The Bertrams

He went down, and found everything prepared for him that was suitable for a solicitor-general. They did not put before him merely roast mutton or boiled beef. He was not put to sleep in the back bedroom without a carpet. Such treatment had been good enough for George Bertram; but for the solicitor-general all the glories of Hadley were put forth. He slept in the best bedroom, which was damp enough no doubt, seeing that it was not used above twice in the year; and went through at dinner a whole course of entrées, such as entrées usually are in the suburban districts. This was naturally gratifying to him as a solicitor-general, and fortified him for the struggle he was to make.

He had some hope that he should have a tête-à-tête with Caroline on the Saturday evening. But neither fate nor love would favour him. He came down just before dinner, and there was clearly no time then: infirm as the old man was, he sat at the dinner-table; and though Sir Henry was solicitor-general, there was no second room, no withdrawing-room prepared for his reception.

"Grandpapa does not like moving," said Caroline, as she got up to leave the room after dinner; "so perhaps, Sir Henry, you will allow me to come down to tea here? We always sit here of an evening."

"I never could bear to live in two rooms," said the old man. "When one is just warm and comfortable, one has to go out into all the draughts of the house. That's the fashion, I know. But I hope you'll excuse me, Sir Henry, for not liking it."

Sir Henry of course did excuse him. There was nothing he himself liked so much as sitting cosy over a dining-room fire.

In about an hour Caroline did come down again; and in another hour, before the old man went, she again vanished for the night. Sir Henry had made up his mind not to speak to Mr. Bertram about money that evening; so he also soon followed Caroline, and sat down to work upon the County Courts in his own bedroom.

On the next morning Sir Henry and Caroline went to church. All the Hadleyians of course knew of the engagement, and were delighted to have an opportunity of staring at the two turtle-doves. A solicitor-general in love is a sight to behold; and the clergyman had certainly no right to be angry if the attention paid to his sermon was something less fixed than usual. Before dinner, there was luncheon; and then Sir Henry asked his betrothed if she would take a walk with him. "Oh, certainly, she would be delighted." Her church-going bonnet was still on, and she was quite ready. Sir Henry also was ready; but as he left the room he stooped over Mr. Bertram's chair and whispered to him, "Could I speak to you a few words before dinner, sir; on business? I know I ought to apologize, this being Sunday."

"Oh, I don't care about Sunday," said the stubborn-minded old man. "I shall be here till I go to bed, I suppose, if you want me."

And then they started on their walk. Oh, those lovers' rambles! A man as he grows old can perhaps teach himself to regret but few of the sweets which he is compelled to leave behind him. He can learn to disregard most of his youth's pleasures, and to live contented though he has outlived them. The polka and the waltz were once joyous; but he sees now that the work was warm, and that one was often compelled to perform it in company for which one did not care. Those picnics too were nice; but it may be a question whether a good dinner at his own dinner-table is not nicer. Though fat and over forty he may still ride to hounds, and as for boating and cricketing, after all they were but boy's play. For those things one's soul does not sigh. But, ah! those lovers' walks, those loving lovers' rambles. Tom Moore is usually somewhat sugary and mawkish; but in so much he was right. If there be an Elysium on earth, it is this. They are done and over for us, oh, my compatriots! Never again, unless we are destined to rejoin our houris in heaven, and to saunter over fields of asphodel in another and a greener youth – never again shall those joys be ours! And what can ever equal them? 'Twas then, between sweet hedgerows, under green oaks, with our feet rustling on the crisp leaves, that the world's cold reserve was first thrown off, and we found that those we loved were not goddesses made of buckram and brocade, but human beings like ourselves, with blood in their veins, and hearts in their bosoms – veritable children of Adam like ourselves.

"Gin a body meet a body comin' through the rye." Ah, how delicious were those meetings! How convinced we were that there was no necessity for loud alarm! How fervently we agreed with the poet! My friends, born together with me in the consulship of Lord Liverpool, all that is done and over for us. We shall never gang that gait' again.

There is a melancholy in this that will tinge our thoughts, let us draw ever so strongly on our philosophy. We can still walk with our wives; – and that is pleasant too, very – of course. But there was more animation in it when we walked with the same ladies under other names. Nay, sweet spouse, mother of dear bairns, who hast so well done thy duty; but this was so, let thy brows be knit never so angrily. That lord of thine has been indifferently good to thee, and thou to him has been more than good. Up-hill together have ye walked peaceably labouring; and now arm-in-arm ye shall go down the gradual slope which ends below there in the green churchyard. 'Tis good and salutary to walk thus. But for the full cup of joy, for the brimming spring-tide of human bliss, oh, give me back, give me back – ! Well, well, well; it is nonsense; I know it; but may not a man dream now and again in his evening nap and yet do no harm?

Vici puellis nuper idoneus, et militavi. How well Horace knew all about it! But that hanging up of the gittern – . One would fain have put it off, had falling hairs, and marriage-vows, and obesity have permitted it. Nay, is it not so, old friend of the grizzled beard? Dost thou not envy that smirk young knave with his five lustrums, though it goes hard with him to purchase his kid-gloves? He dines for one-and-twopence at an eating-house; but what cares Maria where he dines? He rambles through the rye with his empty pockets, and at the turn of the field-path Maria will be there to meet him. Envy him not; thou hast had thy walk; but lend him rather that thirty shillings that he asks of thee. So shall Maria's heart be glad as she accepts his golden brooch.

But for our friend Sir Henry every joy was present. Youth and wealth and love were all his, and his all together. He was but eight-and-twenty, was a member of Parliament, solicitor-general, owner of a house in Eaton Square, and possessor of as much well-trained beauty as was to be found at that time within the magic circle of any circumambient crinoline within the bills of mortality. Was it not sweet for him to wander through the rye? Had he not fallen upon an Elysium, a very paradise of earthly joys? Was not his spring-tide at the full flood?

