THEpassion to analyse the casual fellow-creature was the most absorbing vice that Miss Ley possessed; and no ties of relationship or affection (the two go not invariably together) prevented her from exercising her talents in that direction. She observed Bertha and Edward during luncheon: Bertha was talkative, chattering with a vivacity that seemed suspicious, about the neighbours—Mrs. Branderton’s new bonnets and new hair, Miss Glover’s good works and Mr. Glover’s visits to London; Edward was silent, except when he pressed Miss Ley to take a second helping. He ate largely, and the maiden lady noticed the enormous mouthfuls he took and the heartiness with which he drank his beer. Of course she drew conclusions; and she drew further conclusions, when, having devoured half a pound of cheese and taken a last drink of ale, he pushed back his chair and with a sort of low roar, reminding one of a beast of prey gorged with food, said—
“Ah, well, I suppose I must set about my work. There’s no rest for the weary.”
He pulled a new briar-wood pipe from his pocket, filled and lit it.
“I feel better now.... Well, so-long; I shall be in to tea.”
Conclusions buzzed about Miss Ley, like midges on a summer’s day. She drew them all the afternoon; she drew them all through dinner. Bertha was effusive too, unusually so; and Miss Ley asked herself a dozen times if this stream of chatter, these peals of laughter, proceeded from a light heart or from a base desire to deceive a middle-aged and inquiring aunt. After dinner, Edward, telling her that of course she was one of the family so he hoped she did not wish him to stand on ceremony, beganto read the paper. When Bertha, at Miss Ley’s request, played the piano, good manners made him put it aside, and he yawned a dozen times in a quarter of an hour.
“I mustn’t play any more,” said Bertha, “or Eddie will go to sleep—won’t you, darling?”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” he replied, laughing. “The fact is that the things Bertha plays when we’ve got company give me the fair hump!”
“Edward only consents to listen when I playThe Blue Bells of ScotlandorYankee Doodle.”
Bertha made the remark, smiling good-naturedly at her husband, but Miss Ley drew conclusions.
“I don’t mind confessing that I can’t stand all this foreign music. What I say to Bertha is—why can’t you play English stuff?”
“If you must play at all,” interposed his wife.
“After all’s said and doneThe Blue Bells of Scotlandhas got a tune about it that a fellow can get his teeth into.”
“You see, there’s the difference,” said Bertha, strumming a few bars ofRule Britannia, “it sets mine on edge.”
“Well, I’m patriotic,” retorted Edward. “I like the good, honest, homely English airs. I like ’em because they’re English. I’m not ashamed to say that for me the best piece of music that’s ever been written isGod Save the Queen.”
“Which was written by a German, dear Edward,” said Miss Ley, smiling.
“That’s as it may be,” said Edward, unabashed, “but the sentiment’s English and that’s all I care about.”
“Hear! hear!” cried Bertha. “I believe Edward has aspirations towards a political career. I know I shall finish up as the wife of the local M.P.”
“I’m patriotic,” said Edward, “and I’m not ashamed to confess it.”
“Rule Britannia,” sang Bertha, “Britannia rules the waves, Britons never, never shall be slaves. Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay! Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay!”
“It’s the same everywhere now,” proceeded the orator. “We’re choke full of foreigners and their goods. I think it’s scandalous. 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 takenaback; 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 at it!”
Miss Ley pursed her lips. “Even in its most dilapidated days Court Leys looked gentlemanly: now all this,” she glanced round with upturned nose, “might be the country mansion of a pork-butcher.”
“My dear Miss Ley, you must pardon my saying so, but the place wasn’t even respectable.”
“But it is now; that is my complaint. My dear doctor, in the old days, the passer-by could see that the owners of Court Leys were decent people; that they could not make both ends meet was a detail—it was possibly because they burnt one end too rapidly, which is the sign of a rather delicate mind.” Miss Ley was mixing her metaphors. “And the passer-by moralised accordingly. For a gentleman there are only two decorous states, absolute poverty or overpowering wealth; the middle condition is vulgar. Now the passer-by sees thrift and careful management, the ends meet, but they do it aggressively, as if it were something to be proud about. Pennies are looked at before they are spent; and, good heavens! the Leys serve to point a moral and adorn a tale. The Leys, who gambled and squandered their substance, who bought diamonds when they hadn’t bread, and pawned the diamonds to give the King a garden-party, now form the heading of a copybook and the ideal of a market-gardener.”
Miss Ley had the characteristics of the true phrase-maker, for so long as her period was well rounded, she did not mind how much nonsense it contained. Coming to the end of her tirade, she looked at the doctor for the signs of disapproval which she thought her right, but he merely laughed.
“I see you want to rub it in,” he said.
“What on earth does the creature mean?” Miss Ley asked herself.
“I confess I did believe things would turn out badly,” the doctor proceeded. “And I couldn’t help thinking he’d be tempted to play ducks and drakes with the whole property.Well, I don’t mind frankly acknowledging that Bertha couldn’t have chosen a better husband; he’s a thoroughly good fellow; no one realised what he had in him, and there’s no knowing how far he’ll go.”
A man would have expressed Miss Ley’s feeling with a little whistle, but that lady merely raised her thin eyebrows. Then Dr. Ramsay shared the opinion of Miss Glover?
“And what precisely is the opinion of the county?” she asked. “Of that odious Mrs. Branderton, of Mrs. Ryle (she has no right to theMaystonat all), of the Hancocks, and the rest?”
“Edward Craddock has won golden opinions all round. Every one likes him, and thinks well of him. No, I assure you, although I’m not so fond as all that of confessing I was wrong, he’s the right man in the right place. It’s extraordinary how people took up to him and respect him already.... I give you my word for it, Bertha has reason to congratulate herself—a girl doesn’t pick up a husband like that every day of the week.”
