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Bertrams

<h3>CHAPTER XV.</h3> <h4>MR. HARCOURT'S VISIT TO LITTLEBATH.  </h4> During the whole of the winter and spring, George's attention to his work had been unremitting. Mr. Die was always prophesying still greater things, and still greater. Once a fortnight, on every other Saturday, Bertram had gone down to Littlebath, but he had always returned to London by the first train on Monday morning, and was always up to his elbows in law, even on that morning, before eleven. During the whole of this time, he had not once seen his uncle, although Miss Baker had softly endeavoured to talk him into visiting Hadley. "I never go there without being asked," he had said. "It is quite understood between us." He had made but one excursion out of London, except those to Littlebath, and that had been to Hurst Staple. Mr. Wilkinson had died very suddenly, as has been told, about the end of the winter, and Bertram had of course not been able to see him. Arthur Wilkinson had then been quickly put into the living, and as soon as he had taken up his residence in the parsonage, Bertram had gone down. This visit had been made before the last walk to West Putford; but even then the young barrister had found the young vicar in rather a plaintive mood. Wilkinson, however, had said nothing of his love, and George was too much occupied with talking of his own heart to think much of his cousin's. Miss Gauntlet—I hope the reader has not altogether forgotten Adela Gauntlet—had also an aunt living at Littlebath, Miss Penelope Gauntlet; and it so happened, that very shortly after that memorable walk and the little scene that took place in the West Putford drawing-room, Adela visited her aunt. Bertram, who had known her well when they were children together, had not yet seen her there; indeed, her arrival had taken place since his last visit; but there she was, staying with Miss Penelope Gauntlet, when he and Harcourt went down to Littlebath together. Caroline and Adela had for years been friends. Not bosom friends, perhaps; that is, they did not correspond three times a week, each sending to the other on each occasion three sheets of note paper crossed over on every page from top to bottom. Caroline had certainly no such bosom friend, and perhaps neither had Adela; but they were friends enough to call each other by their Christian names, to lend each other music and patterns, and perhaps to write when they had anything special to say. There had been a sort of quasi-connection between Miss Baker and the elder Miss Gauntlet—a connection of a very faint local character—in years gone by. Miss Baker, by reason of her Bertram relations, had been at Hurst Staple, and Miss Gauntlet had been at West Putford at the same time. They had thus become acquainted, and the acquaintance there had led to a Littlebath friendship. Friendships in Littlebath are not of a very fervid description. Miss Waddington had now been engaged for six months, and hitherto she had made no confidante. She knew no resident at Littlebath whom she would willingly trust with her heart's secret: her aunt, and her aunt's cognizance of the matter were quite another thing. No one could be more affectionate than aunt Mary, no one more trustworthy, no one more thoroughly devoted to another than she was to her niece. But then she was not only old, but old-fashioned. She was prudent, and Caroline also was prudent; but their prudence was a different kind. There was no dash, no ambition about aunt Mary's prudence. She was rather humdrum, Caroline thought; and, which was worse, though she liked George Bertram, she did not seem to understand his character at all in the same light as that in which Caroline regarded it. From these circumstances it came to pass that Adela had not been a week at Littlebath before she was made acquainted with the grand secret. She also had a secret of her own; but she did not tell that in return. Secrets such as Caroline's are made to be told; but those other secrets, those which burn up the heart instead of watering it as with a dew from heaven, those secrets for the most part are not made to be told. "And yet, Adela, I suppose it will never happen." This had been said on the morning of that Saturday which was to bring down not only Bertram, but Harcourt. Caroline knew well that the London friend, the man of the world, was being brought to inspect her, and was by no means afraid of undergoing the inspection. She was not timid by nature; and though, as has been already said, she was hardly yet conscious of her powers of attracting, she was never ashamed of herself. "And why not? I think that is nonsense, Caroline. If you