“Are you sorry you’re going away so soon?” she asked.
“I shall be miserable at leaving you.”
“It’s nice of you to say so.”
Bit by bit she extracted from him his discreditable history. Bertha was possessed by a curiosity to know details, which she elicited artfully, making him confess his iniquities that she might pretend to be angry. It gave her a curious thrill, partly of admiration, to think that he was such a depraved young person, and she looked at him with a sort of amused wonder. He was very different from the virtuous Edward. A childlike innocence shone out of his handsome eyes, and yet he had already tasted the wine of many emotions. Bertha felt somewhat envious of the sex which gave opportunity, and the spirit which gave power, to seize life boldly, and wring from it all it had to offer.
“I ought to refuse to speak to you any more,” she said. “I ought to be ashamed of you.”
“But you’re not. That’s why you’re such a ripper.”
How could she be angry with a boy who adored her? His very perversity fascinated her. Here was a man who would never hesitate to go to the devil for a woman, and Bertha was pleased at the compliment to her sex.
One evening Miss Ley was dining out, and Gerald asked Bertha to come to dinner with him, and then to the opera. She refused, thinking of the expense; but he was so eager, and she really so anxious to go, that finally she consented.
“Poor boy, he’s going away so soon, I may as well be nice to him.”
Gerald arrived in high spirits, looking even more boyish than usual.
“I’m really afraid to go out with you,” said Bertha. “People will think you’re my son. ‘Dear me, who’d have thought she was forty!’”
“What rot!” He looked at her beautiful gown. Like all really nice women, Bertha was extremely careful to be always well dressed. “By Jove, you are a stunner!”
“My dear child, I’m old enough to be your mother.”
They drove off — to a restaurant which Gerald, boylike, had chosen, because common report pronounced it the dearest in London. Bertha was much amused by the bustle, the glitter of women in diamonds, the busy waiters gliding to and fro, the glare of the electric light: and her eyes rested with approval on the handsome boy in front of her. She could not keep in check the recklessness with which he insisted on ordering the most expensive things; and when they arrived at the opera, she found he had a box.
“Oh, you wretch,” she cried. “You must be utterly ruined.”
“Oh, I’ve got five hundred quid,” he replied, laughing. “I must blue some of it.”
“But why on earth did you get a box?”
“I remembered that you hated any other part of the theatre.”
“But you promised to get cheap seats.”
“And I wanted to be alone with you.”
He was by nature a flatterer; and few women could withstand the cajolery of his green eyes, and of his charming smile.
“He must be very fond of me,” thought Bertha, as they drove home, and she put her arm in his to express her thanks and her appreciation.
“It’s very nice of you to have been so good to me. I always thought you were a nice boy.”
“I’d do more than that for you.”
He would have given the rest of his five hundred pounds for one kiss. She knew it, and was pleased, but gave him no encouragement, and for once he was bashful. They separated at her doorstep with the quietest handshake.
“It’s awfully kind of you to have come.”
He appeared immensely grateful to her. Her conscience pricked her now that he had spent so much money; but she liked him all the more.
Gerald’s month was nearly over, and Bertha was astonished that he occupied her thoughts so much. She did not know that she was so fond of him.
“I wish he weren’t going,” she said, and then quickly: “but of course it’s much better that he should!”
At that moment the boy appeared.
“This day week you’ll be on the sea, Gerald,” she said. “Then you’ll be sorry for all your iniquities.”
“No!” he answered, sitting in the position he most affected, at Bertha’s feet.
“No — which?”
“I shan’t be sorry,” he replied, with a smile, “and I’m not going away.”
“What d’you mean?”
“I’ve altered my plans. The man I’m going to said I could start at the beginning of the month or a fortnight later.”
“But why?” It was a foolish question, because she knew.
“I had nothing to stay for. Now I have, that’s all.”
Bertha looked at him, and caught his shining eyes fixed intently upon her. She became grave.
“You’re not angry?” he asked, changing his tone. “I thought you wouldn’t mind. I don’t want to leave you.”
He looked at her so earnestly and tears came to his eyes, Bertha could not help being touched.
“I’m very glad that you should stay, dear. I didn’t want you to go so soon. We’ve been such good friends.”
She passed her fingers through his curly hair and over his ears; but he started, and shivered.
“Don’t do that,” he said, pushing her hand away.
“Why not?” she cried, laughing. “Are you frightened of me?”
And caressingly she passed her hand over his ears again.
“Oh, you don’t know what pain that gives me.”
He sprang up, and to her astonishment Bertha saw that he was pale and trembling.
“I feel I shall go mad when you touch me.”
Suddenly she saw the burning passion in his eyes; it was love that made him tremble. Bertha gave a little cry, and a curious sensation pressed her heart. Then without warning, the boy seized her hands and falling on his knees before her, kissed them repeatedly. His hot breath made Bertha tremble too, and the kisses burnt themselves into her flesh. She snatched her hands away.
“I’ve wanted to do that so long,” he whispered.
She was too deeply moved to answer, but stood looking at him.
