At last Gerald had but one day more. A long-standing engagement of
Bertha and Miss Ley forced him to take leave of them early, for he
started from London at seven in the morning.
“I’m dreadfully sorry that you can’t spend your last evening with us,”
said Miss Ley. “But the Trevor-Jones will never forgive us if we don’t
go to their dinner-party.”
“Of course it was my fault for not finding out before, when I sailed.”
“What are you going to do with yourself this evening, you wretch?”
“Oh, I’m going to have one last unholy bust.”
“I’m afraid you’re very glad that for one night we can’t look after
you.”
In a little while Miss Ley, looking at her watch, told Bertha that it
was time to dress. Gerald got up, and kissing Miss Ley, thanked her for
her kindness.
“My dear boy, please don’t sentimentalise. And you’re not going for
ever. You’re sure to make a mess of things and come back--the Leys
always do.”
Then Gerald turned to Bertha and held out his hand.
“You’ve been awfully good to me,” he said, smiling; but there was in his
eyes a steadfast look, which seemed trying to make her understand
something. “We’ve had some ripping times together.”
“I hope you won’t forget me entirely. We’ve certainly kept you out of
mischief.”
Miss Ley watched them, admiring their composure. She thought they took
the parting very well.
“I dare say it was nothing but a little flirtation and not very serious.
Bertha’s so much older than he and so sensible that she’s most unlikely
to have made a fool of herself.”
But she had to fetch the gift which she had prepared for Gerald.
“Wait just one moment, Gerald,” she said. “I want to get something.”
She left the room and immediately the boy bent forward.
“Don’t go out to-night, Bertha. I must see you again.”
Before Bertha could reply, Miss Ley called from the hall.
“Good-bye,” said Gerald, aloud.
“Good-bye, I hope you’ll have a nice journey.”
“Here’s a little present for you, Gerald,” said Miss Ley, when he was
outside. “You’re dreadfully extravagant, and as that’s the only virtue
you have, I feel I ought to encourage it. And if you want money at any
time, I can always scrape together a few guineas, you know.”
She put into his hand two fifty-pound notes and then, as if she were
ashamed of herself, bundled him out of doors. She went to her room; and
having rather seriously inconvenienced herself for the next six months,
for an entirely unworthy object, she began to feel remarkably pleased.
In an hour Miss Ley returned to the drawing-room to wait for Bertha, who
presently came in, dressed--but ghastly pale.
“Oh, Aunt Polly, I simply can’t come to-night. I’ve got a racking
headache; I can scarcely see. You must tell them that I’m sorry, but I’m
too ill.”
She sank on a chair and put her hand to her forehead, groaning with
pain. Miss Ley lifted her eyebrows; the affair was evidently more
serious that she thought. However, the danger now was over; it would
ease Bertha to stay at home and cry it out. She thought it brave of her
even to have dressed.
“You’ll get no dinner,” she said. “There’s nothing in the place.”
“Oh, I want nothing to eat.”
Miss Ley expressed her concern, and promising to make the excuses, went
away. Bertha started up when she heard the door close and went to the
window. She looked round for Gerald, fearing he might be already there;
he was incautious and eager: but if Miss Ley saw him, it would be
fatal. The hansom drove away and Bertha breathed more freely. She could
not help it; she too felt that she must see him. If they had to part, it
could not be under Miss Ley’s cold eyes.
She waited at the window, but he did not come. Why did he delay? He was
wasting their few precious minutes; it was already past eight. She
walked up and down the room and looked again, but still he was not in
sight. She fancied that while she watched he would not come, and forced
herself to read. But how could she! Again she looked out of window; and
this time Gerald was there. He stood in the porch of the opposite house,
looking up; and immediately he saw her, crossed the street. She went to
the door and opened it gently, as he came upstairs.
He slipped in as if he were a thief, and on tiptoe they entered the
drawing-room.
“Oh, it’s so good of you,” he said. “I couldn’t leave you like that. I
knew you’d stay.”
“Why have you been so long? I thought you were never coming.”
“I dared not risk it before. I was afraid something might happen to stop
Aunt Polly.”
“I said I had a headache. I dressed so that she might suspect nothing.”
The night was falling and they sat together in the dimness. Gerald took
her hands and kissed them.
“This week has been awful. I’ve never had the chance of saying a word to
you. My heart has been breaking.”
“My dearest.”
“I wondered if you were sorry I was going.”
