Mrs. Craddock, W. Somerset Maugham [free biff chip and kipper ebooks txt] 📗

halves. Why should all her passion have been squandered and flung to the winds, so that now when a beautiful youth offered her his virgin heart, she had nothing to give in exchange? Bertha told herself that though she was extremely fond of Gerald, of course she did not love him; he was a mere boy!

She was a little nervous at the meeting between him and Edward; she wondered what they would think of one another, and she watched—Gerald! Edward came in like a country breeze, obstreperously healthy, jovial, large, and somewhat bald. Miss Ley trembled lest he should knock her china over as he went round the room. He kissed her on one cheek, and Bertha on the other.

“Well, how are you all?—And this is my young cousin, eh? How are you? Pleased to meet you.”

He wrung Gerald’s hand, towering over him, beaming good-naturedly; then sat in a chair much too small for him, which creaked and grumbled at his weight. There are few sensations more amusing for a woman than to look at the husband she has once adored and think how very unnecessary he is; but it is apt to make conversation a little difficult. Miss Ley soon carried Gerald off, thinking that husband and wife should enjoy a little of that isolation to which marriage had indissolubly doomed them. Bertha had been awaiting, with great discomfort, the necessary ordeal. She had nothing to tell Edward, and was much afraid that he would be sentimental.

“Where are you staying?” she asked.

“Oh, I’m putting up at the Inns of Court—I always go there.”

“I thought you might care to go to the theatre to-night. I’ve got a box, so that Aunt Polly and Gerald can come too.”

“I’m game for anything you like.”

“You always were the best-tempered man,” said Bertha, smiling gently.

“You don’t seem to care very much for my society, all the same.”

Bertha looked up quickly. “What makes you think that?”

“Well, you’re a precious long time coming back to Court Leys,” he replied, laughing.

Bertha was relieved, for evidently he was not taking the matter seriously. She had not the courage to say that she meant never to return: the endless explanation, his wonder, the impossibility of making him understand, were more than she could bear.

“When are you coming back? We all miss you, like anything.”

“Do you?” she said. “I really don’t know. We’ll see after the season.”

“What? Aren’t you coming for another couple of months?”

“I don’t think Blackstable suits me very well. I’m always ill there.”

“Oh, nonsense. It’s the finest air in England. Deathrate practically nil.”

“D’you think our life was very happy, Edward?”

She looked at him anxiously to see how he would take the tentative remark: but he was only astonished.

“Happy? Yes, rather. Of course we had our little tiffs. All people do. But they were chiefly at first, the road was a bit rough and we hadn’t got our tyres properly blown out. I’m sure I’ve got nothing to complain about.”

“That of course is the chief thing,” said Bertha.

“You look as well as anything now. I don’t see why you shouldn’t come back.”

“Well, we’ll see later. We shall have plenty of time to talk it over.”

She was afraid to speak the words on the tip of her tongue; it would be easier by correspondence.

“I wish you’d give some fixed date—so that I could have things ready, and tell people.”

“It depends upon Aunt Polly; I really can’t say for certain. I’ll write to you.”

They kept silence for a moment and then an idea seized Bertha.

“What d’you say to going to the Natural History Museum? Don’t you remember, we went there on our honeymoon? I’m sure it would amuse you to see it again.”

“Would you like to go?” asked Edward.

“I’m sure it would amuse you,” she replied.

 

Next day while Bertha was shopping with her husband, Gerald and Miss Ley sat alone.

“Are you very disconsolate without Bertha?” she asked.

“Utterly miserable!”

“That’s very rude to me, dear boy.”

“I’m awfully sorry, but I can never be polite to more than one person at a time: and I’ve been using up all my good manners on—Mr. Craddock.”

“I’m glad you like him,” replied Miss Ley, smiling.

“I don’t!”

“He’s a very worthy man.”

“If I hadn’t seen Bertha for six months, I shouldn’t take her off at once to see bugs.”

“Perhaps it was Bertha’s suggestion.”

“She must find Mr. Craddock precious dull if she prefers blackbeetles and stuffed kangaroos.”

“You shouldn’t draw such rapid conclusions, my friend.”

“D’you think she’s fond of him?”

“My dear Gerald, what a question! Is it not her duty to love, honour, and obey him?”

“If I were a woman I could never honour a man who was bald.”

“His locks are somewhat scanty; but he has a strong sense of duty.”

“I know that,” shouted Gerald. “It oozes out of him whenever he gets hot, just like gum.”

“He’s a County Councillor, and he makes speeches about the Union Jack, and he’s virtuous.”

“I know that too. He simply reeks of the ten commandments: they stick out all over him, like almonds in a tipsy cake.”

“My dear Gerald, Edward is a model; he is the typical Englishman as he flourishes in the country, upright and honest, healthy, dogmatic, moral—rather stupid. I esteem him enormously, and I ought to like him much better than you, who are a disgraceful scamp.”

“I wonder why you don’t.”

“Because I’m a wicked old woman; and I’ve learnt by long experience that people generally keep their vices to themselves, but insist on throwing their virtues in your face. And if you don’t happen to have any of your own, you get the worst of the encounter.”

“I think that’s what is so comfortable in you, Aunt Polly, that you’re not obstreperously good. You’re charity itself.”

