They moved away and went to the supper-room themselves, leaving
Tredennis to his reflections. What these were he scarcely knew himself
for a few seconds. The murmur of voices and passing to and fro confused
him. For half an hour of quiet in some friendly corner, where none could
see his face, he felt that he would have given a year or so of his
life--perhaps a greater number of years than a happier man would have
been willing to part with. It was of Bertha these people had been
speaking--of Bertha, and it was Bertha he could see through the open
doors of the supper-room, eating ices, listening to compliment and
laughter and jest! It was Planefield who was holding her flowers, and
the man who had just picked up her fan was one of his friends; in two or
three others near her, Tredennis recognized his associates: it seemed as
if the ground had been ceded to them by those who had at first formed
her little court.
Tredennis was seized with a wild desire to make his way into their
midst, take her hand in his arm, and compel her to come away--to leave
them all, to let him take her home--to safety and honor and her
children. He was so filled with the absurd impulse that he took half a
step forward, stopping and smiling bitterly, when he realized what he
was prompted to do.
"How she would like it," he thought, "and like me for doing it; and what
a paragraph it would make for the society column!"
Incidents which had occurred within the last few weeks came back to him
with a significance they had never before borne. Speeches and moods of
Richard's, things he had done, occasional unconscious displays of
eagerness to please Planefield and cultivate him, his manner toward
Bertha, and certain touches of uneasiness when she was not at her best.
From the first the colonel had not felt himself as entirely prepossessed
by this amiable and charming young man as he desired to be, and he had
been compelled to admit that he was not always pleased by his gay
good-humor, evanescent enthusiasms, and by his happy, irresponsible
fashion of looking at life. When he had at last made this confession to
himself he had not shrunk from giving himself an explanation of the
matter, from which a nature more sparing of itself would have flinched.
He had said that his prejudice was one to blush at and conquer by
persistent effort, and he had done his sternly honest best to subdue it.
But he had not succeeded as he had hoped he should. When he fancied he
was making progress and learning to be fair, some trifle continually
occurred which made itself an obstacle in his path. He saw things he did
not wish to see, and heard things he did not wish to hear,--little
things which made him doubt and ponder, and which somehow he could not
shake off, even when he tried to forget them and persuade himself that,
after all, they were of slight significance. And as he had seen more of
the gay good-humor and readiness to be moved, his first shadowy feeling
had assumed more definite form. He had found himself confronted by a
distrust which grew upon him; he had met the young man's smiling eyes
with a sense of being repelled by their very candor and brightness; he
had learned that they were not so candid as they seemed, and that his
boyish frankness was not always to be relied upon. He had discovered
that he was ready to make a promise and forget it; that his
impressionable mind could shift itself and change its color, and that
somehow its quickness of action had a fashion of invariably tending
toward the accomplishment of some personal end,--a mere vagary or
graceful whim, perhaps, but always a fancy pertaining to the indulgence
of self. Tredennis had heard him lie,--not wickedly or awkwardly, so
far; but with grace and freedom from embarrassment. It was his
accidental detection of one of the most trivial and ready of these
falsehoods which had first roused him to distrust. He remembered now, as
by a flash, that it had been a lie about Planefield, and that it had
been told to Bertha. He had wondered at the time what its object could
be; now he thought he saw, and in a measure comprehended, the
short-sighted folly which had caused the weak, easily swayed nature to
drift into such danger.
"He does not realize what he is doing," was his thought. "He would lie
to me if I accused him of it."
