help remembering that Court Leys was hers, and that if she chose she could send Edward away like a hired servant.
At last she felt it impossible longer to endure his company; he made her stupid and vulgar; she was ill and weak, and she utterly despaired. She made up her mind to go away again, this time for ever.
“If I stay, I shall kill myself.”
For two days Edward had been utterly miserable; a favourite dog had died, and he was brought to the verge of tears. Bertha watched him contemptuously.
“You are more affected over the death of a wretched poodle than you have ever been over a pain of mine.”
“Oh, don’t rag me now, there’s a good girl. I can’t bear it.”
“Fool!” muttered Bertha, under her breath.
He went about with hanging head and melancholy face, telling every one the particulars of the beast’s demise, in a voice quivering with emotion.
“Poor fellow!” said Miss Glover. “He has such a good heart.”
Bertha could hardly repress the bitter invective that rose to her lips. If people knew the coldness with which he had met her love, the indifference he had shown to her tears and to her despair! She despised herself when she remembered the utter self-abasement of the past.
“He made me drink the cup of humiliation to the very dregs.”
From the height of her disdain she summed him up for the thousandth time. It was inexplicable that she had been subject to a man so paltry in mind, so despicable in character. It made her blush with shame to think how servile had been her love.
Dr. Ramsay, who was visiting Bertha for some trivial ill, happened to come in when she was engaged with such thoughts.
“Well,” he said, as soon as he had taken breath. “And how is Edward to-day?”
“Good heavens, how should I know?” she cried, beside herself, the words slipping out unawares after the long constraint.
“Hulloa, what’s this? Have the turtle-doves had a tiff at last?”
“Oh, I’m sick of continually hearing Edward’s praises. I’m sick of being treated as an appendage to him.”
“What’s the matter with you, Bertha?” said the doctor, bursting into a shout of laughter. “I always thought nothing pleased you more than to hear how much we all liked your husband.”
“Oh, my good doctor, you must be blind or an utter fool. I thought every one knew by now that I loathe my husband.”
“What?” shouted Dr. Ramsay; then thinking Bertha was unwell: “Come, come, I see you want a little medicine, my dear. You’re out of sorts, and like all women you think the world is consequently coming to an end.”
Bertha sprang from the sofa. “D’you think I should speak like this if I hadn’t good cause? Don’t you think I’d conceal my humiliation if I could? Oh, I’ve hidden it long enough; now I must speak. Oh God, I can hardly help screaming with pain when I think of all I’ve suffered and hidden. I’ve never said a word to any one but you, and now I can’t help it. I tell you I loathe and abhor my husband and I utterly despise him. I can’t live with him any more, and I want to go away.”
Dr. Ramsay opened his mouth and fell back in his chair; he looked at Bertha as if he expected her to have a fit. “You’re not serious?”
Bertha stamped her foot impatiently. “Of course I’m serious. Do you think I’m a fool too? We’ve been miserable for years, and it can’t go on. If you knew what I’ve had to suffer when every one has congratulated me, and said how pleased they were to see me so happy. Sometimes I’ve had to dig my nails in my hands to prevent myself from crying out the truth.”
Bertha walked up and down the room, letting herself go at last. The tears were streaming down her cheeks, but she took no notice of them. She was giving full vent to her passionate hatred.
“Oh, I’ve tried to love him. You know how I loved him once—how I adored him. I would have laid down my life for him with pleasure. I would have done anything he asked me; I used to search for the smallest indication of his wishes so that I might carry them out. It overjoyed me to think that I was his abject slave. But he’s destroyed every vestige of my love, and now I only despise him, I utterly despise him. Oh, I’ve tried to love him, but he’s too great a fool.”
The last words Bertha said with such force that Dr. Ramsay was startled.
“My dear Bertha!”
“Oh, I know you all think him wonderful. I’ve had his praises thrown at me for years. But you don’t know what a man really is till you’ve lived with him, till you’ve seen him in every mood and in every circumstance. I know him through and through, and he’s a fool. You can’t conceive how stupid, how utterly brainless he is.... He bores me to death!”
“Come now, you don’t mean what you say. You’re exaggerating as usual. You must expect to have little quarrels now and then; upon my word, I think it took me twenty years to get used to my wife.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, don’t be sententious,” Bertha interrupted, fiercely. “I’ve had enough moralising in these five years. I might have loved Edward better if he hadn’t been so moral. He’s thrown his virtues in my face till I’m sick of them. He’s made every goodness ugly to me, till I sigh for vice just for a change. Oh, you can’t imagine how frightfully dull is a really good man. Now I want to be free, I tell you I can’t stand it any more.”
Bertha again walked up and down the room excitedly.
“Upon my word,” cried Dr. Ramsay, “I can’t make head or tail of it.”
“I didn’t expect you would. I knew you’d only moralise.”
“What d’you want me to do? Shall I speak to him?”
“No! No! I’ve spoken to him endlessly. It’s no good. D’you suppose your speaking to him will make him love me? He’s incapable of it; all he can give me is esteem and affection—good God, what do I want with esteem! It requires a certain intelligence to love, and he hasn’t got it. I tell you he’s a fool. Oh, when I think that I’m shackled to him for the rest of my life, I feel I could kill myself.”
“Come now, he’s not such a fool as all that. Every one agrees that he’s a very smart man of business. And I can’t help saying that I’ve always thought you did uncommonly well when you insisted on marrying him.”
“It was all your fault,” cried Bertha. “If you hadn’t opposed me, I might not have married so quickly. Oh, you don’t know how I’ve regretted it.... I wish I could see him dead at my feet.”
Dr. Ramsay whistled. His mind worked somewhat slowly, and he was becoming confused with the overthrow of his cherished opinions, and the vehemence with which the unpleasant operation was conducted.
“I didn’t know things were like this.”
“Of course you didn’t!” said Bertha, scornfully. “Because I smiled and hid my sorrow, you thought I was happy. When I look back on the wretchedness I’ve gone through, I wonder that I can
