BERTHA and Miss Ley passed a troubled night, while Edward, of course, after much exercise and a hearty dinner, slept the sleep of the just and of the pure at heart. Bertha was nursing her wrath; she had with difficulty brought herself to kiss her husband before, according to his habit, he turned his back upon her and began to snore. Miss Ley, with her knowledge of the difficulties in store for the couple, asked herself if she could do anything. But what could she do? They were reading the book of life in their separate ways, one in italics, the other in the big round letters of the copy-book; and how could she help them to find a common character? Of course the first year of married life is difficult, and the weariness of the flesh adds to the inevitable disillusionment. Every marriage has its moments of utter despair. The great danger is in the onlooker, who may pay to them too much attention and, by stepping in, render the difficulty permanent—cutting the knot instead of letting time undo it. Miss Ley’s cogitations brought her not unnaturally to the course which most suited her temperament; she concluded that far and away the best plan was to attempt nothing, and let things right themselves as best they could. She did not postpone her departure, but, according to arrangement, went on the following day.

“Well, you see,” said Edward, bidding her good-bye, “I told you that I should make you stay longer than a week.”

“You’re a wonderful person, Edward,” said Miss Ley, drily. “I have never doubted it for an instant.”

He was pleased seeing no irony in the compliment. Miss Ley took leave of Bertha with a suspicion of awkward tenderness that was quite unusual; she hated to show her feelings, and found it difficult, yet wanted to tell Bertha that if she was ever in difficulties she would always find in her an old friend and a true one. All she said was—

“If you want to do any shopping in London, I can always put you up, you know. And for the matter of that, I don’t see why you shouldn’t come and stay a month or so with me—if Edward can spare you. It will be a change.”

When Miss Ley drove with Edward to the station, Bertha felt suddenly an extreme loneliness. Her aunt had been a barrier between herself and her husband, coming opportunely when, after the first months of mad passion, she was beginning to see herself linked to a man she did not know. A third person in the house had been a restraint. She looked forward already to the future with something like terror; her love for Edward was a bitter heartache. Oh yes, she loved him well, she loved him passionately; but he—he was fond of her, in his placid, calm way; it made her furious to think of it.

The weather was rainy, and for two days there was no question of tennis. On the third, however, the sun came out again, and the lawn was soon dry. Edward had driven over to Tercanbury, but returned towards evening.

“Hulloa!” he said, “you haven’t got your tennis things on. You’d better hurry up.”

This was the opportunity for which Bertha had been looking. She was tired of always giving way, of humbling herself; she wanted an explanation.

“You’re very good,” she said, “but I don’t want to play tennis with you any more.”

“Why on earth not?”

She burst out furiously—“Because I’m sick and tired of being made a convenience by you. I’m too proud to be treated like that. Oh, don’t look as if you didn’t understand. You play with me because you’ve got no one else to play with. Isn’t that so? That is how you are always with me. You prefer the company of the veriest fool in the world to mine. You seem to do everything you can to show your contempt for me.”

“Why, what have I done now?”

“Oh, of course, you forget. You never dream that you are making me frightfully unhappy. Do you think I like to be treated before people as a sort of poor idiot that you can laugh and sneer at?”

Edward had never seen his wife so angry, and this time he was forced to pay her attention. She stood before him, at the end of her speech, with teeth clenched, her cheeks flaming.

“It’s about the other day, I suppose. I saw at the time you were in a passion.”

“And didn’t care two straws.”

“You’re too silly,” he said, with a laugh. “We couldn’t play together when we had people here. They laugh at us as it is for being so devoted to one another.”

“If they only knew how little you cared for me!”

“I might have managed a set with you later on, if you hadn’t sulked and refused to play at all.”

“It would never have occurred to you, I know you better than that. You’re absolutely selfish.”

“Come, come, Bertha,” he cried good-humouredly, “that’s a thing I’ve not been accused of before. No one has ever called me selfish.”

“Oh no, they think you charming. They think because you’re cheerful and even-tempered, because you’re hail-fellow-well-met with every one you know, that you’ve got such a nice character. If they knew you as well as I do, they’d understand it was merely because you’re perfectly indifferent to them. You treat people as if they were your bosom friends, and then, five minutes after they’ve gone, you’ve forgotten all about them.... And the worst of it is, that I’m no more to you than anybody else.”

