“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 because you thought Percy was becoming a little casual and like an ordinary husband, and now, you naughty child, that he’s been so empressé and affectionate, and jealous and attentive and everything that you like—now you first insist on going to a party when he doesn’t wish it, and then you come home and tell him stories about it.”
“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 are such an angel, that you will, if I ask you, I believe, try to wipe out from your memory this horrible evening! I would rather have died than it should have happened. Of course, you see now that by instinct Mary guessed right—I mean in knowing my feeling for you—though heaven knows I haven’t deserved this. She’s screaming for me, and I must stop. All I ask is, don’t hate me! I’m so miserable when I think that you, beautiful angel as you are, might have belonged to me. I doubt if I shall be able to live this life much longer.
“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: