“Upon my word, I think that Providence1 is behaving scandalously. Am I not a harmless middle-aged2 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 positively3 jumped when it occurred to her that Bertha might have—eloped: and like a swarm4 of abominable5 little demons6 came thoughts of the scenes she must undergo if such were the case, the writing of the news to Edward, his consternation7, 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 distraction8. “But if women can make fools of themselves, they always do!”
Miss Ley was extraordinarily9 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 utterly10 exhausted11; 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 Mansions12. 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 anguish13. She wept desperately14, and clenched15 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 wilfully16 lost the happiness that was within her reach: and then, with a revulsion of feeling, she repeated that he was worthless. The dreary17 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.
She hated London now and the flat; the rooms must be horribly bare without the joyous19 presence of Gerald. To return to Court Leys seemed the only course left to her, and there at least she would have quiet and solitude20. She thought almost with longing21 of the desolate22 shore, the marshes23 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 woe24.
Bertha rose, and dressed, and went to Miss Ley; her face was deathly pale, and her eyes heavy and red with weeping. In exhaustion25 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 propped26 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 discreet27, to take it into consideration. It’s like lobster28 salad; it’s not actually immoral29 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 herd30. It’s not exhilarating, it’s not brave, and it’s rather dull; but it’s eminently31 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 meditated32, 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 astonishment33; 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 I’ll give you your tea.”
He waited on her and pressed her to eat, and was, in fact, unceasing in his attentions.
“By Jove, I am glad to see you here again.”
His pleasure was obvious, and Bertha was somewhat touched.
“Are you too tired to come for a little walk in the garden? I want to show what I’ve done for you, and just now the place is looking its best.”
He put a shawl round her shoulders, so that the evening air might not hurt her, and insisted on giving her his arm.
“Now, look here; I’ve planted rose-trees outside the drawing-room window; I thought you’d like to see them when you sat in your favourite place, reading.”
“I’ve put a bench here, between those two trees, so that you might sit down sometimes, and look at the view.”
“It’s very kind of you to be so thoughtful. Shall we sit there now?”
“Oh, I think you’d better not. There’s a good deal of dew, and I don’t want you to catch cold.”
For dinner Edward had ordered the dishes which he knew Bertha preferred, and he laughed joyously35, as she expressed her pleasure. Afterwards when she lay on the sofa, he arranged the cushions so as to make her quite easy.
“Ah, my dear,” she thought, “if you’d been half as kind three years ago you might have kept my love.”
She wondered whether absence had increased his affection, or whether it was she who had altered. Was he not unchanging as the rocks, and she knew herself unstable36 as water, mutable as the summer winds. Had he always been kind and considerate; and had she, demanding a passion which it was not in him to feel, been blind to his deep tenderness? Expecting nothing from him now, she was astonished to find he had so much to offer. But she felt sorry if he loved her, for she could give nothing in return but complete indifference37; she was even surprised to find herself so utterly callous38.
At bedtime she bade him good-night, and kissed his cheek.
“I’ve had the red room arranged for me,” she said.
There was no change in Blackstable. Bertha’s friends still lived, for the death-rate of that fortunate place was their pride, and they could do nothing to increase it. Arthur Branderton had married a pretty, fair-haired girl, nicely bred, and properly insignificant39; but the only result of that was to give his mother a new topic of conversation. Bertha, resuming her old habits, had difficulty in realising that she had been long away. She set herself to forget Gerald, and was pleased to find the recollection of him not too importunate40. A sentimentalist turned cynic has observed that a woman is only passionately41 devoted42 to her first lover, for afterwards it is love itself of which she is enamoured; and certainly the wounds of later attachments43 heal easily. Bertha was devoutly44 grateful to Miss Ley for her opportune45 return on Gerald’s last night, and shuddered46 to think of what might otherwise have happened.
“It would have been too awful,” she cried.
