BERTHA was very much surprised at Mary’s wishing to see her. She thought it most extraordinary and was much inclined to refuse, remembering the strangely insulting way Mary had behaved at her party. Nigel had apologised indeed; had implored for forgiveness; and she had written to say it was forgotten. But it is not an easy thing to forget.

Percy had given a mild version of his interview with Nigel. He had also told her now about the destroyed letters. Bertha was certainly vexed that she had not been told before. It would have, at least, prevented her going to the party. However, she was soon tired of the subject and agreed with Percy not to mention it again. Bertha was, as she said herself, nothing of a harpist. She could not go on playing on one string. She made up her mind to forget it. She had begun to do so when Mary’s telephone message reached her.Bertha was sitting by the fire when Mary was shown in. She looked at her most serene, her calmest and prettiest. It was not in her nature to bear malice nor even to be angry for more than a few hours about anything. By the end of that time she was always inclined to see the humorous side of anything, and to see that it was of less importance than appeared. She had already laughed several times to herself at the mere thought of the absurdity of a hostess asking one to her house and then behaving as Mary had done. Also she saw a comic—though pathetic—side to the typewritten letters. But it was painful, too, and she would very much rather have avoided this visit from Mrs. Hillier. It must be embarrassing for her, at least, and could hardly be other than disagreeable.

Mary came in looking very pale and rather untidy. In the excitement of her mind and her general perturbation she had come out with two left-handed gloves, and during the whole of her visit endeavoured to force a left hand into a right-hand glove. It was maddening to watch her.

Just as she started to go to see Bertha, poor Mary had gone to her toilet-table and put what she supposed to be powder lavishly on her nose without again looking in the glass. It was red rouge—the reddest and brightest. Although she afterwards rubbed a little of it off, she never saw herself in the glass again before starting. The result of this was to give her that touch of the grotesque that is so fatal to any scene of a serious nature but that in this case appealed to Bertha’s kindness and sympathy rather than her sense of humour.

“How are you, Mrs. Hillier? I have really hardly met you to speak to until to-day.”

“Good-morning, Mrs. Kellynch. … It was kind of you to let me come.”

Mary sat down awkwardly and began to put her left hand into the right-hand glove. She sat near the light, and Bertha saw that she had been covering her face with what she supposed to be powder, but what was nothing else than carmine.

Should she tell her?

Could she let her remain in ignorance of this until afterwards? She would find it out when she went home.

“I want to speak to you very much, Mrs. Kellynch. … It is very awkward, but I feel I must.”

“Have some tea first,” said Bertha, and while she poured it out and passed it to Mrs. Hillier she felt she could no longer leave her in ignorance of her appearance.She pointed to the silver looking-glass that stood on a small table, and said: “Mrs. Hillier, just look at that. I fancy you’ve put something on your face by mistake. Do forgive me!”

Mary gave a shriek.

“Good heavens, how horrible! I must have put rouge on instead of powder! I look like a comic actor!”

Both of them laughed, and this rather cleared the air.

“It was very good of you to tell me,” said Mary. “Thank you. It’s so like me! When I’m agitated I become too appallingly absent-minded for words. That’s the sort of thing I do. How you must sneer—I mean, laugh at me, Mrs. Kellynch!”

“Indeed not! What an idea. It could happen to anyone.”

“Well, I came to see you for two reasons. One is this: Mrs. Kellynch, I want to beg your pardon. I’m very, very sorry.”

“For what, Mrs. Hillier?”

“For many things. I was horribly rude—I behaved shamefully at my party the other day. I must have been mad. I was so miserable.” She said this in a low voice.

Bertha held out her hand. The poor girl—she was not much more—looked so miserable, and had just looked so absurd! It must have been such a humiliation to know that one had called on one’s rival got up like a comedian—a singer of comic songs at the Pavilion.

“Mrs. Hillier, don’t say any more. I quite forgive you, and will not think of it again. Don’t let us talk of it any more. Have some more tea?”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Kellynch. This isn’t all. I have something else to tell you, and then I want, if I may, to consult you. I did a dreadful, dreadful thing! I don’t know how I could! Oh, when I see you—when I look at you and see how sweet and kind you are——”

Bertha, terrified that Mary would begin to cry and get hysterical, tried to stop her.

