BERTHA surrendered herself completely to the enjoyment of her love. Her sanguine temperament never allowed her to do anything half-heartedly, and she took no care now to conceal her feelings; love was a great sea into which she boldly plunged, uncaring whether she would swim or sink.

“I am such a fool,” she told Craddock, “I can’t realise that any one has loved before. I feel that the world is only now beginning.”

She hated any separation from him. In the morning she existed for nothing but her lover’s visit at luncheon time, and the walk back with him to his farm; then the afternoon seemed endless, and she counted the hours that must pass before she saw him again. But what bliss it was when, after his work was over, he arrived, and they sat side by side near the fire, talking; Bertha would have no other light than the fitful flaming of the coals, so that, but for the little space where they sat, the room was dark, and the redness of the fire threw on Edward’s face a glow and weird shadows. She loved to look at him, at his clean-cut features, and into his grey eyes. Then her passion knew no restraint.

“Shut your eyes,” she whispered, and she kissed the closed lids; she passed her lips slowly over his lips, and the soft contact made her shudder and laugh. She buried her face in his clothes, inhaling those masterful scents of the countryside which had always fascinated her.

“What have you been doing to-day, my dearest?”

“Oh, there’s nothing much going on the farm just now. We’ve just been ploughing and root-carting.”

It enchanted her to receive information on agricultural subjects, and she could have listened to him for hours. Every word that Edward spoke was charming and original Bertha never took her eyes off him; she loved to see him speak, and often scarcely listened to what he said, merely watching the play of his expression. It puzzled him sometimes to catch her smile of intense happiness, when he was discussing the bush-drainage, for instance, of some field. However, she really took a deep interest in all his stock, and never failed to inquire after a bullock that was indisposed; it pleased her to think of the strong man among his beasts, and the thought gave a tautness to her own muscles. She determined to learn riding and tennis and golf, so that she might accompany him in his amusements; her own attainments seemed unnecessary and even humiliating. Looking at Edward Craddock she realised that man was indeed the lord of creation. She saw him striding over his fields with long steps, ordering his labourers here and there, able to direct their operations, fearless, brave, and free. It was astonishing how many excellent traits she derived from examination of his profile.

Then, talking of the men he employed, she could imagine no felicity greater than to have such a master.

“I should like to be a milkmaid on your farm,” she said.

“I don’t keep milkmaids,” he replied. “I have a milkman; it’s more useful.”

“You dear old thing,” she cried. “How matter of fact you are!”

She caught hold of his hands and looked at them.

“I’m rather frightened of you, sometimes,” she said, laughing. “You’re so strong. I feel so utterly weak and helpless beside you.”

“Are you afraid I shall beat you?”

She looked up at him and then down at the strong hands.

“I don’t think I should mind if you did. I think I should only love you more.”

He burst out laughing and kissed her.

“I’m not joking,” she said. “I understand now those women who love beasts of men. They say that some wives will stand anything from their husbands; they love them all the more because they’re brutal. I think I’m like that; but I’ve never seen you in a passion, Eddie. What are you like when you’re angry?”

“I never am angry.”

“Miss Glover told me that you had the best temper in the world. I’m terrified at all these perfections.”

“Don’t expect too much from me, Bertha. I’m not a model man, you know.”

Of course she kissed him when he made remarks of such absurd modesty.

“I’m very pleased,” she answered; “I don’t want perfection. Of course you’ve got faults, though I can’t see them yet. But when I do, I know I shall only love you better. When a woman loves an ugly man, they say the ugliness only makes him more attractive and I shall love your faults as I love everything that is yours.”

They sat for a while without speaking, and the silence was even more entrancing than the speech. Bertha wished she could remain thus for ever, resting in his arms. She forgot that soon Craddock would develop a healthy appetite and demolish a substantial dinner.

“Let me look at your hands,” she said.

She loved them too. They were large and roughly made, hard with work and exposure, ten times pleasanter, she thought, than the soft hands of the townsman. She felt them firm and intensely masculine. They reminded her of a hand in an Italian Museum, sculptured in porphyry, but for some reason left unfinished; and the lack of detail gave the same impression of massive strength. His hands, too, might have been those of a demi-god or of an hero. She stretched out the long, strong fingers. Craddock, knowing her very little, looked with wonder and amusement. She caught his glance, and with a smile bent down to kiss the upturned palms. She wanted to abase herself before the strong man, to be low and humble before him. She would have been his handmaiden, and nothing could have satisfied her so much as to perform for him the most menial services. She knew not how to show the immensity of her passion.

