“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.”
“Then mayn’t I come?” asked Branderton.
Bertha looked quickly at Edward; it had caused her some uneasiness to think that he might be supported by a person of no great consequence in the place. After all she was Miss Ley; and she had already discovered that some of her lover’s friends were not too desirable. Chance offered her means of surmounting the difficulty.
“I’m afraid it’s impossible,” she said, in answer to Branderton’s appeal, “unless you can get Edward to offer you the important post of best man.”
She succeeded in making the pair thoroughly uncomfortable. Branderton had no great wish to perform that office for Edward—“of course, Craddock is a very good fellow, and a fine sportsman, but not the sort of chap you’d expect a girl like Bertha Ley to marry.” And Edward, understanding the younger man’s feelings, was silent.
But Branderton had some knowledge of polite society, and broke the momentary pause.
“Who is going to be your best man, Craddock?” he asked; he could do nothing else.
“I don’t know—I haven’t thought of it.”
But Branderton, catching Bertha’s eye, suddenly understood her desire and the reason of it.
“Won’t you have me?” he said quickly. “I dare say you’ll find me intelligent enough to learn the duties.”
“I should like it very much,” answered Craddock. “It’s very good of you.”
Branderton looked at Bertha, and she smiled her thanks; he saw she was pleased.
“Where are you going for your honeymoon?” he asked now, to make conversation.
“I don’t know,” answered Craddock. “We’ve hardly had time to think of it yet.”
“You certainly are very vague in all your plans.”
He shook hands with them, receiving from Bertha a grateful pressure, and went off.
“Have you really not thought of our honeymoon, foolish boy?” asked Bertha.
“No!”
“Well, I have. I’ve made up my mind and settled it all. We’re going to Italy, and I mean to show you Florence and Pisa and Siena. It’ll be simply heavenly. We won’t go to Venice, because it’s too sentimental; self-respecting people can’t make love in gondolas at the end of the nineteenth century.... Oh, I long to be with you in the South, beneath the blue sky and the countless stars of night.”
“I’ve never been abroad before,” he said, without much enthusiasm.
But her fire was quite enough for two. “I know, I shall have the pleasure of unfolding it all to you. I shall enjoy it more than I ever have before; it’ll be so new to you. And we can stay six months if we like.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” he cried. “Think of the farm.”
“Oh, bother the farm. It’s our honeymoon, Sposo mio.”
“I