The Bertrams

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER II.

  RETROSPECTIVE.--FIRST YEAR.

  George Bertram had returned to town that Sunday after the conferencein Miss Baker's little room not in the very best of moods. He hadtalked glibly enough on his way back, because it had been necessaryfor him to hide his chagrin; but he had done so in a cynical tone,which had given Harcourt to understand that something was wrong. Forsome ten days after that there had been no intercourse between himand Littlebath; and then he had written a letter to Caroline, fullof argument, full also of tenderness, in which he essayed to moveher from her high resolve. He had certainly written strongly, if notwell. "He was working," he said, "nearly as hard as a man could work,in order to insure success for her. Nothing he was aware but the ideathat he was already justified in looking on her as his wife wouldhave induced him to labour so strictly; and for this he was gratefulto her. She had given him this great and necessary incitement; andhe therefore thanked God that he had on his shoulders the burden,as well as in his heart the blessing, of such an engagement. Butthe strain would be too great for him if the burden were to remainpresent to him daily, while the blessing was to be postponed for solong a time. He had already felt his spirits numbed and his energyweakened. It seemed to him in all his daily work that his great hopehad been robbed from him. His dreams told him that he was to behappy, but his waking moments brought him back to disappointment.He knew that he could not endure it, that he could not remain thereat his post, diligent as he fain would be, if his reward were to bepostponed for so long. As being under a holy engagement to you,"he wrote, perhaps almost too solemnly, "I have given up that sortof life to which my natural disposition might have led me. Do notsuppose that I say this with regret. I rejoice to have done so,rejoice to be so doing; but it is for you that I do it. Should I notlook to you for my reward? Granting that there may be risk, shall notI share it? Supposing that there may be suffering, shall not I endureit? And if a man with his best efforts may protect a woman fromsuffering, I will protect you." So he had written, and had ended byimploring her to let them be married that autumn.

  By return of post he got three lines from her, calling him herdearest, dearest George, and requesting that he would allow her aweek to answer his letter at length. It could not be answered withoutdeep thought. This gratified him much, and he wrote another note toher, begging her on no account to hurry herself; that he would waitfor her reply with the utmost patience; but again imploring her to bemerciful. It was, however, apparent in the tone of his note, apparentat least to Caroline, that he judged the eloquence of his letter tobe unanswerable, and that he was already counting on her surrender.This lessened the effect of it on Caroline's heart;--for when firstreceived it had had a strong effect.

  On that first morning, when she read it in her bedroom before shewent down to breakfast, it certainly had a strong effect on her. Shemade up her mind that she would say nothing about it to her aunt,at any rate on that day. Her aunt would have advised her to yieldat once, and she would have preferred some counsellor of a sternersort. So she put the letter in her pocket, went down tranquillyto breakfast, and after breakfast wrote the note which we havementioned.

  All that day she thought about it to herself, and all the next day.On the evening of the second day she had all but brought herself togive in. Then came George's note, and the fancied tone of triumphhardened her heart once more. On the evening of that day she was firmto her principles. She had acted hitherto, and would continue to act,according to the course she had laid down for herself.

  On the fourth day she was sitting in the drawing-room alone--for heraunt had gone out of Littlebath for the day--when Adela Gauntletcame to call on her. Adela she knew would counsel her to yield, andtherefore she would certainly not have gone to Adela for advice. Butshe was sad at heart; and sitting there with the letter among herthreads and needles before her, she gradually found it impossible notto talk of it--to talk of it, and at last to hand it over to be read.

  There could be no doubt at all as to the nature of Adela's advice;but Caroline had had no conception of the impetuosity of maturedconviction on the subject, of the impassioned eloquence with whichthat advice would be given. She had been far from thinking that Adelahad any such power of passion.

  "Well," said she, as Adela slowly folded the sheet and put it backinto its envelope; "well; what answer shall I make to it?"

  "Can you doubt, Caroline?" said Adela, and Miss Gauntlet's eyes shoneas Caroline had never before seen them shine.

