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Mrs. Craddock

<h2>Chapter XIX</h2> BUT the apathy with which for weeks Bertha had looked upon all terrestrial concerns was passing away before her increasing strength. It had been due only to an utter physical weakness, of the same order as that merciful indifference to all earthly sympathies which gives ease to the final passage into the Unknown. The prospect of death would be unendurable if one did not know that the enfeebled body brought a like enfeeblement of spirit, dissolving the ties of this world: when the traveller must leave the hostel with the double gate, the wine he loved has lost its savour and the bread turned bitter in his mouth. Like useless gauds, Bertha had let fall the interests of life; her soul lay a-dying. Her soul was a lighted candle in a lantern, flickering in the wind so that its flame was hardly seen and the lantern was useless; but presently the wind of death was stilled, and the light shone out and filled the darkness. With increasing strength the old passion returned; love came back like a conqueror, and Bertha knew that she had not done with life. In her loneliness she yearned for Edward’s affection; for now he was all she had, and she stretched out her arms to him with a great desire. She blamed herself bitterly for her coldness, she wept at the idea of what he must have suffered. And she was ashamed that the love which she had thought eternal, should have been for a while destroyed. But a change had come over her. She did not now love her husband with the old blind passion, but with a new feeling added to it; for to him was transferred the tenderness which she had lavished on her dead child, and all the mother’s spirit which must now, to her life’s end, go unsatisfied. Her heart was like a house with empty chambers, and the fires of love raged through them triumphantly. Bertha thought a little painfully of Miss Glover, but dismissed her with a shrug of the shoulders. The good creature had kept her resolve never again to come near Court Leys, and for days nothing had been heard of her. “What does it matter?” cried Bertha. “So long as Eddie loves me, the rest of the world is nothing.” But her room gained now the aspect of a prison, so that she felt it impossible much longer to endure its dreadful monotony. Her bed was a bed of torture, and she fancied that so long as she remained stretched upon it, health would not return. She begged Dr. Ramsay to allow her to get up, but was always met with the same refusal, backed up by her husband’s common sense. All she obtained was the dismissal of the nurse to whom she had taken a sudden and violent dislike. From no reasonable cause, Bertha found the mere presence of the poor woman unendurable, and her officious loquacity irritated her beyond measure. If she must remain in bed, Bertha preferred absolute solitude; the turn of her mind was becoming almost misanthropic. The hours passed endlessly. From her pillow Bertha could see only the sky, now a metallic blue with dazzling clouds swaying heavily across, now gray, darkening the room. The furniture and the wall-paper forced themselves distastefully on her mind. Every detail was impressed on her consciousness as indelibly as the potter’s mark on the clay. Finally she made up her mind to get up, come what might. It was the Sunday after the quarrel with Miss Glover; Edward would be indoors and doubtless intended to spend most of the afternoon in her room, but she knew he disliked sitting there; the closeness, the odours of medicine, made his head ache. Her appearance in the drawing-room would be a delightful surprise. She would not tell him that she was getting up, but go downstairs and take him unawares. She got out of bed, but as she put her feet to the ground, had to cling to a chair; her legs were so weak that they hardly supported her, and her head reeled. But in a little while she gathered strength and slowly dressed herself, slowly and very difficultly; her weakness was almost pain. She had to sit down, and her hair was so wearisome to do that she was afraid she must give up the attempt and return to bed. But the thought of Edward’s surprise upheld her—he had said how pleased he would be to have her downstairs with him. At last she was ready and went to the door, supporting herself on every object at hand. But what joy it was to be up again, to feel herself once more among the living—away from the grave of her bed! She came to the top of the stairs and went down, leaning heavily on the banisters; she went one step at a time, as little children do, and laughed at herself. But the laugh changed almost into a groan, as in exhaustion she sank down and felt it impossible to go farther. Then the thought of Edward urged her on. She struggled to her feet, and persevered till she reached the bottom. Now she was outside the drawing-room, she heard Edward whistling within. She crept along, eager to make no sound; noiselessly she turned the handle and flung the door open. “Eddie!” He turned round with a cry. “Hulloa, what are you doing here?” He came towards her, but showed not the great joy which she had expected. “I wanted to surprise you. Aren’t you glad to see me?” “Yes, of course I am. But you oughtn’t to have come without Dr. Ramsay’s