Of these two things he was convinced: that the first step had been
merely one of many whims, whatever the results following might be, and
that no statement or promise Amory might make could be relied on. There
was no knowing what he had done or what he would do. As he had found
entertainment in the contents of the "museum," so it was as probable he
had, at the outset, amused himself with his fancies concerning the
Westoria lands, which had, at last, so far fascinated and dazed him as
to lead him into the committal of follies he had not paused to excuse
even to himself. He had not thought it necessary to excuse them. Why
should he not take the legal business in hand, and since there was no
reason against that, why should he not also interest himself in the
investigations and be on intimate terms with the men who were a part of
the brilliant project? Why should not his wife entertain them, as she
entertained the rest of her friends and acquaintances? Tredennis felt
that he had learned enough of the man's mental habits to follow him
pretty closely in his reasoning--when he reasoned. While he had looked
on silently, the colonel had learned a great deal and grown worldly-wise
and quicker of perception than he could have believed possible in times
gone by. He was only half conscious that this was because he had now an
object in view which he had not had before; that he was alert and
watchful because there was some one he wished to shield; that he was no
longer indifferent to the world and its ways,--no longer given to
underrating its strength and weaknesses, its faults and follies, because
he wished to be able to defend himself against them, if such a thing
should become necessary. He had gained wisdom enough to appreciate the
full significance of the low-voiced, apparently carelessly uttered words
he had just heard; and to feel his own almost entire helplessness in the
matter. To appeal to Amory would be useless; to go to the professor
impossible; how could he carry to him such a story, unless it assumed
proportions such as to make the step a last terrible resource? He had
been looking older and acknowledging himself frailer during the last
year; certainly he was neither mentally nor physically in the condition
to meet such a blow, if it was possible to spare it to him.
Tredennis looked across the room at Bertha again. It seemed that there
was only one very simple thing he could do now.
"She will probably be angry and think I have come to interfere, if I go
to her," he said; "but I will go nevertheless. At least, I am not one of
them,--every one knows that,--and perhaps it will occur to her to go
home."
There was resolution on his face when he approached her. He wore the
look which never failed to move her more strongly than any other thing
on earth had ever done before, and whose power over her cost her all the
resistance of which she was capable. It had sometimes made her wonder
if, after all, it was true that women liked to be subdued--to be ruled a
little--if their rulers were gentle as well as strong. She had heard it
said so, and had often laughed at the sentiment of the popular fallacy.
She used to smile at it when it presented itself to her even in this
manner; but there had been occasions--times perhaps when she was very
tired--when she had known that she would have been glad to give way
before this look, to obey it, to feel the relief of deciding for herself
no more.
Such a feeling rose within her now. She looked neither tired nor worn;
but a certain deadly sense of fatigue, which was becoming a physical
habit with her, had been growing upon her all the evening. The color on
her cheeks was feverish, her limbs ached, her eyes were bright with her
desperate eagerness to sustain herself. Once or twice, when she had
laughed or spoken, she had been conscious of such an unnatural tone in
her voice that her heart had trembled with fear lest others should have
heard it too. It seemed impossible to her that they should not, and that
these men who listened and applauded her should not see that often she
scarcely heard them, and that she dare not stop for fear of forgetting
them altogether and breaking down in some dreadful way, which would show
that all her spirit and gayety was a lie, and only a lie poorly acted,
after all.
She thought she knew what Tredennis had come to her for. She had not
lost sight of him at any time. She had known where he stood or sat, and
whom he spoke to, and had known that he had seen her also. She had met
his eyes now and then, and smiled and looked away again, beginning to
talk to her admirers with more spirit than ever each time. What else was
there to do but go on as she had begun? She knew only too well what
reason there was in herself that she should not falter. If it had been
strong yesterday, it was ten times stronger to-day, and would be
stronger to-morrow and for many a bitter day to come. But when he came
to her she only smiled up at him, as she would have smiled at
Planefield, or the gallant and spacious Barnacles, or any other of the
men she knew.
"I hope you have had a pleasant evening," she said. "You enjoy things of
this sort so much, however, that you are always safe. I saw you talking
in the most vivacious manner to that pretty Miss Stapleton,--the one
with the eyelashes,--or rather you were listening vivaciously. You are
such a good listener."
"That's an accomplishment, isn't it?" said Planefield, with his easy
air.
"It is a gift of the gods," she answered. "And it was bestowed on
Colonel Tredennis."
"There _are_ talkers, you know," suggested the Senator, "who would make
a good listener of a man without the assistance of the gods."
"Do you mean the Miss Stapleton with the eyelashes?" inquired Bertha,
blandly.
"Oh, come now," was the response. "I think you know I don't mean the
Miss Stapleton with the eyelashes. If I did, it would be more economical
to make the remark to her."
