THEnurse arrived, bringing new apprehension. She was an old woman who, for twenty years, had helped the neighbouring gentry into the world; and she had a copious store of ghastly anecdote. In her mouth the terrors of birth were innumerable, and she told her stories with a cumulative art that was appalling. Of course, in her mind, she acted for the best; Bertha was nervous, and the nurse could imagine no better way of reassuring her than to give detailed accounts of patients who for days had been at death’s door, given up by all the doctors, and yet had finally recovered.
Bertha’s quick invention magnified the coming anguish till, for thinking of it, she could hardly sleep. The impossibility even to conceive it rendered it more formidable; she saw before her a long, long agony, and then death. She could not bear Edward to be out of her sight.
“Why, of course you’ll get over it,” he said. “I promise you it’s nothing to make a fuss about.”
He had bred animals for years and was quite used to the process which supplied him with veal, mutton, and beef, for the local butchers. It was a ridiculous fuss that human beings made over a natural and ordinary phenomenon.
“Oh, I’m so afraid of the pain. I feel certain that I shan’t get over it—it’s awful. I wish I hadn’t got to go through it.”
“Good heavens,” cried the doctor, “one would think no one had ever had a baby before you.”
“Oh, don’t laugh at me. Can’t you see how frightened I am! I have a presentiment that I shall die.”
“I never knew a woman yet,” said Dr. Ramsay, “who hadn’t a presentiment that she would die, even if she had nothing worse than a finger-ache the matter with her.”
“Oh, you can laugh,” said Bertha. “I’ve got to go through it.”
Another day passed, and the nurse said the doctor must be immediately sent for. Bertha had made Edward promise to remain with her all the time.
“I think I shall have courage if I can hold your hand,” she said.
“Nonsense,” said Dr. Ramsay, when Edward told him this, “I’m not going to have a man meddling about.”
“I thought not,” said Edward, “but I just promised, to keep her quiet.”
“If you’ll keep yourself quiet,” answered the doctor, “that’s all I shall expect.”
“Oh, you needn’t fear about me. I know all about these things—why, my dear doctor, I’ve brought a good sight more living things into the world than you have, I bet.”
Edward, calm, self-possessed, unimaginative, was the ideal person for an emergency.
“There’s no good my knocking about the house all the afternoon,” he said. “I should only mope, and if I’m wanted I can always be sent for.”
He left word that he was going to Bewlie’s Farm to see a sick cow, about which he was very anxious.
“She’s the best milker I’ve ever had. I don’t know what I should do if anything went wrong with her. She gives her so-many pints a day, as regular as possible. She’s brought in over and over again the money I gave for her.”
He walked along with the free and easy step which Bertha so much admired, glancing now and then at the fields which bordered the highway. He stopped to examine the beans of a rival farmer.
“That soil’s no good,” he said, shaking his head. “It don’t pay to grow beans on a patch like that.”
When he arrived at Bewlie’s Farm, Edward called for the labourer in charge of the invalid.
“Well, how’s she going?”
“She ain’t no better, squire.”
“Bad job.... Has Thompson been to see her to-day?” Thompson was the vet.
“‘E can’t make nothin’ of it—’e thinks it’s a habscess she’s got, but I don’t put much faith in Mister Thompson: ’is father was a labourer same as me, only ’e didn’t ’ave to do with farming, bein’ a bricklayer; and wot ’is son can know about cattle is beyond me altogether.”
“Well, let’s go and look at her,” said Edward.
He strode over to the barn, followed by the labourer. The beast was standing in one corner, even more meditative than is usual with cows, hanging her head and humping her back. She seemed profoundly pessimistic.
“I should have thought Thompson could do something,” said Edward.
“‘E says the butcher’s the only thing for ’er,” said the other, with great contempt.
Edward snorted indignantly. “Butcher indeed! I’d like to butcher him if I got the chance.”
He went into the farmhouse, which for years had been his home; but he was a practical, sensible fellow and it brought him no memories, no particular emotion.
“Well, Mrs. Jones,” he said to the tenant’s wife. “How’s yourself?”
“Middlin’, sir. And ’ow are you and Mrs. Craddock?”
“I’m all right—the Missus is having a baby, you know.”
He spoke in the jovial, careless way which necessarily endeared him to the whole world.
“Bless my soul, is she indeed, sir—and I knew you when you was a boy! When d’you expect it?”
“I expect it every minute. Why, for all I know, I may be a happy father when I get back to tea.”
“You take it pretty cool, governor,” said Farmer Jones, who had known Edward in the days of his poverty.
“Me?” cried Edward, laughing. “I know all about this sort of thing, you see. Why, look at all the calves I’ve had—and mind you, I’ve not had an accident with a cow above twice, all the time I’ve gone in for breeding....But I’d better be going to see how the Missus is getting on. Good afternoon to you, Mrs. Jones.”
“Now what I like about the squire,” said Mrs. Jones, “is that there’s no ‘aughtiness in ’im. ’E ain’t too proud to take a cup of tea with you, although ’e is the squire now.”
“‘E’s the best squire we’ve ’ad for thirty years,” said Farmer Jones, “and, as you say, my dear, there’s not a drop of ’aughtiness in ‘im—which is more than you can say for his missus.”
“Oh well, she’s young-like,” replied his wife. “They do say as ’ow ’e’s the master, and I dare say ’e’ll teach ’er better.”
“Trust ’im for makin’ ’is wife buckle under; ’e’s not a man to stand nonsense from anybody.”
Edward swung along the road, whirling his stick round, whistling, and talking to the dogs that accompanied him. He was of a hopeful disposition, and did not think it would be necessary to slaughter his best cow. He did not believe in the vet. half so much as in himself, and his firm opinion was that she would recover. He walked up the avenue of Court Leys, looking at the young elms he had planted to fill the gaps; they were pretty healthy on the whole, and he was pleased with his work.
He went to Bertha’s room and knocked at the door. Dr. Ramsay opened it, but with his burly frame barred the passage.
“Oh, don’t be afraid,” said Edward, “I don’t want to come in. I know when I’m best out of the way.... How is she getting on?”
