  NEXT morning, as Bertha expected, Madeline came round to see her early. She brought with her a note. She said that Nigel had implored her to give it to her friend from him. He had put Madeline in the carriage, and had seemed greatly distressed. He told the girl that his wife had been ill lately and was not quite herself, and he feared she had offended Bertha. “She certainly behaved like a lunatic,” Bertha said, as she took the letter. “Did you tell Percy?” “As a matter of fact, no.” “Didn’t he wonder at your coming home so early?” “I’m afraid I pretended I rushed back to please him. Was it wrong of me? I’m afraid it was.” “I believe in frankness with people you can trust. And remember, quite a little while ago, Bertha, you were worried and depressed “I’m afraid I was wrong; but it was to spare him annoyance. Besides, I daresay I was weak. It was so delightful giving him a pleasant surprise.” She read the letter. “Forgive me for asking your friend to give you this note—I only did it because I feared in writing to you to refer to what happened. Is it asking too much, Bertha, to beg you not to resent it? Not to hate me for to-night? Think of my shame and misery about it—to think I had pressed and begged you to come to be insulted in my house. You see now what I have tried to conceal. I am utterly miserable. My wife is terrible and impossible. Seeing you occasionally had been my one joy—my only consolation. And only to-night—before—you had been telling me not to come and see you any more. Now I feel our friendship is all over. I could not expect you to see me again. You “In humblest apology, and with that deep feeling that writing can never express, your idolising “Nigel. “P.S.—I ought not to have written that. But I fear so much that I may not see you again, and that this may be my last letter, and I feel I would like you to know honestly all I feel for you. But words may not bear such burdens. Send me one word, only one word of pardon.” Bertha was obviously shocked and surprised at this letter. She folded it up, looking grave. Then she said to Madeline: “What a very extraordinary thing it has been that both Mary and Percy have been “But they both felt by instinct, perhaps, that that was no fault of his,” returned Madeline. “I have no sympathy with him,” said Bertha, who seemed for her quite hard. “If he does like me, all the more he ought to have kept away. Besides, it’s only because he wants to be amused! What right has he to make his wife unhappy, when he deliberately chose her, and to be willing—if he is willing—to smash up my happiness with Percy?” “Of course that’s horrid of him,” said Madeline; “but somehow I do think his wife is rather awful; I think she might do anything. But won’t you answer his letter?” “Yes; I think I’d better write him a line,” said Bertha. She sat down and wrote: “Dear Mr. Hillier,—Pray don’t think again of the unpleasant little incident. “I have already forgotten it. “I think that if you will make your children the interest of your life—though it’s very impertinent of me to say so—happiness must come of it. “Good-bye. Yours very sincerely, “Bertha Kellynch” “I’m sure you have, dear. But Percy would rather you didn’t write at all.” “Perhaps. But I think it’s right. Besides, otherwise, he might write again, or even call.” “Yes, that’s true.” |
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