really thought that, you would not receive him as you will do, nor his friend neither." "I do think it; that is to say, I think it very probable. I cannot explain to you, Adela, all the turns of my mind, or of my heart. I would not for worlds of gold marry a man I did not love." "And do not you love Mr. Bertram?" "Yes, I do; at times very, very much; but I fear the time may come when I may love him less. You will not understand me; but the fact is, I should love him better if he were less worthy of my love—if he were more worldly." "No, I do not understand that," said Adela, thinking of her love, and the worldly prudence of him who should have been her lover. "That is it—you do not understand me; and yet it is not selfishness on my part. I would marry a man in the hope of making him happy." "Certainly," said Adela; "no girl should marry unless she have reasonable hope that she can do that." "He would wish me to go to him now, at once; when we have no sufficient income to support us." "Four hundred a year!" said Adela, reproachfully. "What would four hundred a year do in London? Were I to consent, in a year or two he would be sick of me. He would be a wretched man, unless, indeed, his law-courts and his club kept him from being wretched;—his home would not do so." Adela silently compared the matter with her own affairs: her ideas were so absolutely different. "If he could have contented himself to live upon potatoes," she had once thought to herself, "I could have contented myself to live on the parings." She said nothing of this however to Caroline. Their dispositions she knew were different. After all, it may be that Miss Waddington had a truer knowledge of human nature. "No, I shall not consent; I will not consent to be the cause of his misery and poverty; and then he will be angry with me, and we shall quarrel. He can be very stern, Adela; very." "He is impetuous; but however angry he may be, he forgives immediately. He never bears malice," said Adela, remembering her early dealings with the boy-friend of her girlhood. "He can be very stern now. I know it will come to our quarrelling; and when he finds that he cannot have his own way, that I cannot yield to him, his proud heart will revolt from me; I know it will." Adela could only say that were she in her friend's place she would not think so much about income; but her gentle speech, the eloquence of which had an inward, rather than an outward tendency, had no effect on Caroline. If Bertram could not persuade her, it certainly was not probable that Adela Gauntlet should do so. Messrs. Harcourt and Bertram reached Littlebath quite safely. Harcourt was to dine with the ladies in Montpellier Crescent—it was in Montpellier Crescent that Miss Baker lived—and as some sort of party was necessary for his honour, the curate was again invited, as were also the two Miss Gauntlets. "You'll go on first, I suppose?" said Harcourt, when they had secured their rooms at the "Plough," and were preparing to dress. Bertram was well known at the "Plough" now, and there was not a boots or chambermaid about the house who did not know why he came to Littlebath. "Oh, no," said Bertram, "I'll wait for you." "I didn't know; I thought there might be some lovers' privileges to be exercised, for which the eyes of the world might be inconvenient." "They shall be postponed on your behalf, my dear fellow." And so the two went off together. They found Miss Baker in her drawing-room, and with her Adela and aunt Penelope. "And where is Caroline?" said George, when the introductions had been duly performed. He had to make a little effort to say this in a voice that should signify that he was at home there, but which should not savour too much of the lover. On the whole, he succeeded pretty well. "Why, to tell the truth," said Miss Baker, laughing, "she is doing duty at this moment as head butler in the dining-room. If you feel any vocation that way, you may go and help her." "Well, I am a fairish good hand at drawing a cork," said Bertram, as he left the room. "So the lovers' privileges are all arranged for," thought Harcourt to himself. When Bertram entered the dining-room, the butler's duties seemed to be complete; at any rate, Miss Waddington was not engaged in their performance. She was leaning on the mantel-piece, and was apparently engaged in contemplating a bouquet of flowers which Bertram had contrived to send to the house since his arrival at Littlebath. It was no wonder that the boots should know all about it. Let us agree to say nothing about the lovers' privileges. Caroline Waddington was not a girl to be very liberal of such favours, and on the occasion in question she was not more liberal