“Oh,” said Bertha, when the train had started, heaving a great sigh of relief, “I’m so glad to be alone with you at last. Now we shan’t have anybody to worry us, and no one can separate us, and we shall be together for the rest of our lives.”
Craddock put down the newspaper, which, from force of habit, he had opened after settling himself in his seat.
“I’m glad to have the ceremony over too.”
“D’you know,” she said, “I was terrified on the way to church; it occurred to me that you might not be there—that you might have changed your mind and fled.”
He laughed. “Why on earth should I change my mind? That’s a thing I never do.”
“Oh, I can’t sit solemnly opposite you as if we’d been married a century. Make room for me, boy.”
She came over to his side and nestled close to him.
“Tell me you love me,” she whispered.
“I love you very much.”
He bent4 down and kissed his wife, then putting his arm around her waist drew her nearer to him. He was a little nervous, he would not really have been very sorry if some officious person had disregarded the engaged on the carriage and entered. He felt scarcely at home with Bertha, and was still bewildered by his change of fortune; there was, indeed, a vast difference between Court Leys and Bewlie’s Farm.
“I’m so happy,” said Bertha. “Sometimes I’m afraid.... D’you think it can last, d’you think we shall always be as happy? I’ve got everything I want in the world, and I’m absolutely and completely content.” She was silent for a minute, caressing5 his hands. “You will always love me, Eddie, won’t you—even when I’m old and horrible?”
“I’m not the sort of chap to alter.”
“Oh, you don’t know how I adore you,” she cried passionately6. “My love will never alter, it is too strong. To the end of my days I shall always love you with all my heart. I wish I could tell you what I feel.”
Of late the English language had seemed quite incompetent7 for the expression of her manifold emotions.
They went to a far more expensive hotel than they could afford. Craddock had prudently8 suggested something less extravagant9, but Bertha would not hear of it; as Miss Ley she had been unused to the second-rate, and she was too proud of her new name to take it to any but the best hotel in London.
The more Bertha saw of her husband’s mind, the more it delighted her. She loved the simplicity10 and the naturalness of the man; she cast off like a tattered11 silken cloak the sentiments with which for years she had lived, and robed herself in the sturdy homespun which so well suited her lord and master. It was charming to see his naïve enjoyment12 of everything. To him all was fresh and novel; he would explode with laughter at the comic papers, and in the dailies continually find observations which struck him for their profound originality13. He was the unspoiled child of nature; his mind free from the million perversities of civilisation14. To know him was in Bertha’s opinion an education in all the goodness and purity, the strength and virtue15 of the Englishman!
They went often to the theatre, and it pleased Bertha to watch her husband’s simple enjoyment. The pathetic passages of a melodrama16, which made Bertha’s lips curl with semi-amused contempt, moved him to facile tears; and in the darkness he held her hand to comfort her, imagining that his wife enjoyed the same emotions as himself. Ah, she wished she could; she hated the education of foreign countries, which, in the study of pictures and palaces and strange peoples, had released her mind from its prison of darkness, yet had destroyed half her illusions; now she would far rather have retained the plain and unadorned illiteracy17, the ingenuous18 ignorance of the typical and creamy English girl. What is the use of knowledge? Blessed are the poor in spirit: all that a woman really wants is purity and goodness, and perhaps a certain acquaintance with plain cooking.
But the lovers, the injured heroine and the wrongly suspected hero, had bidden one another a heartrending good-bye, and the curtain descended19 to rapturous applause. Edward cleared his throat and blew his nose.
“Isn’t it splendid?” he said, turning to his wife.
“You dear thing!” she whispered.
It touched her to see how deeply he felt it all. How clean and big and simple and good must be his heart! She loved him ten times more because his emotions were easily aroused. Ah yes, she abhorred20 the cold cynicism of the worldly-wise who sneer21 at the burning tears of the simple minded.
The curtain rose on the next act, and in his eagerness to see what was about to happen, Edward immediately ceased to listen to what Bertha was in the middle of saying, and gave himself over to the play. The feelings of the audience having been sufficiently22 harrowed, the comic relief was turned on. The funny man made jokes about various articles of clothing, tumbling over tables and chairs; and it charmed Bertha again to see her husband’s open-hearted hilarity23. It tickled24 her immensely to hear his peals25 of unrestrained laughter; he put his head back, and, with his hands to his sides, simply roared.
