The Bertrams

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER IX.

  BIDDING HIGH.

  I hope to press all the necessary records of the next three or fourmonths into a few pages. A few pages will be needed in order that wemay know how old Mr. Bertram behaved when he heard of this rupturebetween his nephew and his granddaughter.

  George, when he found himself back in town, shut himself up in hischambers and went to work upon his manuscript. He, too, recognizedthe necessity of labour, in order that the sorrow within his heartmight thus become dull and deadened.

  But it was deep, true sorrow--to him at some periods almostoverwhelming: he would get up from his desk during the night, andthrowing himself on the sofa, lie there writhing in his agony. Whilehe had known that Caroline was his own, he had borne his love morepatiently than does many a man of less intensity of feeling. He hadbeen much absent from her; had not abridged those periods of absenceas he might have done; had, indeed, been but an indifferent lover, ifeagerness and _empressement_ are necessary to a lover's character.But this had arisen from two causes, and lukewarmness in his love hadnot been either of them. He had been compelled to feel that he mustwait for the fruition of his love; and therefore had waited. And thenhe had been utterly devoid of any feeling of doubt in her he loved.She had decided that they should wait. And so he had waited as secureaway from her as he could have been with her.

  But his idea of a woman's love, of the purity and sanctity of herfeelings, had been too high. He had left his betrothed to livewithout him, frequently without seeing him for months, and yet hehad thought it utterly impossible that she should hold confidentialintercourse with another man. We have seen how things fell out withhim. The story need not be repeated. He was shocked, outraged, tornto the heart's core; but he loved as warmly, perhaps more warmly thanever.

  What he now expected it is impossible to describe; but during thatfirst fortnight of seclusion in the midst of London, he did halfexpect, half hope that something would turn up. He waited and waited,still assuring himself that his resolve was inviolable, and thatnothing should make him renew his engagement: and yet he hoped forsomething. There was a weight on his heart which then might have beenremoved.

  But no sign was made. We have seen how Adela, who felt for him, hadstriven in vain. No sign was made; and at the end of the fortnight heroused himself, shook his mane, and asked himself what he should do.

  In the first place, there should be no mystery. There were thoseamong his friends to whom he had felt himself bound to speak of hisengagement when it was made, and to them he felt himself bound tocommunicate the fact now that it was unmade. He wrote accordingly toArthur Wilkinson; he wrote to Harcourt; and determined to go down toHadley. He would have written also to his uncle, but he had neverdone so, and hardly knew how to commence a correspondence.

  His letter to Harcourt had been a difficult task to him, but at lastit was finished in a very few words. He did not at all refer to whathad taken place at Richmond, or allude in any way to the nature ofthe cause which had produced this sudden disrupture. He merely saidthat his engagement with Miss Waddington was broken off by mutualconsent, and that he thought it best to let his friend know this inorder that mistakes and consequent annoyance might be spared. Thiswas very short; but, nevertheless, it required no little effort inits accomplishment.

  On the very next day Harcourt came to him at his chambers. Thissurprised him much. For though he had no intention of absolutelyquarrelling with the rising legal luminary, he had taught himself tolook upon any renewal of their real intimacy as out of the question.They were sailing on essentially different tacks in their life'svoyages. They had become men of different views in everything. Theirhours, their habits, their friends, their ways were in all thingsunlike. And then, moreover, Bertram no longer liked the successfulbarrister. It may be said that he had learned positively to dislikehim. It was not that Harcourt had caused this wound which was tearinghis heart to pieces; at least, he thought that it was not that. Hedeclared to himself a dozen times that he did not blame Harcourt. Heblamed no one but Caroline--her and himself. Nor was it because theman was so successful. Bertram certainly did not envy him. But theone as he advanced in manhood became worldly, false, laborious,exact, polished, rich, and agreeable among casual acquaintances. Theother was the very reverse. He was generous and true; but idle--idleat any rate for any good; he was thoughtful, but cloudy in histhoughts, indifferent as to society, poor, much poorer than hehad been as a lad at college, and was by no means gifted with theknack of making pretty conversation for the world at large. Of latewhenever they had met, Harcourt had said something which gratedpainfully on the other's inner sensibilities, and hence had arisenthis dislike.

  But the dislike seemed to be all on one side. Harcourt now was a manwhose name was frequent in other men's mouths. Great changes wereimpending in the political world, and Harcourt was one of the menwhom the world regarded as sure to be found swimming on the top ofthe troubled waters. The people of the Battersea Hamlets were proudof him, the House of Commons listened to him, suitors employed him,and men potent in the Treasury chambers, and men also who hoped to bepotent there, courted and flattered him.

  All this made him busy; but, nevertheless, he found time to come tohis dear friend.

  "I am sorry for this; very sorry," he said, as he put out his handin a manner that seemed to his friend to be almost patronizing. "Cannothing be done?"

  "Nothing at all," said Bertram, rather curtly.

  "Can I do nothing?" said the cunning, legal man.

  "Nothing at all," said Bertram, very curtly.

  "Ah, I wish I could. I should be so happy to rearrange matters if itbe at all possible." There are some men who are so specially good atrearranging the domestic disarrangements of others.

  "It is an affair," said Bertram, "which admits of no interference.Perhaps it is unnecessary that I should have troubled you on thematter at all, for I know that you are very busy; but--"

  "My dear fellow--busy, indeed! What business could be more importantto me than my friend's happiness?"

  "But," continued George, "as the affair had been talked over so oftenbetween you and me, I thought it right to tell you."

  "Of course--of course; and so nothing can be done. Ah, well! it isvery sad, very. But I suppose you know best. She is a charming girl.Perhaps, rather--"

  "Harcourt, I had rather not hear a word spoken about her in any way;but certainly not a word in her dispraise."

  "Dispraise! no, certainly not. It would be much easier to praise her.I always admired her very much; very much indeed."

  "Well, there's an end of it."

  "So be it. But I am sorry, very sorry; heartily sorry. You are alittle rough now, Bertram. Of course I see that you are so. Everytouch goes against the hair with you; every little blow hits you onthe raw. I can understand that; and therefore I do not mind yourroughness. But we are old friends, you know. Each is perhaps theother's oldest friend; and I don't mean to lose such a friend becauseyou have a shade of the misanthrope on you just now. You'll throw thebile off in another essay, rather more bitter than the last, and thenyou'll be all right."

  "I'm right enough now, thank you. Only a man can't always be in highspirits. At least, some men cannot."

  "Well, God bless you, old fellow! I know you want me gone; so I'll gonow. But never talk to me about my business. I do get through a gooddeal of business, but it shall never stand between you and me."

  And so the cunning legal man went his way.

  And then there remained the journey to Hadley. After that it washis purpose to go abroad again, to go to Paris, and live in dingylodgings there _au cinquieme_, to read French free-thinking books, tostudy the wild side of politics, to learn if he could, among Frenchtheatres and French morals, French freedom of action, and freedomof speech, and freedom of thought--France was a blessed country forfreedom in those days, under the paternal monarchy of that paternalmonarch, Louis Philippe--to learn to forget, among these sources ofinspiration, all that he had known of the sweets of English l
ife.

  But there remained the journey to Hadley. It had always been hiscustom to go to Mr. Pritchett in the city before he went to hisuncle's house, and he did so now. Everybody who wished to see Mr.Bertram always went to Mr. Pritchett first, and Mr. Pritchett wouldusually send some _avant-courier_ to warn his patron of the invasion.

  "Ah, Mr. George," said Pritchett, wheezing, with his most melancholysigh. "You shouldn't have left the old gentleman so long, sir. Indeedyou shouldn't."

  "But he does not want to see me," said George.

