And what would she do when the fact was finally told her--that Edward was dead? She would faint or cry out. “There’s been an accident,” said Branderton--“your husband is rather hurt.” Bertha put her hands to her eyes, the agony was dreadful. “You mustn’t upset yourself,” he went on, trying to break it to her. Then, rapidly passing over the intermediate details she found herself with her husband. He was dead, lying on the floor--and she pictured him to herself, she knew exactly how he would look; sometimes he slept so soundly, so quietly, that she was nervous and put her ear to his heart to know if it was beating. Now he was dead. Despair suddenly swept down upon her overpoweringly. Bertha tried again to shake off her fancies, she even went to the piano and played a few notes; but the morbid attraction was too strong for her and the scene went on. Now that he was dead, he could not check her passion, now he was helpless and she kissed him with all her love; she passed her hands through his hair, and stroked his face (he had hated this in life), she kissed his lips and his closed eyes. The imagined grief was so poignant that Bertha burst into tears. She remained with the body, refusing to be separated from it--Bertha buried her face in the cushions so that nothing might disturb her illusion, she had ceased trying to drive it away. Ah, she loved him passionately, she had always loved him and could not live without him. She knew that she would shortly die--and she had been afraid of death. Ah, now it was welcome! She kissed his hands--he could not prevent her now--and with a little shudder opened his eyes; they were glassy, expressionless, immobile. Clinging to him, she sobbed in love and anguish. She would let none touch him but herself; it was a relief to perform the last offices for him who had been her whole life. She did not know that her love was so great. She undressed the body and washed it; she washed the limbs one by one and sponged them, then very gently dried them with a towel. The touch of the cold flesh made her shudder voluptuously--she thought of him taking her in his strong arms, kissing her on the mouth. She wrapped him in the white shroud and surrounded him with flowers. They placed him in the coffin, and her heart stood still: she could not leave him. She passed with him all day and all night, looking ever at the quiet, restful face. Dr. Ramsay came and Miss Glover came, urging her to go away, but she refused. What was the care of her own health now, she had only wanted to live for him? The coffin was closed, and she saw the gestures of the undertakers--she had seen her husband’s face for the last time, her beloved: her heart was like a stone, and she beat her breast in pain.