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

English music isn’t good enough for you—you get it from France and Germany. Where do you get your butter from? Brittany! Where d’you get your meat from? New Zealand!” This he said with great scorn, and Bertha punctuated the observation with a resounding chord. “And as far as the butter goes, it isn’t butter—it’s margarine. Where does your bread come from? America. Your vegetables from Jersey.”

      “Your fish from the sea,” interposed Bertha.

      “And so it is all along the line—the British farmer hasn’t got a chance!”

      To this speech Bertha played a burlesque accompaniment, which would have irritated a more sensitive man than Craddock; but he merely laughed good-naturedly.

      “Bertha won’t take these things seriously,” he said, passing his hand affectionately over her hair.

      She suddenly stopped playing, and his good-humour, joined with the loving gesture, filled her with remorse. Her eyes filled with tears.

      “You are a dear, good thing,” she faltered, “and I’m utterly horrid.”

      “Now don’t talk stuff before Aunt Polly. You know she’ll laugh at us.”

      “Oh, I don’t care,” said Bertha, smiling happily. She stood up and linked her arm with his. “Eddie’s the best tempered person in the world—he’s perfectly wonderful.”

      “He must be, indeed,” said Miss Ley, “if you have preserved your faith in him after six months of marriage.”

      But the maiden lady had stored so many observations that she felt an urgent need to retire to the privacy of her bed-chamber, and sort them. She kissed Bertha and held out her hand to Edward.

      “Oh, if you kiss Bertha, you must kiss me too,” said he, bending forward with a laugh.

      “Upon my word!” said Miss Ley, somewhat taken aback; then as he was evidently insisting she embraced him on the cheek. She positively blushed.

       The upshot of Miss Ley’s investigations was that once again the hymeneal path had been found strewn with roses; and the idea crossed her head as she laid it on the pillow, that Dr. Ramsay would certainly come and crow over her: it was not in masculine human nature, she thought, to miss an opportunity of exulting over a vanquished foe.

      “He’ll vow that I was the direct cause of the marriage. The dear man, he’ll be so pleased with my discomfiture that I shall never hear the last of it. He’s sure to call to-morrow.”

      Indeed the news of Miss Ley’s arrival had been by Edward industriously spread abroad, and promptly Mrs. Ramsay put on her blue velvet calling-dress, and in the doctor’s brougham drove with him to Court Leys. The Ramsays found Miss Glover and the Vicar of Leanham already in possession of the field. Mr. Glover looked thinner and older than when Miss Ley had last seen him; he was more weary, meek and brow-beaten; Miss Glover never altered.

      “The parish?” said the parson, in answer to Miss Ley’s polite inquiry, “I’m afraid it’s in a bad way. The dissenters have got a new chapel, you know—and they say the Salvation Army is going to set up ‘barracks’ as they call them. It’s a great pity the government doesn’t step in: after all we are established by law and the law ought to protect us from encroachment.”

      “You don’t believe in liberty of conscience?” asked Miss Ley.

      “My dear Miss Ley,” said the Vicar, in his tired voice, “everything has its limits. I should have thought there was in the Established Church enough liberty of conscience for any one.”

      “Things are becoming dreadful in Leanham,” said Miss Glover. “Practically all the tradesmen go to chapel now, and it makes it so difficult for us.”

      “Yes,” replied the Vicar, with a weary sigh; “and as if we hadn’t enough to put up with, I hear that Walker has ceased coming to church.”

      “Oh dear, oh dear!” said Miss Glover.

      “Walker, the baker?” asked Edward.

      “Yes; and now the only baker in Leanham who goes to church is Andrews.”

      “Well, we can’t possibly deal with him, Charles,” said Miss Glover, “his bread is too bad.”

      “My dear, we must,” groaned her brother. “It would be against all my principles to deal with a tradesman who goes to chapel. You must tell Walker to send his book in, unless he will give an assurance that he’ll come to church regularly.”

      “But Andrews’s bread always gives you indigestion, Charles,” cried Miss Glover.

      “I must put up with it. If none of our martyrdoms were more serious than that, we should have no cause to complain.”

      “Well, it’s quite easy to get your bread from Tercanbury,” said Mrs. Ramsay, who was severely practical.

      Mr. Glover and his sister threw up their hands in dismay.

      “Then Andrews would go to chapel too. The only thing that keeps them at church, I’m sorry to say, is the Vicarage custom, or the hope of getting it.”

      Presently Miss Ley found herself alone with the parson’s sister.

      “You must be very glad to see Bertha again, Miss Ley.”

      “Now she’s going to crow,” thought the good lady. “Of course I am.”

      “And it must be such a relief to you to see how well it’s all turned out.”

      Miss Ley looked sharply at Miss Glover, but saw no trace of irony.

      “Oh, I think it’s beautiful to see a married couple so thoroughly happy. It really makes me feel a better woman when I come here and see how those two worship one another.”

      “Of course the poor thing’s a perfect idiot,” thought Miss Ley. “Yes, it’s very satisfactory,” she said, drily.

      She glanced round for Dr. Ramsay, looking forward, notwithstanding that she was on the losing side, to the tussle she foresaw. She had the instincts of a good fighter, and, even though defeat was inevitable, never avoided an encounter. The doctor approached.

      “Well, Miss Ley. So you have come back to us. We’re all delighted to see you.”

      “How cordial these people are,” thought Miss Ley, somewhat crossly, thinking Dr. Ramsay’s remark preliminary to coarse banter or to reproach. “Shall we take a turn in the garden; I’m sure you wish to quarrel with me.”

      “There’s nothing I should like better—to walk in the garden, I mean: of course, no one could quarrel with so charming a person as yourself.”

      “He would never be so polite if he did not mean afterwards to be very rude,” thought Miss Ley. “I’m glad you like the garden.”

      “Craddock has improved it so wonderfully. It’s a perfect pleasure to look at all he’s done.”

      This Miss Ley considered a gibe, and searched for a repartee, but finding none was silent: Miss Ley was a wise woman! They walked a few steps without a word, and then Dr. Ramsay suddenly burst out—

      “Well, Miss Ley, you were right after all.”

      She stopped and looked at the speaker—he seemed quite serious.

      “Yes,” he said, “I don’t mind acknowledging it. I was wrong. It’s a great triumph for you, isn’t it?”

      He looked at her, and shook with good-tempered laughter.

      “Is he making fun of me?” Miss Ley asked herself, with something not very distantly removed from agony. This was the first occasion upon which she had failed to understand not only the good doctor, but his inmost thoughts as well. “So you think the estate has been improved?” she said hurriedly.

      “I can’t make out how the man’s done so much in so short a time. Why, just look