than usual. "Is Mr. Harcourt here?" said she. "Yes, of course he is. He is upstairs." "And I am to go up to be looked at. How vain you men are of your playthings! Not that you have anything in this respect of which you ought to be vain." "But a great deal of which I ought to be, and am, very proud. I am proud of you, Caroline; proud at this moment that my friend should see how beautiful is the girl that loves me." "Tush!" said Caroline, putting the back of her nosegay up to his mouth. "What delightful nonsense you can talk. But come, your London friend won't much appreciate my excellence if I keep him waiting for his dinner." And so they went upstairs. But Caroline, though she laughed at her lover for showing her off, had not failed to make the best of herself. She was sufficiently anxious that Bertram should be proud of her, should have cause to be proud of her; and she seemed to be aware that if she could satisfy Mr. Harcourt's fastidious judgment, she might probably hope to pass as approved of among his other friends. She determined, therefore, to look her best as she walked into the drawing-room; and she did look her best. "Mr. Harcourt, my niece, Miss Waddington," said Miss Baker. Harcourt, as he rose and bowed, was lost in wonder. Bertram fell immediately into conversation with Miss Penelope Gauntlet, but even while listening to her enthusiasm as to Arthur Wilkinson's luck in getting the living of Hurst Staple, and her praise of Lord Stapledean, he contrived to keep an eye on his friend Harcourt. "Yes, indeed, quite fortunate; wasn't it?" But as he thus spoke, his very soul within him was rejoicing at his own triumph. He had said nothing about Caroline personally; he had refrained his tongue, and now he had his reward. We have said that Harcourt was lost in wonder, and such was literally the case. He had taught himself to believe that Caroline Waddington was some tall, sharp-nosed dowdy; with bright eyes, probably, and even teeth; with a simpering, would-be-witty smile, and full of little quick answers such as might suit well for the assembly-rooms at Littlebath. When he heard that she was engaged in seeing that the sherry-bottles were duly decantered, the standard of her value did not at all rise in his estimation. Candle-ends and cold mutton would doubtless be her forte, an economical washing-bill her strong point. So was he thinking, much distressed in mind—for, to do him justice, he was as anxious on behalf of Bertram as it was in his nature to be anxious for any one—when a Juno entered the room. She did not swim in, or fly in, or glide in, but walked in, as women should walk if they properly understood their parts. She walked in as though she were mistress of her own soul, and afraid to meet no pair of eyes which any human being could bend upon her. He had intended in his good-nature to patronise her; but that other question instantly occurred to him—would she patronise him? Bertram he had known long and intimately, and held him therefore somewhat cheap in many respects, as we are all accustomed to hold our dearest friends. But now, at once he rose in his estimation a hundred per cent. What might not be expected of a man whom such a woman would acknowledge that she loved? A Juno had entered the room; for her beauty, as we have said before, was that rather of the queen of the gods. George immediately acknowledged to himself that he had never before seen her look so grandly beautiful. Her charms have been related, and that relation shall not be repeated; but when first seen by Harcourt, their power was more thoroughly acknowledged by him, much more thoroughly than they had been by her lover when he had first met her. Then, however, she had been sitting at dinner between her aunt and Mr. M'Gabbery, quite unconscious that any one was arriving whose existence could be of importance to her. There was no time for conversation then. The surprise arising from her entrance had, on Harcourt's part, hardly subsided, when the servant announced dinner, and he was called on to give his arm to Miss Baker. "I hope you approve your friend's choice," said that lady, smiling. "Miss Waddington is certainly the most lovely girl I ever beheld," replied he, with enthusiasm. The Rev. Mr. Meek handed down Miss Penelope Gauntlet, and Bertram followed with the two girls, happy and high-spirited. He first tendered his arm to Adela, who positively refused it; then to Caroline, who was equally determined. Then, putting a hand behind the waist of each of them, he pushed them through the door before him. There are certainly some privileges which an accepted lover may take in a house, and no one but an accepted lover. George took his seat