“Well, I’m afraid it won’t be such an easy job as I thought,” whispered the doctor; “but there’s no reason to get alarmed.”
“I shall be downstairs if you want me for anything.”
“She was asking for you a good deal just now, but nurse told her it would upset you if you were there; so then she said, ‘Don’t let him come; I’ll bear it alone.’”
“Oh, that’s all right. In a time like this the husband is much better out of the way, I think.”
Dr. Ramsay shut the door upon him.
“Sensible chap that,” he said. “I like him better and better. Why, most men would be fussing about and getting hysterical, and Lord knows what.”
“Was that Eddie?” asked Bertha, her voice trembling with recent agony.
“Yes; he came to see how you were.”
“He isn’t very much upset, is he? Don’t tell him I’m very bad—it’ll make him wretched. I’ll bear it alone.”
Edward, downstairs, told himself it was no use getting into a state, which was quite true, and taking the most comfortable chair in the room, settled down to read his paper. Before dinner he went to make more inquiries. Dr. Ramsay came out saying he had given Bertha opium, and for a while she was quiet.
“It’s lucky you did it just at dinner time,” said Edward, with a laugh. “We’ll be able to have a snack together.”
They sat down and began to eat. They rivalled one another in their appetites; and the doctor, liking Edward more and more, said it did him good to see a man who could eat well. But before they had reached the pudding, a message came from the nurse to say that Bertha was awake, and Dr. Ramsay regretfully left the table. Edward went on eating steadfastly. At last, with the happy sigh of the man conscious of virtue and a satisfied stomach, he lit his pipe and again settling himself in the armchair, shortly began to doze. The evening, however, was long, and he felt bored.
“It ought to be all over by now,” he said. “I wonder if I need stay up?”
Dr. Ramsay seemed a little worried when Edward went to him a third time.
“I’m afraid it’s a difficult case,” he said. “It’s most unfortunate. She’s been suffering a good deal, poor thing.”
“Well, is there anything I can do?” asked Edward.
“No, except to keep calm and not make a fuss.”
“Oh, I shan’t do that; you needn’t fear. I will say that for myself, I have got nerve.”
“You’re splendid,” said Dr. Ramsay. “I tell you I like to see a man keep his head so well through a job like this.”
“Well, what I came to ask you was—is there any good in my sitting up? Of course I’ll do it if anything can be done; but if not I may as well go to bed.”
“Yes, I think you’d much better; I’ll call you if you’re wanted. I think you might come in and say a word or two to Bertha; it will encourage her.”
Edward entered. Bertha was lying with staring, terrified eyes—eyes that seemed to have lately seen entirely new things, they shone glassily. Her face was whiter than ever, the blood had fled from her lips, and her cheeks were sunken: she looked as if she were dying. She greeted Edward with the faintest smile.
“How are you, little woman?” he asked.
His presence seemed to call her back to life, and a faint colour lit up her cheeks.
“I’m all right,” she said, making an effort. “You mustn’t worry yourself, dear.”
“Been having a bad time?”
“No,” she said, bravely. “I’ve not really suffered much—there’s nothing for you to upset yourself about.”
He went out, and she called Dr. Ramsay. “You haven’t told him what I’ve gone through, have you? I don’t want him to know.”
“No, that’s all right. I’ve told him to go to bed.”
“Oh, I’m glad. He can’t bear not to get his proper night’s rest.... How long d’you think it will last—already I feel as if I’d been tortured for ever, and it seems endless.”
“Oh, it’ll soon be over now, I hope.”
“I’m sure I’m going to die,” she whispered; “I feel that life is being gradually drawn out of me—I shouldn’t mind if it weren’t for Eddie. He’ll be so cut up.”
“What nonsense!” said the nurse, “you all say you’re going to die.”
Edward—dear, manly, calm, and pure-minded fellow as he was—went to bed quietly and soon was fast asleep. Buthis slumbers were somewhat troubled: generally he enjoyed the heavy dreamless sleep of the man who has no nerves and plenty of exercise. To-night, however, he dreamt. He dreamt not only that one cow was sick, but that all his cattle had fallen ill—the cows stood about with gloomy eyes and humpbacks, surly and dangerous, evidently with their livers totally deranged; the oxen were “blown,” and lay on their backs with legs kicking feebly in the air.
“You must send them all to the butcher’s,” said the vet.; “there’s nothing to be done with them.”
“Good Lord deliver us,” said Edward; “I shan’t get four bob a stone for them.”
But his dream was disturbed by a knock at the door, and Edward awoke to find Dr. Ramsay shaking him.
“Wake up, man—get up and dress quickly.”
“What’s the matter?” cried Edward, jumping out of bed and seizing his clothes. “What’s the time?”
“It’s half-past four.... I want you to go into Tercanbury for Dr. Spocref; Bertha is very bad.”
“All right, I’ll bring him back with me.” Edward rapidly dressed himself.
“I’ll go round and wake up the man to put the horse in.”
“No, I’ll do that myself; it’ll take me half the time.” He methodically laced his boots.
“Bertha is in no immediate danger. But I must have a consultation. I still hope we shall bring her through it.”
“By Jove,” said Edward, “I didn’t know it was so bad as that.”
“You need not get alarmed yet—the great thing is for you to keep calm and bring Spocref along as quickly as possible. It’s not hopeless yet.”
Edward, with all his wits about him, was soon ready and with equal rapidity set to harnessing the horse; he carefully lit the lamps, as the proverb,more haste, less speed, passed through his mind. In two minutes he was on the main road, and whipped up the horse. He went with a quick, steady trot through the silent night.
Dr. Ramsay, returning to the sick-room, thought what a splendid object was a man who could be relied upon to do anything, who never lost his head nor got excited. His admiration for Edward was growing by leaps and bounds.
EDWARDCRADDOCKwas a strong man, also unimaginative. Driving through the night to Tercanbury he did not give way to distressing thoughts, but easily kept his anxiety within proper bounds, and gave his whole attention to conducting the horse; he kept his eyes on the road in front of him, and the beast stepped out with swift, regular stride, rapidly passing the milestones. Edward rang Dr. Spocref up and gave him the note he carried. The doctor presently came down, an undersized man with a squeaky voice and a gesticulative manner. He looked upon Edward with suspicion.