Miss Ley smiled; it was a great relief to find that she really was no more foolish than most people (so she modestly put it), for a doubt on the subject had given her some uneasiness.
“So every one thinks they’re as happy as turtle-doves?”
“Why, so they are,” cried the doctor; “surelyyoudon’t think otherwise?”
Miss Ley never considered it a duty to dispel the error of her fellow-creatures, and whenever she had a little piece of knowledge, vastly preferred keeping it to herself.
“I?” she answered to the doctor’s question. “I make a point of thinking with the majority—it’s the only way to get a reputation for wisdom!” But Miss Ley, after all, was only human. “Which do you think is the predominant partner?” she asked, smiling drily.
“The man, as he should be,” gruffly replied the doctor.
“Do you think he has more brains?”
“Ah, you’re a feminist,” said Dr. Ramsay, with great scorn.
“My dear doctor, my gloves are sixes, and perceive my shoes.” She put out for the old gentleman’s inspection a very pointed, high-heeled shoe, displaying at the same time the elaborate open-work of a silk stocking.
“Do you intend me to take that as an acknowledgment of the superiority of man?”
“Heavens, how argumentative you are!” Miss Ley laughed, for she was getting into her own particular element. “I knew you wished to quarrel with me. Do you really want my opinion?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it seems to me that if you take the very clever woman and set her beside an ordinary man, you prove nothing. That is how women mostly argue. We place George Eliot (who, by the way, had nothing of the woman but petticoats—and those not always) beside plain John Smith, and ask tragically if such a woman can be considered inferior to such a man. But that’s silly! The question I’ve been asking myself for the last five-and-twenty years is, whether the average fool of a woman is a greater fool than the average fool of a man.”
“And the answer?”
“Well, upon my word, I don’t think there’s much to choose between them.”
“Then you haven’t really an opinion on the subject at all?” cried the doctor.
“That is why I give it you.”
“Hm!” grunted Dr. Ramsay. “And how does that apply to the Craddocks?”
“It doesn’t apply to them.... I don’t think Bertha is a fool.”
“She couldn’t be, having had the discretion to be born your niece, eh?”
“Why, doctor, you’re growing quite pert.”
They had finished the tour of the garden and Mrs. Ramsay was seen in the drawing-room, bidding Bertha good-by.
“Now, seriously, Miss Ley,” said the doctor, “they’re quite happy, aren’t they? Every one thinks so.”
“Every one is always right,” said Miss Ley.
“And what is your opinion?”
“Good heavens, what an insistent man it is! Well, Dr. Ramsay, all I would suggest is that—for Bertha, you know, the book of life is written throughout in italics; for Edward it is all in the big round hand of the copybook headings.... Don’t you think it will make the reading of the book somewhat difficult?”
WITHthe summer Edward began to teach Bertha lawn-tennis; and in the long evenings, when he had finished his work and changed into the flannels which suited him so well, they played innumerable sets. He prided himself upon his skill in this pursuit and naturally found it dull to play with a beginner; but he was very patient, hoping that eventually Bertha would acquire sufficient skill to give him a good game. To be doing something with her husband sufficiently amused Bertha. She liked him to correct her mistakes, to show her this stroke and that; she admired his good nature and his inexhaustible spirits. But her greatest delight was to lie on the long chair by the lawn when they had finished, and enjoy the feeling of exhaustion, gossiping of the little nothings which love made absorbingly interesting.
Miss Ley had been persuaded to prolong her stay. She had vowed to go at the end of her week; but Edward, in his high-handed fashion, had ordered the key of the box-room to be given him, and refused to surrender it.
“Oh no,” he said, “I can’t make people come here, but I can prevent them from going away. In this house every one has to do as I tell them; isn’t that so, Bertha?”
“If you say it, Edward,” replied his wife.
Miss Ley gracefully acceded to her nephew’s desire, which was the more easy, since the house was comfortable, she had really no pressing engagements, and her mind was set upon making further examination into the married life of her relations. It would have been a weakness, unworthy of her, to maintain her intention for consistence’ sake.
Why for days together were Edward and Bertha the happiest lovers, and then suddenly why did Bertha behavealmost brutally towards her husband, while he remained invariably good-tempered and amiable? The obvious reason was that some little quarrel had arisen, such as, since Adam and Eve, has troubled every married couple in the world; but the obvious reason was that which Miss Ley was least likely to credit. She never saw anything in the way of a disagreement, Bertha assented to all her husband’s proposals; and with such docility on the one hand, such good-humour on the other, what on earth could form a bone of contention?
Miss Ley had discovered that when the green leaves of life are turning red and golden with approaching autumn, most pleasure can be obtained by a judicious mingling in simplicity of the gifts of nature and the resources of civilisation. She was satisfied to come in the evenings to the tennis-lawn and sit on a comfortable chair shaded by trees, and protected by a red parasol from the rays of the setting sun. She was not a woman to find distraction in needlework, and brought with her, therefore, a volume of Montaigne, her favourite writer. She read a page and then lifted her sharp eyes to the players. Edward was certainly very handsome—he looked so clean, and it was obvious to the most casual observer that he bathed himself daily: he was one of those men who carry the morning tub stamped on every line of their faces. You felt that Pear’s Soap was as essential to him as his belief in the Conservative Party, Derby Day, and the Depression of Agriculture. As Bertha often said, his energy was superabundant. Notwithstanding his increasing size he was most agile, and perpetually did unnecessary feats of strength, such as jumping and hopping over the net, holding chairs with outstretched arm.
“If health and a good digestion are all that is necessary in a husband, Bertha certainly ought to be the most contented woman alive.”
Miss Ley never believed so implicitly in her own theories that she was prevented from laughing at them. She had an impartial mind and saw the two sides of a questionclearly enough to find little to choose between them; consequently she was able and willing to argue with equal force from either point of view.
The set was finished, and Bertha threw herself on a chair, panting.
