The Bertrams

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER XV.

  MARRIAGE-BELLS.

  And now came the day of execution. "A long day, my lord, a long day,"screams the unfortunate culprit from the dock when about to undergothe heaviest sentence of the law. But the convicted wretch is acoward by his profession. Caroline Waddington was no coward. Havingmade up her mind to a long martyrdom, she would not condescend to askfor one short month of grace.

  "I don't like to press you unfairly," Sir Henry had said, "but youknow how I am situated with regard to business."

  "It shall be as you wish," Caroline had said. And so the day had beensettled; a day hardly more than six months distant from that on whichshe had half permitted the last embrace from her now forfeited, butnot forgotten lover.

  Duty was now her watchword to herself. For the last six weeks she hadbeen employed--nay, more than employed--hard at work--doing the bestshe could for her future husband's happiness and welfare. She hadgiven orders with as much composure as a woman might do who had beenthe mistress of her lord's purse and bosom for the last six years.Tradesmen, conscious of the coming event, had had their littledelicacies and made their little hints. But she had thrown allthese to the wind. She had spoken of Sir Henry as Sir Henry, andof herself as being now Miss Waddington, but soon about to be LadyHarcourt, with a studied openness. She had looked to carriages andbroughams--and horses also under Sir Henry's protection--as thoughthese things were dear to her soul. But they were not dear, though inher heart she tried to teach herself that they were so. For many along year--many at least in her still scanty list of years--she hadbeen telling herself that these things were dear; that these were theprizes for which men strive and women too; that the wise and prudentgained them; and that she too would be wise and prudent, that she toowould gain them. She had gained them; and before she had essayed toenjoy them, they turned into dust before her eyes, into ashes betweenher teeth.

  Gilding and tinsel were no longer bright to her, silks and velvetwere no longer soft. The splendour of her drawing-room, the richnessof her draperies, the luxurious comfort of the chamber that wasprepared for her, gave her no delight. She acquiesced in these thingsbecause her lord desired that they should be there, and she intendedthat her lord should be among the rich ones of the earth. But not forone moment did she feel even that trumpery joy which comes from anelated spirit.

  Her lord! there was the misery; there was the great rock againstwhich she feared that the timbers of her bark would go in pieces. Ifshe could only have the three first years done and over. If she couldonly jump at once to that time in which habit would have made herfate endurable! Her lord! Who was her lord truly? Had she not in herheart another lord, whom her whole soul would worship, despite herbody's efforts?

  And then she began to fear for her beauty; not for her own sake;not with that sort of sorrow which must attend the waning roses ofthose ladies who, in early years, have trusted too much to theirloveliness. No; it was for the sake of him to whom she had sold herbeauty. She would fain perform her part of that bargain. She wouldfain give him on his marriage-day all that had been intended in hispurchase. If, having accepted him, she allowed herself to pine andfade away because she was to be his, would she not in fact be robbinghim? Would not that be unjust? All that she could give him he shouldhave.

  But neither did Sir Henry see any change, nor did Mr. Bertram, northose others who were round her. Indeed, hers was not a beauty thatwould fade in such manner. When she saw her own eyes heavy withsuppressed wretchedness, she feared for herself. But her power overherself was great, and that look was gone as soon as others were withher.

  But her worst sufferings were at night. She would wake from her shortslumbers, and see him, him always before her; that him who in theessence of things was still her lord, the master of her woman's mind,the lord of her woman's soul. To screen her eyes from that sight, shewould turn her moistened face to the pillow; but her eyeballs wouldflash in the darkness, and she would still see him there, therebefore her. She would see him as he stood beside her with manlybashfulness, when on the side of Olivet he first told her that heloved her. She would see him as he had sometimes sat, in his sweetestmoods, in that drawing-room at Littlebath, talking to her with rapidutterance, with sweet, but energetic utterance, saying words whichshe did not always fully understand, but which she felt to be full ofwit, full of learning, full of truth. Ah, how proud she had been ofhim then--so proud of him, though she would never say so! And thenshe would see him, as he came to her on that fatal day, boiling inhis wrath, speaking such words as had never before reached her ears;words, however, of which so many had been tinged by an inexpressibletenderness.

  Then she would turn herself in her bed, and, by a strong effort ofher will, she would for a while throw off such thoughts. She wouldcount over to herself the chairs and tables she had ordered, the cupsand china bowls which were to decorate her room, till sleep wouldcome again--but in sleep she would still dream of him. Ah, that theremight have been no waking from such dreams!

  But in the morning she would come down to breakfast with no troubleon her outward brow. She was minutely particular in her dress, evenwhen no one but her grandfather was to see the effects of her toilet.Her hair was scrupulously neat, her dresses were rich and in thenewest fashion. Her future career was to be that of Lady Harcourt, aleader of ton; and she was determined to commence her new duties witha good grace.

  And so from week to week, and day to day, she prepared herself forthe sacrifice.

