know,AuntPolly,”saidBertha,finishingherteaandgettingup,“IthinkyoushouldhavebeenchristenedMarthaorMatilda.Idon’tthinkPollysuitsyou.”
“Mydear,youneednotremindmesopointedlythatI’mforty-fiveandyouneednotsmileinthatfashionbecauseyouknowthatI’mreallyforty-seven.Isayforty-fivemerelyasaroundnumberinanotheryearIshallcallmyselffifty.Awomanneveracknowledgessuchanondescriptageasforty-eightunlesssheisgoingtomarryawidowerwithseventeenchildren.”
“Iwonderwhyyounevermarried,AuntPolly?”saidBertha,lookingaway.
MissLeysmiledalmostimperceptibly,findingBertha’sremarkhighlysignificant.“Mydear,”shesaid,“whyshouldI?Ihadfivehundredayearofmyown....Ahyes,Iknowit’snotwhatmighthavebeenexpectedI’msorryforyoursakethatIhadnohopelessamour.Theonlyexcuseforanoldmaidis,thatshehaspinedthirtyyearsforaloverwhoisburiedunderthesnow-drops,orhasmarriedanother.”
Berthamadenoanswershewasfeelingthattheworldhadturnedgood,andwantedtohearnothingthatcouldsuggestimperfectionsinhumannature:suddenlytherehadcomeovertheuniverseaSunday-schoolairwhichappealedtoherbetterself.Goingupstairsshesatatthewindow,gazingtowardsthefarmwherelivedherheart’sdesire.ShewonderedwhatEdwardwasdoing!washeawaitingthenightasanxiouslyasshe?Itgaveherquiteapangthatasizeablehillshouldintervenebetweenherselfandhim.Duringdinnershehardlyspoke,andMissLeywasmercifullysilent.Berthacouldnoteatshecrumbledherbreadandtoyedwiththevariousmeatsputbeforeher.Shelookedattheclockadozentimes,andstartedabsurdlywhenitstruckthehour.
ShedidnottroubletomakeanyexcusetoMissLey,whomshelefttothinkasshechose.ThenightwasdarkandcoldBerthaslippedoutoftheside-doorwithadelightfulfeelingofdoingsomethingventuresome.Butherlegswouldscarcelycarryher,shehadasensationthatwasentirelynovelneverbeforeha