  "Indeed, I do doubt; doubt very much. Not that I ought to doubt. WhatI knew to be wise a week ago, I know also to be wise now. But one isso weak, and it is so hard to refuse those whom we love."

  "Hard, indeed!" said Adela. "To my thinking, a woman would have astone instead of a heart who could refuse such a request as that froma man to whom she has confessed her love."

  "But because you love a man, would you wish to make a beggar of him?"

  "We are too much afraid of what we call beggary," said Adela."Beggary, Caroline, with four hundred pounds a year! You had no rightto accept a man if you intended to decline to live with him on suchan income as that. He should make no request; it should come from himas a demand."

  "A demand. No; his time for demands has not yet come."

  "But it has come if you are true to your word. You should havethought of all this, and no doubt did think of it, before youaccepted him. You have no right now to make him wretched."

  "And, therefore, I will not make him poor."

  "Poor, poor! How fearfully afraid we are of poverty! Is there nothingworse than poverty, what you call poverty--poverty that cannot haveits gowns starched above once a week?" Caroline stared at her, butAdela went on. "Broken hearts are not half so bad as that; nordaily tears and disappointed hopes, nor dry, dull, dead, listlessdespondency without one drop of water to refresh it! All that is asnothing to a well-grounded apprehension as to one's larder! Nevermarry till you are sure that will be full, let the heart be ever soempty."

  "Adela!"

  "For others there may be excuse," she continued, thinking then, asalways, of that scene at West Putford, and defending to herself himwhom to herself she so often accused; "but for you there can be none.If you drive him from you now, whatever evil may befall him will lielike a weight of lead upon your heart. If you refuse him now, he isnot the man to take it quietly and wait."

  "I can live without him."

  "Yes; it is your pride to say so; and I believe you could livewithout him. But I think too well of you to believe that you couldlive happily without him; nor will he be happy without you. You willboth be proud, and stony-hearted, and wretched--stony-hearted atleast in appearance; not fortunate enough to become so in reality."

  "Why, Adela, one would think that you yourself were the victim ofsome passion nipped in its bud by a cruel prudence."

  "And so I am." As she said this she rose from her seat as though sheintended, standing there before her companion, to go on with herimpassioned warning. But the effect was too much for her; and fallingdown on her knees, with her face buried in her hands, she rested themon the sofa, and gave way to sobs and tears.

  Caroline was of course much shocked, and did what she could torelieve her; but Adela merely begged that she might be left toherself one minute. "One minute," she said, plaintively, in a voiceso different from that she had used just now; "one minute and I shallbe well again. I have been very foolish, but never say anything aboutit; never, never, not to any one; promise me, promise me, Caroline.Dear Caroline, you do promise me? No one knows it; no one must knowit."

  Caroline did promise; but with a natural curiosity she wanted to knowthe whole story. Adela, however, would tell her nothing, would say nomore about herself. In the agony of her strong feeling she had oncepointed to herself as a beacon; but even she herself could not endureto do this again. She would say nothing further about that; but ina more plaintive and softer tone she did not cease to implore herfriend not to throw away from her the rich heart which was stillwithin
her grasp.

  A scene such as this could not but have an effect on Caroline; butit did not ultimately have that which Adela had wished. It was MissWaddington's doctrine that she should not under any circumstances oflife permit herself to be carried away by passion. Why then shouldshe allow Adela's passion to convince her? What were the facts? OfAdela's own case she knew nothing. It might be that she had beencruelly treated. Her friends, her lover, or even she herself mighthave been in fault. But it would surely be the extreme of follyfor her, Caroline Waddington, to allow herself to be actuated bythe example of one who had not even shown her of what that exampleconsisted.