"Ah!" said Bertha, blandly again. "You mean me? I hoped so. Thank you
very much. And I am glad you said it before Colonel Tredennis, because
it may increase his confidence in me, which is not great. I am always
glad when any one pays me a compliment in his presence."
"Does he never pay you compliments himself?" asked Planefield.
Bertha gave Tredennis a bright, full glance.
"Did you ever pay me a compliment?" she said. "Will you ever pay me a
compliment--if I should chance to deserve one?"
"Yes," he answered, his face unsmiling, his voice inflexible. "May I
begin now? You always deserve them. My only reason for failing to pay
them is because I am not equal to inventing such as would be worthy of
you. Your eyes are like stars--your dress is the prettiest in the
room--every man present is your slave and every woman pales before
you--the President is going home now only because you have ceased to
smile upon him."
The color on Bertha's cheek faded a little, but her smile did not. She
checked him with a gesture.
"Thank you," she said, "that will do! You are even better than Senator
Planefield. My eyes are like stars--my dress is perfection! I myself am
as brilliant as--as the chandelier! Really, there seems nothing left for
me to do but to follow the President, who, as you said, has been good
enough to take his leave and give us permission to retire." And she rose
from her chair.
She made her adieus to Planefield, who bestowed upon Tredennis a
sidelong scowl, thinking that it was he who was taking her away. It
consoled him but little that she gave him her hand--in a most gracious
farewell. He had been enjoying himself as he did not often enjoy
himself, and the sight of the colonel's unresponsive countenance filled
him with silent rage. It happened that it was not the first time, or
even the second, that this gentleman had presented himself
inopportunely.
"The devil take his grim airs!" was his cordial mental exclamation.
"What does he mean by them, and what is he always turning up for when no
one wants to see him?"
Something of this amiable sentiment was in his expression, but the
colonel did not seem to see it; his countenance was as unmoved as ever
when he led his charge away, her little hand resting on his arm. In
truth, he was thinking of other things. Suddenly he had made up his mind
that there was one effort he could make: that, if he could conquer
himself and his own natural feeling of reluctance, he might speak to
Bertha herself in such words as she would be willing to listen to and
reflect upon. It seemed impossible to tell her all, but surely he might
frame such an appeal as would have some small weight with her. It was
not an easy thing to do. He must present himself to her in the _rôle_ of
an individual who, having no right to interfere with her actions, still
took upon himself to do so; who spoke when it would have seemed better
taste to be silent; who delivered homilies with the manner of one who
thought himself faultless, and so privileged to preach and advise.
"But what of that?" he said, checking himself impatiently in the midst
of these thoughts. "I am always thinking of myself, and of how I shall
appear in her eyes! Am I a boy lover trying to please her, or a man who
would spare and shield her? Let her think poorly of me if she chooses,
if she will only listen and realize her danger when her anger is over."
The standard for his own conduct which he had set up was not low, it
will be observed. All that he demanded of himself was utter freedom from
all human weakness, and even liability to temptation; an unselfishness
without blemish, a self-control without flaw; that he should bear his
own generous anguish without the movement of a muscle; that he should
wholly ignore the throbbing of his own wounds, remembering only the task
he had set himself; that his watchfulness over himself should never
falter, and his courage never be shaken. It was, perhaps, indicative of
a certain degree of noble simplicity that he demanded this of himself,
which he would have asked of no other human creature, and that at no
time did the thought cross his mind that the thing he demanded was
impossible of attainment. When he failed, as he knew he often did; when
he found it difficult to efface himself utterly from his own thoughts
and was guilty of the weakness of allowing himself to become a factor in
them; when his unhappiness was stronger than himself; when he was
stirred to resentment, or conscious of weariness, and the longing to
utter some word which would betray him and ask for pity,--he never
failed to condemn himself in bitterness of spirit as ignoble and
unworthy.
"Let her be angry with me if she chooses," he thought now. "It is for me
to say my say, and leave the rest to her--and I will try to say it
kindly."
He would set aside the bitter feeling and resentment of her trifling
which had beset him more than once during the evening; he would forget
them, as it was but right and just that they should be forgotten. When
he spoke, as they went up the staircase together, his tone was so kind
that Bertha glanced up at him, and saw that his face had changed, and,
though still grave, was kind, too. When she joined him after leaving the
cloak-room, he spoke to her of her wrap again, and asked her to draw it
more closely about her; when he helped her into the carriage, there was
that in his light touch which brought back to her with more than its
usual strength the familiar sense of quiet protection and support.