leave. And I didn’t expect you to-day.” He led her to the sofa, and she lay down. “I thought you’d be so pleased.” “Of course I am!” He placed pillows under her, and covered her with a rug—little attentions which were exquisitely touching. “You don’t know how I struggled,” she said. “I thought I should never get my things on, and then I almost tumbled down the stairs, I was so weak.... But I knew you must be lonely here, and you hate sitting in the bedroom.” “You oughtn’t to have risked it. It may throw you back,” he replied, gently. He looked at his watch. “You must only stay half-an-hour, and then I shall carry you up to bed.” Bertha gave a laugh, intending to permit nothing of the sort. It was so comfortable to lie on the sofa, with Edward by her side. She held his hands. “I simply couldn’t stay in the room any longer. It was so gloomy, with the rain pattering all day on the windows.” It was one of those days of late summer when the rain seems never ceasing, and the air is filled with the melancholy of nature, already conscious of the near decay. “I was meaning to come up to you as soon as I’d finished my pipe.” Bertha was exhausted, and, keeping silence, pressed Edward’s hand in acknowledgment of his kind intention. Presently he looked at his watch again. “Your half-hour’s nearly up. In five minutes I’m going to carry you to your room.” “Oh no, you’re not,” she replied playfully, taking his remark as humorous. “I’m going to stay till dinner.” “No, you can’t possibly. It will be very bad for you.... To please me go back to bed now.” “Well, we’ll split the difference and I’ll go after tea.” “No, you must go now.” “Why, one would think you wanted to get rid of me!” “I have to go out,” said Edward. “Oh no, you haven’t—you’re merely saying that to induce me to go upstairs. You fibber!” “Let me carry you up now, there’s a good girl.” “I won’t, I won’t, I won’t.” “I shall have to leave you alone, Bertha. I didn’t know you meant to get up to-day, and I have an engagement.” “Oh, but you can’t leave me the first time I get up. What is it? You can write a note and break it.” “I’m awfully sorry,” he replied. “But I’m afraid I can’t do that. The fact is, I saw the Miss Hancocks after church, and they said they had to walk into Tercanbury this afternoon, and as it was so wet I offered to drive them in. I’ve promised to fetch them at three.” “You’re joking,” said Bertha; her eyes had suddenly become hard, and she was breathing fast. Edward looked at her uneasily. “I didn’t know you were going to get up, or I shouldn’t have arranged to go out.” “Oh well, it doesn’t matter,” said Bertha, throwing off the momentary anger. “You can just write and say you can’t come.” “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he answered, gravely. “I’ve given my word and I can’t break it.” “Oh, but it’s infamous.” Her wrath blazed out again. “Even you can’t be so cruel as to leave me at such a time. I deserve some consideration—after all I’ve suffered. For weeks I lay at death’s door, and at last when I’m a little better and come down—thinking to give you pleasure, you’re engaged to drive the Misses Hancock into Tercanbury.” “Come, Bertha, be reasonable.” Edward condescended to expostulate with his wife, though it was not his habit to humour her extravagances. “You see it’s not my fault. Isn’t it enough for you that I’m very sorry? I shall be back in an hour. Stay here, and then we’ll spend the evening together.” “Why did you lie to me?” “I haven’t lied: I’m not given to that,” said Edward, with natural satisfaction. “You pretended it was for my health’s sake that I must go upstairs. Isn’t that a lie?” “It was for your health’s sake.” “You lie again. You wanted to get me out of the way, so that you might go to the Miss Hancocks without telling me.” “You ought to know me better than that by now.” “Why did you say nothing about them till you found it impossible to avoid.” Edward shrugged his shoulders good-humouredly. “Because I know how touchy you are.” “And yet you made them the offer.” “It came out almost unawares. They were grumbling about the weather, and without thinking, I said, ‘I’ll drive you over if you like.’ And they jumped at it.” “You’re so good-natured if any one but your wife is concerned.” “Well, dear, I can’t stay arguing. I shall be late already.” “You’re not really going?” It had been impossible for Bertha to realise that Edward would carry out his intention. “I must, my dear; it’s my duty.” “You have more duty to me than to any one else.... Oh, Eddie, don’t go. You can’t realise all it means to me.” “I must. I’m not going because I want to. I shall be back in an hour.” He bent down to kiss her, and she flung her arms round his neck, bursting into tears. “Oh, please don’t go—if you love me at all, if you’ve ever loved me.... Don’t you see that you’re destroying my love for you?” “Now, don’t be silly, there’s a good girl.” He loosened her arms and walked away; but rising from the sofa she followed him and took his arm, beseeching him to stay. “You see how unhappy I am; and you are all I have in the world now. For God’s sake, stay, Eddie. It means more to me than you know.” She sank to the floor; she was kneeling before him. “Come, get on to the sofa. All this is very bad for you.” He carried her to the couch, and