  "Think what a sight of money that is!" continued Pritchett. "Onewould really think, Mr. George, that you objected to money. Thereis that gentleman, your particular friend, you know, the member ofParliament. He is down there constantly, paying his respects, as hecalls it."

  "What, Mr. Harcourt?"

  "Yes, Mr. Harcourt. And he sends grapes in spring, and turkeys insummer, and green peas in winter."

  "Green peas in winter! they must cost something."

  "Of course they do; sprats to catch big fish with, Mr. George. Andthen the old gentleman has got a new lawyer; some sharp new lightof Mr. Harcourt's recommending. Oh, Mr. George, Mr. George! do becareful, do now! Could not you go and buy a few ducks, or pigeons,and take them in a basket? The old gentleman does seem to like thatkind of thing, though ten years since he was so different. Half amillion of money, Mr. George! It's worth a few grapes and turkeys."And Mr. Pritchett shook his head and wrung his hands; for he saw thatnothing he said produced any effect.

  George went to Hadley at last without ducks or pigeons, grapes orturkeys. He was very much amused however with the perpetual industryof his friend. "_Labor omnia vincit improbus_" said he to himself."It is possible that Harcourt will find my uncle's blind side atlast."

  He found the old gentleman considerably changed. There were,occasionally, flashes of his former customary, sarcastic pungency;now and again he would rouse himself to be ill-natured, antagonistic,and self-willed. But old age and illness had sadly told upon him;and he was content for the most part to express his humour by littleshrugs, shakes of the head, and an irritable manner he had latelyacquired of rubbing his hands quickly together.

  "Well, George," he said, when his nephew shook hands with him andasked after his health.

  "I hope you are better than you were, sir. I was sorry to hear thatyou had been again suffering."

  "Suffer, yes; a man looks to suffer when he gets to my age. He's afool if he doesn't, at least. Don't trouble yourself to be sorryabout it, George."

  "I believe you saw my father not long since?" Bertram said this, notquite knowing how to set the conversation going, so that he mightbring in the tidings he had come there to communicate.

  "Yes, I did," said Mr. Bertram senior; and his hands went to work ashe sat in the arm-chair.

  "Did you find him much altered since you last met? It was a greatmany years since, I believe?"

  "Not in the least altered. Your father will never alter."

  George now knew enough of his father's character to understand thepoint of this; so he changed the subject, and did that which a manwho has anything to tell should always do at once; he commenced thetelling of it forthwith.

  "I have come down here, to-day, sir, because I think it right to letyou know at once that Miss Waddington and I have agreed that ourengagement shall be at an end."

  Mr. Bertram turned sharp round in his chair. "What?" said he. "What?"

  "Our engagement is at an end. We are both aware that it is better forus it should be so."

  "What do you mean? Better for you! How can it be better for you? Youare two fools."

  "Very likely, sir. We have been two fools; or, at any rate, I havebeen one."

  Mr. Bertram sat still in his chair, silent for a few moments. Hestill kept rubbing his hands, but in meditation rather than in anger.Though his back reached to the back of his chair, his head wasbrought forward and leaned almost on his chest. His cheeks had fallenin since George had seen him, and his jaw hung low, and gave a sad,thoughtful look to his face, in which also there was an expression ofconsiderable pain. His nephew saw that what he had said had grievedhim, and was sorry for it.

  "George," he said, in a softer voice than had ever been usual withhim. "I wish you to marry Caroline. Go back to her, and make it up.Tell her that I wish it, if it be necessary to tell her anything."

  "Ah, sir, I cannot do that. I should not have come to you now ifthere had been any room for doubt."

  "There must be no room for doubt. This is nonsense; sheer nonsense.I shall send to Mary." George had never before heard him call MissBaker by her Christian name.

  "It cannot be helped, sir. Miss Baker can do nothing in the matternow; nor can any one else. We both know that the marriage would notsuit us."

  "Not suit you! nonsense. Two babies; two fools! I tell you it willsuit you; it will suit me!"