She could not understand what sudden madness had seized her, and the thought of the danger she had run, made Bertha’s cheeks tingle47. Her heart turned sick at the mere48 remembrance. She was thoroughly49 ashamed of that insane excursion to Euston, intent upon the most dreadful courses. She felt like a person who from the top of a tower has been so horribly tempted51 to throw himself down, that only the restraining hand of a bystander has saved him; and then afterwards from below shivers and sweats at the idea of his peril52. But worse than the shame was the dread50 of ridicule53; for the whole affair had been excessively undignified: she had run after a hobbledehoy years younger than herself, and had even fallen seriously in love with him. It was too grotesque54. Bertha imagined the joy it must cause Miss Ley. She could not forgive Gerald that, on his account, she had made herself absurd. She saw that he was a fickle55 boy, prepared to philander56 with every woman he met; and at last told herself scornfully that she had never really cared for him.
But in a little while Bertha received a letter from America, forwarded by Miss Ley. She turned white as she recognised the handwriting: the old emotions came surging back, and she thought of Gerald’s green eyes, and of his boyish lips; and she felt sick with love. She looked at the superscription, at the post mark; and then put the letter down.
“I told him not to write,” she murmured.
A feeling of anger seized her that the sight of a letter from Gerald should bring her such pain. She almost hated him now; and yet with all her heart she wished to kiss the paper and every word that was written upon it. But the sheer violence of her emotions made her set her teeth, as it were, against giving way.
“I won’t read it,” she said.
She wanted to prove to herself that she had strength; and this temptation at least she was determined57 to resist. Bertha lit a candle and took the letter in her hand to burn it, but then put it down again. That would settle the matter too quickly, and she wanted rather to prolong the trial so as to receive full assurance of her fortitude58. With a strange pleasure at the pain she was preparing for herself, Bertha placed the letter on the chimneypiece of her room, prominently, so that whenever she went in or out, she could not fail to see it. Wishing to punish herself, her desire was to make the temptation as distressing60 as possible.
She watched the unopened envelope for a month and sometimes the craving61 to open it was almost irresistible62; sometimes she awoke in the middle of the night, thinking of Gerald, and told herself she must know what he said. Ah, how well she could imagine it! He vowed63 he loved her and he spoke64 of the kiss she had given him on that last day, and he said it was dreadfully hard to be without her. Bertha looked at the letter, clenching65 her hands so as not to seize it and tear it open; she had to hold herself forcibly back from covering it with kisses. But at last she conquered all desire, she was able to look at the handwriting indifferently; she scrutinised her heart and found no trace of emotion. The trial was complete.
“Now it can go,” she said.
Again she lit a candle, and held the letter to the flame till it was all consumed; and she gathered up the ashes, putting them in her hand, and blew them out of the window. She felt that by that act she had finished with the whole thing, and Gerald was definitely gone out of her life.
But rest did not yet come to Bertha’s troubled soul. At first she found her life fairly tolerable; but she had now no emotions to distract her and the routine of her day was unvarying. The weeks passed and the months; the winter came upon her, more dreary than she had ever known it; the country became insufferably dull. The days were gray and cold, and the clouds so low that she could almost touch them. The broad fields which once had afforded such inspiring thoughts were now merely tedious, and all the rural sights sank into her mind with a pitiless monotony; day after day, month after month, she saw the same things. She was bored to death.
Sometimes Bertha wandered to the seashore and looked across the desolate waste of water; she longed to travel as her eyes and her mind travelled, south, south to the azure66 skies, to the lands of beauty and of sunshine beyond the grayness. Fortunately she did not know that she was looking almost directly north, and that if she really went on and on as she desired, would reach no southern lands of pleasure, but merely the North Pole!
She walked along the beach, among the countless67 shells; and not content with present disquietude, tortured herself with anticipation68 of the future. She could only imagine that it would bring an increase of this frightful69 ennui70, and her head ached as she looked forward to the dull monotony of her life. She went home, and groaned as she entered the house, thinking of the tiresome71 evening. Invariably after dinner they played piquet. Edward liked to conduct his life on the most mechanical lines, and regularly, as the clock struck nine, he said: “Shall we have a little game?” Bertha fetched the cards while he arranged the chairs. They played six hands. Edward added up the score and chuckled72 when he won. Bertha put the cards away, her husband replaced the chairs; and so it went on night after night, automatically.