“Don’t, Mrs. Hillier. Don’t tell me any more. It might—I guess what you are going to say—I know it might have caused great trouble. But it didn’t. So never mind. You were upset—didn’t think.”

“Oh no, Mrs. Kellynch; you must let me confess it. I sha’n’t be at peace till I do. I want to tell—my husband—that I confessed and apologised. I actually wrote——”

“Really, all this is unnecessary. You are giving us both unnecessary pain,” said Bertha. “I know it—I guess it. Won’t you leave it at that? All traces of—the trouble were destroyed, and, if you want to be kind to me now, you’ll not speak of it any more.”

Mary had begun to cry, but she controlled herself, seeing it would please Bertha best.

“Very well, I’ll say no more. Only do, do try to forgive me.”

“I do with all my heart.”

“Then you’re angelic. Thank you.” After a moment’s pause, Mary put away her handkerchief.

“Have a cigarette,” suggested Bertha, who hardly knew what to do to compose her agitated visitor.

“No, no, thank you. Mrs. Kellynch, may I really ask you a great, great favour?”

“Please do.”

“May I consult you? I’m so miserable—I’m wretched. Nigel has gone away and left me!”

“Gone away.”

“Yes.”

“But he’ll come back? Surely, he means to come back?”

“I hope so. But he never left me before. Never since we have been married! And I am miserable. What shall I do—what can I do to make him fond of me?”This pathetic question brought tears to Bertha’s eyes. She was truly sorry for the poor little creature.

“Is he angry with you then?”

“He’s not exactly angry, now. He has been very kind. He has behaved beautifully. But he said he must go away for a time, and when he came back he would not refer to—to the subject of our quarrel again.”

“Well, that’s all right then. There is no cause for being unhappy. It’s nothing his going away for a week or two.”

“He says six weeks. Six long, dreadful weeks!”

“Even six weeks—it’s nothing. After, you’ll both be much happier, I’m sure,” said Bertha consolingly. “Sometimes there is a sort of strain and a change is needed. It will be all right.”

“But, Mrs. Kellynch, you don’t know—you don’t understand. I have always been so terribly, madly jealous. I have worried him into it. You see—I can’t help it, I love him so much! I do love him. You can’t imagine what it is!”

“Indeed I can!” cried Bertha. “I care quite as much for Percy. You can’t think how much.”

“Really and truly? But that’s so different, because he cares quite as much for you.”

“Indeed, I hope so,” said Bertha seriously.“Yes. But Nigel doesn’t—he’s kind, but I don’t think he cares much about me. What shall I do?”

Bertha paused, deeply sorry. Then she said:

“Nonsense! Of course he does, but you—if you’ll excuse my saying so—you seem to worry him, to bother him with imaginary grievances, with unjust suspicious. What man will bear that?”

“Then will you tell me what to do?” she asked, like a child.

“First, don’t beg him to come back. Write kindly, unselfishly, cheerfully.”

“Cheerfully! Oh, I can’t.”

“Yes; you must if you want it to be all right. What man wants to be deluged with tears and complaints? Dear Mrs. Hillier, I’m speaking as a genuine friend. I’m speaking frankly. I’m advising you as I would my own sister. Write to him cheerily, and take an interest in his doings, but not too great. Show less curiosity. Above all, no jealousy, no suspicions. It’s the worst thing in the world.”

“Is it? Go on, dear Mrs. Kellynch. Tell me more.”

“Talk of the children—show interest in them—make him proud of them. There you have an advantage no other woman has. You’re the mother of his children.”“Does he care for that?”

“Of course he does—and he will more, if you do. Show an interest and a pride in it, and you will be what no one else can be to him.”

Mary thought, and seemed to see it. “Go on, go on!” she said, putting out her hand.

