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,
