“Come, my beloved, come—for I love you!”
But the morning brought an intolerable depression. Bertha saw then the utter futility of her love: her marriage, his departure, made it impossible; the disparity of age made it even grotesque. But she could not dull the aching of her heart, she could not stop her tears.
Gerald arrived at midday and found her alone. He approached almost timidly.
“You’ve been crying, Bertha.”
“I’ve been very unhappy,” she said. “Oh, please, Gerald, forget our idiocy of yesterday. Don’t say anything to me that I mustn’t hear.”
“I can’t help loving you.”
“Don’t you see that it’s all utter madness!”
She was angry with herself for loving him, angry with Gerald because he had aroused in her a passion that made her despise herself. It seemed horrible and unnatural that she should be willing to throw herself into the arms of a dissolute boy, and it lowered her in her own estimation. He caught the expression of her eyes, and something of its meaning.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that, Bertha. You look as if you almost hated me.”
She answered gravely, “I love you with all my heart, Gerald; and I’m ashamed.”