  Now had George Bertram junior not been an absolute ass, or a molerather with no eyesight whatever for things above ground, he wouldhave seen from this that he might not only have got back his love,but have made sure of being his uncle's heir into the bargain. Atany rate, there was sufficient in what he said to insure him a veryrespectable share of those money-bags. How would Pritchett haverejoiced had he heard the old man speak so! and then how would hehave sighed and wheezed when he saw the young man's indifference!

  But George would not take the hint. He must have been blind and dull,and dead and senseless. Who before had ever heard Mr. Bertram seniorspeak out in that way? "It will suit _me_!" And that from an oldbachelor, with uncountable money-bags, to his only nephew! and sucha request, too, as it conveyed--that he would again make himselfagreeable to a beautiful girl whom he thoroughly loved, and by whomalso he was thoroughly loved! But George was an ass, as we have said;and a mole, a blind mole; and a mule, a stiff-necked, stubborn mule.He would not yield an inch to his uncle; nor an inch to his ownfeelings.

  "I am sorry to vex you, sir," he said, coldly, "but it isimpossible."

  "Oh, very well," said the uncle, as he compressed his lips, and movedhis hands. "Very well." And so they parted.

  George went back to town and commenced his preparations for Paris.But on the following day he received the unwonted honour of a visitfrom Mr. Pritchett, and the honour was very pointed; in this wise.Mr. Pritchett, not finding him at home, had gone to a neighbouringtavern "to get a bit of dinner," as he told the woman at thechambers; and stated, that he should go on calling till he did findMr. George. And in this way, on his third or fourth visit, Mr. Georgewas found.

  Mr. Pritchett was dressed in his best, and was very sad and solemn."Mr. George," said he, "your uncle wishes to see you at Hadley,particular."

  "Why, I was there yesterday."

  "I know you was, Mr. George; and that's just it. Your uncle, Mr.George, is an old man, and it will be only dutiful you should be withhim a good deal now. You'd wish to be a comfort to your uncle in hislast days. I know that, Mr. George. He's been good to you; and you'veyour duty to do by him now, Mr. George; and you'll do it." So saidMr. Pritchett, having thoroughly argued the matter in his own mind,and resolved, that as Mr. George was a wilful young horse, who wouldnot be driven in one kind of bridle, another must be tried with him.

  "But has my uncle sent to say that he wants to see me again at once?"

  "He has, Mr. George; sent to say that he wants to see you again atonce, particular."

  There was nothing of course for Mr. George to do but to obey, seeingthat the order was so particular. On that same evening, therefore, heput his dressing-things into a bag, and again went down to Hadley.

  On his first arrival his uncle shook hands with him with much morethan ordinary kindness, and even joked with him.

  "So Pritchett came to you, did he? and sent you down at a moment'snotice? ha! ha! He's a solemn old prig, is Pritchett; but a goodservant; a very good servant. When I am gone, he'll have enough tolive on; but he'll want some one to say a word to him now and again.Don't forget what I say about him.
It's not so easy to find a goodservant."

  George declared that he always had had, and would have, a regard forMr. Pritchett; "though I wish he were not quite so sad."

  "Poor Pritchett! well; yes, he is sad," said the uncle, laughing; andthen George went upstairs to get ready for dinner.

  The dinner, considering the house in which it was spread, wasquite _recherche_. George said to himself that the fat fowls whichhe saw must have come from Harcourt's larder. Roast mutton andboiled beef--not together, but one on one day and the other onthe next--generally constituted the fare at Mr. Bertram's housewhen he did not sit down to dinner alone. But now there was quitea little banquet. During dinner, he made sundry efforts to beagreeable; pressed his nephew to eat, and drank wine with him inthe old-fashioned affectionate manner of past days. "Your health,George," he said. "You'll find that sherry good, I think. It ought tobe, if years can make it so."

  It was good; and George was very sorry to find that the good wine hadbeen brought out for him. He felt that something would be required inreturn, and that he could not give that something.