"It would be easier," she thought, "if he would be angry. Why is he not
angry? He was an hour ago--and surely I have done enough."
But he showed no signs of disapproval,--he was determined that he would
not do that,--though their drive was rather a silent one again. And yet,
by the time they reached home, Bertha was in some indefinite way
prepared for the question he put to her as he assisted her to alight.
"May I come in for a little while?" he asked. "I know it is late,
but--there is something I must say to you."
"Something you must say to me?" she repeated. "I am sure it must be
something interesting and something I should like to hear. Come in, by
all means."
So they entered the house together, and went into the parlor. They found
a fire burning there, and Bertha's chair drawn up before it. She
loosened her wrap rather deliberately and threw it off, and then sat
down as deliberately, arranging her footstool and draperies until she
had attained the desired amount of languid comfort in her position.
Tredennis did not speak until she was settled. He leaned against the
mantel, his eyes bent on the fire.
Being fairly arranged, Bertha held out her hand.
"Will you give me that feather screen, if you please?" she said,--"the
one made of peacock feathers. When one attains years of discretion, one
has some care for one's complexion. Did it ever occur to you how
serious such matters are, and that the difference between being eighteen
and eighty is almost wholly a matter of complexion? If one could remain
pink and smooth, one might possibly overcome the rest, and there would
be no such thing as growing old. It is not a single plank which is
between ourselves and eternity, but a--Would the figure of speech appear
appropriate if one said 'a single cuticle'? I am afraid not."
He took the screen from its place and regarded it a little absently.
"You had this in your hand the first night I came here," he said, "when
you told the story of your great lady."
She took it from him.
"That was a pretty little story," she said. "It was a dear little story.
My great lady was present to-night. We passed and repassed each other,
and gazed placidly at each other's eyebrows. We were vaguely haunted by
a faint fancy that we might have met before; but the faculties become
dimmed with advancing years, and we could not remember where or how it
happened. One often feels that one has met people, you know."
She balanced her gleaming screen gracefully, looking at him from under
its shadow.
"And it is not only on account of my complexion that I want my peacock
feathers," she continued, dropping her great lady by the way as if she
had not picked her up in the interim. "I want them to conceal my
emotions if your revelations surprise me. Have you never seen me use
them when receiving the compliments of Senator Planefield and his
friends? A little turn to the right or the left--the least graceful
little turn--and I can look as I please, and they will see nothing and
only hear my voice, which, I trust, is always sufficiently under
control."
She wondered if it was sufficiently under control now. She was not sure,
and because she was not sure she made the most reckless speeches she
could think of. There was a story she had heard of a diplomatist, who
once so entirely bewildered his fellow-diplomats that they found it
impossible to cope with him; they were invariably outwitted by him: the
greatest subtlety, the most wondrous _coup d'état_, he baffled alike;
mystery surrounded him; his every act was enshrouded in it; with such
diplomatic methods it was madness to combat. When his brilliant and
marvellous career was at an end his secret was discovered; on every
occasion he had told the simple, exact truth. As she leaned back in her
chair and played with her screen Bertha thought of this story. She had
applied it to herself before this. The one thing which would be
incredible to him at this moment, the one thing it would appear more
than incredible that she should tell him, would be the truth--if he
realized what that truth was. Any other story, however wild, might have
its air or suggestion of plausibility; but that, being what it was, she
should have the nerve, the daring, the iron strength of self-control,
which it would require to make a fearless jest of the simple, terrible
truth, it would seem to him the folly of a madman to believe, she knew.
