Butwhatwastheusenow? “IshouldbemadifIbegantolovehimagainwhenitistoolate.” Berthawasappalledbytheregretwhichshefeltrisingwithinher,adevilthatwrungherheartinanirongrip.Oh,shecouldnotriskthepossibilityofgrief,shehadsufferedtoomuchandshemustkillinherselfthespringsofpain.Shedarednotleavethingswhichinfutureyearsmightbethefoundationsofanewidolatry.Heronlychanceofpeacewastodestroyeverythingthatmightrecallhim. Sheseizedthephotographandwithoutdaringtolookagain,withdrewitfromtheframeandrapidlytoreitinpieces.Shelookedroundtheroom. “Imusn’tleaveanything,”shemuttered. ShesawonatableanalbumcontainingpicturesofEdwardatallages,thechildwithlongcurls,theurchininknickerbockers,theschoolboy,theloverofherheart.ShehadpersuadedhimtobephotographedinLondonduringtheirhoneymoon,andhewasthereinhalf-a-dozendifferentpositions.Berthathoughtherheartwouldbreakasshedestroyedthemonebyone,anditneededallthestrengthshehadtopreventherfromcoveringthemwithpassionatekisses.Herfingersachedwiththetearing,butinalittlewhiletheywereallinfragmentsinthefireplace.Then,desperately,sheaddedthelettersEdwardhadwrittentoherandappliedamatch.Shewatchedthemcurlandfrizzleandburnandpresentlytheywereashes. Shesankonachair,exhaustedbytheeffort,butquicklyrousedherself.Shedranksomewater,nervingherselfforamoreterribleordealforsheknewthatonthenextfewhoursdependedherfuturepeace. Bynowthenightwaslate,astormynightwiththewindhowlingthroughtheleaflesstrees.Berthastartedwhenitbeatagainstthewindowswithascreamthatwasnearlyhuman.Afearseizedherofwhatshewasabouttodo,butshewasdrivenbyagreaterfear.Shetookacandle,andopeningthedoor,listened.Therewasnoonethewindroaredwithitslongmonotonousvoice,andthebranchesofatreebeatingagainstawindowinthepassagegaveaghastlytap-tap,asifunseenspiritswerenear. Theliving,inthepresenceofdeath,feelthatthewholeairisfullofsomethingnewandterrible.Agreatersensitivenessperceivesaninexplicablefeelingofsomethingpresent,orofsomehorriblethinghappeninginvisibly.Berthawalkedtoherhusband’sroomandforawhiledarednotenter.Atlastsheopenedthedoor,shelitthecandlesonthechimney-pieceandonthedressing-table,thenwenttothebed.Edwardwaslyingonhisback,withahandkerchiefboundroundhisjawtoholditup,hishandscrossedinfront. Berthastoodinfrontofthecorpseandlooked.Theimpressionoftheyoungmanpassedaway,andshesawhimasintruthhewas,stout,red-faced,withthevenulesofhischeeksstandingoutdistinctlyinapurplenetworkthesidesofhisfacewereprominentasoflateyearstheyhadbecomeandhehadlittlesidewhiskers.Hisskinwaslinedalreadyandrough,thehairoverthefrontofhisheadwasscanty,andthescalpwasvisible,shinyandwhite.Thehandswhichoncehaddelightedherbytheirstrength,sothatshecomparedthemwiththeporphyryhandsofanunfinishedstatue,nowwererepellentintheircoarseness.Foralongtimetheirtouchhadalittledisgustedher.ThiswastheimageBerthawishedtoimpressuponhermind.Itwasastrangerlyingdeadbeforeher,amantowhomshewasindifferent.