Chapter XXIII: Nigel's Letter

Next morning, as Bertha expected, Madeline came round to see her early. She brought with her a note. She said that Nigel had implored her to give it to her friend from him. He had put Madeline in the carriage, and had seemed greatly distressed. He told the girl that his wife had been ill lately and was not quite herself, and he feared she had offended Bertha.

"She certainly behaved like a lunatic," Bertha said, as she took the letter.

"Did you tell Percy?"

"As a matter of fact, no."

"Didn't he wonder at your coming home so early?"

"I'm afraid I pretended I rushed back to please him. Was it wrong of me? I'm afraid it was."

"I believe in frankness with people you can trust. And remember, quite a little while ago, Bertha, you were worried and depressed because you thought Percy was becoming a little casual and like an ordinary husband, and now, you naughty child, that he's been so _empresse_ and affectionate, and jealous and attentive and everything that you like--now you first insist on going to a party when he doesn't wish it, and then you come home and tell him stories about it."

"I'm afraid I was wrong; but it was to spare him annoyance. Besides, I daresay I was weak. It was so delightful giving him a pleasant surprise."

She read the letter.

"Forgive me for asking your friend to give you this note--I only
did it because I feared in writing to you to refer to what
happened. Is it asking too much, Bertha, to beg you not to
resent it? Not to hate me for to-night? Think of my shame and
misery about it--to think I had pressed and begged you to come
to be insulted in my house. You see now what I have tried to
conceal. I am utterly miserable. My wife is terrible and
impossible. Seeing you occasionally had been my one joy--my only
consolation. And only to-night--before--you had been telling me
not to come and see you any more. Now I feel our friendship is
all over. I could not expect you to see me again. You are such
an angel, that you will, if I ask you, I believe, try to wipe
out from your memory this horrible evening! I would rather have
died than it should have happened. Of course, you see now that
by instinct Mary guessed right--I mean in knowing my feeling for
you--though heaven knows I haven't deserved this. She's
screaming for me, and I must stop. All I ask is, don't hate me!
I'm so miserable when I think that you, beautiful angel as you
are, might have belonged to me. I doubt if I shall be able to
live this life much longer.

"In humblest apology, and with that deep feeling that writing
can never express, your idolising

"NIGEL.

"_P.S._--I ought not to have written that. But I fear so much
that I may not see you again, and that this may be my last
letter, and I feel I would like you to know honestly all I feel
for you. But words may not bear such burdens. Send me one word,
only one word of pardon."

Bertha was obviously shocked and surprised at this letter. She folded it up, looking grave. Then she said to Madeline:

"What a very extraordinary thing it has been that both Mary and Percy have been suspicious and jealous of Nigel and myself, while there's been absolutely nothing in it!"

"But they both felt by instinct, perhaps, that that was no fault of his," returned Madeline.

"I have no sympathy with him," said Bertha, who seemed for her quite hard. "If he does like me, all the more he ought to have kept away. Besides, it's only because he wants to be amused! What right has he to make his wife unhappy, when he deliberately chose her, and to be willing--if he is willing--to smash up my happiness with Percy?"

"Of course that's horrid of him," said Madeline; "but somehow I do think his wife is rather awful; I think she might do anything. But won't you answer his letter?"

"Yes; I think I'd better write him a line," said Bertha.

She sat down and wrote:

"DEAR MR. HILLIER,--Pray don't think again of the unpleasant
little incident.

"I have already forgotten it.

"I think that if you will make your children the interest of
your life--though it's very impertinent of me to say
so--happiness must come of it.

"Good-bye. Yours very sincerely,

"BERTHA KELLYNCH"

"I've written," said Bertha, "what I wouldn't mind either Percy or Mary seeing."

"I'm sure you have, dear. But Percy would rather you didn't write at all."

"Perhaps. But I think it's right. Besides, otherwise, he might write again, or even call."

"Yes, that's true."