“I wonder if you realise what pain you cause me at times,” said Bertha.
“Oh, I don’t think I do anything of the kind.”
“You don’t see it.... When I kiss you, it is the most natural thing in the world for you to push me away, as if—almost as if you couldn’t bear me.”
“Nonsense!”
To himself Edward was the same now as when they were first married.
“Of course after four months of married life you can’t expect a man to be the same as on his honeymoon11. One can’t always be making love and canoodling. Everything in its proper time and season,” he added, with the unoriginal man’s fondness for proverbial philosophy.
After the day’s work he liked to read his Standard in peace, so when Bertha came up to him he put her gently aside.
“Leave me alone for a bit, there’s a good girl.”
“Oh, you don’t love me,” she cried then, feeling as if her heart would break.
He did not look up from his paper nor make reply; he was in the middle of a leading article.
“Why don’t you answer?” she cried.
“Because you’re talking nonsense.”
He was the best-humoured of men, and Bertha’s temper never disturbed his equilibrium12. He knew that women felt a little irritable13 at times, but if a man gave ’em plenty of rope, they’d calm down after a bit.
“Women are like chickens,” he told a friend. “Give ’em a good run, properly closed in with stout14 wire netting, so that they can’t get into mischief15, and when they cluck and cackle just sit tight and take no notice.”
Marriage had made no great difference in Edward’s life. He had always been a man of regular habits, and these he continued to cultivate. Of course he was more comfortable.
“There’s no denying it: a fellow wants a woman to look after him,” he told Dr. Ramsay, whom he sometimes met on the latter’s rounds. “Before I was married I used to find my shirts wore out in no time, but now when I see a cuff16 getting a bit groggy17 I just give it to the Missis and she makes it as good as new.”
“There’s a good deal of extra work, isn’t there, now you’ve taken on the Home Farm?”
“Oh, bless you, I enjoy it. Fact is, I can’t get enough work to do. And it seems to me that if you want to make farming pay nowadays you must do it on a big scale.”
All day Edward was occupied, if not on the farms, then with business at Blackstable, Tercanbury, and Faversley.
“I don’t approve of idleness,” he said. “They always say the devil finds work for idle hands to do, and upon my word I think there’s a lot of truth in it.”
Miss Glover, to whom this sentiment was addressed, naturally approved, and when Edward immediately afterwards went out, leaving her with Bertha, she said—
“What a good fellow your husband is! You don’t mind my saying so, do you?”
“Not if it pleases you,” said Bertha, drily.
“I hear praise of him from every side. Of course Charles has the highest opinion of him.”
Bertha did not answer, and Miss Glover added, “You can’t think how glad I am that you’re so happy.”
Bertha smiled. “You’ve got such a kind heart, Fanny.”
The conversation dragged, and after five minutes of heavy silence Miss Glover rose to go. When the door was closed upon her, Bertha sank back in her chair, thinking. This was one of her unhappy days—Eddie had walked into Blackstable, and she had wished to accompany him.
“I don’t think you’d better come with me,” he said. “I’m in rather a hurry and I shall walk fast.”
“I can walk fast too,” she said, her face clouding over.
“No, you can’t—I know what you call walking fast. If you like you can come and meet me on the way back.”
“Oh, you do everything you can to hurt me. It looks as if you welcomed an opportunity of being cruel.”
“How unreasonable18 you are, Bertha. Can’t you see that I’m in a hurry, and I haven’t got time to saunter along and chatter19 about the buttercups.”
“Well, let’s drive in.”
“That’s impossible. The mare20 isn’t well, and the pony21 had a hard day yesterday; he must rest to-day.”
“It’s simply because you don’t want me to come. It’s always the same, day after day. You invent anything to get rid of me.”
She burst into tears, knowing that what she said was unjust, but feeling notwithstanding extremely ill-used. Edward smiled with irritating good temper.
“You’ll be sorry for what you’ve said when you’ve calmed down, and then you’ll want me to forgive you.”
She looked up, flushing. “You think I’m a child and a fool.”
“No, I just think you’re out of sorts to-day.”
Then he went out, whistling, and she heard him give an order to the gardener in his usual manner, as cheerful as if nothing had happened. Bertha knew that he had already forgotten the little scene. Nothing affected22 his good humour. She might weep, she might tear her heart out (metaphorically), and bang it on the floor, Edward would not be perturbed23; he would still be placid24, good-tempered, forbearing. Hard words, he said, broke nobody’s bones—“Women are like chickens, when they cluck and cackle sit tight and take no notice!”
