BUT in the winter of that very year Edward, while hunting, had an accident. For years he had made a practice of riding unmanageable horses, and he never heard of a vicious beast without wishing to try it. He knew that he was a fine rider, and since he was never shy of parading his powers, nor loath to taunt others on the score of inferior skill or courage, he preferred difficult animals. It gratified him to see people point to him and say, “There’s a good rider:” and his best joke with some person on a horse that pulled or refused, was to cry: “You don’t seem friends with your gee; would you like to try mine?” And then, touching its sides with his spurs, he set it prancing. He was merciless with the cautious hunters who looked for low parts of a hedge or tried to get through a gate instead of over it; and when any one said a jump was dangerous, Edward with a laugh promptly went for it, shouting as he did so—

“I wouldn’t try it if I were you. You might fall off.”

He had just bought a roan for a mere song, because it jumped uncertainly, and had a trick of swinging a fore-leg as it rose. He took it out on the earliest opportunity, and the first two hedges and a ditch the horse cleared easily. Edward thought that once again he had got for almost nothing a hunter that merely wanted riding properly to behave like a lamb. They rode on, and came to a post and rail fence.

“Now, my beauty, this’ll show what you’re made of.”

He took the horse up in a canter, and pressed his legs; the horse did not rise, but swerved round suddenly.

“No, you don’t,” said Edward, taking him back.

He dug his spurs in, and the horse cantered up, and refused again. This time Edward grew angry. Arthur Branderton came flying by, and having many old scores to pay, laughed loudly.

“Why don’t you get down and walk over?” he shouted, as he passed Edward and took the jump.

“I’ll either get over or break my neck,” said Edward, setting his teeth.

But he did neither. He set the roan at the jump for the fourth time, hitting him with his crop; the beast rose, and then letting the fore-leg swing, came down with a crash.

Edward fell heavily, and for a minute was stunned. When he recovered consciousness, he found some one pouring brandy down his neck.

“Is the horse hurt?” he asked, not thinking of himself.

“No; he’s all right. How d’you feel?”

A young surgeon was in the field, and rode up. “What’s the matter? Any one injured?”

“No,” said Edward, struggling to his feet, somewhat annoyed at the exhibition he thought he was making of himself. “One would think none of you fellows had ever seen a man come down before. I’ve seen most of you come off often enough.”

He walked up to the horse, and put his foot in the stirrup.

“You’d better go home, Craddock,” said the surgeon. “I expect you’re a bit shaken up.”

“Go home be damned. Confound!” As he tried to mount, Edward felt a pain at the top of his chest. “I believe I’ve broken something.”

The surgeon went up and helped him off with his coat. He twisted Edward’s arm.

“Does that hurt?”

“A bit.”

“You’ve broken your collar-bone,” said the surgeon, after a moment’s examination.

“I thought I’d smashed something. How long will it take to mend?”

“Only three weeks. You needn’t be alarmed.”

“I’m not alarmed, but I suppose I shall have to give up hunting for at least a month.”

Edward was driven to Dr. Ramsay, who bandaged him and sent him back to Court Leys. Bertha was surprised to see him in a dogcart. Edward by now had recovered his good temper, and explained the occurrence, laughing.

“It’s nothing to make a fuss about. Only I’m bandaged up so that I feel like a mummy, and I don’t know how I’m going to get a bath. That’s what worries me.”

Next day Arthur Branderton came to see him. “You’ve found your match at last, Craddock.”

“Me? Not much! I shall be all right in a month, and then out I go again.”

“I wouldn’t ride him again, if I were you. It’s not worth it. With that trick of his of swinging his leg, you’ll break your neck.”

“Bah,” said Edward, scornfully. “The horse hasn’t been built that I can’t ride.”

“You’re a good weight now, and your bones aren’t as supple as when you were twenty. The next fall you have will be a bad one.”

“Rot, man! One would think I was eighty; I’ve never funked a horse yet, and I’m not going to begin now.”

Branderton shrugged his shoulders, and said nothing more at the time, but afterwards spoke to Bertha privately.

“You know, I think, if I were you, I’d persuade Edward to get rid of that horse. I don’t think he ought to ride it again. It’s not safe. However well he rides, it won’t save him if the beast has got a bad trick.”

Bertha had in this particular great faith in her husband’s skill. Whatever he could not do, he was certainly one of the finest riders in the county; but she spoke to him notwithstanding.

“Pooh, that’s all rot!” he said. “I tell you what, on the 11th of next month we go over pretty well the same ground; and I’m going out, and I swear he’s going over that post and rail in Coulter’s field.”

“You’re very incautious.”

“No, I’m not. I know exactly what a horse can do. And I know that horse can jump if he wants to, and by George, I’ll make him. Why, if I funked it now I could never ride again. When a chap gets to be near forty and has a bad fall, the only thing is to go for it again at once, or he’ll lose his nerve and never get it back. I’ve seen that over and over again.”

Miss Glover later on, when Edward’s bandages were removed and he was fairly well, begged Bertha to use her influence with him.

“I’ve heard he’s a most dangerous horse, Bertha. I think it would be madness for Edward to ride him.”

