The Bertrams

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER IV.

  RICHMOND.

  It was in the midst of this noise about Bertram's new book that thescene is presumed to be re-opened. He had resigned his fellowship,and pocketed his thousand pounds. Neither of these events had muchdepressed his spirits, and he appeared now to his friends to be ahappy man in spite of his love troubles. At the same time, Harcourtalso was sufficiently elate. He had made his great speech withconsiderable _eclat_, and his sails were full of wind--of wind of amore substantial character than that by which Bertram's vessel waswafted.

  And just now Harcourt and Bertram were again much together. A fewmonths since it had appeared to Harcourt that Bertram intended todo nothing in the world, to make no figure. Even now there was butlittle hope of his doing much as a barrister; but it seemed probablethat he might at any rate make himself known as an author. Suchtriumphs, as Harcourt well knew, were very barren; but still it waswell to know men who were in any way triumphant; and therefore thebarrister, himself so triumphant, considered it judicious not to drophis friend.

  It may be said that Bertram had given up all idea of practising as abarrister. He still intended to go through the form of being called;but his profession was to be that of an author. He had all mannerof works in hand: poems, plays, political pamphlets, infidel essays,histories, and a narrative of his travels in the East. He had made uphis mind fully that there were in England only two occupations worthyof an Englishman. A man should be known either as a politician or asan author. It behoved a man to speak out what was in him with someaudible voice, so that the world might hear. He might do so either byword of mouth, or by pen and paper; by the former in Parliament, bythe latter at his desk. Each form of speech had its own advantage.Fate, which had made Harcourt a member of Parliament, seemed tointend him, Bertram, to be an author.

  Harcourt, though overwhelmed by business at this period, tookfrequent occasion to be with Bertram; and when he was with him alonehe always made an effort to talk about Miss Waddington. Bertram wasrather shy of the subject. He had never blamed Harcourt for what hadtaken place while he was absent in Paris, but since that time he hadnever volunteered to speak of his own engagement.

  They were together one fine May evening on the banks of the riverat Richmond. George was fond of the place, and whenever Harcourtproposed to spend an evening alone with him, they would go up theriver and dine there.

  On this occasion Harcourt seemed determined to talk about MissWaddington. Bertram, who was not in the best possible humour, hadshown, one might say plainly enough, that it was a subject on whichhe did not wish to speak. One might also say that it was a subject asto talking on which the choice certainly ought to have been left tohimself. A man who is engaged may often choose to talk to his friendabout his engaged bride; but the friend does not usually selectthe lady as a topic of conversation except in conformity with theBenedict's wishes.

  On this occasion, however, Harcourt would talk about Miss Waddington,and Bertram, who had already given one or two short answers, began tofeel that his friend was almost impertinent.

  They were cracking decayed walnuts and sipping not the very best ofwine, and Bertram was expatiating on Sir Robert Peel's enormity inhaving taken the wind out of the sails of the Whigs, and rehearsingperhaps a few paragraphs of a new pamphlet that was about to comeout, when Harcourt again suddenly turned the conversation.

  "By-the-by," said he, "I believe there is no day absolutely fixed foryour marriage."

  "No," said Bertram, sharply enough. "No day has been fixed. Couldanything on earth have been more base than the manner in which hehas endeavoured to leave Cobden as a necessary legacy to the newgovernment? Would he have put Cobden into any place in a governmentof his own?"

  "Oh, d---- Cobden! One has enough of him in the House,--quite."

  "But I have not that advantage."

  "You shall have some of these days. I'll make over the BatterseaHamlets to you as soon as I can get a judge's wig on my head. ButI'm thinking of other things now. I wonder whether you and CarolineWaddington ever will be man and wife?"

  "Probably about the time that you are made a judge."

  "Ha! ha! Well, I hope if you do do it, it will come off before that.But I doubt it's coming off at all. Each of you is too proud for theother. Neither of you can forgive what the other has done."

  "What do you mean? But to tell you the truth, Harcourt, I have nogreat inclination to discuss that matter just at present. If youplease, we will leave Miss Waddington alone."