She looked at him and tried to smile; already she could not trust
herself to speak.
“Every day I thought you would tell me to stop and you never did--and
now it’s too late. Oh, Bertha, if you loved me you wouldn’t send me
away.”
“I think I love you too much. Don’t you see it’s better that we should
part?”
“I daren’t think of to-morrow.”
“You are so young; in a little while you’ll fall in love with some one
else. Don’t you see that I’m old?”
“But I love you. Oh, I wish I could make you believe me. Bertha, Bertha,
I can’t leave you. I love you too much.”
“For God’s sake don’t talk like that. It’s hard enough to bear
already--don’t make it harder.”
The night had fallen, and through the open window the summer breeze came
in, and the softness of the air was like a kiss. They sat side by side
in silence, the boy holding Bertha’s hand; they could not speak, for
words were powerless to express what was in their hearts. But presently
a strange intoxication seized them, and the mystery of passion wrapped
them about invisibly. Bertha felt the trembling of Gerald’s hand, and it
passed to hers. She shuddered and tried to withdraw, but he would not
let it go. The silence now became suddenly intolerable: Bertha tried to
speak, but her throat was dry, and she could utter no word.
A weakness came to her limbs and her heart beat painfully. Her eye
crossed with Gerald’s, and they both looked instantly aside, as if
caught in some crime. Bertha began to breathe more quickly. Gerald’s
intense desire burned itself into her soul; she dared not move. She
tried to implore God’s help, but she could not. The temptation which all
the week had terrified her returned with double force--the temptation
which she abhorred, but to which she had a horrible longing not to
resist.
And now she asked what it mattered. Her strength was dwindling, and
Gerald had but to say a word. And now she wished him to say the word; he
loved her, and she loved him passionately. She gave way; she no longer
wished to resist. She turned her face to Gerald; she leant towards him
with parted lips.
“Bertha,” he whispered, and they were nearly in one another’s arms.
But a fine sound pierced the silence; they started back and listened.
They heard a key put into the front-door, and the door was opened.
“Take care,” whispered Bertha, and pushed Gerald away.
“It’s Aunt Polly.”
Bertha pointed to the electric switch, and understanding, Gerald turned
on the light. He looked round instinctively for some way of escape, but
Bertha, with a woman’s quick invention, sprang to the door and flung it
open.
“Is that you, Aunt Polly?” she cried. “How fortunate you came back;
Gerald is here to bid us definitely good-bye.”
“He makes as many farewells as a _prima donna_,” said Miss Ley.
She came in, somewhat breathless, with two spots of red upon her cheeks.
“I thought you wouldn’t mind if I came here to wait till you returned,”
said Gerald. “And I found Bertha.”
“How funny that our thoughts should have been identical,” said Miss Ley.
“It occurred to me that you might come, and so I hurried home as quickly
as I could.”
“You’re quite out of breath,” said Bertha.
Miss Ley sank on a chair, exhausted. As she was eating her fish and
talking to a neighbour, it suddenly dawned upon her that Bertha’s
indisposition was assumed.
“Oh, what a fool I am! They’ve hoodwinked me as if I were a child....
Good heavens, what are they doing now?”
The dinner seemed interminable, but immediately afterwards she took
leave of her astonished hostess and gave the cabman orders to drive
furiously. She arrived, inveighing against the deceitfulness of the
human race. She had never run up the stairs so quickly.
“How is your headache, Bertha?”
“Thanks, it’s much better. Gerald has driven it away.”
This time Miss Ley’s good-bye to the precocious youth was rather chilly;
she was devoutly thankful that his boat sailed next morning.
“I’ll show you out, Gerald,” said Bertha. “Don’t trouble, Aunt
Polly--you must be dreadfully tired.”
They went into the hall and Gerald put on his coat. He stretched out his
hand to Bertha without speaking, but she, with a glance at the
drawing-room, beckoned to him to follow her, and slid out of the
front-door. There was no one on the stairs. She flung her arms round his
neck and pressed her lips to his. She did not try to hide her passion
now; she clasped him to her heart, and their very souls flew to their
lips and mingled. Their kiss was rapture, madness; it was an ecstasy
beyond description, their senses were powerless to contain their
pleasure. Bertha felt herself about to die. In the bliss, in the agony,
her spirit failed and she tottered; Gerald pressed her more closely to
him.
But there was a sound of some one climbing the stairs. She tore herself
away.
“Good-bye, for ever,” she whispered, and slipping in, closed the door
between them.