On his return Edward appeared not to see that his wife was out of temper. His spirits were always equable, and he was an unobservant person. She answered him in mono-syllables, but he chattered25 away, delighted at having driven a good bargain with a man in Blackstable. Bertha longed for him to remark upon her condition so that she might burst out with reproaches, but Edward was hopelessly dense—or else he saw and was unwilling26 to give her an opportunity to speak. Bertha, almost for the first time, was seriously angry with her husband and it frightened her—suddenly Edward seemed an enemy, and she wished to inflict27 some hurt upon him. She did not understand herself—what was going to happen next? Why wouldn’t he say something so that she might pour forth28 her woes29 and then be reconciled! The day wore on and she preserved a sullen30 silence; her heart was beginning to ache terribly—the night came, and still Edward made no sign; she looked about for a chance of beginning the quarrel, but nothing offered. Bertha pretended to go to sleep and she did not give him the kiss, the never-ending kiss of lovers which they always exchanged. Surely he would notice it, surely he would ask what troubled her, and then she could at last bring him to his knees. But he said nothing; he was dog-tired after a hard day’s work, and without a word went to sleep—in five minutes Bertha heard his heavy, regular breathing.
Then she broke down; she could never sleep without saying good-night to him, without the kiss of his lips.
“He’s stronger than I,” she said, “because he doesn’t love me.”
Bertha wept silently; she could not bear to be angry with her husband. She would submit to anything rather than pass the night in wrath31, and the next day as unhappily as this. She was entirely32 humbled33. At last, unable any longer to bear the agony, she woke him.
“Eddie, you’ve not said good-night to me.”
“Hulloa, what’s the matter?” he said. “You’re not crying just because I forgot to kiss you—I was awfully36 fagged, you know.”
He really had noticed nothing whatever; while she was passing through utter distress37 he had been as happily self-satisfied as usual. But the momentary38 recurrence39 of Bertha’s anger was quickly stilled. She could not afford now to be proud.
“You’re not angry with me?” she said. “I can’t sleep unless you kiss me.”
“Silly girl!” he whispered.
“You do love me, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
He kissed her as she loved to be kissed, and in the delight of it her anger was quite forgotten.
“I can’t live unless you love me. Oh, I wish I could make you understand how I love you.... We’re friends again now, aren’t we?”
“We haven’t ever been otherwise.”
Bertha gave a sigh of relief, and lay in his arms completely happy. A minute more and Edward’s breathing told her that he had already fallen asleep; she dared not move for fear of waking him.
The summer brought Bertha new pleasures, and she set herself to enjoy the pastoral life which she had imagined. The elms of Court Leys now were dark with leaves; and the heavy, close-fitting verdure gave quite a stately look to the house. The elm is the most respectable of trees, over-pompous if anything, but perfectly40 well-bred; and the shade it casts is no ordinary shade, but solid and self-assured as befits the estate of a county family. The fallen trunk had been removed, and in the autumn young trees were to be planted in the vacant spaces. Edward had set himself with a will to put the place properly to rights. The spring had seen a new coat of paint on Court Leys, so that it looked spick and span as the suburban41 villa42 of a stockbroker43. The beds which for years had been neglected, now were trim with the abominations of carpet bedding; squares of red geraniums contrasted with circles of yellow calcellarias; the overgrown boxwood was cut down to a just height; the hawthorn44 hedge was doomed45, and Edward had arranged to enclose the grounds with a wooden pallisade and laurel bushes. The drive was decorated with several loads of gravel46, so that it became a thing of pride to the successor of an ancient and lackadaisical47 race. Craddock had not reigned48 in their stead a fortnight before the grimy sheep were expelled from the lawns on either side of the avenue, and since then the grass had been industriously49 mown and rolled. Now a tennis-court had been marked out, which, as Edward said, made things look homely50. Finally the iron gates were gorgeous in black and gold as suited the entrance to a gentleman’s mansion51, and the renovated52 lodge53 proved to all and sundry54 that Court Leys was in the hands of a man who knew what was what, and delighted in the proprieties55.
Though Bertha abhorred56 all innovations, she had meekly57 accepted Edward’s improvements: they formed an inexhaustible topic of conversation, and his enthusiasm always pleased her.