  "What I mean is this," said the embryo judge, perseveringly, "thatyou are too angry with her on account of this enforced delay, and sheis too angry with you because you have dared to be angry with her. Ido not think you will ever come together."

  Bertram looked full at Harcourt as this was said, and observed thatthere was not the usual easy, gentlemanlike smile on the barrister'sface; and yet the barrister was doing his best to look as usual.The fact was, that Harcourt was playing a game, and playing it withconsiderable skill, but his performance was not altogether that ofa Garrick. Something might have been read in his face had Bertrambeen cunning enough to read it. But Bertram was not a cunning man.

  Bertram looked full in the other's face. Had he been content to do soand to say nothing, he would have gained his point, and the subjectwould have been at once dropped. Harcourt then could have gone nofurther. But Bertram was now angry, and, being angry, he could notbut speak.

  "Harcourt, you have interfered once before between me and MissWaddington--"

  "Interfered!"

  "Yes, interfered--in what I then thought and still think to have beena very unwarrantable manner."

  "It was a pity you did not tell me of it at the time."

  "It is a pity rather that you should drive me to tell you of it now;but you do so. When I was in Paris, you said to Miss Waddington whatyou had no right to say."

  "What did I say?"

  "Or, rather, she said to you--"

  "Ah! that was no fault of mine."

  "But it was a fault of yours. Do you think that I cannot understand?that I cannot see? She would have been silent enough to you but foryour encouragement. I do not know that I was ever so vexed as when Ireceived that letter from you. You took upon yourself--"

  "I know you were angry, very angry. But that was not my fault. I saidnothing but what a friend under such circumstances was bound to say."

  "Well, let the matter drop now; and let Miss Waddington and myselfsettle our own affairs."

  "I cannot let the matter drop; you have driven me to defend myself,and I must do it as best I may. I know that you were angry,exceedingly angry--

  "Exceedingly angry!" he repeated; "but that was no fault of mine.When Miss Baker sent for me, I could not but go to her. When I wasthere, I could not but listen to her. When Caroline told me that shewas wretched--"

  "Miss Waddington!" shouted Bertram, in a voice that caused theglasses to shake, and made the waiter turn round. And then suddenlyrecollecting himself, he scowled round the room as he observed thathe was noticed.

  "Hush, my dear fellow. It shall be Miss Waddington; but not quiteso loud. And I beg your pardon, but hearing the lady called by herChristian name so often, both by yourself and Miss Baker, I forgotmyself. When she spoke to me of her wretched state, what was I to do?Was I to say, fie! fie! and take my hat and go away?

  "She was very wretched," he continued, for Bertram merely scowled andsaid nothing, "and I could not but sympathize with her. She thoughtthat you had neglected her. It was clear that you had gone abroadwithout telling her. Was it to be wondered at that she should beunhappy?"

  "Her telling you that she was so was unexcusable."

  "At any rate, I am blameless. I myself think that she was also; butthat is another question. In what I wrote to you, I did my duty as afriend to both parties. After that, I do confess that I thought youranger too great to allow you ever to stand at the altar with her."

  "You do not mean to say that she showed you my letter?" said Bertram,almost le
aping at him.

  "Your letter! what letter?"

  "You know what letter--my letter from Paris? The letter which I wroteto her in reference to the one I received from you? I desire at onceto have an answer from you. Did Caroline show you that letter?"

  Harcourt looked very guilty, extremely guilty; but he did notimmediately make any reply.

  "Harcourt, answer me," said Bertram, much more coolly. "I have nofeeling of anger now with you. Did Caroline show you that letter?"

  "Miss Waddington did show it to me."

  And thus the successful Mr. Harcourt had been successful also inthis. And now, having narrated this interview in a manner which doesnot make it redound very much to that gentleman's credit, I mustadd to the narrative his apology. If even-handed justice were donethroughout the world, some apology could be found for most offences.Not that the offences would thus be wiped away, and black becomewhite; but much that is now very black would be reduced to thatsombre, uninviting shade of ordinary brown which is so customary tohumanity.