then, to finish the scene, hurriedly left the room. Bertha sprang up to follow him, but sank back as the door slammed, and burying her face in her hands, surrendered herself to a passion of tears. But humiliation and rage almost drove away her grief. She had knelt before her husband for a favour, and he had not granted it. Suddenly she abhorred him. The love, which had been a tower of brass, fell like a house of cards. She would not try now to conceal from herself the faults that stared her in the face. He cared only for himself: with him it was only self, self, self. Bertha found a bitter fascination in stripping her idol of the finery with which her madness had bedizened him; she saw him more accurately now, and he was utterly selfish. But most unbearable of all was her own extreme humiliation. The rain poured down, unceasing, and the despair of nature ate into her soul. At last she was exhausted; and losing thought of time, lay half-unconscious, feeling at least no pain, her brain vacant and weary. When a servant came to ask if Miss Glover might see her, she hardly understood. “Miss Glover doesn’t usually stand on such ceremony,” she said ill-temperedly, forgetting the incident of the previous week. “Ask her to come in.” The parson’s sister came to the door and hesitated, growing red; the expression in her eyes was pained, and even frightened. “May I come in, Bertha?” “Yes.” She walked straight to the sofa, and fell on her knees. “Oh, Bertha, please forgive me. I was wrong, and I’ve behaved wickedly to you.” “My dear Fanny,” murmured Bertha, a smile breaking through her misery. “I withdraw every word I said to you, Bertha; I can’t understand how I said it. I humbly beg your forgiveness.” “There is nothing to forgive.” “Oh, yes, there is. Good heavens, I know! My conscience has been reproaching me ever since I was here, but I hardened my heart, and would not listen.” Poor Miss Glover could not really have hardened her heart, however much she tried. “I knew I ought to come to you and beg your forgiveness, but I wouldn’t. I’ve not slept a wink at night. I was afraid of dying, and if I’d been cut off in the midst of my wickedness, I should have been lost.” She spoke very quickly, finding it evidently a relief to express her trouble. “I thought Charles would upbraid me, but he’s never said a word. Oh, I wish he had, it would have been easier to bear than his sorrowful look. I know he’s been worrying dreadfully, and I’m so sorry for him. I kept on saying I’d only done my duty, but in my heart I knew I had done wrong. Oh Bertha, and this morning I dared not take communion, I thought God would strike me for blasphemy. And I was afraid Charles would refuse me in front of the whole congregation.... It’s the first Sunday since I was confirmed, that I’ve missed taking Holy Communion.” She buried her face in her hands, crying. Bertha heard her, almost listlessly; for her own trouble was overwhelming and she could not think of any other. Miss Glover raised her face, tear-stained and red; it was positively hideous, but notwithstanding, very pathetic. “Then I couldn’t bear it any longer,” she said. “I thought if I begged your pardon I might be able to forgive myself. Oh, Bertha, please forget what I said, and forgive me. And I fancied that Edward would be here to-day, and the thought of exposing myself before him too was almost more than I could bear. But I knew the humiliation would be good for me. Oh, I was so thankful when Jane said he was out.... What can I do to earn your forgiveness?” In her heart of hearts, Miss Glover desired some horrible penance which would thoroughly mortify her flesh. “I have already forgotten all about it,” said Bertha, smiling wearily. “If my forgiveness is worth anything, I forgive you entirely.” Miss Glover was a little pained at Bertha’s manifest indifference, yet took it as a just punishment. “And Bertha, let me say that I love you and admire you more than any one after Charles. If you really think what you said the other day, I still love you and hope God will turn your heart. Charles and I will pray for you night and day, and soon I hope the Almighty will send you another child to take the place of the one you lost. Believe me, God is very good and merciful, and He will grant you what you wish.” Bertha gave a low cry of pain. “I can never have another child.... Dr. Ramsay told me it was impossible.” “Oh, Bertha, I didn’t know.” Miss Glover took Bertha protectingly in her arms, crying, and kissed her like a little child. But Bertha dried her eyes. “Leave me now, Fanny, please. I’d rather be alone. But come and see me soon, and forgive me if I’m horrid. I’m very unhappy and I shall never be happy again.”   A few minutes later, Edward returned—cheery, jovial, red-faced, and in the best of humours. “Here we are again!” he shouted, like a clown in a harlequinade. “You see I’ve not been gone long and you haven’t missed me a rap. Now, we’ll have tea.” He kissed her and put her cushions right. “By Jove, it does me good to see you down again. You must pour out the tea for me.... Now, confess; weren’t you unreasonable to make such a fuss about my going away? And I couldn’t help it, could I?” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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