To look him in the eye with a smile, and tell him that she feared his
glance and dreaded his words, would place the statement without the pale
of probability. She had told him things as true before, and he had not
once thought of believing them. "It is never difficult to persuade him
_not_ to believe me," she thought. There was no one of her many moods of
which she felt such terror, in her more natural moments, as of the one
which held possession of her now; and yet there was none she felt to be
so safe, which roused her to such mental exhilaration while its hour
lasted, or resulted in such reaction when it had passed. "I am never
afraid then," she said to Agnes once. "There is nothing I could not
bear. It seems as if I were made of steel, and had never been soft or
timid in my life. Everything is gone but my power over myself,
and--yes, it intoxicates me. Until it is over I am not really hurt, I
think. There was something I read once about a man who was broken on the
wheel, and while it was being done he laughed, and shrieked, and sang. I
think all women are like that sometimes: while they are being broken
they laugh, and shriek, and sing; but afterward--afterward"--
So now she spoke the simple truth.
"I shall have you at a disadvantage, you may observe," she said. "I
shall see your face, and you will not see mine--unless I wish you to do
so. A little turn of my wrist, and you have only my voice to rely upon.
Do you wish to speak to me before Richard comes in? If so, I am afraid
you must waste no time, as his train is due at twelve. You were going to
say"--
"I am afraid it is something you will not like to hear," he answered,
"though I did not contradict you when you suggested that it was."
"You were outside then," she replied, "and I might not have let you come
in."
"No," he said, "you might not."
He looked at the feather screen which she had inclined a trifle.
"Your screen reminded me of your great lady, Bertha," he said, "because
I saw her to-night, and--and heard her--and she was speaking of you."
"Of me!" she replied. "That was kind indeed."
"No," he returned, "it was not. She was neither generous nor lenient;
she did not even speak the truth; and yet, as I heard her, I was obliged
to confess that, to those who did not know you and only saw you as you
were to-night, what she said might not appear so false."
Bertha turned her screen aside and looked at him composedly.
"She was speaking of Senator Planefield," she remarked, "and Judge
Ballard, and Commander Barnacles. She reprehended my frivolity and
deplored the tendency of the age."
"She was speaking of Senator Planefield," he answered.
She moved the screen a little.
"Has Senator Planefield been neglecting her?" she said. "I hope not."
"Lay your screen aside, Bertha," he commanded, hotly. "You don't need
it. What I have to say will not disturb you, as I feared it would--no, I
should say as I hoped it would. It is only this: that these people were
speaking lightly of you--that they connected your name with Planefield's
as--as no honest man is willing that the name of his wife should be
connected with that of another man. That was all; and I, who am always
interfering with your pleasures, could not bear it, and so have made the
blunder of interfering again."
There were many things she had borne, of which she had said nothing to
Agnes Sylvestre in telling her story,--things she had forced herself to
ignore or pass by; but just now some sudden, passionate realization of
them was too much for her, and she answered him in words she felt it was
madness to utter even as they leaped to her lips.
"Richard has not been unwilling," she said. "Richard has not resented
it!"
"If he had been in my place," he began, feeling ill at ease--"if he
understood"--
She dropped her screen upon her lap and looked at him with steady eyes.
"No," she interposed, "that is a mistake. He would not have looked upon
the matter as you do. It is only a trifle, after all. You are
overestimating its importance."
"Am I?" he said. "Do you regard it in that light?"
"Yes," she replied, "you are too fastidious. Is the spiteful comment of
an ill-natured, unattractive woman, upon a woman who chances to be more
fortunate than herself, of such weight that it is likely to influence
people greatly? Women are always saying such things of one another when
they are angry. I cannot say them of our friend, it is true,
because--because she is so fortunate as to be placed by nature beyond
reproach. If I had her charms, and her manner, and her years, I should,
perhaps, be beyond reproach too."
She wondered if he would deign to answer her at all. It seemed as if the
execrable bad taste of her words must overwhelm him. If he had turned
his back upon her and left the room, she would have felt no surprise. To
have seen him do so would have been almost a relief. But, for him, he
merely stood perfectly still and watched her.
"Go on," he said, at length.
She faintly smiled.
"Do you want me to say more?" she asked. "Is not that enough? My great
lady was angry, and was stupid enough to proclaim the fact." She made a
quick turn toward him. "To whom was she speaking?" she demanded. "To a
man or a woman?"
"To a man," he answered.
She sank back into her chair and smiled again.
"Ah," she said, "then it is of less consequence even than I imagined. It
is pleasant to reflect that it was a man. One is not afraid of men."