  Our apology for Mr. Harcourt will by no means make his conductwhite--will leave it, perhaps, of a deeper, dingier brown than thatwhich is quite ordinary among men; nay, will leave it still black,many will say.

  Mr. Harcourt had seen that which in his opinion proved that Bertramand Miss Waddington could never be happy with each other. He had seenthat which in his opinion led to the conclusion that neither of themreally wished that this marriage should take place. But he had seenthat also which made him believe that both were too proud to ask fora release. Under such circumstances, would he be doing ill if he wereto release them? Caroline had so spoken, spoken even to him, thatit seemed impossible to him that she could wish for the marriage.Bertram had so written that it seemed equally impossible that heshould wish for it. Would it not, therefore, be madness to allowthem to marry? He had said as much to Miss Baker, and Miss Baker hadagreed with him. "He cannot love her," Miss Baker had said, "or hewould not neglect her so shamefully. I am sure he does not love her."

  But there was a man who did love her, who had felt that he could loveher from the first moment that he had seen her as an affianced bride:he had not then courted her for himself; for then it was manifestthat she both loved and was loved. But now, now that this wasaltered, was there good cause why he should not covet her now? Mr.Harcourt thought that there was no sufficient cause.

  And then this man, who was not by nature a vain man, who had not madehimself apt at believing that young beauties fell readily in lovewith him, who had not spent his years in basking in ladies' smiles,imagined that he had some ground to think that Miss Waddington wasnot averse to him. Oh, how she had looked when that part of Bertram'sletter had been read, in which he professed that he would not bebored by any love-duties for his lady! And then, this man had beenkind to her; he had shown that such service would be no bore to him.He had been gentle-mannered to her; and she also, she had been gentleto him:

  "The woman cannot be of nature's making Whom, being kind, her misery makes not kinder."

  And Caroline was kind; at least so he thought, and heaven knows shewas miserable also. And thus hopes rose which should never haverisen, and schemes were made which, if not absolutely black, were asnear it as any shade of brown may be.

  And then there was the fact that Caroline was the granddaughter, andmight probably be the heiress, of one of the wealthiest men in thecity of London. The consideration of this fact had doubtless itsweight also. The lady would at least have six thousand pounds, mighthave sixty, might have three times sixty. Harcourt would probablyhave found it inexpedient to give way to any love had there been nomoney to gild the passion. He was notoriously a man of the world; hepretended to be nothing else; he would have thought that he had madehimself ludicrous if he had married for love only. With him it was asource of comfort that the lady's pecuniary advantages allowed himthe hope that he might indulge his love. So he did indulge it.

  He had trusted for awhile that circumstances would break off thisill-assorted match, and that then he could step in himself withoutany previous interference in the matter. But the time was runningtoo close: unless something was done, these two poor young creatureswould marry, and make themselves wretched for life. Benevolenceitself required that he should take the matter in hand. So he didtake it in hand, and commenced his operations--not unskilfully, as wehave seen.

  Such is our apology for Mr. Harcourt. A very poor one, the readerwill say, turning from that gentleman with disgust. It is a poor one.Were we all turned inside out, as is done with ladies and gentlemenin novels, some of us might find some little difficulty in givinggood apologies for ourselves. Our shade of brown would often be verydark.

  Bertram sat for awhile silent and motionless at the table, andHarcourt seeing his look of grief, almost repented what he had done.But, after all, he had only told the truth. The letter had been shownto him.

  "It is incredible," said Bertram, "incredible, incredible!" But,nevertheless, his voice showed plainly enough that the statement tohim was not incredible.

  "Let it be so," said Harcourt, who purposely misunderstood him. "I donot wish you to believe me. Let us leave it so. Come, it is time forus to go back to town." But Bertram still sat silent, saying nothing.

  Harcourt called the waiter, and paid the bill. He then told Bertramwhat his share was, and commenced smoothing the silk of his hatpreparatory to moving. Bertram took out his purse, gave him thenecessary amount of shillings, and then again sat silent andmotionless.

  "Come, Bertram, there will be only one train after this, and you knowwhat a crowd there is always for that. Let us go."