“Find the balls, there’s a dear,” she cried.
Edward went off on the search, and Bertha looked at him with a delightful smile.
“He is such a good-tempered person,” she said to Miss Ley. “Sometimes he makes me feel positively ashamed.”
“He has all the virtues. Dr. Ramsay, the Glovers, even Mrs. Branderton, have been dinning his praise into my ears.”
“Yes, they all like him. Arthur Branderton is always here, asking his advice about something or other. He’s a dear, good thing.”
“Who? Arthur Branderton?”
“No, of course not—Eddie.”
Bertha took off her hat and stretched herself more comfortably on the long chair. Her hair was somewhat disarranged, and the rich locks wandered about her forehead and on the nape of her neck in a way that would have distracted any minor poet under seventy. Miss Ley looked at her niece’s fine profile, and wondered again at the complexion, made up of the softest colours in the setting sun. Her eyes now were liquid with love, languorous with the shade of long lashes; and her full, sensual mouth was half open with a smile.
“Is my hair very untidy?” asked Bertha, catching Miss Ley’s look and its meaning.
“No, I think it suits you when it is not done too severely.”
“Edward hates it; he likes me to be prim.... And of course I don’t care how I look so long as he’s pleased. Don’t you think he’s very good-looking?” Then without waiting for an answer, she asked a second question.
“Do you think me a great fool for being so much in love, Aunt Polly?”
“My dear, it’s surely the proper behaviour with one’s lawful spouse.”
Bertha’s smile became a little sad as she replied—
“Edward seems to think it unusual.” She followed him with her eyes, picking up the balls one by one, hunting among bushes: she was in the mood for confidences that afternoon. “You don’t know how different everything has been since I fell in love. The world is fuller.... It’s the only state worth living in.” Edward advanced with the eight balls on his racket. “Come here and be kissed, Eddie,” she cried.
“Not if I know it,” he replied, laughing. “Bertha’s a perfect terror. She wants me to spend my whole life in kissing her.... Don’t you think it’s unreasonable, Aunt Polly? My motto is: everything in its place and season.”
“One kiss in the morning,” said Bertha, “one kiss at night, will do to keep your wife quiet; and the rest of the time you can attend to your work and read your paper.”
Again Bertha smiled charmingly, but Miss Ley saw no amusement in her eyes.
“Well, one can have too much of a good thing,” said Edward, balancing his racket on the tip of his nose.
“Even of proverbial philosophy,” remarked Bertha.
A few days later, his guest having definitely announced that she must go, Edward proposed a tennis-party as a parting honour. Miss Ley would gladly have escaped an afternoon of small-talk with the notabilities of Leanham, but Edward was determined to pay his aunt every attention, and his inner consciousness assured him that at least a small party was necessary to the occasion. They came, Mr. and Miss Glover, the Brandertons, the Hancocks, Mr. Atthill Bacot, the great politician (of the district). But Mr. Atthill Bacot was more than political, he was gallant, and he devoted himself to the entertainment of Miss Ley. He discussed with her the sins of the government and the incapacity of the army.
“More men, more guns!” he said. “An elementaryeducation in common sense for the officers, and the rudiments of grammar if there’s time!”
“Good heavens, Mr. Bacot, you mustn’t say such things. I thought you were a Conservative.”
“Madam, I stood for the constituency in ’85. I may say that if a Conservative member could have got in, I should have been elected. But there are limits. Even the staunch Conservative will turn. Now look at General Hancock.”
“Please don’t talk so loud,” said Miss Ley, with alarm, for Mr. Bacot had instinctively adopted his platform manner, and his voice could be heard through the whole garden.
“Look at General Hancock, I say,” he repeated, taking no notice of the interruption. “Is that the sort of man whom you would wish to have the handling of ten thousand of your sons?”
“Oh, but be fair,” cried Miss Ley, laughing. “They’re not all such fools as poor General Hancock.”
“I give you my word, madam, I think they are.... As far as I can make out, when a man has shown himself incapable of doing anything else they make him a general, just to encourage the others. I understand the reason. It’s a great thing, of course, for parents sending their sons into the army to be able to say, ‘Well, he may be a fool, but there’s no reason why he shouldn’t become a general.’”
“You wouldn’t rob us of our generals,” said Miss Ley; “they’re so useful at tea-parties. In my young days the fool of the family was sent into the Church, but now, I suppose, he’s sent into the army.”
Mr. Bacot was about to make a very heated retort when Edward called to him—
“We want you to make up a set at tennis. Will you play with Miss Hancock against my wife and the General? Come on, Bertha.”
“Oh no, I mean to sit out, Eddie,” said Bertha, quickly. She saw that Edward was putting all the bad players into one set, so that they might be got rid of. “I’m not going to play.”
“You must, or you’ll disarrange the next lot. It’s all settled; Miss Glover and I are going to take on Miss Jane Hancock and Arthur Branderton.”
Bertha looked at him with eyes flashing angrily. Of course he did not notice her vexation. He preferred to play with Miss Glover, she told herself; the parson’s sister played well, and for a good game he would never hesitate to sacrifice his wife’s feelings. Besides Bertha, only Miss Glover and young Branderton were within earshot, and in his jovial, pleasant manner, Edward laughingly said—
“Bertha’s such a duffer. Of course she’s only just beginning. You don’t mind playing with the General, do you, dear?”
Arthur Branderton laughed and Bertha smiled at the sally, but she reddened.
“I’m not going to play at all. I must see to the tea; and I dare say more people will be coming in presently.”
“Oh, I forgot that,” said Edward. “No; perhaps you oughtn’t to play.” And then putting his wife out of his thoughts, and linking his arm with young Branderton’s, he sauntered off. “Come along, old chap; we must find some crock to make up the pat-ball set.” Edward had such a charming, frank manner, one could not help liking him.
