Mrs. Craddock. W. Somerset Maugham
hours? And she must sit opposite her aunt and pretend to read, or talk on this subject and on that. It was insufferable. Then, inconsequently, she asked herself if Edward knew that she loved him; he could not dream how intense was her desire.
"I'm sorry I'm late for tea," she said, on entering the drawing-room.
"My dear," said Miss Ley "the buttered toast is probably horrid, but I don't see why you should not eat cake."
"I don't want anything to eat," cried Bertha, flinging herself on a chair.
"But you're dying with thirst," added Miss Ley, looking at her niece with sharp eyes. "Wouldn't you like your tea out of a breakfast cup?"
Miss Ley had come to the conclusion that the restlessness and the long absence could only be due to some masculine cause. Mentally she shrugged her shoulders, hardly wondering who the creature was.
"Of course," she thought, "it's certain to be some one quite ineligible. I hope they won't have a long engagement."
Miss Ley could not have supported for several months the presence of a bashful and love-sick swain. She found lovers invariably ridiculous. She watched Bertha drink six cups of tea: of course those shining eyes, the flushed cheeks and the breathlessness, indicated some amorous excitement; it amused her, but she thought it charitable and wise to pretend that she noticed nothing.
"After all it's no business of mine," she thought; "and if Bertha is going to get married at all, it would be much more convenient for her to do it before next quarter-day, when the Browns give up my flat."
Miss Ley sat on the sofa by the fireside, a woman of middle-size, very slight, with a thin and much wrinkled face. Of her features the mouth was the most noticeable, not large, with lips that were a little too thin; it was always so tightly compressed as to give her an air of great determination, but there was about the corners an expressive mobility, contradicting in rather an unusual manner the inferences which might be drawn from the rest of her person. She had a habit of fixing her cold eyes on people with a steadiness that was not a little embarrassing. They said Miss Ley looked as if she thought them great fools, and as a matter of fact that usually was her precise opinion. Her thin gray hair was very plainly done; and the extreme simplicity of her costume gave a certain primness, so that her favourite method of saying rather absurd things in the gravest and most decorous manner often disconcerted the casual stranger. She was a woman who, one felt, had never been handsome, but now, in middle-age, was distinctly prepossessing.
Young men thought her somewhat terrifying till they discovered that they were to her a constant source of amusement; while elderly ladies asserted that she was a little queer.
"You know, Aunt Polly," said Bertha, finishing her tea and getting up, "I think you should have been christened Martha or Matilda. I don't think Polly suits you."
"My dear, you need not remind me so pointedly that I'm forty-five—and you need not smile in that fashion because you know that I'm really forty-seven. I say forty-five merely as a round number; in another year I shall call myself fifty. A woman never acknowledges such a nondescript age as forty-eight unless she is going to marry a widower with seventeen children."
"I wonder why you never married, Aunt Polly?" said Bertha, looking away.
Miss Ley smiled almost imperceptibly, finding Bertha's remark highly significant. "My dear," she said, "why should I? I had five hundred a year of my own. . . . Ah yes, I know it's not what might have been expected; I'm sorry for your sake that I had no hopeless amour. The only excuse for an old maid is, that she has pined thirty years for a lover who is buried under the snowdrops, or has married another."
Bertha made no answer; she was feeling that the world had turned good, and wanted to hear nothing that could suggest imperfections in human nature: suddenly there had come over the universe a Sunday-school air which appealed to her better self. Going upstairs she sat at the window, gazing towards the farm where lived her heart's desire. She wondered what Edward was doing; was he awaiting the night as anxiously as she? It gave her quite a pang that a sizeable hill should intervene between herself and him. During dinner she hardly spoke, and Miss Ley was mercifully silent. Bertha could not eat; she crumbled her bread and toyed with the various meats put before her. She looked at the clock a dozen times, and started absurdly when it struck the hour.
She did not trouble to make any excuse to Miss Ley, whom she left to think as she chose. The night was dark and cold; Bertha slipped out of the side-door with a delightful feeling of doing something venturesome. But her legs would scarcely carry her, she had a sensation that was entirely novel; never before had she experienced that utter weakness of the knees so that she feared to fall; her breathing was strangely oppressive, and her heart beat almost painfully. She walked down the carriage-drive scarcely knowing what she did. She had forced herself to wait indoors till the desire to go out became uncontrollable, and she dared not imagine her dismay if there was no one to meet her when she reached the gate. It would mean he did not love her; she stopped with a sob. Ought she not to wait longer? It was still early. But her impatience forced her on.
She gave a little cry. Craddock had suddenly stepped out of the darkness.
"Oh, I'm sorry," he said, "I frightened you. I thought you wouldn't mind my coming this evening. You're not angry?"
She could not answer; it was an immense load off her heart. She was extremely happy, for then he did love her; and he feared she was angry with him.
"I expected you," she whispered. What was the good of pretending to be modest and bashful? She loved him and he loved her. Why should she not tell him all she felt?
"It's so dark," he said, "I can't see you."
She was too deliriously happy to speak, and the only words she could have said were, I love you, I love you! She moved a step nearer so as to touch him. Why did he not open his arms and take her in them, and kiss her as she had dreamt that he would kiss her?
But he took her hand and the contact thrilled her; her knees were giving way, and she almost tottered.
"What's the matter?" he said. "Are you trembling?"
"I'm only a little cold." She was trying with all her might to speak naturally. Nothing came into her head to say.
"You've got nothing on," he said. "You must wear my coat." He began to take it off.
"No," she said, "then you'll be cold."
"Oh no, I shan't."
What he was doing seemed to her a marvel of unselfish kindness; she was beside herself with gratitude.
"It's awfully good of you, Edward," she whispered, almost tearfully.
When he put it round her shoulders, the touch of his hands made her lose the little self-control she had left. A curious spasm passed through her, and she pressed herself closer to him; at the same time his hands sank down, dropping the cloak, and encircled her waist. Then she surrendered herself entirely to his embrace and lifted her face to his. He bent down and kissed her. The kiss was such utter madness that she almost groaned. She could not tell if it was pain or pleasure. She flung her arms round his neck and drew him to her.
"What a fool I am," she said at last, with something between a sob and a laugh. She drew herself a little away, though not so violently as to make him withdraw the arm which so comfortably encircled her.
But why did he say nothing? Why did he not swear he loved her? Why did he not ask what she was so willing to grant? She rested her head on his shoulder.
"Do you like me at all, Bertha? "he asked. "I've been wanting to ask you almost ever since you came home."
"Can't you see?" She was reassured; she understood that it was only timidity that clogged his tongue. "You're so absurdly bashful."
"You know who I am, Bertha; and——" he hesitated.
"And what, foolish boy?" she nestled still more closely to him.
"And you're Miss Ley of Court Leys, while I'm just one of your tenants, with nothing whatever to my back."
"I've got very