“Oh, come, I don’t think you can really find such awful things wrong with me.”

“I’ve never known you sacrifice your slightest whim to gratify my most earnest desire.”

“You can’t expect me to do things which I think unreasonable.”

“If you loved me, you’d not always be asking if the things I want are reasonable. I didn’t think of reason when I married you.”

Edward made no answer, which naturally added to Bertha’s irritation. She was arranging flowers for the table, and broke off the stalks savagely. Edward, after a pause, went to the door.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Since you won’t play, I’m just going to do a few serves for practice.”

“Why don’t you send for Miss Glover to come and play with you?”

A new idea suddenly came to him (they came at sufficiently rare intervals not to spoil his equanimity), but the absurdity of it made him laugh.

“Surely you’re not jealous of her, Bertha?”

“I?” began Bertha, with tremendous scorn, and then changing her mind: “You prefer to play with her than to play with me.”

He wisely ignored part of the charge. “Look at her and look at yourself. Do you think I could prefer her to you?”

“I think you’re fool enough.”

The words slipped out of Bertha’s mouth almost before she knew she had said them, and the bitter, scornful tone added to their violence. They frightened her, and turning very white, she glanced at her husband.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to say that, Eddie.”

Fearing now that she had really wounded him, Bertha was entirely sorry; she would have given anything for the words to be unsaid. Edward was turning over the pages of a book, looking at it listlessly. She went up to him.

“I haven’t offended you, have I, Eddie? I didn’t mean to say that.”

She put her arm in his; he did not answer.

“Don’t be angry with me,” she faltered again, and then breaking down, buried her face in his bosom. “I didn’t mean what I said—I lost command over myself. You don’t know how you humiliated me the other day. I haven’t been able to sleep at night, thinking of it.... Kiss me.”

He turned his face away, but she would not let him go; at last she found his lips.

“Say you’re not angry with me.”

“I’m not angry with you.”

“Oh, I want your love so much, Eddie,” she murmured. “Now more than ever.... I’m going to have a child.”

Then in reply to his astonished exclamation—

“I wasn’t certain till to-day.... Oh, Eddie, I’m so glad. I think it’s what I wanted to make me happy.”

“I’m glad too,” he said.

“But you will be kind to me, Eddie—and not mind if I’m fretful and bad tempered. You know I can’t help it, and I’m always sorry afterwards.”

He kissed her as passionately as his cold nature allowed, and peace returned to Bertha’s tormented heart.

 

Bertha had intended as long as possible to make a secret of her news; it was a comfort in her distress, and a bulwark against her increasing disillusionment. She was unable to reconcile herself to the discovery, seen as yet dimly, that Edward’s cold temperament could not satisfy her ardent passions: love to her was a burning fire, a flame that absorbed the rest of life; love to him was a convenient and necessary institution of Providence, a matter about which there was as little need for excitement as about the ordering of a suit of clothes. Bertha’s intense devotion for a while had obscured her husband’s coolness, and she would not see that his temperament was to blame. She accused him of not loving her, and asked herself distractedly how to gain his affection; her pride was humiliated because her love was so much greater than his. For six months she had loved him blindly; and now, opening her eyes, she refused to look upon the naked fact, but insisted on seeing only what she wished.

Yet, the truth, elbowing itself through the crowd of her illusions, tormented her. She was afraid that Edward neither loved her nor had ever loved her; and she wavered uncertainly between the old passionate devotion and a new, equally passionate hatred. She told herself that she could not do things by halves; she must love or detest, but in either case, fiercely. And now the child made up for everything. Now it did not matter if Edward loved or not, it no longer pained her to realise how foolish had been her hopes, how quickly her ideal had been shattered. She felt that the infantine hands of her son were already breaking, one by one, the links that bound her to her husband. When she divined her pregnancy, she gave a cry not only of joy and pride, but also of exultation in her approaching freedom.

But when the suspicion was changed into a certainty, her feelings veered round; for her emotions were always unstable as the light winds of April. An extreme weakness made her long for the support and sympathy of her husband; she could not help telling him. In the hateful dispute of that very day, she had forced herself to say bitter things, but all the time she wished him to take her in his arms, saying he loved her. It needed so little to rekindle her dying affection; she wanted his help and she could not live without his love.