  Miss Baker of course returned to Hadley a day or two before theceremony. The recent death of old Mr. Gauntlet was Adela's excuse fornot being present. Had there been no such excuse, she would have beenforced to act a bridesmaid's part. It was much better for both ofthem that she had not to perform the task.

  Bridesmaids were chosen in London--eight of them. These were notspecial friends of Caroline's; indeed, it had not been her instinctto attach to herself special friends. Circumstances had createdfriendship between her and Adela, unlike in all things as they wereto each other. But other bosom-friends Caroline had not; nor had shefelt the want of them.

  This was perhaps well for her now. It would have driven her tomadness if among the bevy of attendant nymphs there had been any towhom it would have been necessary for her to open her heart--to openit, or to pretend to open it. Much she could do; much she was nowdoing; much she was prepared to do. But she could not have spokenwith missish rapture of her coming happiness; nor could she, to anyears, have laid bare the secrets of her bosom.

  So eight young ladies were had from London. Two were second-cousinsby her father's side; one, who was very full of the universal joythat was to follow this happy event, was a sister of Sir Henry's;a fourth was the daughter of an old crony of Miss Baker's; and theother four were got to order--there being no doubt a repertory forarticles so useful and so ornamental.

  Old Mr. Bertram behaved well on the occasion. He told Miss Baker thatnothing was to be spared--in moderation; and he left her to be solejudge of what moderation meant. She, poor woman, knew well enoughthat she would have at some future day to fight over with him thebattle of the bills. But for the moment he affected generosity, andso a fitting breakfast was prepared.

  And then the bells were rung, the Hadley bells, the merrymarriage-bells.

  I know full well the tone with which they toll when the soul isushered to its last long rest. I have stood in that green churchyardwhen earth has been laid to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust--theashes and the dust that were loved so well.

  But now the scene was of another sort. How merrily they rang, thosejoyous marriage-bells! Youth was now to know the full delight ofmatured happiness. Soul should be joined to soul, heart to heart,hand to hand, manly strength and vigour to all the grace and beautyof womanhood. The world was pleasant with its most joyous smile as itopened its embraces to the young pair--about to be two no longer--nowto become one bone and one flesh. Out rung the Hadley bells, thehappy marriage-bells.

  And when should bells ring so joyously? Do
they not give promise ofall that this world knows of happiness? What is love, sweet purelove, but the anticipation of this, the natural longing for this, theconsummation of our loving here? To neither man nor woman does theworld fairly begin till seated together in their first mutual homethey bethink themselves that the excitement of their honeymoon isover. It would seem that the full meaning of the word marriage cannever be known by those who, at their first out-spring into life,are surrounded by all that money can give. It requires the singlesitting-room, the single fire, the necessary little efforts ofself-devotion, the inward declaration that some struggle shall bemade for that other one, some world's struggle of which wealth canknow nothing. One would almost wish to be poor, that one might workfor one's wife; almost wish to be ill used, that one might fight forher.

  He, as he goes forth to his labour, swears within his heart that, byGod's help on his endeavours, all shall go well with her. And she,as she stands musing alone in her young home, with a soft happy tearin her bright eye, she also swears in her heart that, by God's help,his home shall be to him the sweetest spot on the earth's surface.Then should not marriage-bells ring joyously? Ah, my friends, do notcount too exactly your three hundreds a year--your four hundreds. Trythe world. But try it with industry and truth, not with idleness andfalsehood.

  And now Sir Henry and Lady Harcourt were to try the world in sweetcommunion together. One may say that, as to doubt about the trial,there was need of none. He had more than won his spurs. He wasalready a practised knight in the highest flight of the world'stourneys. And for her, too, there was little cause of fear. They whosaw her arrayed in that bright frosty marriage morning, and watchedthe majesty of her brow, the brilliancy of her eye, the grace anddignity of her step, all swore that the young lawyer had done well.He had found for himself a meet companion for his high career; aproper bride for his coming greatness. And so the marriage-bells rangon, with all their merriness, with all their joy.

  And now the words have been said, the vows have been plighted, themagic circlet of pure gold has done its wondrous work. The priestsmiles and grasps their hands as he gives them his parting friendlyblessing. Laughing bridesmaids press in to sign the book, and allobserve that no signature was ever written with more decision thanthat of Caroline Waddington.

  Caroline Waddington now no longer! Yes; the deed had, in truth, beendone. The vows had been plighted. She had taken this man to be herwedded husband, to live together with him after God's ordinance. Shehad sworn to obey him, and serve him, and-- Ah! ah! ah! How had shelived while that word was uttered to her! how had she lived to swearthat falsest oath!

  But it was not then, while standing at the altar, that the strugglehad been made. Then she did but act her part, as some stage-queenacts hers. She acted it well; that was all. There was no meaning inher words then. Though her lips moved, she swore no oath. Her oathhad been sworn before that.

