“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 Shalt Not, are like sailors on a wintry sea without a compass. Reason and instinct say one thing, and convention says another. But the worst of it is that one’s conscience has been reared on the 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