rthelonelinesswasappalling.CourtLeyswasemptyandbare.Shesawtheendlesssuccessionofgreydaystheseasonsbroughtnochange,andcontinuallythecloudshungheavilyaboveherthetreeswerealwaysleafless,anditwasdesolate.Shecouldnotimaginethattravelwouldbringsolace—thewholeoflifewasblank,andwhattohernowwerethepicturesandchurches,theblueskiesofItaly?Heronlyhappinesswastoweep.
ThendistractedlyBerthathoughtthatshewouldkillherself,forlifewasimpossibletoendure.Nolifeatall,theblanknessofthegrave,waspreferabletothepangsgnawingcontinuallyatherheart.Itwouldbeeasytofinish,withalittlemorphiatoclosethebookoftroubledespairwouldgivehercourage,andtheprickoftheneedlewastheonlypain.Buthervisionbecamedim,andshehadtomakeanefforttoretainit:herthoughtsgrewlesscoherent,travellingbacktopreviousincidents,tothesceneatthegrave,tothevoluptuouspleasureofwashingthebody.
ItwasallsovividthattheentranceofEdwardcameuponherasasurprise.Butthereliefwastoogreatforwords,itwastheawakeningfromahorriblenightmare.Whenhecameforwardtokissher,sheflungherarmsroundhisneck,hereyesmoistwithpasttears,andpressedhimpassionatelytoherheart.
“Oh,thankGod!”shecried.
“Hulloa,what’supnow?”
“Idon’tknowwhat’sbeenthematterwithme....I’vebeensomiserable,Eddie—Ithoughtyouweredead!”
“You’vebeencrying!”
“Itwassoawful,Icouldn’tgettheideaoutofmyhead....Oh,Ishoulddiealso.”
Berthacouldscarcelyrealisethatherhusbandwasbyhersideintheflesh,aliveandwell.
“WouldyoubesorryifIdied?”sheaskedhim.
“Butyou’renotgoingtodoanythingofthesort,”hesaid,cheerily.
“SometimesI’msofrightened,Idon’tbelieveI’llgetoverit.”
Helaughedather,andhisjoyoustoneswerepeculiarlycomforting.Shemadehimsitbyhersideandheldhisstronghands,thehandswhichtoherwerethevisiblesignsofhispowerfulmanhood.Shestrokedthemandkissedthepalms.Shewasquitebrokenwiththepastemotionsherlimbstrembledandhereyesglistenedwithtears.