The Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (33 Works in One Edition). Уильям Сомерсет Моэм

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СКАЧАТЬ What was it—a corpse? Bertha felt a coldness travel through all her body, she put her hand on a chair, so that she might steady herself if she felt faint. The door was opened slowly by Arthur Branderton, and he closed it quickly behind him.

      “I’m awfully sorry, but there’s been an accident. Edward is rather hurt.”

      She looked at him, growing pale, but found nothing to answer.

      “You must nerve yourself, Bertha. I’m afraid he’s very bad. You’d better sit down.”

      He hesitated, and she turned to him with sudden anger.

      “If he’s dead, why don’t you tell me?”

      “I’m awfully sorry. We did all we could. He fell at the same post and rail fence as the other day. I think he must have lost his nerve. I was close by him, I saw him rush at it blindly, and then pull just as the horse was rising. They came down with a crash.”

      “Is he dead?”

      “Yes.”

      Bertha did not feel faint. She was a little horrified at the clearness with which she was able to understand Arthur Branderton. She seemed to feel nothing at all. The young man looked at her as if he expected that she would weep or swoon.

      “Would you like me to send my wife to you?”

      “No, thanks.”

      Bertha understood quite well that her husband was dead, but the news seemed to make no impression upon her. She heard it unmoved, as though it referred to a stranger. She found herself wondering what young Branderton thought of her unconcern.

      “Won’t you sit down,” he said, taking her arm and leading her to a chair. “Shall I get you some brandy?”

      “I’m all right, thanks. You need not trouble about me—Where is he?”

      “I told them to take him upstairs. Shall I send Ramsay’s assistant to you? He’s here.”

      “No,” she said, in a low voice. “I want nothing. Have they taken him up already?”

      “Yes, but I don’t think you ought to go to him. It will upset you dreadfully.”

      “I’ll go to my room. Do you mind if I leave you? I should prefer to be alone.”

      Branderton held the door open and Bertha walked out, her face very pale, but showing not the least trace of emotion. Branderton walked to Leanham Vicarage to send Miss Glover to Court Leys, and then home, where he told his wife that the wretched widow was stunned by the shock.

      Bertha locked herself in her room. She heard the hum of voices in the house, Dr. Ramsay came to her door, but she refused to open; then all was quite still.

      She was aghast at the blankness of her heart, the tranquility was so inhuman that she wondered if she was going mad; she felt no emotion whatever. Bertha repeated to herself that Edward was killed; he was lying quite near at hand, dead—and she felt no grief. She remembered her anguish years before when she thought of his death; and now that it had taken place she did not faint, she did not weep, she was untroubled. Bertha had hidden herself to conceal her tears from strange eyes, and the tears came not. After her sudden suspicion was confirmed, she had experienced no emotion whatever; she was horrified that the tragic death affected her so little. She walked to the window and looked out, trying to gather her thoughts, trying to make herself care; but she was almost indifferent.

      “I must be frightfully cruel,” she muttered.

      Then the idea came of what her friends would say when they saw her calm self-possession. She tried to weep, but her eyes remained dry.

      There was a knock at the door, and Miss Glover’s voice, broken with tears, “Bertha, Bertha, wont you let me in? It’s me—Fanny.”

      Bertha sprang to her feet, but did not answer.

      Miss Glover called again, and her voice was choked with sobs. Why could Fanny Glover weep for Edward’s death, who was a stranger, when she, Bertha, remained insensible?

      “Bertha!”

      “Yes.”

      “Open the door for me. Oh, I’m so sorry for you. Please let me in.”

      Bertha looked wildly at the door, she dared not let Miss Glover come.

      “I can see no one now,” she cried, hoarsely. “Don’t ask me.”

      “I think I could comfort you.”

      “I want to be alone.”

      Miss Glover was silent for a minute, crying audibly.

      “Shall I wait downstairs? You can ring if you want me. Perhaps you’ll see me later.”

      Bertha wished to tell her to go away, but dared not.

      “Do as you like,” she said.

      There was silence again, an unearthly silence more trying than hideous din. It was a silence that tightened the nerves and made them horribly sensitive: one dared not breathe for fear of breaking it.

      And one thought came to Bertha, assailing her like a devil tormenting. She cried out in horror, for this was more odious than anything; it was simply intolerable. She threw herself on her bed and buried her face in her pillow to drive it away. For shame, she put her hands to her ears so as not to hear the invisible fiends that whispered it silently.

      She was free.

      She quailed before the thought, but could not crush it. “Has it come to this!” she murmured.

      And then came back the recollection of the beginnings of her love. She recalled the passion that had thrown her blindly into Edward’s arms, her bitter humiliation when she realised that he could not respond to her ardour; her love was a fire playing ineffectually upon a rock of basalt. She recalled the hatred which followed the disillusion, and finally the indifference. It was the same indifference that chilled her heart now.

      Her life seemed all wasted when she compared her mad desire for happiness with the misery she had actually endured. Bertha’s many hopes stood out like phantoms, and she looked at them despairingly. She had expected so much and secured so little. She felt a terrible pain at her heart as she considered all she had gone through. Her strength fell away, and overcome by her own self-pity, she sank to her knees and burst into tears.

      “Oh, God!” she cried, “what have I done that I should have been so unhappy?”

      She sobbed aloud, not caring to restrain her grief. Miss Glover, good soul, was waiting outside the room in case Bertha wanted her, crying silently. She knocked again when she heard the impetuous sobs within.

      “Oh, Bertha, do let me in. You’re tormenting yourself so much more because you won’t see anybody.”

      Bertha dragged herself to her feet and undid the door. Miss Glover entered, and throwing off all reserve in her overwhelming sympathy, clasped Bertha to her heart.

      “Oh, my dear, СКАЧАТЬ