It pleased Bertha to walk into Blackstable with her lover and to catch the people’s stares, knowing how much the marriage interested them. What did she care if they were surprised at her choosing Edward Craddock, whom they had known all his life? She was proud of him, proud to be his wife.

One day, when it was very warm for the time of year, she was resting on a stile, while Craddock stood by her side. They did not speak, but looked at one another in ecstatic happiness.

“Look,” said Craddock, suddenly. “There’s Arthur Branderton.”

He glanced at Bertha, then from side to side uneasily, as if he wished to avoid a meeting.

“He’s been away, hasn’t he?” asked Bertha. “I wanted to meet him.” She was quite willing that all the world should see them. “Good afternoon, Arthur!” she called out, as the youth approached.

“Oh! is it you, Bertha? Hulloa, Craddock!” He looked at Edward, wondering what he did there with Miss Ley.

“We’ve just been walking into Leanham, and I was tired.”

“Oh!” Young Branderton thought it queer that Bertha should take walks with Craddock.

Bertha burst out laughing. “Oh, he doesn’t know, Edward! He’s the only person in the county who hasn’t heard the news.”

“What news?” asked Branderton. “I’ve been in Yorkshire for the last week at my brother-in-law’s.”

“Mr. Craddock and I are going to be married.”

“Are you, by Jove!” cried Branderton; he looked at Craddock and then, awkwardly, offered his congratulations. They could not help seeing his astonishment, and Craddock flushed, knowing it due to the fact that Bertha had consented to marry a penniless beggar like himself, a man of no family. “I hope you’ll invite me to the wedding,” said the young man to cover his confusion. “Oh, it’s going to be very quiet—there will only be ourselves, Dr. Ramsay, my aunt, and Edward’s best man.”

“Then mayn’t I come?” asked Branderton.

Bertha looked quickly at Edward; it had caused her some uneasiness to think that he might be supported by a person of no great consequence in the place. After all she was Miss Ley; and she had already discovered that some of her lover’s friends were not too desirable. Chance offered her means of surmounting the difficulty.

“I’m afraid it’s impossible,” she said, in answer to Branderton’s appeal, “unless you can get Edward to offer you the important post of best man.”

She succeeded in making the pair thoroughly uncomfortable. Branderton had no great wish to perform that office for Edward—“of course, Craddock is a very good fellow, and a fine sportsman, but not the sort of chap you’d expect a girl like Bertha Ley to marry.” And Edward, understanding the younger man’s feelings, was silent.

But Branderton had some knowledge of polite society, and broke the momentary pause.

“Who is going to be your best man, Craddock?” he asked; he could do nothing else.

“I don’t know—I haven’t thought of it.”

But Branderton, catching Bertha’s eye, suddenly understood her desire and the reason of it.

“Won’t you have me?” he said quickly. “I dare say you’ll find me intelligent enough to learn the duties.”

“I should like it very much,” answered Craddock. “It’s very good of you.”

Branderton looked at Bertha, and she smiled her thanks; he saw she was pleased.

“Where are you going for your honeymoon?” he asked now, to make conversation.

“I don’t know,” answered Craddock. “We’ve hardly had time to think of it yet.”

“You certainly are very vague in all your plans.”

He shook hands with them, receiving from Bertha a grateful pressure, and went off.

“Have you really not thought of our honeymoon, foolish boy?” asked Bertha.

“No!”

“Well, I have. I’ve made up my mind and settled it all. We’re going to Italy, and I mean to show you Florence and Pisa and Siena. It’ll be simply heavenly. We won’t go to Venice, because it’s too sentimental; self-respecting people can’t make love in gondolas at the end of the nineteenth century.... Oh, I long to be with you in the South, beneath the blue sky and the countless stars of night.”

“I’ve never been abroad before,” he said, without much enthusiasm.

