But the 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. But in 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 this afternoon, 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 was afraid 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 God will 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?”