“I’ve begged him to sell it, but he merely laughs at me,” said Bertha. “He’s extremely obstinate and I have very little power over him.”

“Aren’t you dreadfully frightened?”

Bertha laughed. “No, I’m really not. You know he always has ridden dangerous horses and he’s never come to any harm. When we were first married I used to go through agonies. Every time he hunted I used to think he’d be brought home dead on a stretcher. But he never was, and I calmed down by degrees.”

“I wonder you could.”

“My dear, no one can keep on being frightfully agitated for ten years. People who live on volcanoes forget all about it; and you’d soon get used to sitting on barrels of gunpowder if you had no armchair.”

“Never!” said Miss Glover, with conviction, seeing a vivid picture of herself in such a position.

Miss Glover was unaltered. Time passed over her head powerlessly; she still looked anything between five-and-twenty and forty, her hair was no more washed-out, her figure in its armour of black cloth was as juvenile as ever; and not a new idea nor a thought had entered her mind. She was like Alice’s queen, who ran at the top of her speed and remained in the same place; but with Miss Glover the process was reversed: the world moved on, apparently faster and faster as the century drew near its end, but she remained fixed—an incarnation of the eighteen-eighties.

The day before the 11th arrived. The hounds were to meet at the Share and Coulter, as when Edward had been thrown. He sent for Dr. Ramsay to assure Bertha that he was quite fit; and after the examination, brought him into the drawing-room.

“Dr. Ramsay says my collar-bone is stronger than ever.”

“But I don’t think he ought to ride the roan notwithstanding. Can’t you persuade Edward not to, Bertha?”

Bertha looked from the doctor to Edward, smiling. “I’ve done my best.”

“Bertha knows better than to bother,” said Edward. “She don’t think much of me as a churchwarden, but when a horse is concerned, she does trust me; don’t you, dear?”

“I really do.”

“There,” said Edward, much pleased, “that’s what I call a good wife.”

Next day the horse was brought round and Bertha filled Edward’s flask.

“You’ll bury me nicely if I break my neck, won’t you?” he said, laughing. “You’ll order a handsome tombstone.”

“My dear, you’ll never come to a violent end. I feel certain you will die in your bed when you’re a hundred and two, with a crowd of descendants weeping round you. You’re just that sort of man.”

“Ha, ha!” he laughed. “I don’t know where the descendants are coming in.”

“I have a presentiment that I am doomed to make way for Fanny Glover. I’m sure there’s a fatality about it. I’ve felt for years that you will eventually marry her, and it’s horrid of me to have kept you waiting so long—especially as she pines for you, poor thing.”

Edward laughed again. “Well, good-bye!”

“Good-bye. Remember me to Mrs. Arthur.”

She stood at the window to see him mount, and as he flourished his crop at her, she waved her hand.

The winter day closed in and Bertha, interested in the novel she was reading, was surprised to hear the clock strike five. She wondered that Edward had not yet come in, and ringing for tea and the lamps, had the curtains drawn. He could not now be long.

“I wonder if he’s had another fall,” she said, with a smile. “He really ought to give up hunting, he’s getting too fat.”

She decided to wait no longer, but poured out her tea and arranged herself so that she could get at the scones and see comfortably to read. Then she heard a carriage drive up. Who could it be?

“What bores these people are to call at this time!”

As the bell was rung, Bertha put down her book to receive the visitor. But no one was shown in; there was a confused sound of voices without. Could something have happened to Edward after all? She sprang to her feet and walked half across the room. She heard an unknown voice in the hall.

“Where shall we take it?”

It. What was it—a corpse? Bertha felt a coldness travel through all her body, she put her hand on a chair, so that she might steady herself if she felt faint. The door was opened slowly by Arthur Branderton, and he closed it quickly behind him.

“I’m awfully sorry, but there’s been an accident. Edward is rather hurt.”

She looked at him, growing pale, but found nothing to answer.

“You must nerve yourself, Bertha. I’m afraid he’s very bad. You’d better sit down.”

He hesitated, and she turned to him with sudden anger.

“If he’s dead, why don’t you tell me?”

“I’m awfully sorry. We did all we could. He fell at the same post and rail fence as the other day. I think he must have lost his nerve. I was close by him, I saw him rush at it blindly, and then pull just as the horse was rising. They came down with a crash.”

“Is he dead?”

“Yes.”

Bertha did not feel faint. She was a little horrified at the clearness with which she was able to understand Arthur Branderton. She seemed to feel nothing at all. The young man looked at her as if he expected that she would weep or swoon.

“Would you like me to send my wife to you?”

“No, thanks.”

Bertha understood quite well that her husband was dead, but the news seemed to make no impression upon her. She heard it unmoved, as though it referred to a stranger. She found herself wondering what young Branderton thought of her unconcern.

“Won’t you sit down,” he said, taking her arm and leading her to a chair. “Shall I get you some brandy?”

“I’m all right, thanks. You need not trouble about me—Where is he?”

“I told them to take him upstairs. Shall I send Ramsay’s assistant to you? He’s here.”