“My dear Gerald,” said Miss Ley, putting up an admonishing forefinger, “women are by nature spiteful and intolerant; when you find one who exercises charity, it proves that she wants it very badly herself.”

Miss Ley was glad that Edward could not stay more than two days, for she was always afraid of surprising him. Nothing is more tedious than to talk with persons who treat your most obvious remarks as startling paradoxes; and Edward suffered likewise from that passion for argument, which is the bad talker’s substitute for conversation. People who cannot talk are always proud of their dialectic: they want to modify your tritest observations, and even if you suggest that the day is fine insist on arguing it out.

Bertha, in her husband’s presence, had suffered singular discomfort; it had been such a constraint that she found it an effort to talk with him, and she had to rack her brain for subjects of conversation. Her heart was perceptibly lightened when she returned from Victoria after seeing him off, and it gave her a thrill of pleasure to hear Gerald jump up when she came in. He ran towards her with glowing eyes.

“Oh, I’m so glad. I’ve hardly had a chance of speaking to you these last two days.”

“We have the whole afternoon before us.”

“Let’s go for a walk, shall we?”

Bertha agreed, and like two schoolfellows they sallied out. The day was sunny and warm, and they wandered by the river. The banks of the Thames about Chelsea have a pleasing trimness, a levity which is infinitely grateful after the sedateness of the rest of London. The embankments, in spite of their novelty, recall the days when the huge city was a great, straggling village, when the sedan-chair was a means of locomotion, and ladies wore patches and hoops; when epigram was the fashion and propriety was not.

Presently, as they watched the gleaming water, a penny steamboat approached the adjoining stage, and gave Bertha an idea.

“Would you like to take me to Greenwich?” she cried. “Aunt Polly’s dining out; we can have dinner at the Ship and come back by train.”

“By Jove, it will be ripping.”

They bolted down the gangway and took their tickets; the boat started, and Bertha, panting, sank on a seat. She felt a little reckless, pleased with herself, and amused to see Gerald’s unmeasured delight.

“I feel as if we were eloping,” she said, with a laugh; “I’m sure Aunt Polly will be dreadfully shocked.”

 

The boat went on, stopping every now and then to take in passengers. They came to the tottering wharves of Millbank, and then to the footstool turrets of St. John’s, the eight red blocks of St. Thomas’s Hospital, and the Houses of Parliament. They passed Westminster Bridge, and the massive strength of New Scotland Yard, the hotels and public buildings which line the Victoria Embankment, the Temple Gardens; and opposite this grandeur, on the Surrey side, were the dingy warehouses and factories of Lambeth. At London Bridge Bertha found new interest in the varying scene; she stood in the bows with Gerald by her side, not speaking; they were happy in being near one another. The traffic became denser and the boat more crowded—with artisans, clerks, noisy girls, going eastwards to Rotherhithe and Deptford. Great merchantmen lay by the river-side, or slowly made their way downstream under the Tower Bridge; and then the broad waters were crowded with every imaginable craft, with lazy barges as picturesque with their red sails as the fishing-boats of Venice, with little tugs, puffing and blowing, with ocean tramps, and with huge packets. And as they passed in the penny steamer they had swift pictures of groups of naked boys wallowing in the Thames mud or diving from the side of an anchored coal-barge. A new atmosphere enveloped them now. Gray warehouses which lined the river, and the factories, announced the commerce of a mighty nation; and the spirit of Charles Dickens gave to the passing scenes a fresh delight. How could they be prosaic when the great master had described them? An amiable stranger put names to the various places.

“Look, there’s Wapping Old Stairs.”

And the words thrilled Bertha like poetry. They passed innumerable wharves and docks, London Dock, John Cooper’s wharves, and William Gibbs’s wharves (who are John Cooper and William Gibbs?), Limehouse Basin, and West India Dock. Then with a great turn of the river they entered Limehouse Reach; and soon the noble lines of the hospital, the immortal monument of Inigo Jones, came into view, and they landed at Greenwich Pier.

Chapter XXXI

THEY stood for a while on a terrace overlooking the river by the side of the hospital. Immediately below, a crowd of boys were bathing, animated and noisy, chasing and ducking one another, running to and fro with many cries, and splashing in the mud.

The river was stretched more widely before them. The sun played on its yellow wavelets so that they shone with a glitter of gold. A tug grunted past with a long tail of barges, and a huge East Indiaman glided noiselessly by. In the late afternoon there was over the scene an old-time air of ease and spaciousness. The stately flood carried the mind away, so that the onlooker followed it in thought, and went down, as it broadened, with its crowd of traffic, till presently a sea-smell reached the nostrils, and the river, ever majestic, flowed into the sea. And the ships went east and west and south, bearing their merchandise to the uttermost parts of the earth, to southern, summer lands of palm-trees and dark-skinned peoples, bearing the name and wealth of England. The Thames became an emblem of the power of the mighty empire, and those who watched felt stronger in its strength, and proud of their name and of the undiminished glory of their race.

But Gerald looked sadly.

“In a very little while it must take me away from you, Bertha.”

“But think of the freedom and the vastness. Sometimes in England one seems oppressed by the lack of room; one can hardly breathe.”

“It’s the thought of leaving you.”

She put her hand on his arm caressingly; and then, to take him from his sadness, suggested that they should walk.

Greenwich is half London, half country town; and the unexpected union gives it a