“He has a charming character,” she thought.
Craddock had the strictest notions of morality, and absolutely refused to take his wife to a music-hall; Bertha had seen abroad many sights, the like of which Edward did not dream, but she respected his innocence26. It pleased her to see the firmness with which he upheld his principles, and it somewhat amused her to be treated like a little schoolgirl. They went to all the theatres; Edward, on his rare visits to London, had done his sightseeing economically, and the purchase of stalls, the getting into dress-clothes, were new sensations which caused him great pleasure. Bertha liked to see her husband in evening dress; the black suited his florid style, and the white shirt with a high collar threw up his sunburnt, weather-beaten face. He looked strong above all things, and manly27; and he was her husband, never to be parted from her except by death: she adored him.
Craddock’s interest in the stage was unflagging; he always wanted to know what was going to happen, and he was able to follow with the closest attention even the incomprehensible plot of a musical comedy. Nothing bored him. Even the most ingenuous find a little cloying28 the humours and the harmonies of a Gaiety burlesque29; they are like toffee and butterscotch, delicacies30 for which we cannot understand our youthful craving31. Bertha had learnt something of music in lands where it is cultivated as a pleasure rather than as a duty, and the popular melodies with obvious refrains sent cold shivers down her back; but they stirred Craddock to the depths of his soul. He beat time to the swinging, vulgar tunes32, and his face was transfigured when the band played a patriotic33 march with a great braying34 of brass35 and beating of drums. He whistled and hummed it for days afterwards. “I love music,” he told Bertha in the entracte. “Don’t you?”
With a tender smile she confessed she did, and for fear of hurting Edward’s feelings did not suggest that the music in question made her almost vomit36. What mattered it if his taste in that respect were not beyond reproach; after all there was something to be said for the honest, homely37 melodies that touched the people’s heart. It is only by a convention that the Pastoral Symphony is thought better art than Tarara-boom-deay. Perhaps, in two or three hundred years, when everything is done by electricity and every one is equal, when we are all happy socialists38, with good educations and better morals, Beethoven’s complexity39 will be like a mass of wickedness, and only the plain, honest homeliness40 of the comic song will appeal to our simple feelings.
“When we get home,” said Craddock, “I want you to play to me; I’m so fond of it.”
“I shall love to,” she murmured. She thought of the long winter evenings which they would spend at the piano, her husband by her side to turn the leaves, while to his astonished ears she unfolded the manifold riches of the great composers. She was convinced that his taste was really excellent.
“I have lots of music that my mother used to play,” he said. “By Jove, I shall like to hear it again—some of those old tunes I can never hear often enough—The Last Rose of Summer, and Home, Sweet Home, and a lot more like that.”
“By Jove, that show was ripping,” said Craddock, when they were having supper; “I should like to see it again before we go back.”
“We’ll do whatever you like, my dearest.”
“It does me good to see you amused,” replied Bertha, diplomatically.
The performance had appeared to her vulgar, but in the face of her husband’s enthusiasm she could only accuse herself of a ridiculous squeamishness. Why should she set herself up as a judge of these things? Was it not somewhat vulgar to find vulgarity in what gave such pleasure to the unsophisticated? She was like the nouveau riche who is distressed42 at the universal lack of gentility; but she was tired of analysis and subtlety43, and all the concomitants of decadent44 civilisation.
“For goodness’s sake,” she thought, “let us be simple and easily amused.”
She remembered the four young ladies who had appeared in flesh-coloured tights and nothing else worth mentioning, and danced a singularly ungraceful jig45, which the audience, in its delight, had insisted on having twice repeated.
With no business to do and no friends to visit, there is some difficulty in knowing how to spend one’s time in London. Bertha would have been content to sit all day with Edward in the private sitting-room46, contemplating47 him and her extreme felicity. But Craddock had the fine energy of the Anglo-Saxon race, that desire to be always doing something which has made the English athletes, and missionaries48, and members of Parliament.