“No,” she said, in a low voice. “I want nothing. Have they taken him up already?”

“Yes, but I don’t think you ought to go to him. It will upset you dreadfully.”

“I’ll go to my room. Do you mind if I leave you? I should prefer to be alone.”

Branderton held the door open and Bertha walked out, her face very pale, but showing not the least trace of emotion. Branderton walked to Leanham Vicarage to send Miss Glover to Court Leys, and then home, where he told his wife that the wretched widow was stunned by the shock.

Bertha locked herself in her room. She heard the hum of voices in the house, Dr. Ramsay came to her door, but she refused to open; then all was quite still.

She was aghast at the blankness of her heart, the tranquility was so inhuman that she wondered if she was going mad; she felt no emotion whatever. Bertha repeated to herself that Edward was killed; he was lying quite near at hand, dead—and she felt no grief. She remembered her anguish years before when she thought of his death; and now that it had taken place she did not faint, she did not weep, she was untroubled. Bertha had hidden herself to conceal her tears from strange eyes, and the tears came not. After her sudden suspicion was confirmed, she had experienced no emotion whatever; she was horrified that the tragic death affected her so little. She walked to the window and looked out, trying to gather her thoughts, trying to make herself care; but she was almost indifferent.

“I must be frightfully cruel,” she muttered.

Then the idea came of what her friends would say when they saw her calm self-possession. She tried to weep, but her eyes remained dry.

There was a knock at the door, and Miss Glover’s voice, broken with tears, “Bertha, Bertha, wont you let me in? It’s me—Fanny.”

Bertha sprang to her feet, but did not answer.

Miss Glover called again, and her voice was choked with sobs. Why could Fanny Glover weep for Edward’s death, who was a stranger, when she, Bertha, remained insensible?

“Bertha!”

“Yes.”

“Open the door for me. Oh, I’m so sorry for you. Please let me in.”

Bertha looked wildly at the door, she dared not let Miss Glover come.

“I can see no one now,” she cried, hoarsely. “Don’t ask me.”

“I think I could comfort you.”

“I want to be alone.”

Miss Glover was silent for a minute, crying audibly.

“Shall I wait downstairs? You can ring if you want me. Perhaps you’ll see me later.”

Bertha wished to tell her to go away, but dared not.

“Do as you like,” she said.

There was silence again, an unearthly silence more trying than hideous din. It was a silence that tightened the nerves and made them horribly sensitive: one dared not breathe for fear of breaking it.

And one thought came to Bertha, assailing her like a devil tormenting. She cried out in horror, for this was more odious than anything; it was simply intolerable. She threw herself on her bed and buried her face in her pillow to drive it away. For shame, she put her hands to her ears so as not to hear the invisible fiends that whispered it silently.

She was free.

She quailed before the thought, but could not crush it. “Has it come to this!” she murmured.

And then came back the recollection of the beginnings of her love. She recalled the passion that had thrown her blindly into Edward’s arms, her bitter humiliation when she realised that he could not respond to her ardour; her love was a fire playing ineffectually upon a rock of basalt. She recalled the hatred which followed the disillusion, and finally the indifference. It was the same indifference that chilled her heart now.

Her life seemed all wasted when she compared her mad desire for happiness with the misery she had actually endured. Bertha’s many hopes stood out like phantoms, and she looked at them despairingly. She had expected so much and secured so little. She felt a terrible pain at her heart as she considered all she had gone through. Her strength fell away, and overcome by her own self-pity, she sank to her knees and burst into tears.

“Oh, God!” she cried, “what have I done that I should have been so unhappy?”

She sobbed aloud, not caring to restrain her grief. Miss Glover, good soul, was waiting outside the room in case Bertha wanted her, crying silently. She knocked again when she heard the impetuous sobs within.

“Oh, Bertha, do let me in. You’re tormenting yourself so much more because you won’t see anybody.”

Bertha dragged herself to her feet and undid the door. Miss Glover entered, and throwing off all reserve in her overwhelming sympathy, clasped Bertha to her heart.

“Oh, my dear, my dear, it’s utterly dreadful; I’m so sorry for you. I don’t know what to say. I can only pray.”

Bertha sobbed unrestrainedly—not because Edward was dead.

“All you have now is God,” said Miss Glover.

At last Bertha tore herself away and dried her eyes.

“Don’t try and be too brave, Bertha,” compassionately said the Vicar’s sister. “It will do you good to cry. He was such a good, kind man, and he loved you so devotedly.”

Bertha looked at her in silence.

“I must be horribly cruel,” she thought.

“Do you mind if I stay here to-night, dear,” added Miss Glover. “I’ve sent word to Charles.”

“Oh, no, please don’t. If you care for me, Fanny, let me be alone. I don’t want to be unkind, but I can’t bear to see any one.”

Miss Glover was deeply pained. “I don’t want to be in the way. If you really wish me to go, I’ll go.”

“I feel if I can’t be alone, I shall go mad.”

“Would you like to see Charles?”

“No, dear. Don’t be angry. Don’t think me unkind or ungrateful, but I want nothing but to be left entirely by myself.”