
_Orlando Furioso_, from the _Euphues_ of John Lyly (most entertaining
and whimsical of books!) to the passionate corruption of Verlaine. With
a lifetime before her, the length of books was no hindrance, and she
started boldly upon the eight volumes of the _Decline and Fall_, upon
the many tomes of St. Simon: and she never hesitated to put them aside
after a hundred pages.
Bertha found reality tolerable when it was merely a background, a foil
to the fantastic happenings of old books. She looked at the green trees,
and the song of birds mingled agreeably with her thoughts still
occupied, perhaps, with the Dolorous Knight of La Mancha, with Manon
Lescaut, or with the joyous band that wanders through the _Decameron_.
With greater knowledge came greater curiosity, and she forsook the broad
highroads of literature for the mountain pathways of some obscure poet,
for the bridle-tracks of the Spanish picaroon. She found unexpected
satisfaction in the half-forgotten masterpieces of the past, in poets
not quite divine whom fashion had left on one side, in the playwrights,
and novelists, and essayists, whose remembrance lives only with the
bookworm. It is a relief sometimes to look away from the bright sun of
perfect achievement; and the writers who appealed to their age and not
to posterity, have by contrast a subtle charm. Undazzled by their
splendour, one may discern more easily their individualities and the
spirit of their time; they have pleasant qualities not always found
among their betters, and there is even a certain pathos in their
incomplete success.
In music also Bertha developed a taste for the half known, the half
archaic. It suited the Georgian drawing-room with its old pictures, with
its Chippendale and chintz, to play the simple melodies of Couperin and
Rameau; the rondos, the gavottes, the sonatinas in powder and patch,
which delighted the rococo lords and ladies of a past century.
Living away from the present, in an artificial paradise, Bertha was
almost completely happy. She found indifference to the whole world a
trusty armour: life was easy without love or hate, hope or despair,
without ambition, desire of change, or tumultuous passion. So bloom the
flowers; unconscious, uncaring, the bud bursts from the enclosing leaf,
and opens to the sunshine, squanders its perfume to the breeze and there
is none to see its beauty--and then it dies.
Bertha found it possible to look back upon the past years with something
like amusement. It seemed now melodramatic to have loved the simple
Edward with such violence, and she was able even to smile at the
contrast between her vivid expectations and the flat reality. Gerald was
a pleasantly sentimental memory; she did not wish to see him again, but
thought of him often, idealising him till he became unsubstantial as a
character in a favourite book. Her winter in Italy also formed the
motive of some of her most delightful thoughts, and she determined never
to spoil the impression by another visit. She had advanced a good deal
in the art of life when she realised that pleasure came by surprise,
that happiness was a spirit which descended unawares, and seldom when it
was sought.
Edward had fallen into a life of such activity that his time was
entirely taken up. He had added largely to the Ley estate, and, with the
second-rate man’s belief that you must do a thing yourself to have it
well done, kept the farms under his immediate supervision. He was an
important member of all the rural bodies: he was on the School Board,
on the Board of Guardians, on the County Council; he was chairman of the
Urban District Council, president of the Leanham cricket club, president
of the Faversley football club; patron of the Blackstable regatta; he
was on the committee of the Tercanbury dog-show, and an enthusiastic
supporter of the Mid-Kent Agricultural Exhibition. He was a pillar of
the Blackstable Conservative Association, a magistrate, and a
churchwarden. Finally he was an ardent Freemason, and flew over Kent to
attend the meetings of the half-dozen lodges of which he was a member.
But the amount of work did not disturb him.
“Lord bless you,” he said, “I love work. You can’t give me too much. If
there’s anything to be done, come to me and I’ll do it, and say thank
you for giving me the chance.”
Edward had always been even-tempered, but now his good-nature was quite
angelic. It became a byword. His success was according to his deserts,
and to have him concerned in a matter was an excellent insurance. He was
always jovial and gay, contented with himself and with the world at
large; he was a model squire, landlord, farmer, conservative, man,
Englishman. He did everything thoroughly, and his energy was such that
he made a point of putting into every concern twice as much work as it
really needed. He was busy from morning till night (as a rule quite
unnecessarily), and he gloried in it.
“It shows I’m an excellent woman,” said Bertha to Miss Glover, “to
support his virtues with equanimity.”
“My dear, I think you ought to be very proud and happy. He’s an example
to the whole county. If he were my husband, I should be grateful to
God.”
“I have much to be thankful for,” murmured Bertha.
Since he let her go her own way and she was only too pleased that he
should go his, there was really no possibility of difference, and
Edward, wise man, came to the conclusion that he had effectually tamed
his wife. He thought, with good-humoured scorn, that he had been quite
right when he likened women to chickens, animals which, to be happy,
required no more than a good run, well fenced in, where they could
scratch about to their heart’s content.
“Feed ’em regularly, and let ’em cackle; and there you are!”