at the bottom of the table, as though he were quite at home; and Harcourt, happy sinner! found himself seated between Adela and Caroline. He was not good enough for such bliss. But had his virtues been ever so shining, how could they have availed him? Neither of his neighbours had a portion of a heart left to call her own. But he was able to perceive that Caroline was not only beautiful. She talked to him almost exclusively, for she had capriciously seated herself away from her lover, and next to her aunt. "Adela," she had whispered, going downstairs, "I shall look to you to talk to George all the evening, for I mean to make a new conquest." Bertram was delighted. It was hardly in him to be jealous, even had there been a shadow of cause. As it was, his love was doing exactly that which he wished her to do. She was vindicating his choice to the man whose judgment on the matter was most vitally essential to him. When the ladies left the dining-room, both Bertram and Harcourt heartily wished that Miss Baker had not been so scrupulously hospitable. They hardly knew what to do with Mr. Meek. Mr. Meek remarked that Miss Baker was a very nice person, that Miss Waddington was a charming person, that Miss Penelope Gauntlet was a very nice person indeed, and that Miss Adela was a very sweet person; and then it seemed that all conversation was at end. "Eh! what! none especially; that is to say, the Middle Temple." Such had been Harcourt's reply to Mr. Meek's inquiry as to what London congregation he frequented; and then the three gentlemen seemed to be much occupied with their wine and biscuits. This invitation to Mr. Meek had certainly been a mistake on Miss Baker's part. But the misery did not last long. Of the first occasion on which Mr. Meek's glass was seen to be well empty, George took advantage. "If you don't take any more wine, Mr. Meek, we may as well go upstairs; eh, Harcourt?" and he looked suppliantly at his friend. "Oh, I never take any more wine, you know. I'm an anchorite on such occasions as these." And so they went into the drawing-room, long before Miss Baker had her coffee ready for them. "You see a good deal of Arthur now, I suppose?" said Bertram, addressing Adela. "Yes; that is, not a very great deal. He has been busy since he took up the parish. But I see Mary frequently." "Do you think Arthur likes it? He seemed to me to be hardly so much gratified as I should have thought he would have been. The living is a good one, and the marquis was certainly good-natured about it." "Oh, yes, he was," said Adela. "It will be a long time, I know, before I earn five hundred pounds a year. Do you know, he never wrote about it as though he thought he'd been lucky in getting it." "Didn't he?" "Never; and I thought he was melancholy and out of spirits when I saw him the other day. He ought to marry; that's the fact. A young clergyman with a living should always get a wife." "You are like the fox that lost its tail," said Adela, trying hard to show that she joined in the conversation without an effort. "Ah! but the case is very different. There can be no doubt that Arthur ought to lose his tail. His position in the world is one which especially requires him to lose it." "He has his mother and sisters, you know." "Oh, mother and sisters! Mother and sisters are all very well, or not very well, as the case may be; but the vicar of a parish should be a married man. If you can't get a wife for him down there in Hampshire, I shall have him up to London, and look one out for him there. Pray take the matter in hand when you go home, Miss Gauntlet." Adela smiled, and did not blush; nor did she say that she quite agreed with him that the vicar of a parish should be a married man. "Well, I shan't ask any questions," said Bertram, as soon as he and Harcourt were in the street, "or allow you to offer any opinion; because, as we have both agreed, you have not pluck enough to give it impartially." Bertram as he said this could hardly preserve himself from a slight tone of triumph. "She is simply the most most lovely woman that my eyes ever beheld," said Harcourt. "Tush! can't you make it a little more out of the common way than that? But, Harcourt, without joke, you need not trouble yourself. I did want you to see her; but I don't care twopence as to your liking her. I shall think much more of your wife liking her—if you ever have a wife." "Bertram, upon my word, I never was less in a mood to joke." "That is saying very little, for you are always in a mood to joke." Bertram understood it all; saw clearly what impression Miss Waddington had made, and for the moment was supremely happy. "How ever you had the courage to propose yourself and your