Bertha watched the two men go and turned very white.
“I must just go into the house a moment,” she said to Miss Glover. “Go and entertain Mrs. Branderton, there’s a dear.” And precipitately she fled.
She ran to her room, and flinging herself on the bed, burst into a flood of tears. The humiliation seemed dreadful. She wondered how Eddie, whom she loved above all else in the world, could treat her so cruelly. What had she done? He knew—ah, yes, he knew well enough the happiness he could cause her—and he went out of his way to be brutal. She wept bitterly, and jealousy of Miss Glover (Miss Glover, of all people!) stabbed her to the heart.
“He doesn’t love me,” she moaned, her tears redoubling.
Presently there was a knock at the door.
“Who is it?” she cried.
The handle was turned and Miss Glover came in, red with nervousness.
“Forgive me for coming in, Bertha. But I thought you seemed unwell. Can’t I do something for you?”
“Oh, I’m all right,” said Bertha, drying her tears, “Only the heat upset me and I’ve got a headache.”
“Shall I send Edward to you?”
“What do I want with Edward?” replied Bertha, petulantly. “I shall be all right in five minutes. I often have attacks like this.”
“I’m sure he didn’t mean to say anything unkind. He’s kindness itself, I know.”
Bertha flushed. “What on earth do you mean, Fanny? Who didn’t say anything unkind?”
“I thought you were hurt by Edward’s saying you were a duffer and a beginner.”
“Oh, my dear, you must think me a fool.” Bertha laughed hysterically. “It’s quite true that I’m a duffer. I tell you it’s only the weather. Why, if my feelings were hurt each time Eddie said a thing like that I should lead a miserable life.”
“I wish you’d let me send him up to you,” said Miss Glover, unconvinced.
“Good heavens! Why? See, I’m all right now.” She washed her eyes and passed the powder-puff over her face. “My dear, it was only the sun.”
With an effort she braced herself, and burst into a laugh joyful enough almost to deceive the Vicar’s sister.
“Now, we must go down, or Mrs. Branderton will complain more than ever of my bad manners.”
She put her arm round Miss Glover’s waist and ran her down the stairs to the mingled terror and amazement of that good creature. For the rest of the afternoon, though her eyes never rested on Edward, she was perfectly charming—in the highest spirits, chattering incessantly, laughing; every one noticed her good humour and commented upon her obvious felicity.
“It does one good to see a couple like that,” said General Hancock, “just as happy as the day is long.”
But the little scene had not escaped Miss Ley’s sharp eyes, and she noticed with agony that Miss Glover had gone to Bertha. She could not stop her, being at the moment in the toils of Mrs. Branderton.
“Oh, these good people are too officious! Why can’t she leave the girl alone to have it out with herself!”
But the explanation of everything now flashed across Miss Ley.
“What a fool I am!” she thought, and she was able to cogitate quite clearly while exchanging honeyed impertinences with Mrs. Branderton. “I noticed it the first day I saw them together. How could I ever forget it!” She shrugged her shoulders and murmured the maxim of La Rochefoucauld—
“Entre deux amants il-y-a toujours un qui aime, et un qui se laisse aimer.”
And to this she added another, in the same language, which, knowing no original, she ventured to claim as her own; it seemed to summarise the situation.
“Celui qui aime a toujours tort.”
BERTHAand Miss Ley passed a troubled night, while Edward, of course, after much exercise and a hearty dinner, slept the sleep of the just and of the pure at heart. Bertha was nursing her wrath; she had with difficulty brought herself to kiss her husband before, according to his habit, he turned his back upon her and began to snore. Miss Ley, with her knowledge of the difficulties in store for the couple, asked herself if she could do anything. But what could she do? They were reading the book of life in their separate ways, one in italics, the other in the big round letters of the copy-book; and how could she help them to find a common character? Of course the first year of married life is difficult, and the weariness of the flesh adds to the inevitable disillusionment. Every marriage has its moments of utter despair. The great danger is in the onlooker, who may pay to them too much attention and, by stepping in, render the difficulty permanent—cutting the knot instead of letting time undo it. Miss Ley’s cogitations brought her not unnaturally to the course which most suited her temperament; she concluded that far and away the best plan was to attempt nothing, and let things right themselves as best they could. She did not postpone her departure, but, according to arrangement, went on the following day.
“Well, you see,” said Edward, bidding her good-bye, “I told you that I should make you stay longer than a week.”
“You’re a wonderful person, Edward,” said Miss Ley, drily. “I have never doubted it for an instant.”
He was pleased seeing no irony in the compliment. Miss Ley took leave of Bertha with a suspicion of awkward tenderness that was quite unusual; she hated to show herfeelings, and found it difficult, yet wanted to tell Bertha that if she was ever in difficulties she would always find in her an old friend and a true one. All she said was—
“If you want to do any shopping in London, I can always put you up, you know. And for the matter of that, I don’t see why you shouldn’t come and stay a month or so with me—if Edward can spare you. It will be a change.”
When Miss Ley drove with Edward to the station, Bertha felt suddenly an extreme loneliness. Her aunt had been a barrier between herself and her husband, coming opportunely when, after the first months of mad passion, she was beginning to see herself linked to a man she did not know. A third person in the house had been a restraint. She looked forward already to the future with something like terror; her love for Edward was a bitter heartache. Oh yes, she loved him well, she loved him passionately; but he—he was fond of her, in his placid, calm way; it made her furious to think of it.
The weather was rainy, and for two days there was no question of tennis. On the third, however, the sun came out again, and the lawn was soon dry. Edward had driven over to Tercanbury, but returned towards evening.
“Hulloa!” he said, “you haven’t got your tennis things on. You’d better hurry up.”
This was the opportunity for which Bertha had been looking. She was tired of always giving way, of humbling herself; she wanted an explanation.
“You’re very good,” she said, “but I don’t want to play tennis with you any more.”
