“I can’t leave you, Bertha. Let me stay.”
“It’s impossible; you must go, now more than ever.”
They were interrupted by the appearance of Miss Ley. She began to talk; but to her surprise neither Bertha nor Gerald showed any vivacity.
“What is the matter with you both today?” she asked. “You’re usually attentive to my observations.”
“I’m tired,” said Bertha, “and I have a headache.”
Miss Ley looked at Bertha more closely and fancied she had been crying; Gerald also seemed profoundly miserable. Surely—Then the truth dawned on her, and she could hardly conceal her astonishment.
“Good Heavens!” she thought, “I must have been blind. How lucky he’s going away in a week!”
Miss Ley now remembered a dozen occurrences that had escaped her notice. She was confounded.
“Upon my word,” she thought, “I don’t believe you can put a woman of seventy for five minutes in company of a boy of fourteen without their getting into mischief.”
The week to Gerald and to Bertha passed with terrible quickness. They scarcely had a moment alone, for Miss Ley, under the pretence of making much of her nephew, arranged little pleasure parties, so that all three might be continually together.
“We must spoil you a little before you go; and the harm it does you will be put right by the rocking of the boat.”
Bertha was in a torment. She knew that her love was impossible, but she knew also that it was beyond control. She tried to argue herself out of the infatuation, but without avail; Gerald was never absent from her thoughts, and she loved him with her whole soul. The temptation came to bid him stay. If he remained in England they might give rein to their passion and let it die of itself. But she dared not ask him. And his sorrow was more than she could bear; she looked into his eyes, and seemed there to see the grief of a breaking heart. It was horrible to think that he loved her and that she must continually distress him. And then a more terrible temptation beset her. There is one way in which a woman can bind a man to her for ever, there is one tie that is indissoluble; her very flesh cried out, and she trembled at the thought that she could give Gerald the inestimable gift of her body. Then he might go, but that would have passed between them which could not be undone; they might be separated by ten thousand miles, but there would always be the bond between them. Her flesh cried out to his flesh, and the desire was irresistible. How else could she prove to him her wonderful love? How else could she show her immeasurable gratitude? The temptation was very strong, incessantly recurring, and she was weak. It assailed her with all the violence of her fervid imagination. She drove it away with anger, she loathed it with all her heart; but she could not stifle the appalling hope that it would be too strong.
32
At last Gerald had but one day more. A long-standing engagement of Bertha and Miss Ley forced him to take leave of them in the afternoon, for he was to start from London at seven in the morning.
“I’m dreadfully sorry that you can’t spend your last evening with us,” said Miss Ley. “But the Trevor-Jones will never forgive us if we don’t go to their dinner-party.”
“Of course it was my fault for not finding out before when I sailed.”
“What are you going to do with yourself this evening, you wretch?”
“I’m going to have one last unholy bust.”
“I’m afraid you’re very glad that for one night we can’t look after you.”
In a little while Miss Ley, looking at her watch, told Bertha that it was time to dress. Gerald got up, and kissing Miss Ley thanked her for her kindness.
“My dear boy, please don’t sentimentalize. And you’re not going for ever. You’re sure to make a mess of things and come back; the Leys always do.”
Then Gerald turned to Bertha and held out his hand.
“You’ve been awfully good to me,” he said, smiling; but there was in his eyes a steadfast look that seemed intent on making her understand something. “We’ve had a ripping time together.”
“I hope you won’t forget me entirely. We’ve certainly kept you out of mischief.”
Miss Ley watched them, admiring their composure. She thought they took the parting very well.
“I daresay it was nothing but a little flirtation and not very serious. Bertha’s so much older than he and so sensible that she’s most unlikely to have made a fool of herself.”
But she had to fetch the gifts that she had prepared for Gerald.
“Wait just a moment, Gerald,” she said. “I want to fetch something.
She left the room, and immediately the boy bent forward.
“Don’t go out tonight, Bertha. I must see you again.”
Before Bertha could reply, Miss Ley called from the hall.
“Good-bye,” said Gerald aloud.
“Good-bye. I hope you’ll have a nice journey.”
“Here’s a little present for you, Gerald,” said Miss Ley, when he was outside. “You’re dreadfully extravagant; and as that’s the only virtue you have I feel I ought to encourage it. And if you want money at any time, I can always scrape together a tenner, you know.”
She put into his hand two fifty-pound notes, and then, as if she were ashamed of herself, bundled him out of doors. She went to her room; and as she had somewhat seriously inconvenienced herself for the next six months, for an entirely unworthy object, she began to feel remarkably pleased.
In an hour Miss Ley returned to the drawing-room to wait for Bertha, who presently came in, dressed, but ghastly pale.
“Oh, Aunt Polly, I simply can’t come tonight. I’ve got a racking headache, I can scarcely see. You must tell them that I am sorry, but I’m too ill.”