two hundred pounds a year to such a woman as that!" "Ha! ha! ha! Why, Harcourt, you are not at all like yourself. If you admire her so much, I shall beg you not to come to Littlebath any more." "Perhaps I had better not. But, Bertram, I beg to congratulate you most heartily. There is this against your future happiness—" "What?" "Why, you will never be known as Mr. George Bertram; but always as Mrs. George Bertram's husband. With such a bride-elect as that, you cannot expect to stand on your own bottom. If you can count on being lord-chancellor, or secretary of state, you may do so; otherwise, you'll always be known as an appendage." "Oh, I'll put up with that misery." This visit of inspection had been very successful, and George went to bed in the highest spirits. In the highest spirits also he walked to church with Harcourt, and there met the two ladies. There was something especially rapturous in the touch of his fingers as he shook hands with Caroline when the service was over; and Miss Baker declared that he looked almost handsome when he went home with them to lunch. But that afternoon his bliss was destined to receive something of a check. It was imperative that Harcourt should be in town early on the Monday morning, and therefore it had been settled that they should return by the latest train that Sunday evening. They would just be able to dine with Miss Baker, and do this afterwards. Harcourt had, of course, been anxious to be allowed to return alone; but Bertram had declined to appear to be too much in love to leave his mistress, and had persisted that he would accompany him. This having been so decided, he had been invited to a little conference at Miss Baker's, to be holden upstairs in her private little sitting-room before dinner. He had had one or two chats with Miss Baker in that same room before now, and therefore did not think so much of the invitation; but on this occasion he also found Caroline there. He felt at once that he was to be encountered with opposition. Miss Baker opened the battle. "George," said she, "Caroline has made me promise to speak to you before you go up to town. Won't you sit down?" "Upon my word," said he, seating himself on a sofa next to Caroline; "I hardly know what to say to it. You look so formal both of you. If I am to be condemned, my lord, I hope you'll give me a long day." "That's just it," said Miss Baker; "it must be a long day, I'm afraid, George." "What do you mean?" "Why this; we think the marriage must be put off till after you have been called. You are both young, you know." "Nonsense!" said George, rather too imperiously for a lover. "Nay, but George, it is not nonsense," said Caroline, in her sweetest voice, almost imploringly. "Don't be impetuous; don't be angry with us. It is for your sake we say so." "For my sake!" "Yes, for your sake; for your sake;" and she put his hand inside her arm, and almost pressed it to her bosom. "For your sake, certainly, George; you of whom we are so much bound to think." "Then for my own sake I disdain any such solicitude. I know the world, at any rate, as well as either of you—" "Ah! I am not sure of that," said Caroline. "And I know well, that our joint income should be ample for the next four or five years. You will have to give up your horse—" "I should think nothing of that, George; nothing." "And that is all. How many thousand married couples are there, do you suppose, in London, who are now living on less than what our income will be?" "Many thousands, doubtless. But very few, probably not one, so living happily, when the husband has been brought up in such a manner as has been Master George Bertram." "Caroline, my belief is, that you know nothing about it. Some of your would-be-grand friends here in Littlebath have been frightening you on the score of income." "I have no friend in Littlebath to whom I would condescend to speak on such a matter, except aunt Mary." Caroline's tone as she said this showed some slight offence; but not more than she had a right to show. "And what do you say, aunt Mary?" "Well, I really agree with Caroline; I really do." "Ah, she has talked you over." This was true. "And what is the date, Miss Waddington, that you are now kind enough to name for our wedding-day?" asked George, in a tone half of anger and half of banter. To Caroline's ear, the anger seemed to predominate. "The day after you shall have been called to the bar, Mr. Bertram. That is, if the press of two such great events together will not be too much for you." "Of course you know that that is putting it off for nearly three years?" "For more than two, I believe, certainly." "And you can talk quite coolly about such a delay as