“By Jove,” he said, rubbing his hands, “the changes will make your aunt simply jump, won’t they?”
“They will indeed,” said Bertha, smiling.
“She’ll hardly recognise the place; the house looks as good as new, and the grounds might have been laid out only half-a-dozen years ago.... Give me five years more and even you won’t know your old home.”
Miss Ley had at last accepted one of the invitations which Edward insisted should be showered upon her, and wrote to say she was coming down for a week. Edward was of course much pleased; as he said, he wanted to be friends with everybody, and it didn’t seem natural that Bertha’s only relative should make a point of avoiding them.
“It looks as if she didn’t approve of our marriage, and it makes the people talk.”
He met the good lady at the station, and somewhat to her disgust greeted her with effusion.
“Ah, here you are at last!” he bellowed61, in his jovial62 way. “We thought you were never coming. Here, porter!” He raised his voice so that the platform shook and rumbled63.
He seized both Miss Ley’s hands, and the terrifying thought flashed through her head that he would kiss her before the assembled multitude.
“He’s cultivating the airs of the country squire,” she thought. “I wish he wouldn’t.”
He took the innumerable bags with which she travelled and scattered64 them among the attendants. He even tried to induce her to take his arm to the dog-cart, but this honour she stoutly65 refused.
“Now, will you come round to this side and I’ll help you up. Your luggage will come on afterwards with the pony.”
He was managing everything in a self-confident and masterful fashion; Miss Ley noticed that marriage had dispelled66 the shyness which had been in him rather an attractive feature. He was becoming bluff67 and hearty68. Also he was filling out. Prosperity and a knowledge of greater importance had broadened his back and straightened his shoulders; he was quite three inches more round the chest than when she had first known him, and his waist had proportionately increased.
“If he goes on developing in this way,” she thought, “the good man will be colossal69 by the time he’s forty.”
“Of course, Aunt Polly,” he said, boldly dropping the respectful Miss Ley, which hitherto he had invariably used, though his new relative was not a woman whom most men would have ventured to treat familiarly. “Of course it’s all rot about your leaving us in a week; you must stay a couple of months at least.”
“It’s very good of you, dear Edward,” replied Miss Ley drily, “but I have other engagements.”
“Then you must break them; I can’t have people leave my house immediately they come.”
“My dear Edward,” she answered, “I never stay anywhere longer than two days—the first day I talk to people, the second I let them talk to me, and the third I go.... I stay a week at hotels so as to go en pension, and get my washing properly aired.”
“You’re treating us like a hotel,” said Edward, laughing.
“It’s a great compliment: in private houses one gets so abominably71 waited on.”
“Ah well, we’ll say no more about it. But I shall have your trunk taken to the box-room and I keep the key of it.”
Miss Ley gave the short, dry laugh which denoted that her interlocutor’s remark had not amused her, but something in her own mind. Presently they arrived at Court Leys.
Miss Ley looked round and pursed her lips.
“It’s charming,” she said.
“I knew it would make you sit up,” he cried, laughing.
Bertha received her aunt in the hall and embraced her with the grave decorum which had always characterised their relations.
“How clever you are, Bertha,” said Miss Ley; “you manage to preserve your beautiful figure.”
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1
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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savagery
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| n.野性 | |
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thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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upbraided
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| v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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equilibrium
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| n.平衡，均衡，相称，均势，平静 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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16
cuff
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| n.袖口；手铐；护腕；vt.用手铐铐；上袖口 | |
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groggy
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| adj.体弱的；不稳的 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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30
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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35
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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40
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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41
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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42
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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stockbroker
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| n.股票（或证券），经纪人（或机构） | |
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44
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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47
lackadaisical
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| adj.无精打采的，无兴趣的；adv.无精打采地，不决断地 | |
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48
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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industriously
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50
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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51
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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52
renovated
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| 翻新，修复，整修( renovate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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54
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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55
proprieties
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| n.礼仪，礼节；礼貌( propriety的名词复数 )；规矩；正当；合适 | |
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56
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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57
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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58
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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59
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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60
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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61
bellowed
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的过去式和过去分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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62
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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63
rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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64
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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65
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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66
dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67
bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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68
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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69
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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70
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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71
abominably
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| adv. 可恶地，可恨地，恶劣地 | |
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72
jovially
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| adv.愉快地，高兴地 | |
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73
connubial
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| adj.婚姻的，夫妇的 | |
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74
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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