It is always satisfactory when experience verifies the hypothesis of
your youth.
One year, remembering by accident their wedding-day, Edward gave his
wife a bracelet; and feeling benevolent in consequence, and having dined
well, he patted her hand and remarked:--
“Time does fly, doesn’t it?”
“I have heard people say so,” she replied, smiling.
“Well, who’d have thought we’d been married eight years! it doesn’t seem
above eighteen months to me. And we’ve got on very well, haven’t we?”
“My dear Edward, you are such a model husband. It quite embarrasses me
sometimes.”
“Ha, ha! that’s a good one. But I can say this for myself, I do try to
do my duty. Of course at first we had our little tiffs--people have to
get used to one another, and one can’t expect to have all plain sailing
just at once. But for years now--well, ever since you went to Italy, I
think, we’ve been as happy as the day is long, haven’t we?”
“Yes, dear.”
“When I look back at the little rumpuses we used to have, upon my word,
I wonder what they were all about.”
“So do I.” And this Bertha said quite truthfully.
“I suppose it was just the weather.”
“I dare say.”
“Ah, well--all’s well that ends well.”
“My dear Edward, you’re a philosopher.”
“I don’t know about that--but I think I’m a politician; which reminds me
that I’ve not read about the new men-of-war in to-day’s paper. What I’ve
been agitating about for years is more ships and more guns--I’m glad to
see the Government have taken my advice at last.”
“It’s very satisfactory, isn’t it? It will encourage you to persevere.
And, of course, it’s nice to know that the Cabinet read your speeches in
the _Blackstable Times_.”
“I think it would be a good sight better for the country if those in
power paid more attention to provincial opinion. It’s men like me who
really know the feeling of the nation. You might get me the paper, will
you--it’s in the dining-room.”
It seemed quite natural to Edward that Bertha should wait upon him: it
was the duty of a wife. She handed him the _Standard_, and he began to
read; he yawned once or twice.
“Lord, I am sleepy.”
Presently he could not keep his eyes open, the paper dropped from his
hand, and he sank back in his chair with legs outstretched, his hands
resting comfortably on his stomach. His head lolled to one side and his
jaw dropped, and he began to snore. Bertha read. After a while he woke
with a start.
“Bless me, I do believe I’ve been asleep,” he cried. “Well, I’m dead
tired, I think I shall go to bed. I suppose you won’t come up yet?”
“Not just yet.”
“Well, don’t stay up too late, there’s a good girl, it’s not good for
you; and put the lights out properly when you come.”
She turned to him her cheek, which he kissed, stifling a yawn; then he
rolled upstairs.
“There’s one advantage in Edward,” murmured Bertha. “No one could accuse
him of being uxorious.”
_Mariage à la mode._
* * * * *
Bertha’s solitary walk was to the sea. The shore between Blackstable and
the Medway was extraordinarily wild. At distant intervals were the long,
low buildings of the coastguard stations; and the clean, pink walls, the
neat railings, the well-kept gravel, contrasted rather surprisingly with
the surrounding desolation. One could walk for miles without meeting a
soul, and the country spread out from the sea, low and flat and marshy.
The beach was of countless shells of every possible variety, which
crumbled under foot; while here and there were great banks of seaweed
and bits of wood or rope, the jetsam of a thousand tides. In one spot, a
few yards out but high and dry at low water, were the remains of an old
hulk, whose wooden ribs stood out weirdly like the skeleton of some huge
sea-beast. And then all round was the lonely sea, with never a ship nor
a fishing-smack in sight. In winter it was as if a spirit of solitude,
like a mystic shroud, had descended upon the shore and upon the desert
waters.
Then, in the melancholy, in the dreariness, Bertha found a subtle
fascination. The sky was a threatening heavy cloud, low down; and the
wind tore along shouting, screaming, and whistling: there was panic in
the turbulent sea, murky and yellow, and the waves leaped up, one at the
other’s heels, and beat down on the beach with an angry roar. It was
desolate, desolate; the sea was so merciless that the very sight
appalled one: it was a wrathful power, beating forwards, ever wrathfully
beating forwards, roaring with pain when the chains that bound it
wrenched it back; and after each desperate effort it shrank with a yell
of anguish. And the seagulls swayed above the waves in their melancholy
flight, rising and falling with the wind.
Bertha loved also the calm of winter, when the sea-mist and the mist of
heaven were one; when the sea was silent and heavy, and the solitary
gull flew screeching over the gray waters, screeching mournfully. She
loved the calm of summer when the sky was cloudless and infinite. Then
she spent long hours, lying at the water’s edge, delighted with the
solitude and with her absolute peace. The sea, placid as a lake, unmoved
by the lightest ripple, was a looking-glass reflecting the glory of
heaven; and it turned to fire when the sun sank in the west; it was a
sea of molten copper, red, brilliant, so that the eyes were dazzled. A
troop of seagulls slept on the water; and there were hundreds of them,
motionless and silent; one arose now and then, and flew for a moment
with heavy wing, and sank down, and all was still.