that?" "Not quite coolly, George; but, at any rate, with a fixed purpose." "And am not I then to have a fixed purpose also?" "Certainly, dearest, you can. You can say, if you are cruel enough, that it shall be postponed for two years again, after that. Or you can say, if you will do so, that under such circumstances you will not marry me at all. We have each got what you lawyers call a veto. Now, George, I put my veto upon poverty for you, and discomfort, and an untidy house, and the perils of a complaining, fretful wife. If I can ever assist you to be happy, and prosperous, and elate before the world, I will try my best to do so; but I will not come to you like a clog round your neck, to impede all your efforts in your first struggle at rising. If I can wait, George, surely you can? An unfulfilled engagement can be no impediment to a man, whatever it may be to a girl." It may have been perceived by this time that Miss Waddington was not a person easy to be talked over. On this occasion, Bertram failed altogether in moving her. Even though at one moment aunt Mary had almost yielded to him, Caroline remained steady as a rock. None of his eloquence—and he was very eloquent on the occasion—changed her at all. She became soft in her tone, and affectionate, almost caressing in her manner; but nothing would induce her to go from her point. Bertram got on a very high horse, and spoke of the engagement as being thus practically broken off. She did not become angry, or declare that she took him at his word; but with a low voice she said that she was aware that her determination gave him an option in the matter. He would certainly be justified in so resolving; nay, might do so without the slightest stain upon his faith. She herself would not violate the truth by saying that such a decision would give her pleasure; that it would—would— Here for the first time she became rather agitated, and before she could finish, George was at her feet, swearing that he could not, would not live without her; that she knew that he could not, and would not do so. And so the little conference ended. George had certainly gained nothing. Caroline had gained this, that she had made known her resolution, and had, nevertheless, not lost her lover. To all the expressions of her determination not to marry till George should be a barrister, aunt Mary had added a little clause—that such decision might at any moment be changed by some new act of liberality on the part of uncle Bertram. In aunt Mary's mind, the rich uncle, the rich grandfather, was still the god that was to come down upon the stage and relieve them from their great difficulty. As George returned to town with his friend, his love was not quite so triumphant as it had been that morning on his road to church.   <h5>END OF VOL. I.</h5>   <hr class="narrow" />       <h1>THE BERTRAMS.</h1> <h3>A Novel</h3>   <h4>by</h4> <h2>ANTHONY TROLLOPE</h2> <h4>Author of "Barchester Towers," "Doctor Thorne," etc.</h4>   <h3>In Three Volumes</h3> <h2>VOL. II.</h2> <h4>Second Edition</h4>       <h4>London: Chapman & Hall, 193 Piccadilly. 1859.</h4> <h5>[The right of Translation is reserved.]</h5> <h5>London: Printed by W. Clowes and Sons, Stamford Street.</h5>   <hr class="narrow" />     <h3>CONTENTS OF VOL. II.  </h3> <div class="center"> <table style="margin: 0 auto" cellpadding="1"> <tr><td align="right" valign="top">I.  </td> <td>THE NEW MEMBER FOR THE BATTERSEA HAMLETS.</td></tr> <tr><td align="right" valign="top">II.  </td> <td>RETROSPECTIVE.—FIRST YEAR.</td></tr> <tr><td align="right" valign="top">III.  </td> <td>RETROSPECTIVE.—SECOND YEAR.</td></tr> <tr><td align="right" valign="top">IV.  </td> <td>RICHMOND.</td></tr> <tr><td align="right" valign="top">V.  </td> <td>JUNO.</td></tr> <tr><td align="right" valign="top">VI.  </td> <td>SIR LIONEL IN TROUBLE.</td></tr> <tr><td align="right" valign="top">VII.  </td> <td>MISS TODD'S CARD-PARTY.</td></tr> <tr><td align="right" valign="top">VIII.  </td> <td>THREE LETTERS.</td></tr> <tr><td align="right" valign="top">IX.  </td> <td>BIDDING HIGH.</td></tr> <tr><td align="right" valign="top">X.  </td> <td>DOES HE KNOW IT YET?</td></tr> <tr><td align="right" valign="top">XI.  </td> <td>HURST STAPLE.</td></tr> <tr><td align="right" valign="top">XII.  </td> <td>THE WOUNDED DOE.</td></tr> <tr><td align="right" valign="top">XIII.  </td> <td>THE SOLICITOR-GENERAL IN LOVE.</td></tr> <tr><td align="right" valign="top">XIV.  </td> <td>MRS. LEAKE OF RISSBURY.</td></tr> <tr><td align="right" valign="top">XV.  </td> <td>MARRIAGE-BELLS.</td></tr> </table></div>   <hr class="narrow" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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