Somerset Maugham - The Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (33 Works in One Edition)

“Do you think it impossible for a man to love me for myself? You are not flattering, dear doctor.”

Miss Ley thought Bertha certainly very bold thus to challenge the criticism of two women, both unmarried; but she silenced it. Miss Ley’s eyes went from the statuesque neck to the arms as finely formed, and to the figure.

“You’re looking your best, my dear,” she said, with a smile.

The doctor uttered an expression of annoyance: “Can you do nothing to hinder this madness, Miss Ley?”

“My dear Dr. Ramsay, I have trouble enough in arranging my own life; do not ask me to interfere with other people’s.”

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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.”