“You must be mad, Gerald.” She pretended to laugh.
“Bertha!”
They stood very close together; he was about to put his arms round her. And for an instant she had an insane desire to let him do what he would, to let him kiss her lips as he had kissed her hands; and she wanted to kiss his mouth, and the curly hair, and his cheeks soft as a girl’s. But she recovered herself.
“Oh, it’s absurd! Don’t be silly, Gerald.”
He could not speak; he looked at her, his green eyes sparkling with desire.
“I love you.”
“My dear boy, do you want me to succeed your mother’s maid?”
“Oh!” he gave a groan and turned red.
“I’m glad you’re staying on. You’ll be able to see Edward, who’s coming to town. You’ve never met my husband, have you?”
His lips twitched, and he seemed to struggle to compose himself. Then he threw himself on a chair and buried his face in his hands. He seemed so little, so young — and he loved her. Bertha looked at him for a moment, and tears came to her eyes. She called herself brutal, and put her hand on his shoulder.
“Gerald!” He did not look up. “Gerald, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I’m sorry for what I said.”
She bent down and drew his hands away from his face.
“Are you cross with me?” he asked, almost tearfully.
“No,” she answered, caressingly. “But you mustn’t be silly, dearest. You know I’m old enough to be your mother.”
He did not seem consoled, and she felt still that she had been horrid. She took his face between her hands and kissed his lips. And, as if he were a little child, she kissed away the tear-drops that shone in his eyes.
Chapter XXX
BERTHA still felt on her hands Gerald’s passionate kisses, like little patches of fire; and on her lips was still the touch of his boyish mouth. What magic current had passed from him
to her that she should feel this sudden happiness? It was enchanting to think that Gerald loved her; she remembered how his eyes had sparkled, how his voice had grown hoarse so that he could hardly speak: ah, those were the signs of real love, of the love that is mighty and triumphant. Bertha put her hands to her heart with a rippling laugh of pure joy — for she was beloved. The kisses tingled on her fingers so that she looked at them with surprise, she seemed almost to see a mark of burning. She was very grateful to him, she wanted to take his head in her hands and kiss his hair and his boyish eyes and again the soft lips. She told herself that she would be a mother to him.
The day following he had come to her almost shyly, afraid that she would be angry, and the bashfulness contrasting with his usual happy audacity, had charmed her. It flattered her extremely to think that he was her humble slave, to see the pleasure he took in doing as she bade; but she could hardly believe it true that he loved her, and she wished to reassure herself. It gave her a queer thrill to see him turn white when she held his hand, to see him tremble when she leaned on his arm. She stroked his hair and was delighted with the anguish in his eyes.
“Don’t do that,” he cried. “Please. You don’t know how it hurts.”
“I was hardly touching you,” she replied, laughing.
She saw in his eyes glistening tears — they were tears of passion, and she could scarcely restrain a cry of triumph. At last she was loved as she wished, she gloried in her power: here at last was one who would not hesitate to lose his soul for her sake. She was intensely grateful. But her heart grew cold when she thought it was too late, that it was no good: he was only a boy, and she was married and — nearly thirty.
But even then, why should she attempt to stop him? If it was the love she dreamt of, nothing could destroy it. And there was no harm; Gerald said nothing to which she might not listen, and he was so much younger than she, he was going in less than a month and it would all be over. Why should she not enjoy the modest crumbs that the gods let fall from their table — it was little enough, in all conscience! How foolish is he who will not bask in the sun of St. Martin’s summer, because it heralds the winter as surely as the east wind!
They spent the whole day together to Miss Ley’s amusement, who for once did not use her sharp eyes to much effect.
“I’m so thankful to you, Bertha, for looking after the lad. His mother ought to be eternally grateful to you for keeping him out of mischief.”
“I’m very glad if I have,” said Bertha, “he’s such a nice boy, and I’m so fond of him. I should be very sorry if he got into trouble.... I’m rather anxious about him afterwards.”
“My dear, don’t be; because he’s certain to get into scrapes — it’s his nature — but it’s likewise his nature to get out of them. He’ll swear eternal devotion to half-a-dozen fair damsels, and ride away rejoicing, while they are left to weep upon one another’s bosoms. It’s some men’s nature to break women’s hearts.”
“I think he’s only a little wild: he means no harm.”
“These sort of people never do; that’s what makes their wrong-doing so much more fatal.”
“And he’s so affectionate.”
“My dear, I shall really believe that you’re in love with him.”
“I am,” said Bertha. “Madly!”
The plain truth is often the surest way to hoodwink people, more especially when it is told unconsciously. Women of fifty have an irritating habit of treating as contemporaries all persons of their own sex who are over twenty-five, and it never struck Miss Ley that Bertha might look upon Gerald as anything but a little boy.
