“He was as quiet as a lamb,” he said. “I could ride him with my arms tied behind my back; and as to jumping—he takes a five-barred gate in his stride.”
Bertha was a little angry with him for having caused her such terror, angry with herself also for troubling.
“And it was rather lucky I had him to-day. Old Lord Philip Dirk was there, and he asked Branderton who I was. ‘You tell him,’ says he, ‘that it isn’t often I’ve seen a man ride as well as he does.’ You should see Branderton, he isn’t half glad at having let me take the beast for thirty-five quid. And Mr. Molson came up to me and said, ‘I knew that horse would get into your hands before long, you’re the only man in this part who can ride it—but if it don’t break your neck, you’ll be lucky.’”
He recounted with great satisfaction the compliments paid to him.
“We had a jolly good run to-day.... And how are you, dear, feeling comfy? Oh, I forgot to tell you—you know Rodgers, the huntsman, well, he said to me, ‘That’s a mighty2 fine hack3 you’ve got there, sir, but he takes some riding.’—‘I know he does,’ I said; ‘but I flatter myself I know a thing or two more than most horses.’ They all thought I should get rolled over before the day was out, but I just went slick at everything to show I wasn’t frightened.”
Then he gave details of the affair; and he had as great a passion for the meticulous4 as a German historian. He was one of those men who take infinite pains over trifles, flattering themselves that they never do things by halves. Bertha had a headache, and her husband bored her; she thought herself a great fool to be so concerned about his safety.
As the months wore on Miss Glover became very solicitous5. The parson’s sister looked upon birth as a mysteriously heart-fluttering business, which, however, modesty6 required decent people to ignore. She treated her friend in an absurdly self-conscious manner, and blushed like a peony when Bertha frankly7 referred to the coming event. The greatest torment8 of Miss Glover’s life was that, as lady of the Vicarage, she had to manage the Maternity9 Bag, an institution to provide the infants of the needy10 with articles of raiment and their mothers with flannel11 petticoats. She could never, without much confusion, ask the necessary information of the beneficiaries in her charity; feeling that the whole thing ought not to be discussed at all, she kept her eyes averted12, and acted generally so as to cause great indignation.
“Well,” said one good lady, “I’d rather not ’ave her bag at all than be treated like that. Why, she treats you as if—well, as if you wasn’t married.”
“Yes,” said another, “that’s just what I complain of—I promise you I ’ad ’alf a mind to take my marriage lines out of my pocket an’ show ’er. It ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed about—nice thing it would be after ’avin’ sixteen, if I was bashful.”
But of course the more unpleasant a duty was, the more zealously13 did Miss Glover perform it; she felt it right to visit Bertha with frequency, and manfully bore the young wife’s persistence14 in referring to an unpleasant subject. She carried her heroism15 to the pitch of knitting socks for the forthcoming baby, although to do so made her heart palpitate uncomfortably; and when she was surprised at the work by her brother, her cheeks burned like two fires.
“Now, Bertha dear,” she said one day, pulling herself together and straightening her back as she always did when she was mortifying16 the flesh. “Now, Bertha dear, I want to talk to you seriously.”
Bertha smiled. “Oh don’t, Fanny; you know how uncomfortable it makes you.”
“I must,” answered the good creature, gravely. “I know you’ll think me ridiculous, but it’s my duty.”
“Well, you talk a great deal of—of what’s going to happen”—Miss Glover blushed—“but I’m not sure if you are really prepared for it.”
“Oh, is that all?” cried Bertha. “The nurse will be here in a fortnight, and Dr. Ramsay says she’s a most reliable woman.”
“I wasn’t thinking of earthly preparations,” said Miss Glover. “I was thinking of the other. Are you quite sure you’re approaching the—the thing, in the right spirit?”
“What do you want me to do?”
“It isn’t what I want you to do. It’s what you ought to do. I’m nobody. But have you thought at all of the spiritual side of it?”
Bertha gave a sigh that was chiefly voluptuous19. “I’ve thought that I’m going to have a son, that’s mine and Eddie’s; and I’m awfully20 thankful.”
“Wouldn’t you like me to read the Bible to you sometimes?”
“Good heavens, you talk as if I were going to die.”
“One can never tell, dear Bertha,” replied Miss Glover, sombrely; “I think you ought to be prepared.... ‘In the midst of life we are in death’—one can never tell what may happen.”
Bertha looked at her somewhat anxiously. She had been forcing herself of late to be cheerful, and had found it necessary to stifle21 a recurring22 presentiment23 of evil fortune. The Vicar’s sister never realised that she was doing everything possible to make Bertha thoroughly24 unhappy.
“I brought my own Bible with me,” she said. “Do you mind if I read you a chapter?”
“I should like it,” said Bertha, and a cold shiver went through her.
“Have you got any preference for some particular part?” asked Miss Glover, extracting the book from a little black bag which she always carried.