  After dinner that something was soon asked for. "George," said theold man, "I have been thinking much since you went away the other dayabout you and Caroline. I have taken it into my stupid old head towish that you two should be married."

  "Ah, sir!"

  "Now listen to me. I do wish it, and what you have said has disturbedme. Now I do believe this of you, that you are an honest lad; andthough you are so fond of your own way, I don't think you'd wish togrieve me if you could help it."

  "Not if I could help it, sir; not if I could help it, certainly."

  "You can help it. Now listen to me. An old man has no right tohave his fancies unless he chooses to pay for them. I know thatwell enough. I don't want to ask you why you have quarrelled withCaroline. It's about money, very likely?"

  "No, sir, no; not in the least."

  "Well, I don't want to inquire. A small limited income is very likelyto lead to misunderstandings. You have at any rate been honest andtrue to me. You are not a bit like your father."

  "Sir! sir!"

  "And, and--I'll tell you what I'll do. Caroline is to have sixthousand pounds, isn't she?"

  "Pray believe me, sir, that money has nothing whatever to do withthis matter."

  "Yes, six," continued Mr. Bertram; "four of her own, and two from me.Now I'll tell you what I'll do. Let me see. You have two hundred ayear; that's settled on you. And you had a thousand pounds the otherday. Is that all gone yet?"

  "I am in no want of money, uncle; none whatever."

  "No, not as a bachelor; but as a married man you would be. Now dotell me--how much of that thousand pounds did the colonel get out ofyou?"

  "Dear uncle, do remember that he is my father."

  "Well, well; two hundred a year, and two thousand pounds, and one,and Pritchett's account. I'll tell you what, George, I should like tosee you comfortable; and if you and Caroline are married before nextOctober, I'll give you--"

  "I can't tell you how you pain me, sir."

  "I'll give you-- I wonder how much income you think you'll want?"

  "None, sir; none. As our marriage is out of the question, we shallwant no income. As I am, and am likely to remain unmarried, mypresent income is sufficient for me."

  "I'll give you--let me see." And the old miser--for though capableof generosity to a great extent, as he had certainly shown withreference to his nephew's early years, he certainly was a miser--theold miser again recapitulated to himself all that he had alreadydone, and tried to calculate at what smallest figure, at what lowestamount of ready money to be paid down, he could purchase the objectwhich he now desired. "I'll give you four thousand pounds on the dayyou are married. There, that will be ten thousand beside your ownincome, and whatever your profession will bring you."

  "What am I to say, sir? I know how generous you are; but this is notan affair of money."

  "What is it then?"

  "We should not be happy together."

  "Not happy together! You shall be happy, I tell you; you will behappy if you have enough to live on. Remember, I may leave yousomething more than that when I die; that is, I may do so if youplease me. You will understand, however, that I make no promise."

  "Dear uncle," said George, and as he spoke he rose from his seat, andcrossing over to his uncle, took the old man's hand in his own. "Youshall be asked for no promise; you shall be asked for nothing. Youhave been most liberal, most kind to me; too kind, I know, for I havenot returned it by that attention which you deserved from me. But,believe me, I cannot do as you ask me. If you will speak to MissWaddington, she will tell you the same."

  "Miss Waddington! Pshaw!"

  "Caroline, I mean. It is impossible, sir. And it adds greatly to myown suffering--for I have suffered in all this--that you also shouldbe grieved."

  "Why, you were so much in love with her the other day! Mary told methat you were dying for her."

  "I cannot explain it all. But she--Caroline--doubtless will. However,pray, pray take this for granted: the engagement between us cannot berenewed."