“I suppose you’re the husband?” he said, as they clattered down the street. “Would you like me to drive? I dare say you’re rather upset.”
“No—and don’t want to be,” answered Edward, with a laugh. He looked down a little upon people who lived in towns, and never trusted a man who was less than six feet high and burly in proportion!
“I’m rather nervous of anxious husbands who drive me at a breakneck pace in the middle of the night,” said the doctor. “The ditches have an almost irresistible attraction for them.”
“Well, I’m not nervous, doctor, so it doesn’t matter twopence if you are.”
When they reached the open country, Edward set the horse going at its fastest; he was somewhat amused at the doctor’s desire to drive—absurd little man!
“Are you holding on tight?” he asked, with good-natured scorn.
“I see you can drive,” said the doctor.
“It is not the first time I’ve had reins in my hands,” replied Edward, modestly. “Here we are!”
He showed the specialist to the bedroom, and asked whether Dr. Ramsay required him further.
“No, I don’t want you just now; but you’d better stay up to be ready, if anything happens.... I’m afraid Bertha is very bad indeed—you must be prepared for everything.”
Edward retired to the next room and sat down. He was genuinely disturbed, but even now could not realise that Bertha was dying—his mind was sluggish, and he was unable to imagine the future. A more emotional man would have been white with fear, his heart beating painfully and his nerves quivering with a hundred anticipated terrors. He would have been quite useless; while Edward was fit for any emergency—he could have been trusted to drive another ten miles in search of some appliance, and, with perfect steadiness, to help in any necessary operation.
“You know,” he said to Dr. Ramsay, “I don’t want to get in your way; but if I should be any use in the room, you can trust me not to get flurried.”
“I don’t think there’s anything you can do; the nurse is very trustworthy and capable.”
“Women,” said Edward, “get so excited; they always make fools of themselves if they possibly can.”
But the night air had made Craddock sleepy, and after half-an-hour in the chair, trying to read a book, he dozed off. Presently, however, he awoke, and the first light of day filled the room with a gray coldness. He looked at his watch.
“By Jove, it’s a long job,” he said.
There was a knock at the door, and the nurse came in.
“Will you please come.”
Dr. Ramsay met him in the passage. “Thank God, it’s over. She’s had a terrible time.”
“Is she all right?”
“I think she’s in no danger now—but I’m sorry to say we couldn’t save the child.”
A pang went through Edward’s heart. “Is it dead?”
“It was still-born. I was afraid it was hopeless. You’d better go to Bertha now—she wants you. She doesn’t know about the child.”
Bertha was lying in an attitude of complete exhaustion: she lay on her back, with arms stretched in utter weakness by her sides. Her face was gray with past anguish, her eyes dull and lifeless, half closed; and her jaw hung almost as hangs the jaw of a corpse. She tried to form a smile as she saw Edward, but in her feebleness the lips scarcely moved.
“Don’t try to speak, dear,” said the nurse, seeing that Bertha was attempting words.
Edward bent down and kissed her, the faintest blush coloured her cheeks, and she began to cry; the tears stealthily glided down her cheeks.
“Come nearer to me, Eddie,” she whispered.
He knelt beside her, suddenly touched. He took her hand, and the contact had a vivifying effect; she drew a long breath, and her lips formed a weary, weary smile.
“Thank God, it’s over,” she groaned, half whispering. “Oh, Eddie, darling, you can’t think what I’ve gone through.”
“Well, it’s all over now.”
“And you’ve been worrying too, Eddie. It encouraged me to think that you shared my trouble. You must go to sleep now. It was good of you to drive to Tercanbury for me.”
“You mustn’t talk,” said Dr. Ramsay, coming back into the room, after seeing the specialist sent off.
“I’m better now,” said Bertha, “since I’ve seen Eddie.”
“Well, you must go to sleep.”
“You’ve not told me yet if it’s a boy or a girl; tell me, Eddie, you know.”
Edward looked uneasily at the doctor.
“It’s a boy,” said Dr. Ramsay.
“I knew it would be,” she murmured. An expression of ecstatic pleasure came into her face, chasing away the grayness of death. “I’m so glad. Have you seen it, Eddie?”
“Not yet.”
“It’s our child, isn’t it? It’s worth going through the pain to have a baby. I’m so happy.”
“You must go to sleep now.”
“I’m not a bit sleepy—and I want to see my boy.”
“No, you can’t see him now,” said Dr. Ramsay, “he’s asleep, and you mustn’t disturb him.”
“Oh, I should like to see him, just for one minute. You needn’t wake him.”
“You shall see him after you’ve been asleep,” said the doctor, soothingly. “It’ll excite you too much.”
“Well, you go in and see him, Eddie, and kiss him, and then I’ll go to sleep.”
She seemed so anxious that at least its father should see his child, that the nurse led Edward into the next room. On a chest of drawers was lying something covered with a towel. This the nurse lifted, and Edward saw his child; it was naked and very small, hardly human, repulsive, yet very pitiful. The eyes were closed, the eyes that had never been opened. Edward looked at it for a minute.
“I promised I’d kiss it,” he whispered.
He bent down and touched with his lips the white forehead; the nurse drew the towel over the body, and they went back to Bertha.
“Is he sleeping?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Did you kiss him?”
“Yes.”
Bertha smiled. “Fancy your kissing baby before me.”
But Dr. Ramsay’s draught was taking its effect, and almost immediately Bertha fell into a pleasant sleep.
“Let’s take a turn in the garden,” said Dr. Ramsay. “I think I ought to be here when she wakes.”
The air was fresh, scented with the spring flowers and the odour of the earth. Both men inspired it with relief after the close atmosphere of the sick-room. Dr. Ramsay put his arm in Edward’s.
“Cheer up, my boy,” he said. “You’ve borne it all magnificently. I’ve never seen a man go through a night like this better than you; and upon my word, you’re as fresh as paint this morning.”
“Oh, I’m all right,” said Edward. “What’s to be done about—about the baby?”
“I think she’ll be able to bear it better after she’s had a sleep. I really didn’t dare say it was still-born. The shock would have been too much for her.”
