in an agony of impatience. Supposing she arrived too late? She told the man to hurry.
The Liverpool train was fairly full; but Bertha walking up the crowded platform quickly saw Gerald. He sprang towards her.
“Bertha you’ve come. I felt certain you wouldn’t let me go without seeing you.”
He took her hands and looked at her with eyes full of love.
“I’m so glad you’ve come,” he said at last. “I want—I want to beg your pardon.”
“What do you mean?” whispered Bertha, and suddenly she felt a dreadful fear which gripped her heart with unendurable pain.
“I’ve been thinking of you all night, and I’m dreadfully ashamed of myself. I must tell you how sorry I am that I’ve caused you unhappiness. I was selfish and brutal; I only thought of myself. I forgot how much you had to lose. Please forgive me, Bertha.”
“Oh, Gerald, Gerald.”
“I shall always be grateful to you, Bertha. I know I’ve been a beast, but now I’m going to turn over a new leaf. You see, you have reformed me after all.”
He tried to smile in his old, light-hearted manner; but it was a very poor attempt. Bertha looked at him. She wished to say that she loved him with all her heart, and was ready to accompany him to the world’s end; but the words stuck in her throat.
“I don’t know what has happened to me,” he said, “but I seem to see everything now so differently. Of course it is much better that I’m going away; but it’s dreadfully hard.”
An inspector came to look at the tickets. “Is the lady going?”
“No,” said Gerald; and then, when the man had passed: “You won’t forget me, Bertha, will you? You won’t think badly of me; I lost my head. I didn’t realise till last night that I wanted to do you the most frightful wrong. I didn’t understand that I should have ruined you and your whole life.”
At last Bertha forced herself to speak. The time was flying, and she could not understand what was passing in Gerald’s mind.
“If you only knew how much I love you!” she cried.
He had but to ask her to go and she would go. But he did not ask. Was he repenting already? Was his love already on the wane? Bertha tried to make herself speak again, but could not. Why did he not repeat that he could not live without her!
“Take your seats, please! Take your seats, please!”
A guard ran along the platform. “Jump in, sir. Right behind!”
“Good-bye,” said Gerald. “May I write to you?”
She shook her head. It was too late now.
“Jump in, sir. Jump in.”
Gerald kissed her quickly and got into the carriage.
“Right away!”
The guard blew his whistle and waved a flag, and the train puffed slowly out of the station.
Chapter XXXIII
Miss Ley was much alarmed when she got up and found that Bertha had flown.
“Upon my word, I think that Providence is behaving scandalously. Am I not a harmless middle-aged woman who mind my own business; what have I done to deserve these shocks?”
She suspected that her niece had gone to the station; but the train started at seven, and it was ten o’clock. She positively jumped when it occurred to her that Bertha might have—eloped: and like a swarm of abominable little demons came thoughts of the scenes she must undergo if such were the case, the writing of the news to Edward, his consternation, the comfort which she must administer, the fury of Gerald’s father, the hysterics of his mother.
“She can’t have done anything so stupid,” she cried in distraction. “But if women can make fools of themselves, they always do!”
Miss Ley was extraordinarily relieved when at last she heard Bertha come in and go to her room.
Bertha for a long time had stood motionless on the platform, staring haggardly before her, stupefied. The excitement of the previous hours was followed by utter blankness; Gerald was speeding to Liverpool, and she was still in London. She walked out of the station, and turned towards Chelsea. The streets were endless, and she was already tired; almost fainting, she dragged herself along. She did not know the way, and wandered hopelessly, barely conscious. In Hyde Park she sat down to rest, feeling utterly exhausted; but the weariness of her body relieved the terrible aching of her heart. She walked on after a while; it never occurred to her to take a cab, and eventually she came to Eliot Mansions. The sun had grown hot, and burned the crown of her head with ghastly torture. Bertha crawled upstairs to her room, and throwing herself on the bed, burst into tears of bitter anguish. She wept desperately, and clenched her hands.
“Oh,” she cried at last, “I dare say he was as worthless as the other.”
Miss Ley sent to inquire if she would eat, but Bertha now really had a bad headache, and could touch nothing. All day she spent in agony, hardly able to think—despairing. Sometimes she reproached herself for denying Gerald when he asked her to let him stay, she had wilfully lost the happiness that was within her reach: and then, with a revulsion of feeling, she repeated that he was worthless. The dreary hours passed, and when night came Bertha scarcely had strength to undress; and not till the morning did she get rest. But the early post brought a letter from Edward, repeating his wish that she should return to Court Leys. She read it listlessly.
“Perhaps it’s the best thing to do,” she groaned.
She hated London now and the flat; the rooms must be horribly bare without the joyous presence of Gerald. To return to Court Leys seemed the only course left to her, and there at least she would have quiet and solitude. She thought almost with longing of the desolate shore, the marshes and the dreary sea; she wanted rest and silence. But if she went, she had better go at once; to stay in London was only to prolong her woe.
Bertha rose, and dressed, and went to Miss Ley; her face was deathly pale, and her eyes heavy and red with weeping. In exhaustion she made no attempt to hide her condition.
“I’m going down to Court Leys to-day, Aunt Polly. I think it’s the best thing I can do.”
“Edward will be very pleased to see you.”
“I think he will.”
Miss Ley hesitated, looking at Bertha.
“You know, Bertha,” she said, after a pause, “in this world it’s very difficult to know what to do. One struggles to know good from evil—but really they’re often so very much alike.... I always think those people fortunate who are content to stand, without question, by the ten commandments, knowing exactly how to conduct themselves, and propped up by the hope of Paradise on the one hand, and by the fear of a cloven-footed devil with pincers, on the other.... But we who answer Why to the crude Thou