  No educated woman, we may suppose, stands at the altar as a bride,without having read and re-read those words till they are closelyfixed on her memory. It is a great oath, and a woman should knowwell what that is to which she is about to pledge herself. CarolineWaddington had studied them well. She would live with him after God'sordinance; that is, as his wife. Yes, she was prepared for that. Shewould obey him. Yes; if obedience were required, she would give it.Serve him? oh, yes, certainly; to the best of her power of mind andbody. Love him? No; she was bold, at least, if not righteous. No; shecould not love him. But, then, how few who were married complied withall those behests? How many were undutiful, disobedient, careless?Might not she except for herself one point? be false on one articleif she were true in so many? She would honour him, for honour waspossible to her; she would keep him in sickness and health, andforsaking all other--yes, all other, in body certainly, in hearttoo if God would give her ease--and keep herself only to him, herhusband. And so she swore to it all before she went there--all, withthe one exception.

  And Sir Henry swore too--with a light, indifferent oath, which,however, he had no intention of breaking in any part. He wouldlive with her, and love her, and comfort her, and all that sort ofthing;--and very well she would look at the top of his table, inblack velvet.

  And the merry bells went on ringing as they trooped back to the oldman's house. They went in gay carriages, though the distance was butsome hundred yards. But brides and bridegrooms cannot walk on theirwedding-days in all their gala garments, though it be but a fewhundred yards.

  And then, as they entered the breakfast-room, the old man met them,and blessed them. He was too infirm to go to church, and had seennone of them before the ceremony; but now that the deed was done, healso was there, dressed in his best, his last new coat, not more thantwelve years old, his dress waistcoat sent home before the ReformBill, his newest shoes, which creaked twice worse than any of theirolder brethren. But when a man can shower thousands on a wedded pair,what do they, or even the bridesmaids, care about his clothes?

  And then after this fashion he blessed them--not holding each a handas he might otherwise have done; for his infirmities compelled him touse two crutches.

  "I wish you joy, Sir Henry--of your bride--with all my heart.And a bonny bride she is, and well able to take her place in theworld. Though you'll be rich and well to do, you'll not find herover-extravagant. And though her fortune's not much for a man likeyou, perhaps, she might have had less, mightn't she? ha! ha! ha!Little as it is, it will help--it will help. And you'll not finddebts coming home after her; I'm sure of that. She'll keep your housewell together; and your money too--but I guess you'll not leave thatto her keeping.

  "And I wish you joy with all my heart, my Lady Harcourt. You've donevery well--much better doubtless than we were thinking of; you andme too. And as for me, I was an old fool." Mr. Bertram was doubtlessthinking of that interview with his nephew. "Much better, muchbetter. Your husband's a rising man, and he'll live to be a rich man.I have always thought a lawyer's profession very good for a man whowould know how to make money at it. Sir Henry knows how to do thatwell. So I wish you joy with all my heart, Lady Bertram--Harcourt,I mean. And now we'll sit down and have a bit of something toeat." Such was the marriage-blessing of this old man, who knew andunderstood the world so well. To be Lady Harcourt, and have thespending of three or four thousand a year! What a destiny was thatfor his granddaughter! And to have achieved that without any largecall upon his own purse!

  It was not intended that Sir Henry and his bride were to sit down tothe breakfast. That is, I believe, now voted to be a bore--and alwaysshould have been so voted. They had done, or were now to do theirnecessary eating in private, and the company was to see no more ofthem. An effort had been made to explain this to Mr. Bertram, but ithad not been successful. So when Caroline kissed him, and bade himadieu after his little speech, he expressed himself surprised.

  "What, off before the breakfast! What's the good of the breakfastthen?" His idea, in his extravagance, had been that he would givea last feed to the solicitor-general. But he had another piece ofextravagance in his mind, which he had been unable to bring himselfto perpetrate till the last moment; but which now he did perpetrate.

  "Sir Henry, Sir Henry," and he toddled to a window. "Here; you'll bespending a lot of money on her in foreign parts, and I think you havebehaved well; here," and he slipped a bit of paper into his hands."But, remember, it will be the last. And, Sir Henry, remember theinterest of the three thousand--punctually--eh, Sir Henry?"

  Sir Henry nodded--thanked him--slipped the bit of paper into hispocket, and followed his bride to the carriage.

  "Your grandfather has just given me five hundred pounds," was hisfirst word in private to his wife.

  "Has he?" said Lady Harcourt, "I'm very glad of it; very." And soshe was. What else had she to be glad of now, except hundreds--andhundreds--and hundreds of pounds?

  And so they were whisked away to London, to Dover, to Paris, to Nice.

  "Sed post equitem sedet atra cura."

  The care was very black that sat behind th
at female knight. But wewill not now follow either her thoughts or her carriage-wheels.

  END OF VOL. II.

  Printed by W. Clowes and Sons, Stamford Street.

  * * * * *

  THE BERTRAMS.

  A Novel.

  by

  ANTHONY TROLLOPE

  Author of "Barchester Towers," "Doctor Thorne," etc.

  In Three Volumes

  VOL. III.

  Second Editon

  London:Chapman & Hall, 193 Piccadilly.1859.

  [The right of Translation is reserved.]

  London: Printed by W. Clowes and Sons, Stamford Street.