She lifted the screen from her lap, and for a moment he could not see
her face.
"Now he will go," she was saying to herself breathlessly behind it. "Now
he must go. He will go now--and he will not come back."
But he did not go. It was the irony of fate that he should spare her
nothing. In the few moments of silence which followed he had a great
struggle with himself. It was such a struggle that, when it was at an
end, he was pale and looked subdued. There was a chair near her. He went
to it and sat down at her side.
"Bertha," he said, "there has been one thing in the midst of all--all
this, to which you have been true. You have loved your children when it
has seemed that nothing else would touch you. I say 'seemed,' because I
swear to you I am unmoved in my disbelief in what you persist in holding
before me--for what reason you know best. You love your children; you
don't lie to me about that--you don't lie to yourself about it. Perhaps
it is only nature, as you said once, and not tenderness; I don't know. I
don't understand you; but give yourself a few moments to think of them
now."
He saw the hand holding the screen tremble; he could not see her face.
"What--must I think of them?"
He looked down at the floor, knitting his brows and dragging at his
great mustache.
"I overestimate the importance of things," he said. "I don't seem to
know much about the standards society sets up for itself; but it does
not seem a trifle to me that their mother should be spoken of lightly.
There was a girl I knew once--long ago"--He stopped and looked up at her
with sudden, sad candor. "It is you I am thinking of, Bertha," he said;
"you, as I remember you first when you came home from school. I was
thinking of your mother and your dependence upon her, and the tenderness
there was between you."
"And you were thinking," she added, "that Janey's mother would not be so
good and worthy of trust. That is true."
"I have no answer to make to that, Bertha," he said. "None."
She laid the screen upon her lap once more.
"But it _is_ true," she said; "it is _true_. Why do you refuse to
believe it? Are you so good that you cannot? Yes, you are! As for
me--what did I tell you? I am neither good nor bad, and I want
excitement. Nine people out of ten are so, and I am no worse than the
rest of the nine. One must be amused. If I were religious, I should have
Dorcas societies and missions. As I am not, I have"--she paused one
second, no more--"I have Senator Planefield."
She could bear the inaction of sitting still no longer. She got up.
"You have an ideal for everything," she said, "for men, women, and
children,--especially for women, I think. You are always telling
yourself that they are good, and pure, and loving, and faithful; that
they adore their children, and are true to their friends. It is very
pretty, but it is not always the fact. You try to believe it is true of
me; but it is not. I am not your ideal woman. I have told you so. Have
you not found out yet that Bertha Amory is not what you were so sure
Bertha Herrick would be?"
"Yes," he answered. "You--you have convinced me of that."
"It was inevitable," she continued. "I was very young then. I knew
nothing of the world or of its distractions and temptations. A thousand
things have happened to change me. And, after all, what right had you to
expect so much of me? I was neither one thing nor the other, even then;
I was only ignorant. You could not expect me to be ignorant always."
"Bertha," he demanded, "what are you trying to prove to me?"
"Only a little thing," she answered; "that I need my amusements, and
cannot live without them."
He rose from his seat also.
"That you cannot live without Senator Planefield?" he said.
"Go and tell him so," was her reply. "It would please him, and perhaps
this evening he would be inclined to place some confidence in the
statement."
She turned and walked to the end of the room; then she came back and
stood quite still before him.
"I am going to tell you something I would rather keep to myself," she
said. "It may save us both trouble if I don't spare myself as my vanity
prompts me to do. I said I was no worse than the other nine; but I
am--a little. I am not very fond of anything or any one. Not so fond
even of--Richard and the children, as I seem. I know that, though they
do not. If they were not attractive and amiable, or if they interfered
with my pleasures, my affection would not stand many shocks. In a
certain way I am emotional enough always to appear better than I am.
Things touch me for a moment. I was touched a little just now when you
spoke of remembering my being a girl. I was moved when Janey was ill and
you were so good to me. I almost persuaded myself that I was good too,
and faithful and affectionate, and yet at the same time I knew it was
only a fancy, and I should get over it. It is easy for me to laugh and
cry when I choose. There are tears in my eyes now, but--they don't
deceive me."
"They look like real tears, Bertha," he said. "They would have deceived
me--if you had not given me warning."
