“You’ve quite captured Gerald’s heart,” said Miss Ley to Bertha a day or two later. “He’s confided to me that he thinks you ‘perfectly stunning.’”

“He’s a very nice boy,” said Bertha, laughing.

The youth’s outspoken admiration could not fail to increase her liking; and she was amused by the stare of his green eyes, which, with a woman’s peculiar sense, she felt even when her back was turned. They followed her; they rested on her hair and on her beautiful hands; when she wore a low dress they burnt themselves on her neck and breast; she felt them travel along her arms, and embrace her figure. They were the most caressing, smiling eyes, but with a certain mystery in their emerald depths. Bertha did not neglect to put herself in positions wherein Gerald could see her to advantage; and when he looked at her hands she could not be expected to withdraw them as though she were ashamed. Few Englishmen see anything in a woman, but her face; and it seldom occurs to them that her hand has the most delicate outlines, all grace and gentleness, with tapering fingers and rosy nails; they never look for the thousand things it has to say.

“Don’t you know it’s very rude to stare like that,” said Bertha, with a smile, turning round suddenly.

“I beg your pardon, I didn’t know you were looking.”

“I wasn’t, but I saw you all the same.”

She smiled at him most engagingly and she saw a sudden flame leap into his eyes. A married woman is always gratified by the capture of a youth’s fickle heart: it is an unsolicited testimonial to her charms, and has the great advantage of being completely free from danger. She tells herself that there is no better training for a boy than to fall in love with a really nice woman a good deal older than himself. It teaches him how to behave and keeps him from getting into mischief: how often have callow youths been known to ruin their lives by falling into the clutches of some horrid adventuress with yellow hair and painted cheeks! Since she is old enough to be his mother, the really nice woman thinks there can be no harm in flirting with the poor boy, and it seems to please him: so she makes him fetch and carry, and dazzles him, and drives him quite distracted, till his youthful fickleness comes to the rescue and he falls passionately enamoured of a barmaid—when, of course, she calls him an ungrateful and low-minded wretch, regrets she was so mistaken in his character, and tells him never to come near her again.

This of course only refers to the women that men fall in love with; it is well known that the others have the strictest views on the subject, and would sooner die than trifle with any one’s affections.

Gerald had the charming gift of becoming intimate with people at the shortest notice, and a cousin is an agreeable relation (especially when she’s pretty), with whom it is easy to get on. The relationship is not so close as to warrant chronic disagreeableness, and close enough to permit personalities, which are the most amusing part of conversation.

Within a week Gerald took to spending his whole day with Bertha, and she found the London season much more amusing than she had expected. She looked back with distaste to her only two visits to town. One had been her honeymoon, and the other the first separation from her husband: it was odd that in retrospect both seem equally dreary. Edward had almost disappeared from her thoughts, and she exulted like a captive free from chains. Her only annoyance was his often-expressed desire to see her. Why could he not leave her alone, as she left him? He was perpetually asking when she would return to Court Leys; and she had to invent excuses to prevent his coming to London. She loathed the idea of seeing him again.

But she put aside these thoughts when Gerald came to fetch her, sometimes for a bicycle ride in Battersea Park, sometimes to spend an hour in one of the museums. It is no wonder that the English are a populous race when one observes how many are the resorts supplied by the munificence of governing bodies for the express purpose of philandering. On a hot day what spot can be more enchanting than the British Museum, cool, silent, and roomy, with harmless statues which tell no tales, and afford matter for conversation to break an awkward pause?

The parks also are eminently suited for those whose fancy turns to thoughts of Platonic love. Hyde Park is the fitting scene for an idyll in which Corydon wears patent-leather boots and a top-hat, while Phyllis has an exquisite frock which suits her perfectly. The well-kept lawns, the artificial water and the trim paths, give a mock rurality which is infinitely amusing to persons who do not wish to take things too seriously. Here, in the summer mornings, Gerald and Bertha spent much time. It pleased her to listen to his chatter, and to look into his green eyes; he was such a very nice boy, and seemed so much attached to her! Besides, he was only in London for a month, and, quite secure in his departure, she could afford to let him fall a little in love.

“Are you sorry you’re going away so soon?” she asked.

“I shall be miserable at leaving you.”

“It’s nice of you to say so.”

Bit by bit she extracted from him his discreditable history. Bertha was possessed by a curiosity to know details, which she elicited artfully, making him confess his iniquities that she might pretend to be angry. It gave her a curious thrill, partly of admiration, to think that he was such a depraved young person, and she looked at him with a sort of amused wonder. He was very different from the virtuous Edward. A childlike innocence shone out of his handsome eyes, and yet he had already tasted the wine of many emotions. Bertha felt somewhat envious of the sex which gave opportunity, and the spirit which gave power, to seize life boldly, and wring from it all it had to offer.

“I ought to refuse to speak to you any more,” she said. “I ought to be ashamed of you.”

“But you’re not. That’s why you’re such a ripper.”

How could she be angry with a boy who adored her? His very perversity fascinated her. Here was a man who would never hesitate to go to the devil for a woman, and Bertha was pleased at the compliment to her sex.

One evening Miss Ley was dining out, and Gerald asked Bertha to come to dinner with him, and then to the opera. She refused, thinking of the expense; but he was so eager, and she really so anxious to go, that finally she consented.

