MISS Ley was much alarmed when she got up and found that Bertha had flown.  
“Upon my word, I think that is behaving scandalously. Am I not a harmless 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 jumped when it occurred to her that Bertha might have—eloped: and like a of little came thoughts of the scenes she must undergo if such were the case, the writing of the news to Edward, his , 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 . “But if women can make fools of themselves, they always do!”
 
Miss Ley was 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 ; 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 . 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 . She wept , and 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 lost the happiness that was within her reach: and then, with a revulsion of feeling, she repeated that he was worthless. The 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.
 
“Perhaps it’s the best thing to do,” she .
 
She hated London now and the flat; the rooms must be horribly bare without the presence of Gerald. To return to Court Leys seemed the only course left to her, and there at least she would have quiet and . She thought almost with of the shore, the 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 .
 
Bertha rose, and dressed, and went to Miss Ley; her face was deathly pale, and her eyes heavy and red with weeping. In 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 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 , to take it into consideration. It’s like salad; it’s not actually 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 . It’s not exhilarating, it’s not brave, and it’s rather dull; but it’s 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 , 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 ; 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.”
 
He took her farther, to a place which offered a fine of the sea.
 
“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 , 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 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 ; she was even surprised to find herself so utterly .
 
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. Ar............