  The upshot of it all was, that at the end of the week she wrote toGeorge, declaring that, grieved as she was to grieve him, she feltherself obliged to adhere to her former resolution. She also wrotestrongly, and perhaps with more force of logic than her loverhad done. "I trust the time will come," she said, "when you willacknowledge that I have been right. But of this I am quite sure, thatwere I now to yield to you, the time would come very quickly when youwould acknowledge me to have been wrong; and that you should thenthink me to have been wrong would kill me. I am not, I know, fitted,either by disposition or education, to be a poor man's wife. I saythis with no pride; though if you choose to take it for pride, Icannot help myself. Nor are you fitted to be the husband of a poorwife. Your love and enthusiasm now make you look on want as a slightevil; but have you ever tried want? Since you left school, have younot had everything that money could buy you? Have you ever beencalled on to deny yourself any reasonable wish? Never, I believe. Norhave I. What right have we then to suppose that we can do that foreach other which we have never yet done for ourselves?

  "You talk of the misery of waiting. Is it not because you have as yetknown no misery? Have not all men to wait who look for success inlife?--to work, and wait, and bide their time? Your present work is,I know, too hard. In whatever you do, you have too much enthusiasm.Do not kill yourself by work. For my sake, if I may still pleadmy own sake, do not do so. You say you have given up that sort oflife to which your disposition would have led you. I do not believeyour disposition to be bad, and I should be grieved to think thatyou debar yourself from pleasures that are not bad because youare engaged to me." There was that in the eagerness of Bertram'sprotestations on this point which could not but be flattering to anygirl; but Caroline, when she thought of it, did not wish to be soflattered. She required less passion in her lover and more judgment.She wanted him to be more awake to the fact that the true meaningof their engagement was this, that they two should join themselvestogether in their world's battle, in order that together each mightfight that battle more successfully than either of them could doapart.

  "I write this with great grief," she continued, "as I know that whatI write will grieve you. But I write it under a conviction that I amdoing my duty by you. I am ready, however, to acknowledge that such adelay may not be in consonance with your intentions when you proposedto me. That neither of us have deceived the other wilfully I am quitesure; but it may be that we have misunderstood each other. If so,dear George, let all this be as though it had never been. I do notsay this on my own behalf. If you so wish it, I am ready to holdmyself as yours, and to wait. Ready, I have said! That is a coldword, and you may supply any other that your heart wishes. But ifthis waiting be contrary to your wishes, be what you are not willingto endure, then consider the matter as altogether in your own hands.I certainly have no right to bind you to my will; all that I ask insuch case is, that your decision shall not be delayed."

  Such was Miss Waddington's letter; a portion of it, at least, for notabove the half has been given here. Its effect upon Bertram had notbeen exhilarating. In his heart he called her cold and heartless, andat first resolved to take her at her word and break off from her.He would willingly have done so as far as she was concerned; but hecould not bring himself to do it on his own part. He could not endureto part with her, though he would willingly have punished her bytelling her that she had forfeited her claim to him. As it was, hedid nothing. For three weeks he neither answered the letter nor wentnear her, nor gave her any token that he was thinking about her.

  Then came a note from Miss Baker, asking him to come to Littlebath.It was good-humoured, playful, almost witty; too much so for MissBaker's unassisted epistle-craft, and he at once saw that Carolinehad dictated it. Her heart at any rate was light. He answered itby one equally good-humoured and playful, and perhaps more witty,addressed of course to Miss Baker, in which he excused himself atpresent in consequence of the multiplicity of his town engagements.It was June, and he could not get away without making himself guiltyof all manner of perjuries; but in August he would certainly takeLittlebath on his way to Scotland.

  He had intended that every light word should be a dagger inCaroline's bosom; but there was not a pin's prick in the whole ofit. Sullen grief on his part would have hurt her. And it would havehurt her had he taken her at her word and annulled their engagement;for she had begun to find that she loved him more than she hadthought possible. She had talked in her prudence, and written in herprudence, of giving him up; but when the time came in which she mightexpect a letter from him, saying that so it should be, her heart didtremble at the postman's knock; she did feel that she had somethingto fear. But his joyous, clever, laughing answer to her aunt was allthat she could wish. Though she loved him, she could wait; though sheloved him, she did not wish him to be sad when he was away from her.She had reason and measure in her love; but it was love, as she beganto find--almost to her own astonishment.