“Why on earth not?”
She burst out furiously—“Because I’m sick and tired of being made a convenience by you. I’m too proud to be treated like that. Oh, don’t look as if you didn’t understand. You play with me because you’ve got no one else to play with. Isn’t that so? That is how you are always with me. You prefer the company of the veriest fool in the world to mine. You seem to do everything you can to show your contempt for me.”
“Why, what have I done now?”
“Oh, of course, you forget. You never dream that you are making me frightfully unhappy. Do you think I like to be treated before people as a sort of poor idiot that you can laugh and sneer at?”
Edward had never seen his wife so angry, and this time he was forced to pay her attention. She stood before him, at the end of her speech, with teeth clenched, her cheeks flaming.
“It’s about the other day, I suppose. I saw at the time you were in a passion.”
“And didn’t care two straws.”
“You’re too silly,” he said, with a laugh. “We couldn’t play together when we had people here. They laugh at us as it is for being so devoted to one another.”
“If they only knew how little you cared for me!”
“I might have managed a set with you later on, if you hadn’t sulked and refused to play at all.”
“It would never have occurred to you, I know you better than that. You’re absolutely selfish.”
“Come, come, Bertha,” he cried good-humouredly, “that’s a thing I’ve not been accused of before. No one has ever called me selfish.”
“Oh no, they think you charming. They think because you’re cheerful and even-tempered, because you’re hail-fellow-well-met with every one you know, that you’ve got such a nice character. If they knew you as well as I do, they’d understand it was merely because you’re perfectly indifferent to them. You treat people as if they were your bosom friends, and then, five minutes after they’ve gone, you’ve forgotten all about them.... And the worst of it is, that I’m no more to you than anybody else.”
“Oh, come, I don’t think you can really find such awful things wrong with me.”
“I’ve never known you sacrifice your slightest whim to gratify my most earnest desire.”
“You can’t expect me to do things which I think unreasonable.”
“If you loved me, you’d not always be asking if the things I want are reasonable. I didn’t think of reason when I married you.”
Edward made no answer, which naturally added to Bertha’s irritation. She was arranging flowers for the table, and broke off the stalks savagely. Edward, after a pause, went to the door.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Since you won’t play, I’m just going to do a few serves for practice.”
“Why don’t you send for Miss Glover to come and play with you?”
A new idea suddenly came to him (they came at sufficiently rare intervals not to spoil his equanimity), but the absurdity of it made him laugh.
“Surely you’re not jealous of her, Bertha?”
“I?” began Bertha, with tremendous scorn, and then changing her mind: “You prefer to play with her than to play with me.”
He wisely ignored part of the charge. “Look at her and look at yourself. Do you think I could prefer her to you?”
“I think you’re fool enough.”
The words slipped out of Bertha’s mouth almost before she knew she had said them, and the bitter, scornful tone added to their violence. They frightened her, and turning very white, she glanced at her husband.
“Oh, I didn’t mean to say that, Eddie.”
Fearing now that she had really wounded him, Bertha was entirely sorry; she would have given anything for the words to be unsaid. Edward was turning over the pages of a book, looking at it listlessly. She went up to him.
“I haven’t offended you, have I, Eddie? I didn’t mean to say that.”
She put her arm in his; he did not answer.
“Don’t be angry with me,” she faltered again, and then breaking down, buried her face in his bosom. “I didn’t mean what I said—I lost command over myself. You don’t know how you humiliated me the other day. Ihaven’t been able to sleep at night, thinking of it.... Kiss me.”
He turned his face away, but she would not let him go; at last she found his lips.
“Say you’re not angry with me.”
“I’m not angry with you.”
“Oh, I want your love so much, Eddie,” she murmured. “Now more than ever.... I’m going to have a child.”
Then in reply to his astonished exclamation—
“I wasn’t certain till to-day.... Oh, Eddie, I’m so glad. I think it’s what I wanted to make me happy.”
“I’m glad too,” he said.
“But you will be kind to me, Eddie—and not mind if I’m fretful and bad tempered. You know I can’t help it, and I’m always sorry afterwards.”
He kissed her as passionately as his cold nature allowed, and peace returned to Bertha’s tormented heart.
Bertha had intended as long as possible to make a secret of her news; it was a comfort in her distress, and a bulwark against her increasing disillusionment. She was unable to reconcile herself to the discovery, seen as yet dimly, that Edward’s cold temperament could not satisfy her ardent passions: love to her was a burning fire, a flame that absorbed the rest of life; love to him was a convenient and necessary institution of Providence, a matter about which there was as little need for excitement as about the ordering of a suit of clothes. Bertha’s intense devotion for a while had obscured her husband’s coolness, and she would not see that his temperament was to blame. She accused him of not loving her, and asked herself distractedly how to gain his affection; her pride was humiliated because her love was so much greater than his. For six months she had loved him blindly; and now, opening her eyes, she refused to look upon the naked fact, but insisted on seeing only what she wished.
Yet, the truth, elbowing itself through the crowd of her illusions, tormented her. She was afraid that Edwardneither loved her nor had ever loved her; and she wavered uncertainly between the old passionate devotion and a new, equally passionate hatred. She told herself that she could not do things by halves; she must love or detest, but in either case, fiercely. And now the child made up for everything. Now it did not matter if Edward loved or not, it no longer pained her to realise how foolish had been her hopes, how quickly her ideal had been shattered. She felt that the infantine hands of her son were already breaking, one by one, the links that bound her to her husband. When she divined her pregnancy, she gave a cry not only of joy and pride, but also of exultation in her approaching freedom.
But when the suspicion was changed into a certainty, her feelings veered round; for her emotions were always unstable as the light winds of April. An extreme weakness made her long for the support and sympathy of her husband; she could not help telling him. In the hateful dispute of that very day, she had forced herself to say bitter things, but all the time she wished him to take her in his arms, saying he loved her. It needed so little to rekindle her dying affection; she wanted his help and she could not live without his love.