“Dear Mrs. Hillier, I have envied you so for that! All these years, I’ve never had that great happiness. At last”—she paused—“I’ll tell you, if you care to know—at last, after ten years, I am going to have my wish.”

“Really! And you are pleased?”

“I’m divinely happy, delighted!”

“Then I’m very glad for you, Mrs. Kellynch. But can’t you imagine—you’re so pretty and charming and good-tempered and clever. I’m none of all these things. I’m not pretty, and I’m very bad-tempered and terribly jealous by nature and not clever.”

“You are his wife and he chose you. And he is a charming, pleasant man. You ought to be very happy together.”

“To tell the truth—I don’t mind what I tell you—I feel you’re kind and good and sincere—I have always had a horrible feeling that he married me—because—because he was hard up. And I had money! And yet——”

“Oh, Mrs. Hillier, don’t talk nonsense! It’s dreadful of you to say so. You ought to be very glad to be able to have everything you want, without having to consider for your children. It’s a great thing, I assure you, to have no money troubles. It’s another very big reason for you and Nigel to be happy. You don’t know what it is. It’s agony! I do, because before I was married I was one of a very large family, and my father was a very popular preacher and all that, but it was a terrible struggle. To send the boys to public schools and Oxford, the girls had to be really dreadfully pinched! And always worries about bills! I was brought up in that atmosphere, and I know that to be entirely free from it is a most enormous relief and comfort. You will probably never know how fortunate you are.”

“You are right. Of course Nigel is not the man to endure money troubles well.”

“Exactly. Well, now, can’t you see that you’ve every possible chance of happiness together?”

“May I call you Bertha?” answered Mary. “You’ve been a real angel to me, I might have expected you to refuse to see me, or at least to be cold and unkind—and instead you’re as sorry as you can be for me and want to see me happy! You are sweet.”

“Of course I’d like to see you happy,” said Bertha. “You understand now that I also care for my husband? You’re not the only one in the world, though I admit we’re rather exceptions nowadays!”

“Yes; and I thought because you were so pretty and sweet that you must be a flirt—at the very least.”

“I don’t say I’m not, all the same. But I would never wish to interfere with other people’s happiness.”

“I sometimes think it might be better if I were a little of a flirt,” sighed Mary. “But I can’t—it’s not my nature—or, rather, I’m too busy always looking after Nigel!”

“Well, don’t do that so much and he’ll look after you all the more. Show interest in your appearance and society—let him be proud of you—and don’t be afraid of being fond of the children!”

“I’m really tremendously fond of them,” said Mary. “Only I was always so afraid he would think they would do instead of him! I have such a horror of his sending me off with them and thinking they will fill up all my life, while he was living like a gay bachelor! And when he was very sweet to them I really was jealous of them!”

“But all this is absurd. If you show your affection for them he will love you far more, and when he is devoted to them it shows he’s devoted to you. Don’t be foolish, Mrs. Hillier, you have had a sort of crisis. Do let it end there. Let things be different. He will be delighted to see you cheerful and jolly again. It’s all in your own hands, really.”

“Thank you. It was a shame to bother you.”

She got up to go.

“May I tell you, later on … how things are? I shall follow your advice exactly!”

Mary was looking at her now in a kind of worshipping gratitude and trust.

“Yes, do. But I know it will be all right. Only be a little patient just now. … He will miss you awfully, I know,” said Bertha, smiling.

“Oh! Will he really? How sweet of you to say that! Good-bye, Bertha. Dear Bertha, you have been kind. I’m so sorry.” Tears came to her eyes again, but as she passed the little mirror she began to laugh. “To think I should have come to see you for the first time got up like a dame in a pantomime. How grotesque!”

They both laughed. Laughter altered and improved Mary wonderfully. It was a faculty she never exercised. She was always much too serious.

“Do you know, I haven’t one woman friend,” said Mary.

“Yes, you have, now.” Bertha pressed her hand.“Good-bye! … Oh, Bertha, do you really think he’ll miss me?”

“Of course he will! Awfully!”

“Thanks. Good-bye!”

*

“Poor girl!” Bertha said to herself as Mary left the house.