She sank on a chair and put her hands to her forehead. Miss Ley lifted her eyebrows; the affair was evidently more serious than she thought. However, the danger was over; it would ease Bertha to stay at home and cry it out. She thought it brave of her niece even to have dressed.
“You’ll get no dinner,” she said. “There’s nothing in the place.”
“Oh, I want nothing to eat.”
Miss Ley expressed her concern, and promising to make excuses, went away. Bertha started up when she heard the door close, and went to the window. She looked round for Gerald, fearing he might be already there: he was incautious and eager; but if Miss Ley saw him, it would be fatal. The hansom drove away and Bertha breathed more freely. She could not help it, she too felt that she must see him; if they had to part it could not be under Miss Ley’s cold eyes.
She waited at the window, but he did not come. Why did he delay? He was wasting the precious minutes; it was past eight. She walked up and down the room and looked again, but still he was not in sight. She fancied that while she watched he would not come, and forced herself to read, but how could she? Again she looked out of the window; and this time Gerald was there. He stood in the porch of the opposite house, looking up; and immediately he saw her crossed the street. She went to the door and opened it gently.
He slipped in, and on tip-toe they entered the drawing-room.
“Oh, it’s so good of you,” he said. “I couldn’t leave you like that. I knew you’d stay.”
“Why have you been so long? I thought you were never coming.”
“I dared not risk it before. I was afraid something might happen to stop Aunt Polly.”
“I said I had a headache. I dressed so that she might suspect nothing.”
The night was falling, and they sat together in the dimness. Gerald took her hands and kissed them.
“This week has been awful. I’ve never had the chance of saying a word to you. My heart has been breaking.”
“My dearest.”
“I wondered if you were sorry I was going.”
She looked at him and tried to smile; she could not trust herself to speak.
“Every day I thought you would tell me to stop, and you never did, and now it’s too late. Oh, Bertha, if you loved me you wouldn’t send me away.�
��
“I think I love you too much. Don’t you see it’s better that we should part?”
“I daren’t think of tomorrow.”
“You are so young; in a little while you will fall in love with someone else.”
“I love you. Oh, I wish I could make you believe me. Bertha, Bertha, I can’t leave you. I love you too much.”
“For God’s sake don’t talk like that. It’s hard enough to bear already; don’t make it harder.”
The night had fallen, and through the open window the summer breeze came in, and the softness of the air was like a kiss. They sat side by side in silence, the boy holding Bertha’s hand; they could not speak, for words were powerless to express what was in their hearts. But presently a strange intoxication seized them and the mystery of passion wrapped them about invisibly. Bertha felt the trembling of Gerald’s hand, and it passed to hers. She shuddered and tried to withdraw, but he would not let go. The silence became suddenly intolerable. Bertha tried to speak, but her throat was dry, and she could utter no word.
A weakness came to her limbs and her heart beat painfully. Her eyes met Gerald’s, and they both looked aside, as if caught in some crime. Bertha began to breathe more quickly. Gerald’s intense desire burned itself into her soul; she dared not move. She tried to implore God’s help, but could not. The temptation, which all the week had terrified her, returned with double force, the temptation that she abhorred, but that she had a horrible longing not to resist.
And now she asked what it mattered. Her strength was dwindling; Gerald had but to say a word. And now she wished him to say the word; he loved her and she loved him. She gave way, she no longer wished to resist, flesh called to flesh, and there was no force on earth more powerful. Her whole frame was quivering with passion. She turned her face to Gerald, she leant towards him with parted lips.
“Bertha!” he whispered, and they were nearly in one another’s arms.
But a fine sound pierced the silence; they started back and listened. They heard a key being put into the front door, and the door being opened.
“Take care,” whispered Bertha.
“It’s Aunt Polly.”
Bertha pointed to the electric switch and, understanding, Gerald turned on the light. He looked round instinctively for some way to escape, but Bertha, with a woman’s quick invention, sprang to the door and flung it open.
“Is that you, Aunt Polly?” she cried. “How fortunate you came back! Gerald is here to bid us definitely good-bye.”
“He makes as many farewells as a prima-donna,” said Miss Ley.
She came in, breathless, with two spots of red on her cheeks.
“I thought you wouldn’t mind if I came back here to wait till you returned,” said Gerald. “And I found Bertha.”
“How funny that our thoughts should have been identical,” said Miss Ley. “It occurred to me that you might come, and so I hurried home as quickly as I could.”
“You’re quite out of breath,” said Bertha.
Miss Ley sank on a chair exhausted. As she was eating her fish and talking to a neighbour, it suddenly dawned upon her that Bertha’s indisposition was assumed.
“Oh, what a fool I am! They’ve hoodwinked me as if I were a child. Good Heavens, what are they doing now?”
The dinner seemed interminable, but immediately afterwards she took leave of her astonished hostess and gave the cabman orders to drive furiously. She arrived, inveighing against the deceitfulness of the human race. She had never run up the stairs so quickly.
“How is your headache, Bertha?”