The weeks went on and Bertha was touched to see a change in Edward’s behaviour, more noticeable after his past indifference. He looked upon her now as an invalid, and as such entitled to some consideration; he was really very kind-hearted, and during this time did everything for his wife that did not involve a sacrifice of his own convenience. When the doctor suggested some dainty to tempt her appetite, Edward was delighted to ride over to Tercanbury to fetch it; and in her presence he trod more softly and spoke in a gentler voice. After a while he used to insist on carrying Bertha up and down stairs, and though Dr. Ramsay assured them it was a quite unnecessary proceeding, Bertha would not allow Edward to give it up. It amused her to feel a little child in his strong arms, and she loved to nestle against his breast. Then, with winter,when it was too cold to drive out, Bertha would lie for long hours on a sofa by the window, looking at the line of elm-trees, now leafless again and melancholy, watching the heavy clouds that drove over from the sea: her heart was full of peace.
One day of the new year she was sitting as usual at her window when Edward came prancing up the drive on horseback. He stopped in front of her and waved his whip.
“What d’you think of my new horse?” he cried.
At that moment the animal began to cavort, and backed into a flower-bed. “Quiet, old fellow,” cried Edward. “Now then, don’t make a fuss; quiet!” The horse stood on its hind legs and laid its ears back viciously. Presently Edward dismounted and led him towards Bertha. “Isn’t he a stunner? Just look at him.”
He passed his hand down the beast’s forelegs and stroked its sleek coat.
“I only gave thirty-five quid for it,” he remarked. “I must just take him round to the stable and then I’ll come in.”
In a few minutes Edward joined his wife. The riding costume suited him well, and in his top-boots he had more than ever the appearance of the fox-hunting country squire, which had always been his ideal. He was in high spirits over the new purchase.
“It’s the beast that threw Arthur Branderton when we were out last week.... Arthur’s limping about now with a sprained ankle and a broken finger. He says the horse is the greatest devil he’s ever ridden; he’s frightened to use him again.” Edward laughed scornfully.
“But you haven’t bought him?” asked Bertha, with alarm.
“Of course I have,” said Edward. “I couldn’t miss a chance like that. Why, he’s a perfect beauty—only he’s got a temper, like we all have.”
“But is he dangerous?”
“A bit—that’s why I got him cheap. Arthur gave a hundred guineas for him, and he told me I could have him for seventy. ‘No,’ I said, ‘I’ll give you thirty-five—and take the risk of breaking my neck.’ Well, he just had to accept my offer! the horse has got a bad name in the county, and he wouldn’t get any one to buy it in a hurry. A man has got to get up early if he wants to do me over a gee!”
By this time Bertha was frightened out of her wits.
“But, Eddie, you’re not going to ride it—supposing something should happen. Oh, I wish you hadn’t bought him.”
“He’s all right,” said Craddock. “If any one can ride him, I can—and, by Jove, I’m going to risk it. Why, if I bought him and then didn’t use him, I’d never hear the last of it.”
“To please me, Eddie, don’t! What does it matter what people say? I’m so frightened. And now of all times you might do something to please me. It’s not often I ask you to do me a favour.”
“Well, when you ask for something reasonable, I always try my best to do it—but really, after I’ve paid thirty-five pounds for a horse, I can’t cut him up for cat’s meat.”
“That means you’ll always do anything for me so long as it doesn’t interfere with your own likes and dislikes.”
“Ah, well, we’re all like that, aren’t we?... Come, come, don’t be nasty about it, Bertha.”
He pinched her cheek good-naturedly—women, we all know, would like the moon if they could get it; and the fact that they can’t doesn’t prevent them from persistently asking for it. Edward sat down beside his wife, holding her hand.
“Now, tell us what you’ve been up to to-day. Has any one been?”
Bertha sighed deeply. She had absolutely no influence over her husband. No prayers, no tears would stop him from doing a thing he had set his mind on—however much she argued he always managed to make her seem in the wrong, and then went his way rejoicing. But she had her child now.
“Thank God for that!” she murmured.
CRADDOCKwent out on his new horse and returned triumphantly.
“He was as quiet as a lamb,” he said. “I could ride him with my arms tied behind my back; and as to jumping—he takes a five-barred gate in his stride.”
Bertha was a little angry with him for having caused her such terror, angry with herself also for troubling.
“And it was rather lucky I had him to-day. Old Lord Philip Dirk was there, and he asked Branderton who I was. ‘You tell him,’ says he, ‘that it isn’t often I’ve seen a man ride as well as he does.’ You should see Branderton, he isn’t half glad at having let me take the beast for thirty-five quid. And Mr. Molson came up to me and said, ‘I knew that horse would get into your hands before long, you’re the only man in this part who can ride it—but if it don’t break your neck, you’ll be lucky.’”
He recounted with great satisfaction the compliments paid to him.
“We had a jolly good run to-day.... And how are you, dear, feeling comfy? Oh, I forgot to tell you—you know Rodgers, the huntsman, well, he said to me, ‘That’s a mighty fine hack you’ve got there, sir, but he takes some riding.’—‘I know he does,’ I said; ‘but I flatter myself I know a thing or two more than most horses.’ They all thought I should get rolled over before the day was out, but I just went slick at everything to show I wasn’t frightened.”
Then he gave details of the affair; and he had as great a passion for the meticulous as a German historian. He was one of those men who take infinite pains over trifles, flattering themselves that they never do things by halves. Bertha had a headache, and her husband bored her; shethought herself a great fool to be so concerned about his safety.