“Poor boy, he’s going away so soon, I may as well be nice to him.”

Gerald arrived in high spirits, looking even more boyish than usual.

“I’m really afraid to go out with you,” said Bertha. “People will think you’re my son. ‘Dear me, who’d have thought she was forty!’”

“What rot!” He looked at her beautiful gown. Like all really nice women, Bertha was extremely careful to be always well dressed. “By Jove, you are a stunner!”

“My dear child, I’m old enough to be your mother.”

They drove off—to a restaurant which Gerald, boylike, had chosen, because common report pronounced it the dearest in London. Bertha was much amused by the bustle, the glitter of women in diamonds, the busy waiters gliding to and fro, the glare of the electric light: and her eyes rested with approval on the handsome boy in front of her. She could not keep in check the recklessness with which he insisted on ordering the most expensive things; and when they arrived at the opera, she found he had a box.

“Oh, you wretch,” she cried. “You must be utterly ruined.”

“Oh, I’ve got five hundred quid,” he replied, laughing. “I must blue some of it.”

“But why on earth did you get a box?”

“I remembered that you hated any other part of the theatre.”

“But you promised to get cheap seats.”

“And I wanted to be alone with you.”

He was by nature a flatterer; and few women could withstand the cajolery of his green eyes, and of his charming smile.

“He must be very fond of me,” thought Bertha, as they drove home, and she put her arm in his to express her thanks and her appreciation.

“It’s very nice of you to have been so good to me. I always thought you were a nice boy.”

“I’d do more than that for you.”

He would have given the rest of his five hundred pounds for one kiss. She knew it, and was pleased, but gave him no encouragement, and for once he was bashful. They separated at her doorstep with the quietest handshake.

“It’s awfully kind of you to have come.”

He appeared immensely grateful to her. Her conscience pricked her now that he had spent so much money; but she liked him all the more.

 

Gerald’s month was nearly over, and Bertha was astonished that he occupied her thoughts so much. She did not know that she was so fond of him.

“I wish he weren’t going,” she said, and then quickly: “but of course it’s much better that he should!”

At that moment the boy appeared.

“This day week you’ll be on the sea, Gerald,” she said. “Then you’ll be sorry for all your iniquities.”

“No!” he answered, sitting in the position he most affected, at Bertha’s feet.

“No—which?”

“I shan’t be sorry,” he replied, with a smile, “and I’m not going away.”

“What d’you mean?”

“I’ve altered my plans. The man I’m going to said I could start at the beginning of the month or a fortnight later.”

“But why?” It was a foolish question, because she knew.

“I had nothing to stay for. Now I have, that’s all.”

Bertha looked at him, and caught his shining eyes fixed intently upon her. She became grave.

“You’re not angry?” he asked, changing his tone. “I thought you wouldn’t mind. I don’t want to leave you.”

He looked at her so earnestly and tears came to his eyes, Bertha could not help being touched.

“I’m very glad that you should stay, dear. I didn’t want you to go so soon. We’ve been such good friends.”

She passed her fingers through his curly hair and over his ears; but he started, and shivered.

“Don’t do that,” he said, pushing her hand away.

“Why not?” she cried, laughing. “Are you frightened of me?”

And caressingly she passed her hand over his ears again.

“Oh, you don’t know what pain that gives me.”

He sprang up, and to her astonishment Bertha saw that he was pale and trembling.

“I feel I shall go mad when you touch me.”

Suddenly she saw the burning passion in his eyes; it was love that made him tremble. Bertha gave a little cry, and a curious sensation pressed her heart. Then without warning, the boy seized her hands and falling on his knees before her, kissed them repeatedly. His hot breath made Bertha tremble too, and the kisses burnt themselves into her flesh. She snatched her hands away.

“I’ve wanted to do that so long,” he whispered.

She was too deeply moved to answer, but stood looking at him.

“You must be mad, Gerald.” She pretended to laugh.

“Bertha!”

They stood very close together; he was about to put his arms round her. And for an instant she had an insane desire to let him do what he would, to let him kiss her lips as he had kissed her hands; and she wanted to kiss his mouth, and the curly hair, and his cheeks soft as a girl’s. But she recovered herself.

“Oh, it’s absurd! Don’t be silly, Gerald.”

He could not speak; he looked at her, his green eyes sparkling with desire.

“I love you.”

“My dear boy, do you want me to succeed your mother’s maid?”

“Oh!” he gave a groan and turned red.

“I’m glad you’re staying on. You’ll be able to see Edward, who’s coming to town. You’ve never met my husband, have you?”

His lips twitched, and he seemed to struggle to compose himself. Then he threw himself on a chair and buried his face in his hands. He seemed so little, so young—and he loved her. Bertha looked at him for a moment, and tears came to her eyes. She called herself brutal, and put her hand on his shoulder.

“Gerald!” He did not look up. “Gerald, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I’m sorry for what I said.”

She bent down and drew his hands away from his face.

“Are you cross with me?” he asked, almost tearfully.

“No,” she answered, caressingly. “But you mustn’t be silly, dearest. You know I’m old enough to be your mother.”

He did not seem consoled, and she felt still that she had been horrid. She took his face between her hands and kissed his lips. And, as if he were a little child, she kissed away the tear-drops that shone in his eyes.