  George had alluded not untruly to his own engagements. On the dayafter he received Caroline's letter he shut up Coke upon Lyttletonfor that term, and shook the dust off his feet on the threshold ofMr. Die's chambers. Why should he work? why sit there filling hisbrain with cobwebs, pouring over old fusty rules couched in obscurelanguage, and useful only for assisting mankind to cheat each other?He had had an object; but that was gone. He had wished to prove toone heart, to one soul, that, young as he was, poor as he was, sheneed not fear to trust herself to his guardianship. Despite his mustytoils, she did fear. Therefore, he would have no more of them. Nomore of them at any rate then, while the sun was shining so brightly.So he went down to Richmond with Twisleton and Madden, and Hopgoodand Fortescue. Heaven knows what they did when they got back to townthat night--or, rather, perhaps heaven's enemy. And why not? Carolinedid not care whether or no he amused himself as other men do. For hersake he had kept himself from these things. As she was indifferent,why need he care? He cared no longer. There was no more law thatterm; no more eulogy from gratified Mr. Die; but of jovial daysat Richmond or elsewhere there were plenty; plenty also of jovialBacchanalian nights in London. Miss Waddington had been very prudent;but there might perhaps have been a prudence yet more desirable.

  He did go down to Littlebath on his way to Scotland, and remainedthere three days. He made up his mind as he journeyed down tosay nothing about their late correspondence to Caroline till sheshould first speak of it; and as she had come to an exactly similarresolution on her part, and as both adhered to their intentions, itso fell out that nothing in the matter was said by either of them.Caroline was quite satisfied; but not so Bertram. He again saidto himself that she was cold and passionless; as cold as she isbeautiful, he declared as he walked home to the "Plough." Howvery many young gentlemen have made the same soliloquy when theirmistresses have not been so liberal as they would have had them!

  The lovers passed the three days together at Littlebath with apparentsatisfaction. They rode together, and walked together, and on oneevening danced together; nay, they talked together, and Miss Bakerthought that everything was smooth. But Bertram, as he went off toScotland, said to himself that she was very, very cold, and began toquestion with himself whether she did really love him.

  "Do write to me, and tell me what sport you have," Caroline had saidwhen he went away. What a subject for a woman to choose for herlover's letters! She never said, "Write, write often; an
d alwayswhen you write, swear that you love me." "Oh, yes, I'll write," saidBertram, laughing. "I'll give you a succinct account of every brace.""And send some of them too," said Miss Baker. "Certainly," saidGeorge; and so he did.

  He was joined with Harcourt and one or two others in this trip toScotland, and it was then that he told his friend how much he wasdisturbed by Miss Waddington's obstinacy; and how he doubted, notas to her heart being his, but as to her having a heart to belongto any one. In answer to this, Harcourt gave him pretty nearly thesame counsel as she had done. "Wait, my dear fellow, with a littlepatience; you'll have lots of time before you for married troubles.What's the use of a man having half-a-score of children round himjust when he is beginning to enjoy life? It is that that MissWaddington thinks about; though, of course, she can't tell you so."

  And then, also--that is to say, on some occasion a little subsequentto the conversation above alluded to--Bertram also told his friendwhat he knew of Miss Waddington's birth.

  "Whew-w-w," whistled Harcourt; "is that the case? Well, now I amsurprised."

  "It is, indeed."

  "And he has agreed to the marriage?"

  "He knows of it, and has not disagreed. Indeed, he made some peddlinglittle offer about money."

  "But what has he said to you about it?"

  "Nothing, not a word. I have only seen him once since Christmas, andthen I did not speak of it; nor did he."

  Harcourt asked fifty other questions on the matter, all eagerly, asthough he considered this newly-learned fact to be of the greatestimportance: all of which Bertram answered, till at last he was tiredof talking of his uncle.

  "I cannot see that it makes any difference," said he, "whosegranddaughter she is."