They went in and washed and ate, then waited for Bertha to wake. At last the nurse called them.
“You poor things,” cried Bertha, as they entered the room. “Have you had no sleep at all?... I feel quite well now, and I want my baby. Nurse says it’s sleeping and I can’t have it—but I will. I want it to sleep with me, I want to look at my son.”
Edward and the nurse looked at Dr. Ramsay, who for once was disconcerted.
“I don’t think you’d better have him to-day, Bertha,” he said. “It would upset you.”
“Oh, but I must have my baby. Nurse, bring him to me at once.”
Edward knelt down again by the bedside and took her hands. “Now, Bertha, you musn’t be alarmed, but the baby’s not well, and——“
“What d’you mean?” Bertha suddenly sprang up in the bed.
“Lie down. Lie down,” cried Dr. Ramsay and the nurse, forcing her back on the pillow.
“What’s the matter with him, doctor,” she cried, in sudden terror.
“It’s as Edward says, he’s not well.”
“Oh, he isn’t going to die—after all I’ve gone through.”
She looked from one to the other. “Oh, tell me; don’t keep me in suspense. I can bear it, whatever it is.”
Dr. Ramsay touched Edward, encouraging him.
“You must prepare yourself for bad news, darling. You know—--“
“He isn’t dead?” she shrieked.
“I’m awfully sorry, dear.... He was still-born.”
“Oh, God!” groaned Bertha, it was a cry of despair. And then she burst into passionate weeping.
Her sobs were terrible, uncontrollable; it was her life that she was weeping away, her hope of happiness, all her desires and dreams. Her heart seemed breaking. She put her hands to her eyes, with a gesture of utter agony.
“Then I went through it all for nothing.... Oh, Eddie, you don’t know the frightful pain of it—all night I thought I should die.... I would have given anything to be put out of my suffering. And it was all useless.”
She sobbed still more irresistibly, quite crushed by the recollection of what she had gone through, and its futility.
“Oh, I wish I could die.”
The tears were in Edward’s eyes, and he kissed her hands.
“Don’t give way, darling,” he said, searching in vain for words to console her. His voice faltered and broke.
“Oh, Eddie,” she said, “you’re suffering just as much as I am. I forgot.... Let me see him now.”
Dr. Ramsay made a sign to the nurse, and she fetched the dead child. She carried it to the bedside and showed it to Bertha.
Bertha said nothing, and at last turned away; the nurse withdrew. Bertha’s tears now had ceased, but her mouth was set into a hopeless woe.
“Oh, I loved him already so much.”
Edward bent over. “Don’t grieve, darling.”
She put her arms round his neck as she had delighted to do. “Oh, Eddie, love me with all your heart. I want your love so badly.”
FORdays Bertha was overwhelmed with grief. She thought always of the dead child that had never lived, and her heart ached. But above all she was tormented by the idea that all her pain had been futile; she had gone through so much, her sleep still was full of the past agony, and it had been utterly, utterly useless. Her body was mutilated so that she wondered it was possible for her to recover; she had lost her old buoyancy, that vitality which had been so enjoyable, and she felt like an old woman. Her sense of weariness was unendurable—she was so tired that it seemed to her impossible to get rest. She lay in bed, day after day, in a posture of hopeless fatigue, on her back, with arms stretched out alongside of her, the pillows supporting her head: all her limbs were singularly powerless.
Recovery was very slow, and Edward suggested sending for Miss Ley, but Bertha refused.
“I don’t want to see anybody,” she said; “I merely want to lie still and be quiet.”
It bored her to speak with people, and even her affections, for the time, were dormant: she looked upon Edward as some one apart from her, his presence and absence gave no particular emotion. She was tired, and desired only to be left alone. All sympathy was unnecessary and useless, she knew that no one could enter into the bitterness of her sorrow, and she preferred to bear it alone.
Little by little, however, Bertha regained strength and consented to see the friends who called, some genuinely sorry, others impelled merely by a sense of duty or by a ghoul-like curiosity. Miss Glover, at this period, was a great trial; the good creature felt for Bertha the sincerest sympathy, but her feelings were one thing, her sense ofright and wrong another. She did not think the young wife took her affliction with proper humility. Gradually a rebellious feeling had replaced the extreme prostration of the beginning, and Bertha raged at the injustice of her lot. Miss Glover came every day, bringing flowers and good advice; but Bertha was not docile, and refused to be satisfied with Miss Glover’s pious consolations. When the good creature read the Bible, Bertha listened with a firmer closing of her lips, sullenly.
“Do you like me to read the Bible to you, dear?” asked the parson’s sister once.
And Bertha, driven beyond her patience, could not as usual command her tongue.
“If it amuses you, dear,” she answered, bitterly.
“Oh, Bertha, you’re not taking it in the proper spirit—you’re so rebellious, and it’s wrong, it’s utterly wrong.”
“I can only think of my baby,” said Bertha, hoarsely.
“Why don’t you pray to God, dear—shall I offer a short prayer now, Bertha?”
“No, I don’t want to pray to God—He’s either impotent or cruel.”
“Bertha,” cried Miss Glover. “You don’t know what you’re saying. Oh, pray to God to melt your stubbornness; pray to God to forgive you.”
“I don’t want to be forgiven. I’ve done nothing that needs it. It’s God who needs my forgiveness—not I His.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying, Bertha,” replied Miss Glover, very gravely and sorrowfully.
Bertha was still so ill that Miss Glover dared not press the subject, but she was grievously troubled. She asked herself whether she should consult her brother, to whom an absurd shyness prevented her from mentioning spiritual matters, unless necessity compelled. But she had immense faith in him, and to her he was a type of all that a Christian clergyman should be. Although her character was so much stronger than his, Mr. Glover always seemed to his sister a pillar of strength; and often in past times, when the fleshwas more stubborn, had she found help and consolation in his very mediocre sermons. Finally, however, Miss Glover decided to speak to him, with the result that, for a week she avoided spiritual topics in her daily conversation with the invalid; then, Bertha having grown a little stronger, without previously mentioning the fact, she brought her brother to Court Leys.