But Edward could no longer be kept in the country. Bertha was astonished that he should wish to see her, and a little annoyed, for now of all times his presence would be importunate. She did not wish to have her dream disturbed, she knew it was nothing else; it was a mere spring day of happiness in the long winter of life. She looked at Gerald now with a heavy heart and could not bear to think of the future. How empty would existence be without that joyous smile; above all, without that ardent passion! This love was wonderful; it surrounded her like a mystic fire and lifted her up so that she seemed to walk on air. But things always come too late or come by halves. Why should all her passion have been squandered and flung to the winds, so that now when a beautiful youth offered her his virgin heart, she had nothing to give in exchange? Bertha told herself that though she was extremely fond of Gerald, of course she did not love him; he was a mere boy!
She was a little nervous at the meeting between him and Edward; she wondered what they would think of one another, and she watched — Gerald! Edward came in like a country breeze, obstreperously healthy, jovial, large, and somewhat bald. Miss Ley trembled lest he should knock her china over as he went round the room. He kissed her on one cheek, and Bertha on the other.
“Well, how are you all? — And this is my young cousin, eh? How are you? Pleased to meet you.”
He wrung Gerald’s hand, towering over him, beaming good-naturedly; then sat in a chair much too small for him, which creaked and grumbled at his weight. There are few sensations more amusing for a woman than to look at the husband she has once adored and think how very unnecessary he is; but it is apt to make conversation a little difficult. Miss Ley soon carried Gerald off, thinking that husband and wife should enjoy a little of that isolation to which marriage had indissolubly doomed them. Bertha had been awaiting, with great discomfort, the necessary ordeal. She had nothing to tell Edward, and was much afraid that he would be sentimental.
“Where are you staying?” she asked.
“Oh, I’m putting up at the Inns of Court — I always go there.”
“I thought you might care to go to the theatre to-night. I’ve got a box, so that Aunt Polly and Gerald can come too.”
“I’m game for anything you like.”
“You always were the best-tempered man,” said Bertha, smiling gently.
“You don’t seem to care very much for my society, all the same.”
Bertha looked up quickly. “What makes you think that?”
“Well, you’re a precious long time coming back to Court Leys,” he replied, laughing.
Bertha was relieved, for evidently he was not taking the matter seriously. She had not the courage to say that she meant never to return: the endless explanation, his wonder, the impossibility of making him understand, were more than she could bear.
“When are you coming back? We all miss you, like anything.”
“Do you?” she said. “I really don’t know. We’ll see after the season.”
“What? Aren’t you coming for another couple of months?”
“I don’t think Blackstable suits me very well. I’m always ill there.”
“Oh, nonsense. It’s the finest air in England. Deathrate practically nil.”
“D’you think our life was very happy, Edward?”
She looked at him anxiously to see how he would take the tentative remark: but he was only astonished.
“Happy? Yes, rather. Of course we had our little tiffs. All people do. But they were chiefly at first, the road was a bit rough and we hadn’t got our tyres properly blown out. I’m sure I’ve got nothing to complain about.”
“That of course is the chief thing,” said Bertha.
“You look as well as anything now. I don’t see why you shouldn’t come back.”
“Well, we’ll see later. We shall have plenty of time to talk it over.”
She was afraid to speak the words on the tip of her tongue; it would be easier by correspondence.
“I wish you’d give some fixed date — so that I could have things ready, and tell people.”
“It depends upon Aunt Polly; I really can’t say for certain. I’ll write to you.”
They kept silence for a moment and then an idea seized Bertha.
“What d’you say to going to the Natural History Museum? Don’t you remember, we went there on our honeymoon? I’m sure it would amuse you to see it again
.”
“Would you like to go?” asked Edward.
“I’m sure it would amuse you,” she replied.
Next day while Bertha was shopping with her husband, Gerald and Miss Ley sat alone.
“Are you very disconsolate without Bertha?” she asked.
“Utterly miserable!”
“That’s very rude to me, dear boy.”
“I’m awfully sorry, but I can never be polite to more than one person at a time: and I’ve been using up all my good manners on — Mr. Craddock.”
“I’m glad you like him,” replied Miss Ley, smiling.
“I don’t!”
“He’s a very worthy man.”
“If I hadn’t seen Bertha for six months, I shouldn’t take her off at once to see bugs.”
“Perhaps it was Bertha’s suggestion.”
“She must find Mr. Craddock precious dull if she prefers blackbeetles and stuffed kangaroos.”
“You shouldn’t draw such rapid conclusions, my friend.”
“D’you think she’s fond of him?”
“My dear Gerald, what a question! Is it not her duty to love, honour, and obey him?”
“If I were a woman I could never honour a man who was bald.”
“His locks are somewhat scanty; but he has a strong sense of duty.”
“I know that,” shouted Gerald. “It oozes out of him whenever he gets hot, just like gum.”
“He’s a County Councillor, and he makes speeches about the Union Jack, and he’s virtuous.”
“I know that too. He simply reeks of the ten commandments: they stick out all over him, like almonds in a tipsy cake.”
“My dear Gerald, Edward is a model; he is the typical Englishman as he flourishes in the country, upright and honest, healthy, dogmatic, moral — rather stupid. I esteem him enormously, and I ought to like him much better than you, who are a disgraceful scamp.”
Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated) Page 80