The weeks went on and Bertha was touched to see a change in Edward’s behaviour, more noticeable after his past indifference. He looked upon her now as an invalid, and as such entitled to some consideration; he was really very kind-hearted, and during this time did everything for his wife that did not involve a sacrifice of his own convenience. When the doctor suggested some dainty to tempt her appetite, Edward was delighted to ride over to Tercanbury to fetch it; and in her presence he trod more softly and spoke in a gentler voice. After a while he used to insist on carrying Bertha up and down stairs, and though Dr. Ramsay assured them it was a quite unnecessary proceeding, Bertha would not allow Edward to give it up. It amused her to feel a little child in his strong arms, and she loved to nestle against his breast. Then, with winter, when it was too cold to drive out, Bertha would lie for long hours on a sofa by the window, looking at the line of elm-trees, now leafless again and melancholy, watching the heavy clouds that drove over from the sea: her heart was full of peace.

 

One day of the new year she was sitting as usual at her window when Edward came prancing up the drive on horseback. He stopped in front of her and waved his whip.

“What d’you think of my new horse?” he cried.

At that moment the animal began to cavort, and backed into a flower-bed. “Quiet, old fellow,” cried Edward. “Now then, don’t make a fuss; quiet!” The horse stood on its hind legs and laid its ears back viciously. Presently Edward dismounted and led him towards Bertha. “Isn’t he a stunner? Just look at him.”

He passed his hand down the beast’s forelegs and stroked its sleek coat.

“I only gave thirty-five quid for it,” he remarked. “I must just take him round to the stable and then I’ll come in.”

In a few minutes Edward joined his wife. The riding costume suited him well, and in his top-boots he had more than ever the appearance of the fox-hunting country squire, which had always been his ideal. He was in high spirits over the new purchase.

“It’s the beast that threw Arthur Branderton when we were out last week.... Arthur’s limping about now with a sprained ankle and a broken finger. He says the horse is the greatest devil he’s ever ridden; he’s frightened to use him again.” Edward laughed scornfully.

“But you haven’t bought him?” asked Bertha, with alarm.

“Of course I have,” said Edward. “I couldn’t miss a chance like that. Why, he’s a perfect beauty—only he’s got a temper, like we all have.”

“But is he dangerous?”

“A bit—that’s why I got him cheap. Arthur gave a hundred guineas for him, and he told me I could have him for seventy. ‘No,’ I said, ‘I’ll give you thirty-five—and take the risk of breaking my neck.’ Well, he just had to accept my offer! the horse has got a bad name in the county, and he wouldn’t get any one to buy it in a hurry. A man has got to get up early if he wants to do me over a gee!”

By this time Bertha was frightened out of her wits.

“But, Eddie, you’re not going to ride it—supposing something should happen. Oh, I wish you hadn’t bought him.”

“He’s all right,” said Craddock. “If any one can ride him, I can—and, by Jove, I’m going to risk it. Why, if I bought him and then didn’t use him, I’d never hear the last of it.”

“To please me, Eddie, don’t! What does it matter what people say? I’m so frightened. And now of all times you might do something to please me. It’s not often I ask you to do me a favour.”

“Well, when you ask for something reasonable, I always try my best to do it—but really, after I’ve paid thirty-five pounds for a horse, I can’t cut him up for cat’s meat.”

“That means you’ll always do anything for me so long as it doesn’t interfere with your own likes and dislikes.”

“Ah, well, we’re all like that, aren’t we?... Come, come, don’t be nasty about it, Bertha.”

He pinched her cheek good-naturedly—women, we all know, would like the moon if they could get it; and the fact that they can’t doesn’t prevent them from persistently asking for it. Edward sat down beside his wife, holding her hand.

“Now, tell us what you’ve been up to to-day. Has any one been?”

Bertha sighed deeply. She had absolutely no influence over her husband. No prayers, no tears would stop him from doing a thing he had set his mind on—however much she argued he always managed to make her seem in the wrong, and then went his way rejoicing. But she had her child now.

“Thank God for that!” she murmured.