The Bertrams

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER IV.

  MRS. MADDEN'S BALL.

  Two days after the dinner, George Bertram called in Eaton Square andsaw Lady Harcourt; but, as it happened, she was not alone. Theirinterview on this occasion was not in any great degree embarrassingto either of them. He did not stay long; and as strangers werepresent, he was able to talk freely on indifferent subjects. LadyHarcourt probably did not talk much, but she looked as though shedid.

  And then Adela Gauntlet came up to town for a month; and George,though he was on three or four occasions in Eaton Square, never sawCaroline alone; but he became used to seeing her and being with her.The strangeness of their meeting wore itself away: he could speak toher without reserve on the common matters of life, and found that hehad intense delight in doing so.

  Adela Gauntlet was present at all these interviews, and in her heartof hearts condemned them bitterly; but she could say nothing toCaroline. They had been friends--real friends; but Caroline was nowalmost like stone to her. This visit of Adela's had been a longpromise--yes, very long; for the visit, when first promised, was tohave been made to Mrs. Bertram. One knows how these promises stilllive on. Caroline had pressed it even when she felt that Adela'spresence could no longer be of comfort to her; and Adela would notnow refuse, lest in doing so she might seem to condemn. But she feltthat Caroline Harcourt could never be to her what Caroline Bertramwould have been.

  Lady Harcourt did whatever in her lay to amuse her guest; but Adelawas one who did not require much amusing. Had there been friendshipbetween her and her friend, the month would have run by all tooquickly; but, as it was, before it was over she wished herself againeven at Littlebath.

  Bertram dined there twice, and once went with them to some concert.He met them in the Park, and called; and then there was a greatevening gathering in Eaton Square, and he was there. Caroline wascareful on all occasions to let her husband know when she metBertram, and he as often, in some shape, expressed his satisfaction.

  "He'll marry Adela Gauntlet; you'll see if he does not," he said toher, after one of their dinners in Eaton Square. "She is very pretty,very; and it will be all very nice; only I wish that one of them hada little money to go on with."

  Caroline answered nothing to this: she never did make him anyanswers; but she felt quite sure in her own heart that he would notmarry Adela Gauntlet. And had she confessed the truth to herself,would she have wished him to do so?

  Adela saw and disapproved; she saw much and could not but disapproveof all. She saw that there was very little sympathy between thehusband and wife, and that that little was not on the increase.--Verylittle! nay, but was there any? Caroline did not say much of her lotin life; but the few words that did fall from her seemed to be fullof scorn for all that she had around her, and for him who had givenit all. She seemed to say, "There--this is that for which I havestriven--these ashes on which I now step, and sleep, and feed, whichare gritty between my teeth, and foul to my touch! See, here is myreward! Do you not honour me for having won it?"

  And then it appeared that Sir Henry Harcourt had already learned howto assume the cross brow of a captious husband; that the sharp wordwas already spoken on light occasions--spoken without cause andlistened to with apparent indifference. Even before Adela such wordswere spoken, and then Caroline would smile bitterly, and turn herface towards her friend, as though she would say, "See, see what itis to be the wife of so fine a man, so great a man! What a grandmatch have I not made for myself!" But though her looks spoke thus,no word of complaint fell from her lips--and no word of confidence.

  We have said that Sir Henry seemed to encourage these visits whichBertram made to Eaton Square; and for a time he did so--up to thetime of that large evening-party which was given just before Adela'sreturn to Littlebath. But on that evening, Adela thought she saw adeeper frown than usual on the brows of the solicitor-general, as heturned his eyes to a couch on which his lovely wife was sitting, andbehind which George Bertram was standing, but so standing that hecould speak and she could hear.

  And then Adela bethought herself, that though she could say nothingto Caroline, it might not be equally impossible to say something toBertram. There had been between them a sort of confidence, and ifthere was any one to whom Adela could now speak freely, it was tohim. They each knew something of each other's secrets, and each ofthem, at least, trusted the other.

  But this, if it be done at all, must be done on that evening. Therewas no probability that they would meet again before her departure.This was the only house in which they did meet, and here Adela had nowish to see him more.

  "I am come to say good-bye to you," she said, the first moment shewas able to speak to him alone.

  "To say good-bye! Is your visit over so soon?"

  "I go on Thursday."

  "Well, I shall see you again, for I shall come on purpose to make myadieux."

  "No, Mr. Bertram; do not do that."

  "But I certainly shall."

  "No;" and she put out her little hand, and gently--oh! sogently--touched his arm.

  "And why not? Why should I not come to see you? I have not so manyfriends that I can afford to lose you."

  "You shall not lose me, nor would I willingly lose you. But, Mr.Bertram--"

  "Well, Miss Gauntlet?"

  "Are you right to be here at all?"

  The whole tone, and temper, and character of his face altered as heanswered her quickly and sharply--"If not, the fault lies with SirHenry Harcourt, who, with some pertinacity, induced me to come here.But why is it wrong that I should be here?--foolish it may be."

  "That is what I mean. I did not say wrong; did I? Do not think that Iimagine evil."

  "It may be foolish," continued Bertram, as though he had not heardher last words. "But if so, the folly has been his."

  "If he is foolish, is that reason why you should not be wise?"

  "And what is it you fear, Adela? What is the injury that will come?Will it be to me, or to her, or to Harcourt?"

  "No injury, no real injury--I am sure of that. But may notunhappiness come of it? Does it seem to you that she is happy?"

  "Happy! Which of us is happy? Which of us is not utterly wretched?She is as happy as you are? and Sir Henry, I have no doubt, is ashappy as I am."

  "In what you say, Mr. Bertram, you do me injustice; I am notunhappy."

  "Are you not? then I congratulate you on getting over the troublesconsequent on a true heart."

  "I did not mean in any way to speak of myself; I have cares, regrets,and sorrows, as have most of us; but I have no cause of misery whichI cannot assuage."

  "Well, you are fortunate; that is all I can say."

  "But Caroline I can see is not happy; and, Mr. Bertram, I fear thatyour coming here will not make her more so."

  She had said her little word, meaning it so well. But perhaps she haddone more harm than good. He did not come again to Eaton Square tillafter she was gone; but very shortly after that he did so.

  Adela had seen that short, whispered conversation between LadyHarcourt and Bertram--that moment, as it were, of confidence; and so,also, had Sir Henry; and yet it had been but for a moment.

  "Lady Harcourt," Bertram had said, "how well you do this sort ofthing!"

  "Do I?" she answered. "Well, one ought to do something well."

  "Do you mean to say that your excellence is restricted to this?"

  "Pretty nearly; such excellence as there is."

  "I should have thought--" and then he paused.

  "You are not coming to reproach me, I hope," she said.

  "Reproach you, Lady Harcourt! No; my reproaches, silent or expressed,never fall on your head."

  "Then you must be much altered;" and as she said these last words, inwhat was hardly more than a whisper, she saw some lady in a distantpart of the room to whom some attention might be considered to bedue, and rising from her seat she walked away across the room. It wasvery shortly after that Adela had spoken to him.

  For many a long and bitter day, Bertram had
persuaded himself thatshe had not really loved him. He had doubted it when she had firsttold him so calmly that it was necessary that their marriage shouldbe postponed for years; he had doubted it much when he found her,if not happy, at least contented under that postponement; doubt hadbecome almost certainty when he learnt that she discussed his meritswith such a one as Henry Harcourt; but on that day, at Richmond, whenhe discovered that the very secrets of his heart were made subject ofconfidential conversation with this man, he had doubted it no longer.Then he had gone to her, and his reception proved to him that hisdoubts had been too well founded--his certainty only too sure. And sohe had parted with her--as we all know.