  "But it does make the greatest difference. I own that I am surprisednow that Miss Waddington should wish to delay the marriage. I thoughtI understood her feelings and conduct on the matter, and must saythat I regarded them as admirable. But I cannot quite understand hernow. It certainly seems to me that with such a guarantee as that sheneeds be afraid of nothing. Whichever of you he selected, it wouldcome to the same thing."

  "Harcourt, if she would marry me to-morrow because by doing so shewould make sure of my uncle's money, by heaven, I would not take her!If she will not take me for myself, and what I can do for her, shemay let me alone." Thus majestically spoke Bertram, sitting with hisfriend on the side of a Scottish mountain, with a flask of brandy anda case of sandwiches between them.

  "Then," said Harcourt, "you are an ass;" and as he spoke he finishedthe flask.

  Bertram kept his word, and told his lady-love all particulars as tothe game he killed; some particulars also he gave her as to scenery,as to his friends, and as to Scotch people. He wrote nice, chatty,amusing letters, such as most people love to get from their friends;but he said little or nothing about love. Once or twice he venturedto tell her of some pretty girl that he met, of some adventure with alaird's daughter; nay, insinuated laughingly that he had not escapedfrom it quite heart-whole. Caroline answered his letter in the sametone; told him, with excellent comedy, of the leading facts of lifein Littlebath; recommended him by all means to go back after thelaird's daughter; described the joy of her heart at unexpectedlymeeting Mr. M'Gabbery in the pump-room, and her subsequentdisappointment at hearing that there was now a Mrs. M'Gabbery. He hadmarried that Miss Jones, of whom the parental Potts had so stronglydisapproved. All this was very nice, very amusing, and very friendly.But Bertram, as a lover, knew that he was not satisfied.

  When he had done with the grouse and the laird's daughter he wentto Oxford, but he did not then go again to Littlebath. He went toOxford, and from thence to Arthur Wilkinson's parsonage. Here hesaw much of Adela; and consoled himself by talking with her aboutCaroline. To her he did not conceal his great anger. While he wasstill writing good-humoured, witty letters to his betrothed, he wassaying of her to Adela Gauntlet things harsh--harsher perhaps in thatthey were true.

  "I had devoted myself to her," he said. "I was working for her as agalley-slave works, and was contented to do it. I would have borneanything, risked anything, endured anything, if she would have borneit with me. All that I have should have gone to shield her fromdiscomfort. I love her still, Miss Gauntlet; it is perhaps my miserythat I love her. But I can never love her now as I should have donehad she come to me then."

  "How can I work now?" he said again. "I shall be called to the barof course; there is no difficulty in that; and may perhaps earn whatwill make us decently respectable. But the spirit, the high spirit isgone. She is better pleased that it should be so. She is intolerantof enthusiasm. Is it not a pity, Miss Gauntlet, that we should be sodifferent?"

  What could Adela say to him? Every word that he uttered was to hera truth--a weary, melancholy truth; a repetition of that truthwhich was devouring her own heart. She sympathized with him fully,cordially, ardently. She said no word absolutely in dispraise ofCaroline; but she admitted, and at last admitted so often, that,according to her thinking, Caroline was wrong.

  "Wrong!" Bertram would shout. "Can there be a doubt? Can any one witha heart doubt?" Adela said, "No; no one with a heart could doubt."

  "She has no heart," said Bertram. "She is lovely, clever,fascinating, elegant. She has everything a woman should have except aheart--except a heart." And then, as he turned away his face, Adelacould see that he brushed his hand across his eyes.

  What could she do but weep too? And is it not known to allmen--certainly it is to all women--how dangerous are such tears?

  Thus during his stay at Hurst Staple, Bertram was frequently at WestPutford. But he observed that Adela was not often at his cousin'svicarage, and that Arthur was very seldom at West Putford. Thefamilies, it was clear, were on as good terms as ever. Adela andMary and Sophia would be together, and old Mr. Gauntlet would dineat Hurst Staple, and Arthur would talk about the old rector freelyenough. But Bertram rarely saw Adela unless he went to the rectory,and though he dined there with the Wilkinson girls three or fourtimes, Arthur only dined there once.

