Decalogue, and fostered on hell-fire—and one’s conscience has the last word. I dare say it’s cowardly, but it’s certainly discreet, to take it into consideration. It’s like lobster salad; it’s not actually immoral to eat it, but it will very likely give you indigestion.... One has to be very sure of oneself to go against the ordinary view of things; and if one isn’t, perhaps it’s better not to run any risks, but just to walk along the same secure old road as the common herd. It’s not exhilarating, it’s not brave, and it’s rather dull; but it’s eminently safe.”
Bertha sighed, but did not answer.
“You’d better tell Jane to pack your boxes,” said Miss Ley. “Shall I wire to Edward?”
When Bertha had at last started, Miss Ley began to think.
“I wonder if I’ve done right,” she murmured, uncertain as ever.
She was sitting on the piano-stool, and as she meditated, her fingers passed idly over the keys. Presently her ear detected the beginning of a well-known melody, and almost unconsciously she began to play the air of Rigoletto.
La Donna è mobile Qual piuma al vento.
Miss Ley smiled. “The fact is that few women can be happy with only one husband. I believe that the only solution of the marriage question is legalised polyandry.”
In the train at Victoria, Bertha remembered with relief that the cattle-market was held at Tercanbury that day, and Edward would not come home till the evening. She would have opportunity to settle herself in Court Leys without fuss or bother. Full of her painful thoughts, the journey passed quickly, and Bertha was surprised to find herself at Blackstable. She got out, wondering whether Edward would have sent a trap to meet her—but to her extreme surprise Edward himself was on the platform, and running up, helped her out of the carriage.
“Here you are at last!” he cried.
“I didn’t expect you,” said Bertha. “I thought you’d be at Tercanbury.”
“I got your wire fortunately just as I was starting, so of course I didn’t go.”
“I’m sorry I prevented you.”
“Why? I’m jolly glad. You didn’t think I was going to the cattle-market when my missus was coming home?”
She looked at him with astonishment; his honest, red face glowed with the satisfaction he felt at seeing her.
“By Jove, this is ripping,” he said, as they drove away. “I’m tired of being a grass-widower, I can tell you.”
They came to Corstal Hill and he walked the horse.
“Just look behind you,” he said, in an undertone. “Notice any thing?”
“What?”
“Look at Parke’s hat.” Parke was the footman.
Bertha, looking again, observed a cockade.
“What d’you think of that, eh?” Edward was almost exploding with laughter. “I was elected chairman of the Urban District Council yesterday; that means I’m ex-officio J.P. So, as soon as I heard you were coming, I bolted off and got a cockade.”
When they reached Court Leys, he helped Bertha out of the trap quite tenderly. She was taken aback to find the tea ready, flowers in the drawing-room, and everything possible done to make her comfortable.
“Are you tired?” asked Edward. “Lie down on the sofa and I’ll give you your tea.”
He waited on her and pressed her to eat, and was, in fact, unceasing in his attentions.
“By Jove, I am glad to see you here again.”
His pleasure was obvious, and Bertha was somewhat touched.
“Are you too tired to come for a little walk in the garden? I want to show what I’ve done for you, and just now the place is looking its best.”
He put a shawl round her shoulders, so that the evening air might not hurt her, and insisted on giving her his arm.
“Now, look here; I’ve planted rose-trees outside the drawing-room window; I thought you’d like to see them when you sat in your favourite place, reading.”
He took her farther, to a place which offered a fine prospect of the sea.
“I’ve put a bench here, between those two trees, so that you might sit down sometimes, and look at the view.”
“It’s very kind of you to be so thoughtful. Shall we sit there now?”
“Oh, I think you’d better not. There’s a good deal of dew, and I don’t want you to catch cold.”
For dinner Edward had ordered the dishes which he knew Bertha preferred, and he laughed joyously, as she expressed her pleasure. Afterwards when she lay on the sofa, he arranged the cushions so as to make her quite easy.
“Ah, my dear,” she thought, “if you’d been half as kind three years ago you might have kept my love.”
She wondered whether absence had increased his affection, or whether it was she who had altered. Was he not unchanging as the rocks, and she knew herself unstable as water, mutable as the summer winds. Had he always been kind and considerate; and had she, demanding a passion which it was not in him to feel, been blind to his deep tenderness? Expecting nothing from him now, she was astonished to find he had so much to offer. But she felt sorry if he loved her, for she could give nothing in return but complete indifference; she was even surprised to find herself so utterly callous.
At bedtime she bade him good-night, and kissed his cheek.
“I’ve had the red room arranged for me,” she said.
There was no change in Blackstable. Bertha’s friends still lived, for the death-rate of that fortunate place was their pride, and they could do nothing to increase it. Arthur Branderton had married a pretty, fair-haired girl, nicely bred, and properly insignificant; but the only result of that was to give his mother a new topic of conversation. Bertha, resuming her old habits, had difficulty in realising that she had been long away. She set herself to forget Gerald, and was pleased to find the recollection of him not too importunate. A sentimentalist turned cynic has observed that a woman is only passionately devoted to her first lover, for afterwards it is love itself of which she is enamoured; and certainly the wounds of later attachments heal easily. Bertha was devoutly grateful to Miss Ley for her opportune return on Gerald’s last night, and shuddered to think of what might otherwise have happened.
“It would have been too awful,” she cried.
She could not understand what sudden madness had seized her, and the thought of the danger she had run, made Bertha’s cheeks tingle. Her heart turned sick at the mere remembrance. She was thoroughly ashamed of that insane excursion to Euston, intent upon the most dreadful courses. She felt like a person who from the top of a tower has been so horribly tempted to throw himself down, that only the restraining hand of a bystander has saved him; and then afterwards from below shivers and sweats at the idea of his peril. But worse than the shame was the dread of ridicule; for the whole affair had been excessively undignified: she had run after