Once the coolness was so tempting that Bertha could not resist it.
Timidly, rapidly, she slipped off her clothes and looking round to see
that there was really no one in sight, stepped in. The wavelets about
her feet made her shiver a little, and then with a splash, stretching
out her arms, she ran forward, and half fell, half dived into the water.
Now it was delightful; she rejoiced in the freedom of her limbs, for it
was an unknown pleasure to swim unhampered by costume. It gave a fine
sense of power, and the salt water, lapping round her, was wonderfully
exhilarating. She wanted to sing aloud in the joy of her heart. Diving
below the surface, she came up with a shake of the head and a little cry
of delight; then her hair was loosened and with a motion it all came
tumbling about her shoulders and trailed out in its ringlets over the
water.
She swam out, a fearless swimmer; and it gave her a feeling of strength
and independence to have the deep waters all about her, the deep calm
sea of summer; she turned on her back and floated, trying to look the
sun in the face. The sea glimmered with the sunbeams and the sky was
dazzling. Then, returning, Bertha floated again, quite near the shore;
it amused her to lie on her back, rocked by the tiny waves, and to sink
her ears so that she could hear the shingle rub together curiously with
the ebb and flow of the tide. She shook out her long hair and it
stretched about her like an aureole.
She exulted in her youth--in her youth? Bertha felt no older than when
she was eighteen, and yet--she was thirty. The thought made her wince;
for she had never realised the passage of the years, she had never
imagined that her youth was waning. Did people think her already old?
The sickening fear came to her that she resembled Miss Hancock,
attempting by archness and by an assumption of frivolity, to persuade
her neighbours that she was juvenile. Bertha asked herself whether she
was ridiculous when she rolled in the water like a young girl: you
cannot act the mermaid with crow’s feet about your eyes, with wrinkles
round your mouth. In a panic she dressed herself, and going home, flew
to a looking-glass. She scrutinised her features as she had never done
before, searching anxiously for the signs she feared to see; she looked
at her neck and at her eyes: her skin was as smooth as ever, her teeth
as perfect. She gave a sigh of relief.
“I see no difference.”
Then, doubly to reassure herself, a fantastic idea seized Bertha to
dress as though she were going to a great ball; she wished to see
herself to all advantage. She chose the most splendid gown she had, and
took out her jewels. The Leys had sold every vestige of their old
magnificence, but their diamonds, with characteristic obstinacy, they
had invariably declined to part with; and they lay aside, year after
year unused, the stones in their old settings, dulled with dust and
neglect. The moisture still in Bertha’s hair was an excuse to do it
capriciously, and she placed in it the beautiful tiara which her
grandmother had worn in the Regency. On her shoulders she wore two
ornaments exquisitely set in gold-work, purloined by a great-uncle in
the Peninsular War from the saint of a Spanish church. She slipped a
string of pearls round her neck, bracelets on her arms, and fastened a
glistening row of stars to her bosom. Knowing she had beautiful hands,
Bertha disdained to wear rings, but now she covered her fingers with
diamonds and emeralds and sapphires.
Finally she stood before the looking-glass, and gave a laugh of
pleasure. She was not old yet.
But when she sailed into the drawing-room, Edward jumped up in surprise.
“Good Lord!” he cried. “What on earth’s up! Have we got people coming to
dinner?”
“My dear, if we had, I should not have dressed like this.”
“You’re got up as if the Prince of Wales were coming. And I’m only in
knickerbockers. It’s not our wedding-day?”
“No.”
“Then I should like to know why you’ve dressed yourself up like that.”
“I thought it would please you,” she said, smiling.
“I wish you’d told me--I’d have dressed too. Are you sure no one’s
coming?”
“Quite sure.”
“Well, I think I ought to dress. It would look so queer if some one
turned up.”
“If any one does, I promise you I’ll fly.”
They went in to dinner, Edward feeling very uncomfortable, and keeping
his ear alert for the front-door bell. They ate their soup, and then
were set on the table--the remains of a cold leg of mutton and mashed
potatoes. Bertha looked for a moment blankly, and then, leaning back,
burst into peal upon peal of laughter.
“Good Lord, what is the matter now?” asked Edward.
Nothing is more annoying than to have people violently hilarious over a
joke that you cannot see.
Bertha held her sides and tried to speak.
“I’ve just remembered that I told the servants they might go out
to-night, there’s a circus at Blackstable; and I said we’d just eat up
the odds and ends.”
“I don’t see any joke in that.”
And really there was none, but Bertha laughed again immoderately.
“I suppose there are some pickles,” said Edward.
Bertha repressed her gaiety and began to eat.
“That is my whole life,” she murmured under her breath, “to eat cold
mutton and mashed potatoes in a ball-dress and all my diamonds.”