  "Have you and Arthur quarrelled?" said he to Adela one day, laughingas he spoke.

  "Oh, no," said she; but she could not keep down her rebellious colouras she answered him, and Bertram at once took the hint. To her hesaid nothing further on that matter.

  "And why don't you marry, Arthur?" he asked the next morning.

  And Arthur also blushed, not thinking then of Adela Gauntlet, but ofthat pledge which he had given to Lord Stapledean--a pledge of whichhe had repented every day since he had given it.

  And here it may be explained, that as Arthur Wilkinson had repentedof that pledge, and had felt more strongly from day to day that ithad put him in a false and unworthy position, so did his mother fromday to day feel with less force the compunction which she had atfirst expressed as to receiving her son's income. This had becomeless and less, and now, perhaps, it could no longer boast of anexistence. The arrangement seemed to her to be so essentially agood one, her children were provided for in so convenient and socomfortable a manner, it was so natural that she should regardherself as the mistress of that house, that perhaps no blame is dueto her in that this compunction ceased. No blame is now heaped uponher, and the fact is merely stated. She had already learned to regardherself as the legal owner of that ecclesiastical income; and seeingthat her son deducted a stipend of one hundred and fifty pounds formerely doing the duty--a curate would have only had the half of thatsum, as she sometimes said to herself--and seeing also that he hadhis fellowship, she had no scruple in making him pay fairly forwhatever extra accommodation he received at home--exactly as shewould have done had poor dear old Mr. Wilkinson not been out of theway. Considering all these comfortable circumstances, poor dearold Mr. Wilkinson was perhaps not regretted quite so much as mightotherwise have been the case.

  Mrs. Wilkinson was in the habit of saying many things from day to dayin praise of that good Lord Stapledean, who had so generously thoughtof her and her widowhood. When she did so Arthur would look gr
imand say nothing, and his mother would know that he was displeased."Surely he cannot begrudge us the income," she had once said to hereldest daughter. "Oh, no; I am sure he does not," said Mary; "but,somehow, he is not so happy about things as he used to be." "Then hemust be a very ungrateful boy," said the mother. Indeed, what morecould a young full-fledged vicar want than to have a comfortablehouse under his mother's apron-string?

  "And why don't you marry?" Bertram had asked his cousin. It was oddthat Arthur should not marry, seeing that Adela Gauntlet lived sonear him, and that Adela was so very, very beautiful.

  Up to that day, Bertram had heard nothing of the circumstances underwhich the living had been given. Then did Wilkinson tell him thestory, and ended by saying--"You now see that my marriage is quiteout of the question."

  Then Bertram began to think that he understood why Adela alsoremained unmarried, and he began to ask himself whether all the worldwere as cold-hearted as his Caroline. Could it be that Adela alsohad refused to venture till her future husband should have a good,comfortable, disposable income of his own? But, if so, she would nothave sympathized so warmly with him; and if so, what reason couldthere be why she and Arthur should not meet each other? Could it thenbe that Arthur Wilkinson was such a coward?

  He said nothing on the matter to either of them, for neither of themhad confided to him their sorrows--if they had sorrows. He had nowish to penetrate their secrets. What he had said, and what he hadlearnt, he had said and learnt by accident. He himself had not theirgift of reticence, so he talked of his love occasionally to Arthur,and he talked of it very often to Adela.

  And the upshot of his talking to Adela was always this: "Why, ohwhy, was not his Caroline more like to her?" Caroline was doubtlessthe more beautiful, doubtless the more clever, doubtless the morefascinating. But what are beauty and talent and fascination without aheart? He was quite sure that Adela's heart was warm.

  He went to Littlebath no more that year. It was well perhaps that hedid not. Well or ill as the case may be. Had he done so, he would,in his then state of mind, most assuredly have broken with MissWaddington. In lieu, however, of accepting Miss Baker's invitationfor Christmas, he went to Hadley and spent two or three days there,uncomfortable himself, and making the old man uncomfortable also.

