Chapter XXXIII

MISSLeywasmuchalarmedwhenshegotupandfoundthatBerthahadflown. “Uponmyword,IthinkthatProvidenceisbehavingscandalously.AmInotaharmlessmiddle-agedwomanwhomindmyownbusinesswhathaveIdonetodeservetheseshocks?” Shesuspectedthatherniecehadgonetothestationbutthetrainstartedatseven,anditwasteno’clock.ShepositivelyjumpedwhenitoccurredtoherthatBerthamighthave—eloped:andlikeaswarmofabominablelittledemonscamethoughtsofthescenesshemustundergoifsuchwerethecase,thewritingofthenewstoEdward,hisconsternation,thecomfortwhichshemustadminister,thefuryofGerald’sfather,thehystericsofhismother. “Shecan’thavedoneanythingsostupid,”shecriedindistraction.“Butifwomencanmakefoolsofthemselves,theyalwaysdo!” MissLeywasextraordinarilyrelievedwhenatlastsheheardBerthacomeinandgotoherroom. Berthaforalongtimehadstoodmotionlessontheplatform,staringhaggardlybeforeher,stupefied.TheexcitementoftheprevioushourswasfollowedbyutterblanknessGeraldwasspeedingtoLiverpool,andshewasstillinLondon.Shewalkedoutofthestation,andturnedtowardsChelsea.Thestreetswereendless,andshewasalreadytiredalmostfainting,shedraggedherselfalong.Shedidnotknowtheway,andwanderedhopelessly,barelyconscious.InHydeParkshesatdowntorest,feelingutterlyexhaustedbutthewearinessofherbodyrelievedtheterribleachingofherheart.Shewalkedonafterawhileitneveroccurredtohertotakeacab,andeventuallyshecametoEliotMansions.Thesunhadgrownhot,andburnedthecrownofherheadwithghastlytorture.Berthacrawledupstairstoherroom,andthrowingherselfonthebed,burstintotearsofbitteranguish.Sheweptdesperately,andclenchedherhands. “Oh,”shecriedatlast,“Idaresayhewasasworthlessastheother.” MissLeysenttoinquireifshewouldeat,butBerthanowreallyhadabadheadache,andcouldtouchnothing.Alldayshespentinagony,hardlyabletothink—despairing.SometimesshereproachedherselffordenyingGeraldwhenheaskedhertolethimstay,shehadwilfullylostthehappinessthatwaswithinherreach:andthen,witharevulsionoffeeling,sherepeatedthathewasworthless.Thedrearyhourspassed,andwhennightcameBerthascarcelyhadstrengthtoundressandnottillthemorningdidshegetrest.ButtheearlypostbroughtaletterfromEdward,repeatinghiswishthatsheshouldreturntoCourtLeys.Shereaditlistlessly. “Perhapsit’sthebestthingtodo,”shegroaned. ShehatedLondonnowandtheflattheroomsmustbehorriblybarewithoutthejoyouspresenceofGerald.ToreturntoCourtLeysseemedtheonlycourselefttoher,andthereatleastshewouldhavequietandsolitude.Shethoughtalmostwithlongingofthedesolateshore,themarshesandthedrearyseashewantedrestandsilence.Butifshewent,shehadbettergoatoncetostayinLondonwasonlytoprolongherwoe. Bertharose,anddressed,andwenttoMissLeyherfacewasdeathlypale,andhereyesheavyandredwithweeping.Inexhaustionshemadenoattempttohidehercondition. “I’mgoingdowntoCourtLeysto-day,AuntPolly.Ithinkit’sthebestthingIcando.” “Edwardwillbeverypleasedtoseeyou.” “Ithinkhewill.” MissLeyhesitated,lookingatBertha. “Youknow,Bertha,”shesaid,afterapause,“inthisworldit’sverydifficulttoknowwhattodo.Onestrugglestoknowgoodfromevil—butreallythey’reoftensoverymuchalike....Ialwaysthinkthosepeoplefortunatewhoarecontenttostand,withoutquestion,bythetencommandments,knowingexactlyhowtoconductthemselves,andproppedupbythehopeofParadiseontheonehand,andbythefearofacloven-footeddevilwithpincers,ontheother....Butwewh