Bertha was seized with the intense restlessness of utter boredom73. She would walk up and down her room in a fever of almost physical agony. She would sit at the piano, and cease playing after half-a-dozen bars—music seemed as futile74 as everything else; she had done everything so often. She tried to read, but could hardly bring herself to begin a new volume, and the very sight of the printed pages was distasteful: the works of information told her things she did not want to know, the novels related deeds of persons in whom she took no interest. She read a few pages and threw down the book in disgust. Then she went out again—anything seemed preferable to what she actually was doing—she walked rapidly, but the motion, the country, the very atmosphere about her, were wearisome; and almost immediately she returned. Bertha was forced to take the same walks day after day; and the deserted75 roads, the trees, the hedges, the fields, impressed themselves on her mind with a dismal76 insistency77. Then she was driven to go out merely for exercise, and walked a certain number of miles, trying to get them done quickly. The winds of the early year blew that season more persistently78 than ever, and they impeded79 her steps, and chilled her to the bone.
Sometimes Bertha paid visits, and the restraint she had to put upon herself relieved her for the moment, but no sooner was the door closed behind her than she felt more desperately bored than ever.
Yearning80 suddenly for society, she would send out invitations for some function; then felt it inexpressibly irksome to make preparations, and she loathed81 and abhorred82 her guests. For a long time she refused to see any one, protesting her feeble health; and sometimes in the solitude she thought she would go mad. She turned to prayer as the only refuge of those who cannot act, but she only half believed, and therefore found no comfort. She accompanied Miss Glover on her district visiting, but she disliked the poor, and their chatter83 seemed hopelessly inane84. The ennui made her head ache, and she put her hand to her temples, pressing them painfully; she felt she could take great wisps of her hair and tear it out.
She threw herself on her bed and wept in the agony of boredom. Edward once found her thus, and asked what was the matter.
“Oh, my head aches, so that I feel I could kill myself.”
He sent for Ramsay, but Bertha knew the doctor’s remedies were absurd and useless. She imagined that there was no remedy for her ill—not even time—no remedy but death.
She knew the terrible distress59 of waking in the morning with the thought that still another day must be gone through; she knew the relief of bed-time with the thought that she would enjoy a few hours of unconsciousness. She was racked with the imagination of the future’s frightful monotony: night would follow day, and day would follow night, the months passing one by one and the years slowly, slowly.
They say that life is short. To those who look back perhaps it is; but to those who look forward it is long, horribly long—endless. Sometimes Bertha felt it impossible to endure. She prayed that she might fall asleep at night and never awake. How happy must be the lives of those who can look forward to eternity85! To Bertha the idea was merely ghastly; she desired nothing but the long rest, the rest of an endless sleep, the dissolution into nothing.
Once in desperation she wished to kill herself, but was afraid. People say that suicide requires no courage. Fools! They cannot realise the horror of the needful preparation, the anticipation of the pain, the terrible fear that one may regret when it is too late, when life is ebbing86 away. And there is the dread of the unknown. And there is the dread of hell-fire—absurd and revolting, yet so engrained that no effort is able entirely87 to destroy it. Notwithstanding reason and argument there is still the numbing88 fear that the ghastly fables89 of our childhood may after all be true, the fear of a jealous God who will doom90 His wretched creatures to unending torture.
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1
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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6
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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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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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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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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marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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lobster
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| n.龙虾，龙虾肉 | |
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immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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unstable
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| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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importunate
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| adj.强求的；纠缠不休的 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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attachments
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| n.（用电子邮件发送的）附件( attachment的名词复数 )；附着；连接；附属物 | |
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devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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opportune
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| adj.合适的，适当的 | |
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46
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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47
tingle
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| vi.感到刺痛，感到激动；n.刺痛，激动 | |
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48
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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50
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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51
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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52
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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53
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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54
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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55
fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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philander
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| v.不真诚地恋爱，调戏 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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clenching
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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insistency
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| 强迫，坚决要求 | |
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persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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impeded
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| 阻碍，妨碍，阻止( impede的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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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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abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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inane
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| adj.空虚的，愚蠢的，空洞的 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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ebbing
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的现在分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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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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numbing
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| adj.使麻木的，使失去感觉的v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的现在分词 ) | |
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fables
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| n.寓言( fable的名词复数 )；神话，传说 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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