As the months wore on Miss Glover became very solicitous. The parson’s sister looked upon birth as a mysteriously heart-fluttering business, which, however, modesty required decent people to ignore. She treated her friend in an absurdly self-conscious manner, and blushed like a peony when Bertha frankly referred to the coming event. The greatest torment of Miss Glover’s life was that, as lady of the Vicarage, she had to manage the Maternity Bag, an institution to provide the infants of the needy with articles of raiment and their mothers with flannel petticoats. She could never, without much confusion, ask the necessary information of the beneficiaries in her charity; feeling that the whole thing ought not to be discussed at all, she kept her eyes averted, and acted generally so as to cause great indignation.
“Well,” said one good lady, “I’d rather not ’ave her bag at all than be treated like that. Why, she treats you as if—well, as if you wasn’t married.”
“Yes,” said another, “that’s just what I complain of—I promise you I ’ad ’alf a mind to take my marriage lines out of my pocket an’ show ’er. It ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed about—nice thing it would be after ’avin’ sixteen, if I was bashful.”
But of course the more unpleasant a duty was, the more zealously did Miss Glover perform it; she felt it right to visit Bertha with frequency, and manfully bore the young wife’s persistence in referring to an unpleasant subject. She carried her heroism to the pitch of knitting socks for the forthcoming baby, although to do so made her heart palpitate uncomfortably; and when she was surprised at the work by her brother, her cheeks burned like two fires.
“Now, Bertha dear,” she said one day, pulling herself together and straightening her back as she always did when she was mortifying the flesh. “Now, Bertha dear, I want to talk to you seriously.”
Bertha smiled. “Oh don’t, Fanny; you know how uncomfortable it makes you.”
“I must,” answered the good creature, gravely. “I know you’ll think me ridiculous, but it’s my duty.”
“I shan’t think anything of the kind,” said Bertha, touched with her friend’s humility.
“Well, you talk a great deal of—of what’s going to happen”—Miss Glover blushed—“but I’m not sure if you are really prepared for it.”
“Oh, is that all?” cried Bertha. “The nurse will be here in a fortnight, and Dr. Ramsay says she’s a most reliable woman.”
“I wasn’t thinking of earthly preparations,” said Miss Glover. “I was thinking of the other. Are you quite sure you’re approaching the—thething, in the right spirit?”
“What do you want me to do?”
“It isn’t what I want you to do. It’s what you ought to do. I’m nobody. But have you thought at all of the spiritual side of it?”
Bertha gave a sigh that was chiefly voluptuous. “I’ve thought that I’m going to have a son, that’s mine and Eddie’s; and I’m awfully thankful.”
“Wouldn’t you like me to read the Bible to you sometimes?”
“Good heavens, you talk as if I were going to die.”
“One can never tell, dear Bertha,” replied Miss Glover, sombrely; “I think you ought to be prepared.... ‘In the midst of life we are in death’—one can never tell what may happen.”
Bertha looked at her somewhat anxiously. She had been forcing herself of late to be cheerful, and had found it necessary to stifle a recurring presentiment of evil fortune. The Vicar’s sister never realised that she was doing everything possible to make Bertha thoroughly unhappy.
“I brought my own Bible with me,” she said. “Do you mind if I read you a chapter?”
“I should like it,” said Bertha, and a cold shiver went through her.
“Have you got any preference for some particular part?” asked Miss Glover, extracting the book from a little black bag which she always carried.
On Bertha’s answer that she had no preference, Miss Glover suggested opening the Bible at random, and reading on from the first line that crossed her eyes.
“Charles doesn’t quite approve of it,” she said; “he thinks it smacks of superstition. But I can’t help doing it, and the early Protestants constantly did the same.”
Miss Glover, having opened the book with closed eyes, began to read: “The sons of Pharez! Hezron, and Hamul. And the sons of Zerah; Zimri, and Ethan, and Heman, and Calcol, and Dara; five of them in all.” Miss Glover cleared her throat. “And the sons of Ethan; Azariah. The sons also of Hezron, that were born unto him; Jerahmeel, and Ram, and Chelubai. And Ram begat Amminadab; and Amminadab begat Nahshon, prince of the children of Judah.” She had fallen upon the genealogical table at the beginning of the Book of Chronicles. The chapter was very long, and consisted entirely of names, uncouth and difficult to pronounce; but Miss Glover shirked not one of them. With grave and somewhat high-pitched delivery, modelled on her brother’s, she read out the bewildering list. Bertha looked at her in amazement.
“That’s the end of the chapter,” she said at last; “would you like me to read you another one?”
“Yes, I should like it very much; but I don’t think the part you’ve hit on is quite to the point.”
“My dear, I don’t want to reprove you—that’s not my duty—but all the Bible is to the point.”
And as the time passed, Bertha quite lost her courage and was often seized by a panic fear. Suddenly, without obvious cause, her heart sank and she asked herself frantically how she could possibly get through it. She thought she was going to die, and wondered what would happen if she did. What would Edward do without her? Thinking of his bitter grief the tears came to her eyes, but her lips trembledwith self-pity when the suspicion came that he would not be heartbroken: he was not a man to feel either grief or joy very poignantly. He would not weep; at the most his gaiety for a couple of days would be obscured, and then he would go about as before. She imagined him relishing the sympathy of his friends. In six months he would almost have forgotten her, and such memory as remained would not be extraordinarily pleasing. He would marry again; Edward loathed solitude, and next time doubtless he would choose a different sort of woman—one less remote from his ideal. Edward cared nothing for appearance, and Bertha imagined her successor plain as Miss Hancock or dowdy as Miss Glover; and the irony of it lay in the knowledge that either of those two would make a wife more suitable than she to his character, answering better to his conception of a helpmate.
Bertha fancied that Edward would willingly have given her beauty for some solid advantage, such as a knowledge of dressmaking; her taste, her arts and accomplishments, were nothing to him, and her impulsive passion was a positive defect. “Handsome is as handsome does,” said he; he was a plain, simple man and he wanted a simple, plain wife.
