“I won’t, I won’t, I won’t.”
“I shall have to leave you alone, Bertha. I didn’t know you meant to get up to-day, and I have an engagement.”
“Oh, but you can’t leave me the first time I get up. What is it? You can write a note and break it.”
“I’m awfully sorry,” he replied. “But I’m afraid I can’t do that. The fact is, I saw the Miss Hancocks after church, and they said they had to walk into Tercanbury this afternoon, and as it was so wet I offered to drive them in. I’ve promised to fetch them at three.”
“You’re joking,” said Bertha; her eyes had suddenly become hard, and she was breathing fast.
Edward looked at her uneasily. “I didn’t know you were going to get up, or I shouldn’t have arranged to go out.”
“Oh well, it doesn’t matter,” said Bertha, throwing off the momentary anger. “You can just write and say you can’t come.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he answered, gravely. “I’ve given my word and I can’t break it.”
“Oh, but it’s infamous.” Her wrath blazed out again. “Even you can’t be so cruel as to leave me at such a time. I deserve some consideration—after all I’ve suffered. For weeks I lay at death’s door, and at last when I’m a little better and come down—thinking to give you pleasure, you’re engaged to drive the Misses Hancock into Tercanbury.”
“Come, Bertha, be reasonable.” Edward condescended to expostulate with his wife, though it was not his habit to humour her extravagances. “You see it’s not my fault. Isn’t it enough for you that I’m very sorry? I shall be back in an hour. Stay here, and then we’ll spend the evening together.”