Miss Glover went alone to Bertha’s room, in her ardent sense of propriety fearing that Bertha, in bed, might not be costumed decorously enough for the visit of a clerical gentleman.
“Oh,” she said, “Charles is downstairs and would like to see you so much. I thought I’d better come up first to see if you were—er—presentable.”
Bertha was sitting up in bed, with a mass of cushions and pillows behind her—a bright red jacket contrasted with her dark hair and the pallor of her skin. She drew her lips together when she heard that the Vicar was below, and a slight frown darkened her forehead. Miss Glover caught sight of it.
“I don’t think she likes your coming,” said Miss Glover—to encourage him—when she fetched her brother, “but I think it’s your duty.”
“Yes, I think it’s my duty,” replied Mr. Glover, who liked the approaching interview as little as Bertha.
He was an honest man, oppressed by the inroads of dissent; but his ministrations were confined to the services in church, the collecting of subscriptions, and the visiting of the church-going poor. It was something new to be brought before a rebellious gentlewoman, and he did not quite know how to treat her.
Miss Glover opened the bedroom door for her brother and he entered, a cold wind laden with carbolic acid. She solemnly put a chair for him by the bedside and another for herself at a little distance.
“Ring for the tea before you sit down, Fanny,” said Bertha.
“I think, if you don’t mind, Charles would like to speakto you first,” said Miss Glover. “Am I not right, Charles?”
“Yes, dear.”
“I took the liberty of telling him what you said to me the other day, Bertha.”
Mrs. Craddock pursed her lips, but made no reply.
“I hope you’re not angry with me for doing so, but I thought it my duty.... Now, Charles.”
The Vicar of Leanham coughed.
“I can quite understand,” he said, “that you must be most distressed at your affliction. It’s a most unfortunate occurrence. I need not say that Fanny and I sympathise with you from the bottom of our hearts.”
“We do indeed,” said his sister.
Still Bertha did not answer and Miss Glover looked at her uneasily. The Vicar coughed again.
“But I always think that we should be thankful for the cross we have to bear. It is, as it were, a measure of the confidence that God places in us.”
Bertha remained quite silent and Miss Glover saw that no good would come by beating about the bush.
“The fact is, Bertha,” she said, breaking the awkward silence, “that Charles and I are very anxious that you should be churched. You don’t mind our saying so, but we’re both a great deal older than you are, and we think it will do you good. We do hope you’ll consent to it; but, more than that, Charles is here as the clergyman of your parish, to tell you that it is your duty.”
“I hope it won’t be necessary for me to put it in that way, Mrs. Craddock.”
Bertha paused a moment longer, and then asked for a prayer-book. Miss Glover gave a smile which for her was quite radiant.
“I’ve been wanting for a long time to make you a little present, Bertha,” she said, “and it occurred to me that you might like a prayer-book with good large print. I’ve noticed in church that the book you generally use is so small that it must try your eyes, and be a temptation to you not to follow the service. So I’ve brought you one to-day,which it will give me very much pleasure if you will accept.”
She produced a large volume, bound in gloomy black cloth, and redolent of the antiseptic odours which pervaded the Vicarage. The print was indeed large, but, since the society which arranged the publication insisted on the combination of cheapness with utility, the paper was abominable.
“Thank you very much,” said Bertha, holding out her hand for the gift. “It’s awfully kind of you.”
“Shall I find you theChurching of Women?”
Bertha nodded, and presently the Vicar’s sister handed her the book, open. She read a few lines and dropped it.
“I have no wish to ‘give hearty thanks unto God,’” she said, looking almost fiercely at the worthy pair. “I’m very sorry to offend your prejudices, but it seems to me absurd that I should prostrate myself in gratitude to God.”
“Oh, Mrs. Craddock, I trust you don’t mean what you say,” said the Vicar.
“This is what I told you, Charles,” said Miss Glover. “I don’t think Bertha is well, but still this seems to me dreadfully wicked.”
Bertha frowned, finding it difficult to repress the sarcasm which rose to her lips; her forbearance was sorely tried. But Mr. Glover was a little undecided.
“We must be as thankful to God for the afflictions He sends as for the benefits,” he said at last.
“I am not a worm to crawl upon the ground and give thanks to the foot that crushes me.”
“I think that is blasphemous, Bertha,” said Miss Glover.
“Oh, I have no patience with you, Fanny,” said Bertha, raising herself, a flush lighting up her face. “Can you realise what I’ve gone through, the terrible pain of it? Oh, it was too awful. Even now when I think of it I almost scream.”
“It is by suffering that we rise to our higher self,” said Miss Glover. “Suffering is a fire that burns away the grossness of our material natures.”
“What rubbish you talk,” cried Bertha, passionately. “You can say that when you’ve never suffered. People say that suffering ennobles one; it’s a lie, it only makes one brutal.... But I would have borne it—for the sake of my child. It was all useless—utterly useless. Dr. Ramsay told me the child had been dead the whole time. Oh, if God made me suffer like that, it’s infamous. I wonder you’re not ashamed to put it down to God. How can you imagine Him to be so stupid, so cruel! Why, even the vilest beast in the slums wouldn’t cause a woman such frightful and useless agony for the mere pleasure of it.”
Miss Glover sprang to her feet. “Bertha, your illness is no excuse for this. You must either be mad, or utterly depraved and wicked.”
“No, I’m more charitable than you,” cried Bertha. “I know there is no God.”
“Then I, for one, can have nothing more to do with you.” Miss Glover’s cheeks were flaming, and a sudden indignation dispelled her habitual shyness.
“Fanny, Fanny!” cried her brother, “restrain yourself.”
“Oh, this isn’t a time to restrain one’s self, Charles. It’s one’s duty to speak out sometimes. No, Bertha, if you’re an atheist, I can have nothing more to do with you.”
“She spoke in anger,” said the Vicar. “It is not our duty to judge her.”
“It’s our duty to protest when the name of God is taken in vain, Charles. If you think Bertha’s position excuses her blasphemies, Charles, then I think you ought to be ashamed of yourself.... But I’m not afraid to speak out. Yes, Bertha, I’ve known for a long time that you were proud and headstrong, but I thought time would change you. I have always had confidence in you, because I thought at the bottom you were good. But if you deny your Maker, Bertha, there can be no hope for you.”
“Fanny, Fanny,” murmured the Vicar.
“Let me speak, Charles; I think you’re a bad and wicked woman—and I can no longer feel sorry for you, because everything that you have suffered I think you have thoroughly deserved. Your heart is absolutely hard, and I know nothing so thoroughly wicked as a hard-hearted woman.”
“My dear Fanny,” said Bertha, smiling, “we’ve both been absurdly melodramatic.”
“I refuse to laugh at the subject. I see nothing ridiculous in it. Come, Charles, let us go, and leave her to her own thoughts.”
But as Miss Glover bounded to the door the handle was turned from the outside and Mrs. Branderton came in. The position was awkward, and her appearance seemed almost providential to the Vicar, who could not fling out of the room like his sister, but also could not make up his mind to shake hands with Bertha, as if nothing had happened. Mrs. Branderton entered, all airs and graces, smirking and ogling, and the gew-gaws on her brand-new bonnet quivered with every movement.
“I told the servant I could find my way up alone, Bertha,” she said. “I wanted so much to see you.”
“Mr. and Miss Glover were just going. How kind of you to come!”
Miss Glover bounced out of the room with a smile at Mrs. Branderton that was almost ghastly; and Mr. Glover, meek, polite, and as antiseptic as ever, shaking hands with Mrs. Branderton, followed his sister.
“What queer people they are!” said Mrs. Branderton, standing at the window to see them come out of the front door. “I really don’t think they’re quite human.... Why, she’s walking on in front—she might wait for him—taking such long steps; and he’s trying to catch her up. I believe they’re having a race. Ha! ha! What ridiculous people! Isn’t it a pity she will wear short skirts—my dear, her feet and ankles are positively awful. I believe they wear one another’s boots indiscriminately.... And how are you, dear? I think you’re looking much better.”
Mrs. Branderton sat in such a position as to have full view of herself in a mirror.
“What nice looking-glasses you have in your room, mylove. No woman can dress properly without them. Now, you’ve only got to look at poor Fanny Glover to know that she’s so modest as never even to look at herself in the glass to put her hat on.”
Mrs. Branderton chattered on, thinking that she was doing Bertha good. “A woman doesn’t want one to be solemn when she’s ill. I know when I have anything the matter, I like some one to talk to me about the fashions. I remember in my young days, when I was ill, I used to get old Mr. Crowhurst, the former vicar, to come and read the ladies’ papers to me. He was such a nice old man, not a bit like a clergyman; and he used to say I was his only parishioner whom he really liked visiting.... I’m not tiring you, am I, dear?”
“Oh, dear, no!” said Bertha.
“Now I suppose the Glovers have been talking all sorts of stuff to you. Of course one has to put up with it, I suppose, because it sets a good example to the lower orders; but I must say I do think the clergy nowadays sometimes forget their place. I consider it most objectionable when they insist on talking religion with you, as if you were a common person.... But they’re not nearly so nice as they used to be. In my young days the clergy were always gentlemen’s sons—but then they weren’t expected to trouble about the poor. I can quite understand that now a gentleman shouldn’t like to become a clergyman; he has to mix with the lower classes, and they’re growing more familiar every day.”
But suddenly Bertha, without warning, burst into tears. Mrs. Branderton was flabbergasted!
“My dear, what is the matter? Where are your salts? Shall I ring the bell?”
Bertha, sobbing violently, begged Mrs. Branderton to take no notice of her. That fashionable creature had a sentimental heart, and would have been delighted to weep with Bertha; but she had several calls to make, and could not risk a disarrangement of her person. She was also curious, and would have given much to find out the causeof Bertha’s outburst. She comforted herself, however, by giving the Hancocks, whoseAt Homeday it was, a detailed account of the affair; and they, shortly afterwards, recounted it with sundry embellishments to Mrs. Mayston Ryle.
Mrs. Mayston Ryle, magnificently imposing as ever, snorted like a charger eager for battle.
“Mrs. Branderton sendsmeto sleep frequently,” she said; “But I can quite understand that if the poor thing isn’t well, Mrs. Branderton would make her cry. I never see her myself unless I’m in the most robust health, otherwise I know she’d simply make me howl.”
“But I wonder what was the matter with poor Mrs. Craddock,” said Miss Hancock.
“I don’t know,” answered Mrs. Mayston Ryle in her majestic manner. “But I’ll find out. I dare say she only wants a little good society.Ishall go and see her.”
And she did!
BUTthe apathy with which for weeks Bertha had looked upon all terrestrial concerns was passing away before her increasing strength. It had been due only to an utter physical weakness, of the same order as that merciful indifference to all earthly sympathies which gives ease to the final passage into the Unknown. The prospect of death would be unendurable if one did not know that the enfeebled body brought a like enfeeblement of spirit, dissolving the ties of this world: when the traveller must leave the hostel with the double gate, the wine he loved has lost its savour and the bread turned bitter in his mouth. Like useless gauds, Bertha had let fall the interests of life; her soul lay a-dying. Her soul was a lighted candle in a lantern, flickering in the wind so that its flame was hardly seen and the lantern was useless; but presently the wind of death was stilled, and the light shone out and filled the darkness.
With increasing strength the old passion returned; love came back like a conqueror, and Bertha knew that she had not done with life. In her loneliness she yearned for Edward’s affection; for now he was all she had, and she stretched out her arms to him with a great desire. She blamed herself bitterly for her coldness, she wept at the idea of what he must have suffered. And she was ashamed that the love which she had thought eternal, should have been for a while destroyed. But a change had come over her. She did not now love her husband with the old blind passion, but with a new feeling added to it; for to him was transferred the tenderness which she had lavished on her dead child, and all the mother’s spirit which must now, to her life’s end, go unsatisfied. Her heart was like a house with empty chambers, and the fires of love raged through them triumphantly.
Bertha thought a little painfully of Miss Glover, but dismissed her with a shrug of the shoulders. The good creature had kept her resolve never again to come near Court Leys, and for days nothing had been heard of her.