After his first mouthful of breakfast he invariably asked, “What shall we do to-day?” And Bertha ransacked49 her brain and a Baedeker to find sights to visit, for to treat London as a foreign town and systematically50 to explore it was their only resource. They went to the Tower of London and gaped51 at the crowns and sceptres, at the insignia of the various orders; to Westminster Abbey and joined the party of Americans and country folk who were being driven hither and thither52 by a black-robed verger; they visited the tombs of the kings and saw everything which it was their duty to see. Bertha developed a fine enthusiasm for the antiquities53 of London; she quite enjoyed the sensations of bovine54 ignorance with which the Cook’s tourist surrenders himself into the hands of a custodian55, looking as he is told and swallowing with open mouth the most unreliable information. Feeling herself more stupid, Bertha was conscious of a closer connection with her fellow-men. Edward did not like all things in an equal degree; pictures bored him (they were the only things that really did), and their visit to the National Gallery was not a success. Neither did the British Museum meet with his approval; for one thing, he had great difficulty in directing Bertha’s attention so that her eyes should not wander to various naked statues which are exhibited there with no regard at all for the susceptibilities of modest persons. Once she stopped in front of a group that some shields and swords quite inadequately56 clothed, and remarked on their beauty. Edward looked about uneasily to see whether any one noticed them, and agreeing briefly57 that they were fine figures, moved rapidly away to some less questionable58 object.
“I can’t stand all this rot,” he said, when they stood opposite the three goddesses of the Parthenon; “I wouldn’t give twopence to come to this place again.”
“Now tell me,” he said, “where is the beauty of those creatures without any heads?”
Bertha could not tell him, and he was triumphant61. He was a dear, good boy and she loved him with all her heart!
The Natural History Museum, on the other hand, aroused Craddock to great enthusiasm. Here he was quite at home; no improprieties were there from which he must keep his wife, and animals were the sort of things that any man could understand. But they brought back to him strongly the country of East Kent and the life which it pleased him most to lead. London was all very well, but he did not feel at home, and it was beginning to pall62 upon him. Bertha also began talking of home and of Court Leys; she had always lived more in the future than in the present, and even in this, the time of her greatest happiness, looked forward to the days to come at Leanham, when complete felicity would indeed be hers.
She was contented63 enough now—it was only the eighth day of her married life, but she ardently64 wished to settle down and satisfy all her anticipations65. They talked of the alterations66 they must make in the house, Craddock had already plans for putting the park in order, for taking over the Home Farm and working it himself.
“I wish we were home,” said Bertha. “I’m sick of London.”
“I don’t think I should mind much if we’d got to the end of our fortnight,” he replied.
Craddock had arranged with himself to stay in town fourteen days, and he could not alter his mind. It made him uncomfortable to change his plans and think out something new; he prided himself, moreover, on always doing the thing he had determined.
But a letter came from Miss Ley announcing that she had packed her trunks and was starting for the continent.
“Oughtn’t we to ask her to stay on?” said Craddock. “It seems a bit rough to turn her out so quickly.”
“You don’t want to have her live with us, do you?” asked Bertha, in some dismay.
“No, rather not; but I don’t see why you should pack her off like a servant with a month’s notice.”
“Oh, I’ll ask her to stay,” said Bertha, anxious to obey her husband’s smallest wish; and obedience67 was easy, for she knew that Miss Ley would never dream of accepting the offer.
Bertha wished to see no one just then, least of all her aunt, feeling confusedly that her bliss68 would be diminished by the intrusion of an actor in her old life. Her emotions also were too intense for concealment69, and she would have been ashamed to display them to Miss Ley’s critical instinct. Bertha saw only discomfort70 in meeting the elder lady, with her calm irony71 and polite contempt for the things which on her husband’s account Bertha most sincerely cherished.
But Miss Ley’s reply showed perhaps that she guessed her niece’s thoughts better than Bertha had given her credit for.