On Bertha’s answer that she had no preference, Miss Glover suggested opening the Bible at random25, and reading on from the first line that crossed her eyes.
“Charles doesn’t quite approve of it,” she said; “he thinks it smacks26 of superstition27. But I can’t help doing it, and the early Protestants constantly did the same.”
Miss Glover, having opened the book with closed eyes, began to read: “The sons of Pharez! Hezron, and Hamul. And the sons of Zerah; Zimri, and Ethan, and Heman, and Calcol, and Dara; five of them in all.” Miss Glover cleared her throat. “And the sons of Ethan; Azariah. The sons also of Hezron, that were born unto him; Jerahmeel, and Ram18, and Chelubai. And Ram begat Amminadab; and Amminadab begat Nahshon, prince of the children of Judah.” She had fallen upon the genealogical table at the beginning of the Book of Chronicles. The chapter was very long, and consisted entirely28 of names, uncouth29 and difficult to pronounce; but Miss Glover shirked not one of them. With grave and somewhat high-pitched delivery, modelled on her brother’s, she read out the bewildering list. Bertha looked at her in amazement30.
“That’s the end of the chapter,” she said at last; “would you like me to read you another one?”
“Yes, I should like it very much; but I don’t think the part you’ve hit on is quite to the point.”
“My dear, I don’t want to reprove you—that’s not my duty—but all the Bible is to the point.”
And as the time passed, Bertha quite lost her courage and was often seized by a panic fear. Suddenly, without obvious cause, her heart sank and she asked herself frantically31 how she could possibly get through it. She thought she was going to die, and wondered what would happen if she did. What would Edward do without her? Thinking of his bitter grief the tears came to her eyes, but her lips trembled with self-pity when the suspicion came that he would not be heartbroken: he was not a man to feel either grief or joy very poignantly33. He would not weep; at the most his gaiety for a couple of days would be obscured, and then he would go about as before. She imagined him relishing34 the sympathy of his friends. In six months he would almost have forgotten her, and such memory as remained would not be extraordinarily35 pleasing. He would marry again; Edward loathed36 solitude37, and next time doubtless he would choose a different sort of woman—one less remote from his ideal. Edward cared nothing for appearance, and Bertha imagined her successor plain as Miss Hancock or dowdy38 as Miss Glover; and the irony39 of it lay in the knowledge that either of those two would make a wife more suitable than she to his character, answering better to his conception of a helpmate.
Bertha fancied that Edward would willingly have given her beauty for some solid advantage, such as a knowledge of dressmaking; her taste, her arts and accomplishments40, were nothing to him, and her impulsive41 passion was a positive defect. “Handsome is as handsome does,” said he; he was a plain, simple man and he wanted a simple, plain wife.
She wondered if her death would really cause him much sorrow; Bertha’s will gave him everything of which she was possessed42, and he would spend it with a second wife. She was seized with insane jealousy43.
“No, I won’t die,” she cried between her teeth, “I won’t!”
But one day, while Edward was hunting, her morbid44 fancies took another turn. Supposing he should die? The thought was unendurable, but the very horror of it fascinated her; she could not drive away the scenes which, with strange distinctness, her imagination set before her. She was seated at the piano and heard suddenly a horse stop at the front door—Edward was back early: but the bell rang; why should Edward ring? There was a murmur45 of voices without and Arthur Branderton came in. In her mind’s eye she saw every detail most clearly. He was in his hunting clothes! Something had happened, and knowing what it was, Bertha was yet able to realise her terrified wonder, as one possibility and another rushed through her brain. He was uneasy, he had something to tell, but dared not say it; she looked at him, horror-stricken, and a faintness came over her so that she could hardly stand.
Bertha’s heart beat quickly. She told herself it was absurd to let her imagination run away with her; but, notwithstanding, the pictures vividly46 proceeded: she seemed to assist at a ghastly play in which she was chief actor.
And what would she do when the fact was finally told her—that Edward was dead? She would faint or cry out.
“There’s been an accident,” said Branderton—“your husband is rather hurt.”
Bertha put her hands to her eyes, the agony was dreadful.
“You mustn’t upset yourself,” he went on, trying to break it to her.
Then, rapidly passing over the intermediate details she found herself with her husband. He was dead, lying on the floor—and she pictured him to herself, she knew exactly how he would look; sometimes he slept so soundly, so quietly, that she was nervous and put her ear to his heart to know if it was beating. Now he was dead. Despair suddenly swept down upon her overpoweringly. Bertha tried again to shake off her fancies, she even went to the piano and played a few notes; but the morbid attraction was too strong for her and the scene went on. Now that he was dead, he could not check her passion, now he was helpless and she kissed him with all her love; she passed her hands through his hair, and stroked his face (he had hated this in life), she kissed his lips and his closed eyes.
