Chapter XXXII
At last Gerald had but one day more. A long-standing engagement of Bertha and Miss Ley forced him to take leave of them early, for he started 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?”
“Oh, 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 sentimentalise. 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, which seemed trying to make her understand something. “We’ve had some ripping times 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 dare say 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 gift which she had prepared for Gerald.
“Wait just one moment, Gerald,” she said. “I want to get something.”
She left the room and immediately the boy bent forward.
“Don’t go out to-night, 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 few guineas, 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 having rather 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 to-night. I’ve got a racking headache; I can scarcely see. You must tell them that I’m sorry, but I’m too ill.”
She sank on a chair and put her hand to her forehead, groaning with pain. Miss Ley lifted her eyebrows; the affair was evidently more serious that she thought. However, the danger now was over; it would ease Bertha to stay at home and cry it out. She thought it brave of her 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 the 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 their few precious minutes; it was already 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 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, as he came upstairs.
He slipped in as if he were a thief, and on tiptoe 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; already 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 to-morrow.”
“You are so young; in a little while you’ll fall in love with some one else. Don’t you see that I’m old?”
“But 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 it go. The silence now 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 eye crossed with Gerald’s, and they both looked instantly 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 she could not. The temptation which all the week had terrified her returned with double force—the temptation which she abhorred, but to which she had a horrible longing not to resist.
And now she asked what it mattered. Her strength was dwindling, and Gerald had but to say a word. And now she wished