My dearest Bertha,—I am much obliged to your husband for his politeness in asking me to stay at Court Leys; but I flatter myself you have too high an opinion of me to think me capable of accepting. Newly married people offer much matter for ridicule72 (which, they say, is the noblest characteristic of man, being the only one that distinguishes him from the brutes); but since I am a peculiarly self-denying creature, I do not avail-myself of the opportunity. Perhaps in a year you will have begun to see one another’s imperfections and then, though less amusing, you will be more interesting. No, I am going to Italy—to hurl73 myself once more into that sea of pensions and second-rate hotels, wherein it is the fate of single women, with moderate incomes, to spend their lives; and I am taking with me a Baedeker, so that if ever I am inclined to think myself less foolish than the average man I may look upon its red cover and remember that I am but human. By the way, I hope do not show your correspondence to your husband, least of all mine. A man can never understand a woman’s epistolary communications, for he reads them with his own simple alphabet of twenty-six letters, whereas he requires one of at least fifty-two; and even that is little. It is madness for a happy pair to pretend to have no secrets from one another: it leads them into so much deception74. If, however, as I suspect, you think it your duty to show Edward this note of mine, he will perhaps find it not unuseful for the elucidation75 of my character, in the study of which I myself have spent many entertaining years.
I give you no address so that you may not be in want of an excuse to leave this letter unanswered.—Your affectionate Aunt,
Mary Ley.
Bertha impatiently tossed the letter to Edward.
“What does she mean?” he asked, when he had read it.
Bertha shrugged76 her shoulders. “She believes in nothing but the stupidity of other people.... Poor woman, she has never been in love! But we won’t have any secrets from one another, Eddie. I know that you will never hide anything from me, and I—What can I do that is not at your telling?”
“It’s a funny letter,” he replied, looking at it again.
“But we’re free now, darling,” she said. “The house is ready for us; shall we go at once?”
“But we haven’t been here a fortnight yet,” he objected.
“What does it matter? We’re both sick of London; let us go home and start our life. We’re going to lead it for the rest of our days, so we’d better begin it quickly. Honeymoons77 are stupid things.”
“Well, I don’t mind. By Jove, fancy if we’d gone to Italy for six weeks.”
“Oh, I didn’t know what a honeymoon was like. I think I imagined something quite different.”
“You see I was right, wasn’t I?”
“Of course you were right,” she answered, flinging her arms round his neck; “you’re always right, my darling.... Ah! you can’t think how I love you.”
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1
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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prudently
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| adv. 谨慎地，慎重地 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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melodrama
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| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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illiteracy
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| n.文盲 | |
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ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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peals
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| n.（声音大而持续或重复的）洪亮的响声( peal的名词复数 )；隆隆声；洪亮的钟声；钟乐v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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cloying
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| adj.甜得发腻的 | |
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burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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braying
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| v.发出驴叫似的声音( bray的现在分词 )；发嘟嘟声；粗声粗气地讲话（或大笑）；猛击 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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vomit
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| v.呕吐，作呕；n.呕吐物，吐出物 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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socialists
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| 社会主义者( socialist的名词复数 ) | |
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complexity
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| n.复杂(性)，复杂的事物 | |
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homeliness
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| n.简朴，朴实；相貌平平 | |
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bucks
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| n.雄鹿( buck的名词复数 )；钱；（英国十九世纪初的）花花公子；（用于某些表达方式）责任v.（马等）猛然弓背跃起( buck的第三人称单数 )；抵制；猛然震荡；马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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decadent
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| adj.颓废的，衰落的，堕落的 | |
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jig
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| n.快步舞（曲）；v.上下晃动；用夹具辅助加工；蹦蹦跳跳 | |
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46
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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47
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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missionaries
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| n.传教士( missionary的名词复数 ) | |
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ransacked
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| v.彻底搜查( ransack的过去式和过去分词 )；抢劫，掠夺 | |
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50
systematically
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| adv.有系统地 | |
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gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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52
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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54
bovine
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| adj.牛的；n.牛 | |
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custodian
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| n.保管人，监护人；公共建筑看守 | |
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56
inadequately
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| ad.不够地；不够好地 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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61
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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62
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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63
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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64
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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65
anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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66
alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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67
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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68
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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69
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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70
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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71
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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72
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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73
hurl
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| vt.猛投，力掷，声叫骂 | |
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74
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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75
elucidation
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| n.说明，阐明 | |
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76
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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77
honeymoons
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| 蜜月( honeymoon的名词复数 )； 短暂的和谐时期； 蜜月期； 最初的和谐时期 | |
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