"No," she said, "then you'll be cold."
"Oh no, I shan't."
What he was doing seemed to her a marvel of unselfish kindness; she was beside herself with gratitude.
"It's awfully good of you, Edward," she whispered, almost tearfully.
When he put it round her shoulders, the touch of his hands made her lose the little self-control she had left. A curious spasm passed through her, and she pressed herself closer to him; at the same time his hands sank down, dropping the cloak, and encircled her waist. Then she surrendered herself entirely to his embrace and lifted her face to his. He bent down and kissed her. The kiss was such utter madness that she almost groaned. She could not tell if it was pain or pleasure. She flung her arms round his neck and drew him to her.
"What a fool I am," she said at last, with something between a sob and a laugh. She drew herself a little away, though not so violently as to make him withdraw the arm which so comfortably encircled her.
But why did he say nothing? Why did he not swear he loved her? Why did he not ask what she was so willing to grant? She rested her head on his shoulder.
"Do you like me at all, Bertha? "he asked. "I've been wanting to ask you almost ever since you came home."
"Can't you see?" She was reassured; she understood that it was only timidity that clogged his tongue. "You're so absurdly bashful."
"You know who I am, Bertha; and——" he hesitated.
"And what, foolish boy?" she nestled still more closely to him.
"And you're Miss Ley of Court Leys, while I'm just one of your tenants, with nothing whatever to my back."
"I've got very little," she said. "And if I had ten thousand a year, my only wish would be to lay it at your feet."
"Bertha, what d'you mean? Don't be cruel to me. You know what I want, but——"
"As far as I can make out," she said, laughing, "you want me to propose to you."
"Oh, Bertha, don't laugh at me. I love you; I want to ask you to marry me. But I haven't got anything to offer you, and I know I oughtn't—don't be angry with me, Bertha."
"But I love you with all my heart," she cried. "I want no better husband; you can give me happiness, and I want nothing else in the world."
Then he caught her again in his arms, quite passionately, and kissed her.
"Didn't you see that I loved you?" she whispered.
"I thought perhaps you did; but I wasn't sure, and I was afraid that you wouldn't think me good enough."
"Oh yes, I love you with all my heart. I never imagined it possible to love a person as I love you. Oh, Eddie, you don't know how happy you have made me."
He kissed her again, and again she flung her arms around his neck.
"Oughtn't you to be going in," he said at last; "what will Miss Ley think?"
"Oh no—not yet," she cried.
"How will you tell her? D'you think she'll like me? She'll try and make you give me up."
"Oh, I'm sure she'll love you; besides, what does it matter if she doesn't?—she isn't going to marry you."
"She can take you abroad again and then you may see some one you like better."
"But I'm twenty-one to-morrow, Edward—didn't you know? And I shall be my own mistress. I shan't leave Blackstable till I'm your wife."
They were walking slowly towards the house, whither he, in his anxiety lest she should stay out too long, had guided her steps. They went arm in arm, and Bertha enjoyed her happiness.
"Dr. Ramsay is coming to luncheon to-morrow," she said, "and I shall tell them both that I'm going to be married to you."
"He won't like it," said Craddock, rather nervously.
"I'm sure I don't care. If you like it and I like it, the rest can think as they choose."
"I leave everything in your hands," he said.
They had arrived at the portico, and Bertha looked at it doubtfully.
"I suppose I ought to go in," she said, wishing Edward to persuade her to take one more turn round the garden.
"Yes, do," he said. "I'm so afraid you'll catch cold."
It was charming of him to be so solicitous about her health, and of course he was right. Everything he did and said was right; for the moment Bertha forgot her wayward nature, and wished suddenly to subject herself to his strong guidance. His very strength made her feel curiously weak.
"Good-night, my beloved," she whispered, passionately.
She could not tear herself away from him; it was utter madness. Their kisses never ended.
"Good-night!"
She watched him at last disappear into the darkness, and finally shut the door behind her.
III
With old and young great sorrow is followed by a sleepless night, and with the old great joy is as disturbing; but youth, I suppose, finds happiness more natural and its rest is not thereby disturbed. Bertha slept without dreams, and awaking, for the moment did not remember the occurrence of the previous day; but quickly it came back to her and she stretched herself with a sigh of great content. She lay in bed to contemplate her well-being. She could hardly realise that she had attained her dearest wish. God was very good, and gave His creatures what they asked; without words, from the fullness of her heart, she offered up thanks. It was quite extraordinary, after the maddening expectation, after the hopes and fears, the lover's pains which are nearly pleasures, at last to be satisfied. She had now nothing more to desire, for her happiness was complete. Ah yes, indeed, God was very good!
Bertha thought of the two months she had spent at Blackstable. . . . After the first excitement of getting into the house of her fathers she had settled down to the humdrum of country life; she spent the day wandering about the lanes or on the seashore watching the desolate sea; she read a great deal, and looked forward to the ample time at her disposal to satisfy an immoderate desire for knowledge. She spent long hours in the library which her father had made, for it was only with falling fortunes that the family of Ley had taken to reading books; it had only applied itself to literature when it was too poor for any other pursuit. Bertha looked at the titles of the many volumes, receiving a certain thrill as she read over the great names of the past, and imagined the future delights that they would give her.
One day she was calling at the Vicarage and Edward Craddock happened to be there, lately returned from a short holiday. She had known him in days gone by—his father had been her father's tenant, and he still farmed the same land—but for eight years they had not seen one another, and now Bertha hardly recognised him. She thought him, however, a good-looking fellow in his knickerbockers and thick stockings, and was not displeased when he came up to speak, asking if she remembered him. He sat down and a certain pleasant odour of the farmyard was wafted over to Bertha, a mingled perfume of strong tobacco, of cattle and horses;