“What does it matter?” cried Bertha. “So long as Eddie loves me, the rest of the world is nothing.”
But her room gained now the aspect of a prison, so that she felt it impossible much longer to endure its dreadful monotony. Her bed was a bed of torture, and she fancied that so long as she remained stretched upon it, health would not return. She begged Dr. Ramsay to allow her to get up, but was always met with the same refusal, backed up by her husband’s common sense. All she obtained was the dismissal of the nurse to whom she had taken a sudden and violent dislike. From no reasonable cause, Bertha found the mere presence of the poor woman unendurable, and her officious loquacity irritated her beyond measure. If she must remain in bed, Bertha preferred absolute solitude; the turn of her mind was becoming almost misanthropic.
The hours passed endlessly. From her pillow Bertha could see only the sky, now a metallic blue with dazzling clouds swaying heavily across, now gray, darkening the room. The furniture and the wall-paper forced themselves distastefully on her mind. Every detail was impressed on her consciousness as indelibly as the potter’s mark on the clay.
Finally she made up her mind to get up, come what might. It was the Sunday after the quarrel with Miss Glover; Edward would be indoors and doubtless intended to spend most of the afternoon in her room, but she knew he disliked sitting there; the closeness, the odours of medicine, made his head ache. Her appearance in the drawing-room would be a delightful surprise. She would not tell him that she was getting up, but go downstairs and take him unawares. She got out of bed, but as she put her feet to the ground, had to cling to a chair; her legs were so weak that they hardly supported her, and her head reeled. Butin a little while she gathered strength and slowly dressed herself, slowly and very difficultly; her weakness was almost pain. She had to sit down, and her hair was so wearisome to do that she was afraid she must give up the attempt and return to bed. But the thought of Edward’s surprise upheld her—he had said how pleased he would be to have her downstairs with him. At last she was ready and went to the door, supporting herself on every object at hand. But what joy it was to be up again, to feel herself once more among the living—away from the grave of her bed!
She came to the top of the stairs and went down, leaning heavily on the banisters; she went one step at a time, as little children do, and laughed at herself. But the laugh changed almost into a groan, as in exhaustion she sank down and felt it impossible to go farther. Then the thought of Edward urged her on. She struggled to her feet, and persevered till she reached the bottom. Now she was outside the drawing-room, she heard Edward whistling within. She crept along, eager to make no sound; noiselessly she turned the handle and flung the door open.
“Eddie!”
He turned round with a cry. “Hulloa, what are you doing here?”
He came towards her, but showed not the great joy which she had expected.
“I wanted to surprise you. Aren’t you glad to see me?”
“Yes, of course I am. But you oughtn’t to have come without Dr. Ramsay’s leave. And I didn’t expect you to-day.”
He led her to the sofa, and she lay down.
“I thought you’d be so pleased.”
“Of course I am!”
He placed pillows under her, and covered her with a rug—little attentions which were exquisitely touching.
“You don’t know how I struggled,” she said. “I thought I should never get my things on, and then I almost tumbled down the stairs, I was so weak.... But I knew you must be lonely here, and you hate sitting in the bedroom.”
“You oughtn’t to have risked it. It may throw you back,” he replied, gently. He looked at his watch. “You must only stay half-an-hour, and then I shall carry you up to bed.”
Bertha gave a laugh, intending to permit nothing of the sort. It was so comfortable to lie on the sofa, with Edward by her side. She held his hands.
“I simply couldn’t stay in the room any longer. It was so gloomy, with the rain pattering all day on the windows.”
It was one of those days of late summer when the rain seems never ceasing, and the air is filled with the melancholy of nature, already conscious of the near decay.
“I was meaning to come up to you as soon as I’d finished my pipe.”
Bertha was exhausted, and, keeping silence, pressed Edward’s hand in acknowledgment of his kind intention. Presently he looked at his watch again.
“Your half-hour’s nearly up. In five minutes I’m going to carry you to your room.”
“Oh no, you’re not,” she replied playfully, taking his remark as humorous. “I’m going to stay till dinner.”
“No, you can’t possibly. It will be very bad for you.... To please me go back to bed now.”
“Well, we’ll split the difference and I’ll go after tea.”
“No, you must go now.”
“Why, one would think you wanted to get rid of me!”
“I have to go out,” said Edward.
“Oh no, you haven’t—you’re merely saying that to induce me to go upstairs. You fibber!”
“Let me carry you up now, there’s a good girl.”
“I won’t, I won’t, I won’t.”
“I shall have to leave you alone, Bertha. I didn’t know you meant to get up to-day, and I have an engagement.”
“Oh, but you can’t leave me the first time I get up. What is it? You can write a note and break it.”
“I’m awfully sorry,” he replied. “But I’m afraid I can’t do that. The fact is, I saw the Miss Hancocks after church, and they said they had to walk into Tercanbury thisafternoon, and as it was so wet I offered to drive them in. I’ve promised to fetch them at three.”
“You’re joking,” said Bertha; her eyes had suddenly become hard, and she was breathing fast.
Edward looked at her uneasily. “I didn’t know you were going to get up, or I shouldn’t have arranged to go out.”
“Oh well, it doesn’t matter,” said Bertha, throwing off the momentary anger. “You can just write and say you can’t come.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he answered, gravely. “I’ve given my word and I can’t break it.”
“Oh, but it’s infamous.” Her wrath blazed out again. “Even you can’t be so cruel as to leave me at such a time. I deserve some consideration—after all I’ve suffered. For weeks I lay at death’s door, and at last when I’m a little better and come down—thinking to give you pleasure, you’re engaged to drive the Misses Hancock into Tercanbury.”
“Come, Bertha, be reasonable.” Edward condescended to expostulate with his wife, though it was not his habit to humour her extravagances. “You see it’s not my fault. Isn’t it enough for you that I’m very sorry? I shall be back in an hour. Stay here, and then we’ll spend the evening together.”
“Why did you lie to me?”
“I haven’t lied: I’m not given to that,” said Edward, with natural satisfaction.
“You pretended it was for my health’s sake that I must go upstairs. Isn’t that a lie?”
“It was for your health’s sake.”