She sank down half fainting, but, in fear, struggled to her feet and
dragged herself to her room. Her cheeks were glowing and her limbs
trembled, the kiss still thrilled her whole being. Oh, now it was too
late for prudence! What did she care for her marriage; what did she care
that Gerald was younger that she! She loved him, she loved him insanely;
the present was there with its infinite joy, and if the future brought
misery, it was worth suffering. She could not let him go; he was
hers--she stretched out her arms to take him in her embrace. She would
surrender everything. She would bid him stay; she would follow him to
the end of the earth. It was too late now for reason.
She walked up and down her room excitedly. She looked at the door; she
had a mad desire to go to him now--to abandon everything for his sake.
Her honour, her happiness, her station, were only precious because she
could sacrifice them for him. He was her life and her love, he was her
body and her soul. She listened at the door; Miss Ley would be watching,
and she dared not go.
“I’ll wait,” said Bertha.
She tried to sleep, but could not. The thought of Gerald distracted her.
She dozed, and his presence became more distinct. He seemed to be in the
room and she cried: “At last, my dearest, at last!” She awoke and
stretched out her hands to him; she could not realise that she had
dreamed, that nothing was there.
Then the day came, dim and gray at first, but brightening with the
brilliant summer morning; the sun shone in her window, and the sunbeams
danced in the room. Now the moments were very few, she must make up her
mind quickly--and the sunbeams spoke of life, and happiness, and the
glory of the unknown. Oh, what a fool she was to waste her life, to
throw away her chance of happiness--how weak not to grasp the love
thrown in her way! She thought of Gerald packing his things, getting
off, of the train speeding through the summer country. Her love was
irresistible. She sprang up, and bathed, and dressed. It was past six
when she slipped out of the room and made her way downstairs. The street
was empty as in the night; but the sky was blue and the air fresh and
sweet, she took a long breath and felt curiously elated. She walked till
she found a cab, and told the driver to go quickly to Euston. The cab
crawled along, and she was in an agony of impatience. Supposing she
arrived too late? She told the man to hurry.
The Liverpool train was fairly full; but Bertha walking up the crowded
platform quickly saw Gerald. He sprang towards her.
“Bertha you’ve come. I felt certain you wouldn’t let me go without
seeing you.”
He took her hands and looked at her with eyes full of love.
“I’m so glad you’ve come,” he said at last. “I want--I want to beg your
pardon.”
“What do you mean?” whispered Bertha, and suddenly she felt a dreadful
fear which gripped her heart with unendurable pain.
“I’ve been thinking of you all night, and I’m dreadfully ashamed of
myself. I must tell you how sorry I am that I’ve caused you unhappiness.
I was selfish and brutal; I only thought of myself. I forgot how much
you had to lose. Please forgive me, Bertha.”
“Oh, Gerald, Gerald.”
“I shall always be grateful to you, Bertha. I know I’ve been a beast,
but now I’m going to turn over a new leaf. You see, you have reformed me
after all.”
He tried to smile in his old, light-hearted manner; but it was a very
poor attempt. Bertha looked at him. She wished to say that she loved him
with all her heart, and was ready to accompany him to the world’s end;
but the words stuck in her throat.
“I don’t know what has happened to me,” he said, “but I seem to see
everything now so differently. Of course it is much better that I’m
going away; but it’s dreadfully hard.”
An inspector came to look at the tickets. “Is the lady going?”
“No,” said Gerald; and then, when the man had passed: “You won’t forget
me, Bertha, will you? You won’t think badly of me; I lost my head. I
didn’t realise till last night that I wanted to do you the most
frightful wrong. I didn’t understand that I should have ruined you and
your whole life.”
At last Bertha forced herself to speak. The time was flying, and she
could not understand what was passing in Gerald’s mind.
“If you only knew how much I love you!” she cried.
He had but to ask her to go and she would go. But he did not ask. Was he
repenting already? Was his love already on the wane? Bertha tried to
make herself speak again, but could not. Why did he not repeat that he
could not live without her!
“Take your seats, please! Take your seats, please!”
A guard ran along the platform. “Jump in, sir. Right behind!”
“Good-bye,” said Gerald. “May I write to you?”
She shook her head. It was too late now.
“Jump in, sir. Jump in.”
Gerald kissed her quickly and got into the carriage.
“Right away!”
The guard blew his whistle and waved a flag, and the train puffed slowly
out of the station.