  But now he began to doubt his doubts--to be less certain of hiscertainty. That she did not much love Sir Henry, that was veryapparent; that she could not listen to his slightest word withoutemotion--that, too, he could perceive; that Adela conceived thatshe still loved him, and that his presence there was thereforedangerous--that also had been told to him. Was it then possible thathe, loving this woman as he did--having never ceased in his love forone moment, having still loved her with his whole heart, his wholestrength--that he had flung her from him while her heart was stillhis own? Could it be that she, during their courtship, should haveseemed so cold and yet had loved him?

  A thousand times he had reproached her in his heart for beingworldly; but now the world seemed to have no charms for her. Athousand times he had declared that she cared only for the outwardshow of things, but these outward shows were now wholly indifferentto her. That they in no degree contributed to her happiness, or evento her contentment, that was made manifest enough to him.

  And then these thoughts drove him wild, and he began to ask himselfwhether there could be yet any comfort in the fact that she hadloved him, and perhaps loved him still. The motives by which men areactuated in their conduct are not only various, but mixed. As Bertramthought in this way concerning Lady Harcourt--the Caroline Waddingtonthat had once belonged to himself--he proposed to himself no schemeof infamy, no indulgence of a disastrous love, no ruin for her whomthe world now called so fortunate; but he did think that, if shestill loved him, it would be pleasant to sit and talk with her;pleasant to feel some warmth in her hand; pleasant that there shouldbe some confidence in her voice. And so he resolved--but, no, therewas no resolve; but he allowed it to come to pass that his intimacyin Eaton Square should not be dropped.

  And then he bethought himself of the part which his friend Harcourthad played in this matter, and speculated as to how that pleasantfellow had cheated him out of his wife. What Adela had said might bevery true, but why should he regard Sir Henry's happiness? why regardany man's happiness, or any woman's? Who had regarded him? So hehired a horse, and rode in the Park when he knew Lady Harcourt wouldbe there, dined with Baron Brawl because Lady Harcourt was to dinethere, and went to a ball at Mrs. Madden's for the same reason. Allwhich the solicitor-general now saw, and did not press his friend totake a part at any more of his little dinners.

  What may have passed on the subject between Sir Henry and his wifecannot be said. A man does not willingly accuse his wife of even thefirst germ of infidelity; does not willingly suggest to her thatany one is of more moment to her than himself. It is probable thathis brow became blacker than it had been, that his words were lesscourteous, and his manner less kind; but of Bertram himself, it maybe presumed that he said nothing. It might, however, have been easyfor Caroline to perceive that he no longer wished to have his oldfriend at his house.

  At Mrs. Madden's ball, Bertram asked her to dance with him, andshe did stand up for a quadrille. Mr. Madden was a rich young man,in Parliament, and an intimate friend both of Sir Henry's and ofBertram's. Caroline had danced with him--being her first performanceof that nature since her marriage; and having done so, she could not,as she said to herself, refuse Mr. Bertram. So they stood up; and thebusy solicitor-general, who showed himself for five minutes in theroom, saw them moving, hand-in-hand together, in the figure of thedance. And as he so moved, Bertram himself could hardly believe inthe reality of his position. What if any one had prophesied to himthree months since that he would be dancing with Caroline Harcourt!

  "Adela did not stay with you long," said he, as they were standingstill.

  "No, not very long. I do not think she is fond of London;" and thenthey were again silent till their turn for dancing was over.

  "No; I don't think she is," said Bertram, "nor am I. I should notcare if I were to leave it for ever. Do you like London, LadyHarcourt?"

  "Oh, yes; as well as any other place. I don't think it muchsignifies--London, or Littlebath, or New Zealand."

  They were then both silent for a moment, till Bertram again spoke,with an effort that was evident in his voice.

  "You used not to be so indifferent in such matters."

  "Used!"

  "Has all the world so changed that nothing is any longer of anyinterest?"

  "The world has changed, certainly--with me."

  "And with me also, Lady Harcourt. The world has changed with both ofus. But Fortune, while she has been crushing me, has been very kindto you."

  "Has she? Well, perhaps she has--as kind, at any rate, as I deserve.But you may be sure of this--I do not complain of her." And then theywere again silent.