  Up to this time he had been completely idle--at any rate, as faras the law was concerned--since the day of his great break down onthe receipt of Miss Waddington's letter. He still kept his Templechambers, and when the day came round in October, he made anotherannual payment to Mr. Die. On that occasion Mr. Die had spoken ratherseriously to him; but up to that time his period of idleness hadmainly been the period of the long vacation, and Mr. Die was willingto suppose that this continued payment was a sign that he intended tosettle again to work.

  "Will it be impertinent to ask," his uncle at Hadley had said tohim--"will it be impertinent to ask what you and Caroline intend todo?" At this time Mr. Bertram was aware that his nephew knew in whatrelationship they all stood to each other.

  "No impertinence at all, sir. But, unfortunately, we have nointentions in common. We are engaged to be married, and I want tokeep my engagement."

  "And she wants to break hers. Well, I cannot but say that she is thewiser of the two."

  "I don't know that her wisdom goes quite so far as that. She iscontent to abide the evil day; only she would postpone it."

  "That is to say, she has some prudence. Are you aware that I haveproposed to make a considerable addition to her fortune--to hers,mind--on condition that she would postpone her marriage till nextsummer?"

  "I did hear something about some sum of money--that you had spoken toMiss Baker about it, I believe; but I quite forget the particulars."

  "You are very indifferent as to money matters, Mr. Barrister."

  "I am indifferent as to the money matters of other people, sir. I hadno intention of marrying Miss Waddington for her money before I knewthat she was your granddaughter; nor have I now that I do know it."

  "For her money! If you marry her for more money than her own fortune,and perhaps a couple of thousands added to it, you are likely to bemistaken."

  "I shall never make any mistake of that kind. As far as I amconcerned, you are quite welcome, for me, to keep your two thousandpounds."

  "That's kind of you."

  "I would marry her to-morrow without it. I am not at all sure that Iwill marry her next year with it. If you exercise any authority overher as her grandfather, I wish you would tell her so, as coming fromme."

  "Upon my word you carry it high as a lover."

  "Not too high, I hope, as a man."

  "Well, George, remember this once for all"--and now the old manspoke in a much more serious voice--"I will not interfere at all asher grandfather. Nor will I have it known that I am such. Do youunderstand that?"

  "I understand, sir, that it is not your wish that it should begenerally talked of."

  "And I trust that wish has been, and will be complied with by you."

  This last speech was not put in the form of a question; but Georgeunderstood that it was intended to elicit from him a promise for thefuture and an assurance as to the past.

  "I have mentioned the circumstance to one intimate friend with whom Iwas all but obliged to discuss the matter--"

  "Obliged to discuss my private concerns, sir!"

  "With one friend, sir; with two, indeed; I think--indeed, I fear Ihave mentioned it to three."

  "Oh! to three! obliged to discuss your own most private concerns aswell as mine with three intimate friends! You are lucky, sir, to haveso many intimate friends. As my concerns have been made known to themas well as your own, may I ask who they are?"

  George then gave up the three names. They were those of Mr. Harcourt,the Rev. Arthur Wilkinson, and Miss Adela Gauntlet. His uncle wasvery angry. Had he utterly denied the fact of his ever havingmentioned the matter to any one, and had it been afterwardsdiscovered that such denial was false, Mr. Bertram would not havebeen by much so angry. The offence and the lie together, but joinedwith the fear and deference to which the lie would have testified,would be nothing so black as the offence without the lie, and withoutthe fear, and without the deference.

  His uncle was very angry, but on that day he said nothing furtheron the matter; neither on the next day did he; but on the third day,just as George was about to leave Hadley, he said, in his usualbantering tone, "Don't have any more intimate friends, George, as faras my private matters are concerned."

  "No, sir, I will not," said George.

  It was in consequence of what Mr. Bertram had then learnt that hebecame acquainted with Mr. Harcourt. As Mr. Harcourt had heard thisabout his grandchild, he thought it better to see that learnedgentleman. He did see him; and, as has been before stated, theybecame intimate with each other.

  And so ended the first of these two years.