The imagined grief was so poignant32 that Bertha burst into tears. She remained with the body, refusing to be separated from it—Bertha buried her face in the cushions so that nothing might disturb her illusion, she had ceased trying to drive it away. Ah, she loved him passionately47, she had always loved him and could not live without him. She knew that she would shortly die—and she had been afraid of death. Ah, now it was welcome! She kissed his hands—he could not prevent her now—and with a little shudder48 opened his eyes; they were glassy, expressionless, immobile. Clinging to him, she sobbed49 in love and anguish50. She would let none touch him but herself; it was a relief to perform the last offices for him who had been her whole life. She did not know that her love was so great.
She undressed the body and washed it; she washed the limbs one by one and sponged them, then very gently dried them with a towel. The touch of the cold flesh made her shudder voluptuously—she thought of him taking her in his strong arms, kissing her on the mouth. She wrapped him in the white shroud51 and surrounded him with flowers. They placed him in the coffin52, and her heart stood still: she could not leave him. She passed with him all day and all night, looking ever at the quiet, restful face. Dr. Ramsay came and Miss Glover came, urging her to go away, but she refused. What was the care of her own health now, she had only wanted to live for him?
The coffin was closed, and she saw the gestures of the undertakers—she had seen her husband’s face for the last time, her beloved: her heart was like a stone, and she beat her breast in pain.
Hurriedly now the pictures thronged53 upon her—the drive to the churchyard, the service, the coffin strewn with flowers, and finally the grave-side. They tried to keep her at home. What cared she for the silly, the abominable54 convention, which sought to prevent her from going to the funeral? Was it not her husband, the only light of her life, whom they were burying? They could not realise the horror of it, the utter despair. And distinctly, by the dimness of the winter day in her drawing-room at Court Leys, Bertha saw the lowering of the coffin, heard the rattle55 of earth thrown upon it.
What would her life be afterwards? She would try to live, she would surround herself with Edward’s things, so that his memory might be always with her; the loneliness was appalling56. Court Leys was empty and bare. She saw the endless succession of grey days; the seasons brought no change, and continually the clouds hung heavily above her; the trees were always leafless, and it was desolate57. She could not imagine that travel would bring solace—the whole of life was blank, and what to her now were the pictures and churches, the blue skies of Italy? Her only happiness was to weep.
Then distractedly Bertha thought that she would kill herself, for life was impossible to endure. No life at all, the blankness of the grave, was preferable to the pangs58 gnawing59 continually at her heart. It would be easy to finish, with a little morphia to close the book of trouble; despair would give her courage, and the prick60 of the needle was the only pain. But her vision became dim, and she had to make an effort to retain it: her thoughts grew less coherent, travelling back to previous incidents, to the scene at the grave, to the voluptuous pleasure of washing the body.
It was all so vivid that the entrance of Edward came upon her as a surprise. But the relief was too great for words, it was the awakening61 from a horrible nightmare. When he came forward to kiss her, she flung her arms round his neck, her eyes moist with past tears, and pressed him passionately to her heart.
“Oh, thank God!” she cried.
“Hulloa, what’s up now?”
“I don’t know what’s been the matter with me.... I’ve been so miserable62, Eddie—I thought you were dead!”
“You’ve been crying!”
“It was so awful, I couldn’t get the idea out of my head.... Oh, I should die also.”
Bertha could scarcely realise that her husband was by her side in the flesh, alive and well.
“Would you be sorry if I died?” she asked him.
“But you’re not going to do anything of the sort,” he said, cheerily.
“Sometimes I’m so frightened, I don’t believe I’ll get over it.”
He laughed at her, and his joyous63 tones were peculiarly comforting. She made him sit by her side and held his strong hands, the hands which to her were the visible signs of his powerful manhood. She stroked them and kissed the palms. She was quite broken with the past emotions; her limbs trembled and her eyes glistened64 with tears.
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1
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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meticulous
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| adj.极其仔细的，一丝不苟的 | |
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solicitous
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| adj.热切的，挂念的 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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maternity
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| n.母性，母道，妇产科病房；adj.孕妇的，母性的 | |
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needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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12
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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zealously
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| adv.热心地；热情地；积极地；狂热地 | |
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persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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mortifying
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| adj.抑制的，苦修的v.使受辱( mortify的现在分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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ram
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| (random access memory)随机存取存储器 | |
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voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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26
smacks
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| 掌掴（声）( smack的名词复数 )； 海洛因； （打的）一拳； 打巴掌 | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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poignantly
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relishing
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| v.欣赏( relish的现在分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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dowdy
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| adj.不整洁的；过旧的 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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46
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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48
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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49
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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50
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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52
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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53
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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55
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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56
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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58
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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prick
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| v.刺伤，刺痛，刺孔；n.刺伤，刺痛 | |
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61
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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62
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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63
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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