But her fire was quite enough for two. “I know, I shall have the pleasure of unfolding it all to you. I shall enjoy it more than I ever have before; it’ll be so new to you. And we can stay six months if we like.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” he cried. “Think of the farm.”

“Oh, bother the farm. It’s our honeymoon, Sposo mio.”

“I don’t think I could possibly stay away more than a fortnight.”

“What nonsense! We can’t go to Italy for a fortnight. The farm can get on without you.”

“And in January and February too, when all the lambing is coming on.”

He did not want to distress Bertha, but really half his lambs would die if he were not there to superintend their entrance into this wicked world.

“But you must go,” said Bertha. “I’ve set my heart upon it.”

He looked down for a while, rather unhappily.

“Wouldn’t a month do?” he asked. “I’ll do anything you really want, Bertha.”

But his obvious dislike to the suggestion cut Bertha’s heart. She was only inclined to be stubborn when she saw he might resist her; and his first word of surrender made her veer round penitently.

“What a selfish beast I am!” she said. “I don’t want to make you miserable, Eddie. I thought it would please you to go abroad, and I’d planned it all so well.... But we won’t go; I hate Italy. Let’s just go up to town for a fortnight, like two country bumpkins.”

“Oh, but you won’t like that.”

“Of course I shall. I like everything you like. D’you think I care where we go so long as I’m with you?... You’re not angry with me, darling, are you?”

Mr. Craddock was good enough to intimate that he was not.

 

Miss Ley, much against her will, had been driven by Miss Glover into working for some charitable institution, and was knitting babies’ socks (as the smallest garments she could make) when Bertha told her of the altered plan: she dropped a stitch! Miss Ley was too wise to say anything, but she wondered if the world were coming to an end; Bertha’s schemes were shattered like brittle glass, and she really seemed delighted. A month ago opposition would have made Bertha traverse seas and scale precipices rather than abandon an idea that she had got into her head. Verily, love is a prestidigitator who can change the lion into the lamb as easily as a handkerchief into a flower-pot! Miss Ley began to admire Edward Craddock.

 

He, on his way home after leaving Bertha, was met by the Vicar of Leanham. Mr. Glover was a tall man, angular, fair, thin and red-cheeked—a somewhat feminine edition of his sister, but smelling in the most remarkable fashion of antiseptics; Miss Ley vowed he peppered his clothes with iodoform, and bathed daily in carbolic acid. He was strenuous and charitable, hated a Dissenter, and was over forty.

“Ah, Craddock, I wanted to see you.”

“Not about the banns, Vicar, is it? We’re going to be married by special license.”

Like many countrymen, Edward saw something funny in the clergy—one should not grudge it them, for it is the only jest in their lives—and he was given to treating the parson with more humour than he used in the other affairs of this world. The Vicar laughed; it is one of the best traits of the country clergy that they are willing to be amused with their parishioners’ jocosity.

“The marriage is all settled then? You’re a very lucky young man.”

Craddock put his arm through Mr. Glover’s with the unconscious friendliness that had gained him an hundred friends. “Yes, I am lucky,” he said. “I know you people think it rather queer that Bertha and I should get married, but we’re very much attached to one another, and I mean to do my best by her. You know I’ve never racketed about, Vicar, don’t you?”

“Yes, my boy,” said the Vicar, touched at Edward’s confidence. “Every one knows you’re steady enough.”

“Of course, she could have found men of much better social position than mine—but I’ll try to make her happy. And I’ve got nothing to hide from her as some men have; I go to her almost as straight as she comes to me.”

“That is a very fortunate thing to be able to say.”

“I have never loved another woman in my life, and as for the rest—well, of course, I’m young and I’ve been up to town sometimes; but I always hated and loathed it. And the country and the hard work keep one pretty clear of anything nasty.”

“I’m very glad to hear you say that,” answered Mr. Glover. “I hope you’ll be happy, and I think you will.”

The Vicar felt a slight pricking of conscience, for at first his sister and himself had called the match a mésalliance (they pronounced the word vilely), and not till they learned it was inevitable did they begin to see that their attitude was a little wanting in charity. The two men shook hands.

“I hope you don’t mind me spitting out these things to you, Vicar. I suppose it’s your business in a sort of way. I’ve wanted to tell Miss Ley something of the kind; but somehow or other I can never get an opportunity.”