She wondered if her death would really cause him much sorrow; Bertha’s will gave him everything of which she was possessed, and he would spend it with a second wife. She was seized with insane jealousy.
“No, I won’t die,” she cried between her teeth, “I won’t!”
But one day, while Edward was hunting, her morbid fancies took another turn. Supposing he should die? The thought was unendurable, but the very horror of it fascinated her; she could not drive away the scenes which, with strange distinctness, her imagination set before her. She was seated at the piano and heard suddenly a horse stop at the front door—Edward was back early: but the bell rang; why should Edward ring? There was a murmur of voices without and Arthur Branderton came in. In her mind’s eye she saw every detail most clearly. He was in his hunting clothes! Something had happened, and knowing what it was, Bertha was yet able to realise her terrified wonder, as one possibility and another rushed through her brain. He was uneasy, he had something to tell, but dared not say it; she looked at him, horror-stricken, and a faintness came over her so that she could hardly stand.
Bertha’s heart beat quickly. She told herself it was absurd to let her imagination run away with her; but, notwithstanding, the pictures vividly proceeded: she seemed to assist at a ghastly play in which she was chief actor.
And what would she do when the fact was finally told her—that Edward was dead? She would faint or cry out.
“There’s been an accident,” said Branderton—“your husband is rather hurt.”
Bertha put her hands to her eyes, the agony was dreadful.
“You mustn’t upset yourself,” he went on, trying to break it to her.
Then, rapidly passing over the intermediate details she found herself with her husband. He was dead, lying on the floor—and she pictured him to herself, she knew exactly how he would look; sometimes he slept so soundly, so quietly, that she was nervous and put her ear to his heart to know if it was beating. Now he was dead. Despair suddenly swept down upon her overpoweringly. Bertha tried again to shake off her fancies, she even went to the piano and played a few notes; but the morbid attraction was too strong for her and the scene went on. Now that he was dead, he could not check her passion, now he was helpless and she kissed him with all her love; she passed her hands through his hair, and stroked his face (he had hated this in life), she kissed his lips and his closed eyes.
The imagined grief was so poignant that Bertha burst into tears. She remained with the body, refusing to be separated from it—Bertha buried her face in the cushions so that nothing might disturb her illusion, she had ceased trying to drive it away. Ah, she loved him passionately,she had always loved him and could not live without him. She knew that she would shortly die—and she had been afraid of death. Ah, now it was welcome! She kissed his hands—he could not prevent her now—and with a little shudder opened his eyes; they were glassy, expressionless, immobile. Clinging to him, she sobbed in love and anguish. She would let none touch him but herself; it was a relief to perform the last offices for him who had been her whole life. She did not know that her love was so great.
She undressed the body and washed it; she washed the limbs one by one and sponged them, then very gently dried them with a towel. The touch of the cold flesh made her shudder voluptuously—she thought of him taking her in his strong arms, kissing her on the mouth. She wrapped him in the white shroud and surrounded him with flowers. They placed him in the coffin, and her heart stood still: she could not leave him. She passed with him all day and all night, looking ever at the quiet, restful face. Dr. Ramsay came and Miss Glover came, urging her to go away, but she refused. What was the care of her own health now, she had only wanted to live for him?
The coffin was closed, and she saw the gestures of the undertakers—she had seen her husband’s face for the last time, her beloved: her heart was like a stone, and she beat her breast in pain.
Hurriedly now the pictures thronged upon her—the drive to the churchyard, the service, the coffin strewn with flowers, and finally the grave-side. They tried to keep her at home. What cared she for the silly, the abominable convention, which sought to prevent her from going to the funeral? Was it not her husband, the only light of her life, whom they were burying? They could not realise the horror of it, the utter despair. And distinctly, by the dimness of the winter day in her drawing-room at Court Leys, Bertha saw the lowering of the coffin, heard the rattle of earth thrown upon it.
What would her life be afterwards? She would try to live, she would surround herself with Edward’s things, sothat his memory might be always with her; the loneliness was appalling. Court Leys was empty and bare. She saw the endless succession of grey days; the seasons brought no change, and continually the clouds hung heavily above her; the trees were always leafless, and it was desolate. She could not imagine that travel would bring solace—the whole of life was blank, and what to her now were the pictures and churches, the blue skies of Italy? Her only happiness was to weep.
Then distractedly Bertha thought that she would kill herself, for life was impossible to endure. No life at all, the blankness of the grave, was preferable to the pangs gnawing continually at her heart. It would be easy to finish, with a little morphia to close the book of trouble; despair would give her courage, and the prick of the needle was the only pain. But her vision became dim, and she had to make an effort to retain it: her thoughts grew less coherent, travelling back to previous incidents, to the scene at the grave, to the voluptuous pleasure of washing the body.
It was all so vivid that the entrance of Edward came upon her as a surprise. But the relief was too great for words, it was the awakening from a horrible nightmare. When he came forward to kiss her, she flung her arms round his neck, her eyes moist with past tears, and pressed him passionately to her heart.
“Oh, thank God!” she cried.
“Hulloa, what’s up now?”
“I don’t know what’s been the matter with me.... I’ve been so miserable, Eddie—I thought you were dead!”
“You’ve been crying!”
“It was so awful, I couldn’t get the idea out of my head.... Oh, I should die also.”
Bertha could scarcely realise that her husband was by her side in the flesh, alive and well.
“Would you be sorry if I died?” she asked him.
“But you’re not going to do anything of the sort,” he said, cheerily.
“Sometimes I’m so frightened, I don’t believe I’ll get over it.”
He laughed at her, and his joyous tones were peculiarly comforting. She made him sit by her side and held his strong hands, the hands which to her were the visible signs of his powerful manhood. She stroked them and kissed the palms. She was quite broken with the past emotions; her limbs trembled and her eyes glistened with tears.