“You lie again. You wanted to get me out of the way, so that you might go to the Miss Hancocks without telling me.”
“You ought to know me better than that by now.”
“Why did you say nothing about them till you found it impossible to avoid.”
Edward shrugged his shoulders good-humouredly. “Because I know how touchy you are.”
“And yet you made them the offer.”
“It came out almost unawares. They were grumbling about the weather, and without thinking, I said, ‘I’ll drive you over if you like.’ And they jumped at it.”
“You’re so good-natured if any one but your wife is concerned.”
“Well, dear, I can’t stay arguing. I shall be late already.”
“You’re not really going?” It had been impossible for Bertha to realise that Edward would carry out his intention.
“I must, my dear; it’s my duty.”
“You have more duty to me than to any one else.... Oh, Eddie, don’t go. You can’t realise all it means to me.”
“I must. I’m not going because I want to. I shall be back in an hour.”
He bent down to kiss her, and she flung her arms round his neck, bursting into tears.
“Oh, please don’t go—if you love me at all, if you’ve ever loved me.... Don’t you see that you’re destroying my love for you?”
“Now, don’t be silly, there’s a good girl.”
He loosened her arms and walked away; but rising from the sofa she followed him and took his arm, beseeching him to stay.
“You see how unhappy I am; and you are all I have in the world now. For God’s sake, stay, Eddie. It means more to me than you know.”
She sank to the floor; she was kneeling before him.
“Come, get on to the sofa. All this is very bad for you.”
He carried her to the couch, and then, to finish the scene, hurriedly left the room.
Bertha sprang up to follow him, but sank back as the door slammed, and burying her face in her hands, surrendered herself to a passion of tears. But humiliation and rage almost drove away her grief. She had knelt before her husband for a favour, and he had not granted it. Suddenly she abhorred him. The love, which had been a tower of brass, fell like a house of cards. She would not try now to conceal from herself the faults that stared her in the face. He cared only for himself: with him it was only self, self, self. Bertha found a bitter fascination in stripping her idol of the finery with which her madness had bedizened him; she saw him more accurately now, and he was utterly selfish. But most unbearable of all was her own extreme humiliation.
The rain poured down, unceasing, and the despair of nature ate into her soul. At last she was exhausted; and losing thought of time, lay half-unconscious, feeling at least no pain, her brain vacant and weary. When a servant came to ask if Miss Glover might see her, she hardly understood.
“Miss Glover doesn’t usually stand on such ceremony,” she said ill-temperedly, forgetting the incident of the previous week. “Ask her to come in.”
The parson’s sister came to the door and hesitated, growing red; the expression in her eyes was pained, and even frightened.
“May I come in, Bertha?”
“Yes.”
She walked straight to the sofa, and fell on her knees.
“Oh, Bertha, please forgive me. I was wrong, and I’ve behaved wickedly to you.”
“My dear Fanny,” murmured Bertha, a smile breaking through her misery.
“I withdraw every word I said to you, Bertha; I can’t understand how I said it. I humbly beg your forgiveness.”
“There is nothing to forgive.”
“Oh, yes, there is. Good heavens, I know! My conscience has been reproaching me ever since I was here, but I hardened my heart, and would not listen.”
Poor Miss Glover could not really have hardened her heart, however much she tried.
“I knew I ought to come to you and beg your forgiveness, but I wouldn’t. I’ve not slept a wink at night. I wasafraid of dying, and if I’d been cut off in the midst of my wickedness, I should have been lost.”
She spoke very quickly, finding it evidently a relief to express her trouble.
“I thought Charles would upbraid me, but he’s never said a word. Oh, I wish he had, it would have been easier to bear than his sorrowful look. I know he’s been worrying dreadfully, and I’m so sorry for him. I kept on saying I’d only done my duty, but in my heart I knew I had done wrong. Oh Bertha, and this morning I dared not take communion, I thought God would strike me for blasphemy. And I was afraid Charles would refuse me in front of the whole congregation.... It’s the first Sunday since I was confirmed, that I’ve missed taking Holy Communion.”
She buried her face in her hands, crying. Bertha heard her, almost listlessly; for her own trouble was overwhelming and she could not think of any other. Miss Glover raised her face, tear-stained and red; it was positively hideous, but notwithstanding, very pathetic.
“Then I couldn’t bear it any longer,” she said. “I thought if I begged your pardon I might be able to forgive myself. Oh, Bertha, please forget what I said, and forgive me. And I fancied that Edward would be here to-day, and the thought of exposing myself before him too was almost more than I could bear. But I knew the humiliation would be good for me. Oh, I was so thankful when Jane said he was out.... What can I do to earn your forgiveness?”
In her heart of hearts, Miss Glover desired some horrible penance which would thoroughly mortify her flesh.
“I have already forgotten all about it,” said Bertha, smiling wearily. “If my forgiveness is worth anything, I forgive you entirely.”
Miss Glover was a little pained at Bertha’s manifest indifference, yet took it as a just punishment.
“And Bertha, let me say that I love you and admire you more than any one after Charles. If you really think what you said the other day, I still love you and hope Godwill turn your heart. Charles and I will pray for you night and day, and soon I hope the Almighty will send you another child to take the place of the one you lost. Believe me, God is very good and merciful, and He will grant you what you wish.”
Bertha gave a low cry of pain. “I can never have another child.... Dr. Ramsay told me it was impossible.”
“Oh, Bertha, I didn’t know.”
Miss Glover took Bertha protectingly in her arms, crying, and kissed her like a little child.
But Bertha dried her eyes.
“Leave me now, Fanny, please. I’d rather be alone. But come and see me soon, and forgive me if I’m horrid. I’m very unhappy and I shall never be happy again.”
A few minutes later, Edward returned—cheery, jovial, red-faced, and in the best of humours.
“Here we are again!” he shouted, like a clown in a harlequinade. “You see I’ve not been gone long and you haven’t missed me a rap. Now, we’ll have tea.”
He kissed her and put her cushions right.
“By Jove, it does me good to see you down again. You must pour out the tea for me.... Now, confess; weren’t you unreasonable to make such a fuss about my going away? And I couldn’t help it, could I?”