  But Bertram did not move. "Harcourt, if you would not mind it," hesaid, very gently, "I would rather go back by myself to-day. What youhave said has put me out. I shall probably walk."

  "Walk to town!"

  "Oh, yes; the walk will be nothing: I shall like it. Don't wait forme, there's a good fellow. I'll see you to-morrow, or next day, orbefore long."

  So Harcourt, shrugging his shoulders, and expressing some surpriseat this singular resolve, put his hat on his head and walked off byhimself. What his inward reflections were on his journey back toLondon we will not inquire; but will accompany our other friend inhis walk.

  Hurriedly as it had been written, he remembered almost every word ofthat letter from Paris. He knew that it had been severe, and he hadsometimes perhaps regretted its severity. But he knew also that theoffence had been great. What right had his affianced bride to speakof him to another man? Was it not fit that he should tell her howgreat was this sin? His ideas on the matter were perhaps too strong,but they certainly are not peculiar. We--speaking for the educatedmale sex in England--do not like to think that any one should tamperwith the ladies whom we love.

  But what was this to that which she had since done? To talk of himhad been bad, but to show his letters! to show such a letter as that!to show such a letter to such a person! to make such a confidence,and with such a confidant! It could not be that she loved him; itcould not be but that she must prefer that other man to him.

  As he thought of this, walking on hurriedly towards London on thatsoft May night, his bosom swelled, but with anger rather than withsorrow. It must be all over then between them. It could not go onafter what he had now been told. She was willing, he presumed, tomarry him, having pledged him her word that she would do so; but itwas clear that she did not care for him. He would not hold her to herpledge; nor would he take to his bosom one who could have a secretunderstanding with another man.

  "Miss Baker," he said to himself, "had treated him badly; she musthave known this; why had she not told him? If it were so that MissWaddington liked another better than him, would it not have beenMiss Baker's duty to tell him so? It did not signify however; he hadlearnt it in time--luckily, luckily, luckily."

  Should he quarrel with Harcourt? What mattered it whether he did orno? or what mattered it what part Harcourt took in the concern? Ifthat which Harcourt had said were true, if Caroline had sho
wn himthis letter, he, Bertram, could never forgive that! If so, they mustpart! And then, if he did not possess her, what mattered who did?Nay, if she loved Harcourt, why should he prevent their comingtogether? But of this he would make himself fully satisfied; hewould know whether the letter had truly been shown. Harcourt was abarrister; and in Bertram's estimation a barrister's word was notalways to be taken implicitly.

  So he still walked on. But what should he first do? how should he actat once? And then it occurred to him that, according to the ideasgenerally prevalent in the world on such matters, he would not beheld to be justified in repudiating his betrothed merely becauseshe had shown a letter of his to another gentleman. He felt in hisown mind that the cause was quite sufficient; that the state ofmind which such an act disclosed was clearly not that of a loving,trusting wife. But others might think differently: perhaps Miss Bakermight do so; or perhaps Miss Waddington.

  But then it was not possible that she could ever wish to marry himafter having taken such a course as that. Had he not indeed amplecause to think that she did not wish to marry him? She had put it offto the last possible moment. She had yielded nothing to his urgentrequest. In all her intercourse with him she had been cold andunbending. She had had her moments of confidence, but they were notwith him; they were with one whom perhaps she liked better. There wasno jealousy in this, not jealousy of the usual kind. His self-respecthad been injured, and he could not endure that. He hardly now wishedthat she should love him.

  But he would go to Littlebath at once and ask her the question. Hewould ask her all those questions which were now burning inside hisheart. She did not like severe letters, and he would write no moresuch to her. What further communication might of necessity take placebetween them should be by word of mouth. So he resolved to go down toLittlebath on the morrow.

  And then he reached his chambers, weary and sad at heart. But hewas no longer angry. He endeavoured to persuade himself that he wasabsolutely the reverse of angry. He knelt down and prayed that shemight be happy. He swore that he would do anything to make her so.But that anything was not to include any chance of a marriage withhimself.