The Essential Somerset Maugham: 33 Books in One Edition. Уильям Сомерсет Моэм

man’s a fool!” muttered Miss Ley to herself, but quite audibly.

      “I think it’s very noble of him,” said Miss Glover, “and I shall make a point of telling him so.”

      “I wasn’t thinking of Mr. Craddock,” snapped Miss Ley.

      Miss Glover looked at Dr. Ramsay to see how he took the rudeness; but at that moment the door was opened and Bertha walked in. Miss Ley caught her mood at a glance. Bertha was evidently not at all distressed; there were no signs of tears, but her cheeks showed more colour than usual, and her lips were firmly compressed; Miss Ley concluded that her niece was in a very pretty passion. However, she drove away the appearance of anger, and her face was full of smiles as she greeted her visitors.

      “Miss Glover, how kind of you to come. How d’you do, Dr. Ramsay?... Oh, by the way, I think I must ask you—er—not to interfere in future with my private concerns.”

      “Dearest,” broke in Miss Glover, “it’s all for the best.”

      Bertha turned to her and the flush on her face deepened: “Ah, I see you’ve been discussing the matter. How good of you! Edward has been asking me to release him.”

      Dr. Ramsay nodded with satisfaction.

      “But I refused!”

      Dr. Ramsay sprang up, and Miss Glover, lifting her hands, cried: “Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” This was one of the rare occasions in her life upon which Miss Ley was known to laugh outright.

      Bertha now was simply beaming with happiness. “He pretended that he wanted to break the engagement—but I utterly declined.”

      “D’you mean to say you wouldn’t let him go when he asked you?” said the doctor.

      “Did you think I was going to let my happiness be destroyed by you?” she asked, contemptuously. “I found out that you had been meddling, Dr. Ramsay. Poor boy, he thought his honour required him not to take advantage of my inexperience; I told him, what I’ve told him a thousand times, that I love him, and that I can’t live without him.... Oh, I think you ought to be ashamed of yourself, Dr. Ramsay. What d’you mean by coming between me and Edward?”

      Bertha said the last words passionately, breathing hard. Dr. Ramsay was taken aback, and Miss Glover, thinking such a manner of speech almost unladylike, looked down. Miss Ley’s sharp eyes played from one to the other.

      “Do you think he really loves you?” said Miss Glover, at last. “It seems to me that if he had, he would not have been so ready to give you up.”

      Miss Ley smiled; it was certainly curious that a creature of quite angelic goodness should make so Machiavellian a suggestion.

      “He offered to give me up because he loved me,” said Bertha, proudly. “I adore him ten thousand times more for the suggestion.”

      “I have no patience with you,” cried the doctor, unable to contain himself. “He’s marrying you for your money.”

      Bertha gave a little laugh. She was standing by the fire and turned to the glass.... She looked at her hands, resting on the edge of the chimney-piece, small and exquisitely modelled, the fingers tapering, the nails of the softest pink. They were the gentlest hands in the world, made for caresses; and, conscious of their beauty, she wore no rings. With them Bertha was well satisfied. Then, raising her glance, she saw herself in the mirror: for a while she gazed into her dark eyes, flashing sometimes and at others conveying the burning messages of love. She looked at her ears—small, and pink like a shell; they made one feel that no materials were so grateful to the artist’s hands as the materials which make up the body of man. Her hair was dark too, so abundant that she scarcely knew how to wear it, curling; one wanted to pass one’s hands through it, imagining that its touch must be delightful. She put her fingers to one side, to arrange a stray lock: they might say what they liked, she thought, but her hair was good. Bertha wondered why she was so dark; her olive skin suggested, indeed, the south with its burning passion: she had the complexion of the fair women in Umbria, clear and soft beyond description. A painter once had said that her skin had in it all the colour of the setting sun, of the setting sun at its borders where the splendour mingles with the sky; it had an hundred mellow tints, cream and ivory, the palest yellow of the heart of roses and the faintest, the very faintest green, all flushed with radiant light. She looked at her full, red lips, almost passionately sensual. Bertha smiled at herself, and saw the even, glistening teeth; the scrutiny had made her blush, and the colour rendered still more exquisite the pallid, marvellous complexion. She turned slowly and faced the three persons looking at her.

      “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.”

      Chapter VI

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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,