"They always _look_ real," she answered. "And is not there a sort of
merit in my not allowing you to believe in them? Call it a merit, won't
you?"
His face became like a mask. For several seconds he did not speak. The
habit he had of taking refuge in utter silence was the strongest weapon
he could use against her. He did not know its strength; he only knew
that it was the signal of his own desperate helplessness; but it left
her without defence or resource.
"Won't you?" she said, feeling that she must say something.
He hesitated before replying.
"No," he answered, stonily, after the pause. "I won't call it a merit. I
wish you would leave me--something."
That was very hard.
"It is true," she returned, "that I do not--leave you very much."
The words cost her such an effort that there were breaks between them.
"No," he said, "not much."
There was something almost dogged in his manner. He could not bear a
great deal more, and his consciousness of this truth forced him to brace
himself to outward hardness.
"I don't ask very much," he said. "I only ask you to spare yourself and
your children. I only ask you to keep out of danger. It is yourself I
ask you to think of, not me. Treat me as you like, but don't--don't be
cruel to yourself. I am afraid it does not do for a woman--even a woman
as cool as you are--to trifle with herself and her name. I have heard it
said so, and I could not remain silent after hearing what I did
to-night."
He turned as if to move away.
"You are going?" she said.
"Yes," he replied. "It is very late, and it would be useless to say any
more."
"You have not shaken hands with me," she said when he was half way to
the door. The words forced themselves from her. Her power of endurance
failed her at the last moment, as it had done before and would do again.
He came back to her.
"You will never hold out your hand to me when I shall not be ready to
take it, Bertha," he said. "You know that."
She did not speak.
"You are chilled," he said. "Your hand is quite cold."
"Yes," she replied. "I shall lie down on the sofa by the fire a little
while before going upstairs."
Without saying anything he left her, drew the sofa nearer to the hearth
and arranged the cushions.
"I would advise you not to fall asleep," he said when this was done.
"I shall not fall asleep," she answered. She went to the sofa and sat
down on it.
"Good-night," she said.
And he answered her "Good-night," and went out of the room.
She sat still a few seconds after he was gone, and then lay down. Her
eyes wandered over the room. She saw the ornaments, the pictures on the
wall, the design of the rug, every minute object, with a clearness which
seemed to magnify its importance and significance. There was a little
Cloissoné jar whose pattern she never seemed to have seen before; she
was looking at it when at last she spoke.
"It is very hard to live," she said. "I wish it was not--so hard. I wish
there was some way of helping one's self, but there is not. One can only
go on--and on--and there is always something worse coming."
She put her hand upon her breast. Something rose beneath it which gave
her suffocating pain. She staggered to her feet, pressing one hand on
the other to crush this pain down. No woman who has suffered such a
moment but has done the same thing, and done it in vain. She fell,
half-kneeling, half-sitting, upon the rug, her body against her chair,
her arms flung out.
"Why do you struggle with me?" she cried, between her sobs. "Why do you
look at me so? You--hurt me! I love you! Oh! let me go--let me go! Don't
you know--I can't bear it!"
In the street she heard the carriages rolling homeward from some gay
gathering. One of them stopped a few doors away, and the people got out
of it laughing and talking.
"Don't laugh!" she said, shuddering. "No one--should laugh! I laugh! O
God! O God!"
In half an hour Richard came in. He had taken Miss Varien home, and
remained to talk with her a short time. As he entered the house Bertha
was going up the staircase, her gleaming dress trailing behind her, her
feather-trimmed wrap over her arm. She turned and smiled down at him.
"Your charms will desert you if you keep such hours as these," she said.
"How did you enjoy yourself, or, rather, how did you enjoy Miss Varien,
and how many dazzling remarks did she make?"
"More than I could count," he said, laughing. "Wait a moment for me--I
am coming up." And he ran up the steps lightly and joined her, slipping
his arm about her waist.
"You look tired," he said, "but your charms never desert you. Was that
the shudder of guilt? Whose peace of mind have you been destroying?"
"Colonel Tredennis'," she answered.
"Then it was not the shudder of guilt," he returned, laughing again.
And, as she leaned gently against him, he bent and kissed her.