  "I wonder whether you ever think of old days?" he said, after apause.

  "At any rate, I never talk of them, Mr. Bertram."

  "No; I suppose not. One should not talk of them. But out of a fullheart the mouth will speak. Constant thoughts will break forth inwords. There is nothing else left to me of which I can think."

  Any one looking at her face as she answered him would have littledreamed how much was passing through her mind, how much was weighingon her heart. She commanded not only her features, but even hercolour, and the motion of her eyes. No anger flashed from them; therewas no blush of indignation as she answered him in that crowded room.And yet her words were indignant enough, and there was anger, too, inthat low tone which reached his ear so plainly, but which reached nofurther.

  "And whose doing has this been? Why is it that I may not think ofpast times? Why is it that all thought, all memories are denied tome? Who was it that broke the cup at the very fountain?"

  "Was it I?"

  "Did you ever think of your prayers? 'Forgive us our trespasses.' Butyou, in your pride--you could forgive nothing. And now you dare totwit me with my fortune!"

  "Lady Harcourt!"

  "I will sit down, if you please, now. I do not know why I speakthus." And then, without further words, she caused herself to beled away, and sitting down between two old dowagers, debarred himabsolutely from the power of another word.

  Immediately after this he left the house; but she remained foranother hour--remained and danced with young Lord Echo, who was aWhig lordling; and with Mr. Twisleton, whose father was a Treasurysecretary. They both talked to her about Harcourt, and the greatspeech he was making at that moment; and she smiled and lookedso beautiful, that when they got together at one end of thesupper-table, they declared that Harcourt was out-and-out theluckiest dog of his day; and questioned his right to monopolize sucha treasure.

  And had he been cruel? had he been unforgiving? had he denied to herthat pardon which it behoved him so often to ask for himself? Thiswas the question which Bertram was now forced to put to himself. Andthat other question, which he could now answer but in one way. Had hethen been the cause of his own shipwreck? Had he driven his own barkon the rocks while the open channel was there clear before him? Hadshe not now assured him of her love, though no word of tenderness hadpassed her lips? And whose doing had it been? Yes, certainly; it hadbeen his own doing.

  The conviction which thus came upon him did not add much to hiscomfort. There was but little consolation to him now in the assurancethat she had loved, and did love him. He had hitherto felt himselfto be an injured man; but now he had to feel that he himself hadcommitted the injury. "Whose doing has it been? You--you in yourpride, could forgiv
e nothing!" These words rang in his ears; hismemory repeated to him hourly the tone in which they had been spoken.She had accused him of destroying all her hopes for this world--andhe had answered not a word to the accusation.

  On the morning after that ball at Mrs. Madden's, Sir Henry came intohis wife's room while she was still dressing. "By-the-by," said he,"I saw you at Mrs. Madden's last night."

  "Yes; I perceived that you were there for a moment," Carolineanswered.

  "You were dancing. I don't know that I ever saw you dancing before."

  "I have not done so since I was married. In former days I used to befond of it."

  "Ah, yes; when you were at Littlebath. It did not much matter thenwhat you did in that way; but--"

  "Does it matter more now, Sir Henry?"

  "Well, if it would entail no great regret, I would rather that youdid not dance. It is all very nice for girls."

  "You do not mean to say that married women--"

  "I do not mean to say anything of the kind. One man has one idea, andanother another. Some women also are not placed in so conspicuous aposition as you are."

  "Why did you not tell me your wishes before?"

  "It did not occur to me. I did not think it probable that you woulddance. May I understand that you will give it up?"

  "As you direct me to do so, of course I shall."

  "Direct! I do not direct, I only request."

  "It is the same thing, exactly. I will not dance again. I should havefelt the prohibition less had I been aware of your wishes before Ihad offended."

  "Well, if you choose to take it in that light, I cannot help it.Good-morning. I shall not dine at home to-day."

  And so the solicitor-general went his way, and his wife remainedsitting motionless at her dressing-table. They had both of themalready become aware that the bargain they had made was not a wiseone.