  Old Mr. Bertram still kept his nephew's hand, and it seemed as thoughhe liked to hold it. He continued to look up into George's face asthough striving to read there something different from the wordswhich he heard, something which might yet give him some consolation.He had said that George was honest, and he believed it, as far as hecould believe in honesty. But, nevertheless, he was still meditatingat what price he could buy over his nephew to his purpose. Aftersuch a struggle as that of his whole lifetime, could he have anyother faith but that money were omnipotent? No; this of course,this necessarily was his belief. As to the sufficient quantity--onthat point it was possible for him to doubt. His nephew's mannerto him was very touching; the tone of his voice, the look of hiscountenance, the grief which sat on his brow, did touch him. But theytouched him in this manner; they made him feel that a few thousandswere not sufficient. He had at last a desire at his heart, a familydomestic warm desire; and he began to feel that if he were notprepared to give up his desire, he must bid high for its fulfilment.

  "George," said he, "after all, you and Caroline are the nearestrelatives I have; the nearest and the dearest."

  "Caroline is your own child's child, sir."

  "She is but a girl; and it would all go to some spendthrift, whosevery name would be different. And, I don't know, but I think I likeyou better than her. Look here now. According to my present will,nine-tenths of my property will go to build a hospital that shallbear my name. You'll not repeat that to anybody, will you?"

  "No, sir; I will not."

  "If you'll do as I would have you about this marriage, I'll make anew will, and you and your children shall have-- I'll let you sayyourself how much you shall have; there--and you shall see the willyourself before the wedding takes place."

  "What can I say to him? what can I say to him?" said George, turningaway his face. "Sir, it is quite impossible. Is not that enough?Money has nothing to do with it; can have nothing to do with it."

  "You don't think I'd deceive you, do you, and make anotherwill afterwards? It shall be a deed of gift if you like, or asettlement--to take effect of course after my death." On hearing thisGeorge turned away his face. "You shall have half, George; there, byG---- you shall have half; settled on you--there--half of it, settledon you." And then only did the uncle drop his nephew's hand. Hedropped it, and closing his eyes, began to meditate on the tremendoussacrifice he had made.

  There was something terrible in this to young Bertram. He had almostceased to think of himself in watching his uncle's struggles. Itwas dreadful to see how terribly anxious the old man was, and moredreadful still to witness the nature of the thoughts which wererunning through his mind. He was making lavish tenders of his heaven,his god, his blessings; he was offering to part with his paradise,seeing that nature would soon imperatively demand that he should partwith it. But useless as it must soon be to him, he could not bringhimself to b
elieve that it was not still all-powerful with others.

  "Mr. Bertram, it is clearly necessary that we should understand eachother," said George, with a voice that he intended should be firm,but which in truth was stern as well as firm. "I thought it rightto come and tell you that this match was broken off. But seeingthat that has once been told, there is no longer room for furtherconversation on the matter. We have made up our minds to part; and,having done so, I can assure you that money can have no effect uponour resolution."

  "Then you want it all--all!" said the uncle, almost weeping.

  "Not all, nor ten times all would move me one inch--not one inch,"said George, in a voice that was now loud, and almost angry.

  Mr. Bertram turned towards the table, and buried his face in hishands. He did not understand it. He did not know whence came all thisopposition. He could not conceive what was the motive power whichcaused his nephew thus to thwart and throw him over, standing forwardas he did with thousands and tens of thousands in his hand. But heknew that his request was refused, and he felt himself degraded andpowerless.

  "Do not be angry with me, uncle," said the nephew.

  "Go your own way, sir; go your own way," said the uncle. "I havedone with you. I had thought--but never mind--" and he rang the bellviolently. "Sarah, I will go to bed--are my things ready? Woman, ismy room ready, I say?" and then he had himself led off, and Georgesaw him no more that night.

  Nor did he see him the next morning; nor for many a long dayafterwards. When the morning came, he sent in his love, with a hopethat his uncle was better. Sarah, coming out with a long face, toldGeorge that his uncle had only muttered between his teeth--"That itwas nothing to him"--to his nephew, namely--"whether he were betteror worse." And so, having received this last message, he went hisway, and returned to town.