“Thanks, it’s much better. Gerald has driven it away.”
This time Miss Ley’s good-bye to the precocious youth was chilly; she was devoutly thankful that his boat sailed next morning.
“I’ll show you out, Gerald,” said Bertha. “Don’t trouble, Aunt Polly, you must be dreadfully tired.”
They went into the hall, and Gerald put on his coat. He stretched out his hands to Bertha, without speaking; but she, with a glance at the drawing-room door, beckoned Gerald to follow her and slid out of the front door. There was no one on the stairs. She flung her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his. She did not try to hide her passion now, she clasped him to her heart, their very souls flew to their lips and mingled. Their kiss was rapture, madness; it was an ecstasy beyond description, complete surrender; their senses were powerless to contain their pleasure. Bertha felt herself about to die. In the bliss, in the agony her spirit failed and she tottered; Gerald pressed her more closely to him.
But there was a sound of someone coming upstairs. She tore herself away.
“Good-bye for ever,” she whispered, and slipping in, closed the door between them.
She sank down half-fainting, but in fear struggled to her feet and dragged herself to her room. Her cheeks were glowing and her limbs trembled. Oh, now it was too late for prudence. What did she care for her marriage? What did she care that he was younger than she? She loved him, she loved him insanely; the present was there with its infinite joy, and if the future brought misery it was worth suffering. She could not let him go, he was hers; she stretched out her arms to take him in her embrace. She would surrender everything; she would bid him stay; she would follow him to the end of the earth. It was too late now for reason.
She walked up and down her room excitedly. She looked at the door; she had a mad desire to go to him now, to abandon everything for his sake. Her honour, her happiness, her station, were only precious because she could sacrifice them for him. He was her life and her love, he was her body and her soul. She listened at the door. Miss Ley would be watching, and she dared not go. Miss Ley knew or suspected.
“I’ll wait,” said Bertha.
She tried to sleep, but could not. The thought of Gerald distracted her. She dozed, and his presence became more distinct. He seemed to be in the room, and she cried: “At last, my dearest, at last!”
She woke and stretched out her hands to him; she could not realize that she had dreamt.
The day came, dim and grey at first, but lightening with the brilliant summer morning; the sun shone in the windows and the sunbeams danced in the room. Now the moments were very few, she must make up her mind quickly; and the sunbeams promised life and happiness and the glory of the unknown. Oh, what a fool she was to waste her life, to throw away her chance of happiness! How weak she was not to grasp the love thrown in her way! She thought of Gerald packing his things, getting off, the train speeding through the summer country. Her love was irresistible. She sprang up, and bathed, and dressed. She put her jewels and one or two things in a tiny handbag. It was past six; she slipped out of the room and made her way downstairs. The street was empty as in the night, but the sky was blue and the air fresh and sweet. She took a long breath and felt marvellously gay. She walked till she found a cab, and told the driver to go quickly to Euston. The cab crawled along, and she was in an agony of impatience. Supposing she arrived too late? She told the man to hurry.
The Liverpool train was full. Bertha walked up the crowded platform and 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 so that I can say what I wanted. I meant to write to you. I shall always be grateful. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am that I’ve caused you unhappiness. I almost ruined your life. I was selfish and brutal; I forgot how much you had to lose. Of course I see now that it is all for the best that I’m going away. Will you forgive me?”
Bertha looked at him. She wanted to say that she adored him and would accompany him to the world’s end, but the words stuck in her mouth. An inspector came along to look at the tickets.
“Is the lady going?” he asked.
“No,” said Gerald; and then when the man had passed on: “You won’t forget me, Bertha, will you? You won’t think badly of me
?”
Bertha’s heart was breaking. He had only to ask her once more to go with him, and she would go. But he thought her refusal of the night before was final, and in his misery saw the obstacles that passion now hid from her.
“Gerald,” she murmured.
He had but to ask. She dared not speak. Did he want her? Was he repenting already? Was his love already on the wane? Oh, why did he not repeat that he adored her and say once more that he could not live without her? Bertha tried to make herself speak. She could not
“Take your seats, please. Take your seats, please.”
A guard ran along the platform: “Jump in, sir.”
“Right behind!”
“Good-bye,” said Gerald.
He kissed her quickly and jumped into the carriage.
“Right away!”
The guard blew his whistle and waved a flag, and the train puffed slowly out of the station.
33
Miss Ley was 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 minds her 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. She started as 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 that she must administer, and 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. She was stupefied. The excitement of the previous hours was followed by an 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, but she dragged herself along. She did not know the way, and wandered hopelessly, scarcely conscious. In Hyde Park she sat down to rest, feeling utterly exhausted; but the weariness of her body relieved the aching of her heart. She walked on after a while—it never occurred to her to take a cab—and eventually came to Eliot Mansions. The sun had grown hot and burned the crown of her head. Bertha crawled upstairs to her room, and throwing herself on the bed burst into tears of bitter anguish. She wept desperately.
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