And so they started on their walk. It was the first that they had ever taken together. What Sir Henry may have done before in that line this history says not. A man who is solicitor-general at eight-and-twenty can hardly have had time for much. But the practice which he perhaps wanted, Caroline had had. There had been walks as well as rides at Littlebath; and walks also, though perhaps of doubtful joy, amidst those graves below the walls of Jerusalem.

And so they started. There is – or perhaps we should say was; for time and railways, and straggling new suburban villas, may now have destroyed it all; but there is, or was, a pretty woodland lane, running from the back of Hadley church, through the last remnants of what once was Enfield Chase. How many lovers' feet have crushed the leaves that used to lie in autumn along that pretty lane! Well, well; there shall not be another word in that strain. I speak solely now of the time here present to Sir Henry; all former days and former roamings there shall be clean forgotten. The solicitor-general now thither wends his way, and love and beauty attend upon his feet. See how he opens the gate that stands by the churchyard paling? Does it stand there yet, I wonder? Well, well; we will say it does.

"It is a beautiful day for a walk," said Sir Henry.

"Yes, very beautiful," said Caroline.

"There is nothing I am so fond of as a long walk," said the gentleman.

"It is very nice," said the lady. "But I do not know that I care for going very far to-day. I am not quite strong at present."

"Not strong?" And the solicitor-general put on a look of deep alarm.

"Oh, there is nothing the matter with me; but I am not quite strong for walking. I am out of practice; and my boots are not quite of the right sort."

"They don't hurt you, I hope."

"Oh, no; they don't actually hurt me. They'll do very well for to-day." And then there was a short pause, and they got on the green grass which runs away into the chase in front of the parsonage windows. I wonder whether wickets are ever standing there now on the summer afternoons!

They were soon as much alone – or nearly so – as lovers might wish to be; quite enough so for Caroline. Some curious eyes were still peeping, no doubt, to see how the great lawyer looked when he was walking with the girl of his heart; to see how the rich miser's granddaughter looked when she was walking with the man of her heart. And perhaps some voices were whispering that she had changed her lover; for in these rural seclusions everything is known by everybody. But neither the peepers nor the whisperers interfered with the contentment of the fortunate pair.

"I hope you are happy, Caroline?" said Sir Henry, as he gently squeezed the hand that was so gently laid upon his arm.

"Happy! oh yes – I am happy. I don't believe you know in a great deal of very ecstatic happiness. I never did."

"But I hope you are rationally happy – not discontented – at any rate, not regretful? I hope you believe that I shall do my best, my very best, to make you happy?"

"Oh, yes; I quite believe that. We must each think of the other's comfort. After all, that I take it is the great thing in married life."

"I don't expect you to be passionately in love with me – not as yet, Caroline."

"No. Let neither of us expect that, Sir Henry. Passionate love, I take it, rarely lasts long, and is very troublesome while it does last. Mutual esteem is very much more valuable."

"But, Caroline, I would have you believe in my love."

"Oh, yes; I do believe in it. Why else should you wish to marry me? I think too well of myself to feel it strange that you should love me. But love with you, and with me also for the future, will be subordinate to other passions."

Sir Henry did not altogether like that reference to the past which was conveyed in the word future; but, however, he bore it without wincing.

"You know so thoroughly the history of the last three years," she continued, "that it would be impossible for me to deceive you if I could. But, if I know myself, under no circumstances would I have done so. I have loved once, and no good has come of it. It was contrary to my nature to do so – to love in that mad passionate self-sacrificing manner. But yet I did. I think I may say with certainty that I never shall be so foolish again."

"You have suffered lately, Caroline; and as the sore still smarts, you hardly yet know what happiness may be in store for you."

"Yes; I have suffered," and he felt from the touch on his arm that her whole body shuddered.

He walked on in silence for awhile considering within himself. Why should he marry this girl, rejected of her former lover, who now hung upon his arm? He was now at the very fullest tide of his prosperity; he had everything to offer which mothers wish for their daughters, and which daughters wish for themselves. He had income, rank, name, youth, and talent. Why should he fling his rich treasures at the feet of a proud minx who in taking them swore that she could not love him? Would it not be better for him to recede? A word he well knew would do it; for her pride was true pride. He felt in his heart that it was not assumed. He had only to say that he was not contented with this cold lack of love, and she would simply desire him to lead her back to her home and leave her there. It would be easy enough for him to get his head from out the noose.

But it was this very easiness, perhaps, which made him hesitate. She knew her own price, and was not at all anxious to dispose of herself a cheap bargain. If you, sir, have a horse to sell, never appear anxious for the sale. That rule is well understood among those who deal in horses. If you, madam, have a daughter to sell, it will be well for you also to remember this. Or, my young friend, if you have yourself to sell, the same rule holds good. But it is hard to put an old head on young shoulders. Hard as the task is, however, it would seem to have been effected as regards Caroline Waddington.

And then Sir Henry looked at her. Not exactly with his present eyesight as then at that moment existing; for seeing that she was walking by his side, he could not take the comprehensive view which his taste and mind required. But he looked at her searchingly with the eyesight of his memory, and found that she exactly tallied with what his judgment demanded. That she was very beautiful, no man had ever doubted. That she was now in the full pride of her beauty was to him certain. And then her beauty was of that goddess class which seems for so long a period to set years at defiance. It was produced by no girlish softness, by no perishable mixture of white and red; it was not born of a sparkling eye, and a ripe lip, and a cherry cheek. To her face belonged lines of contour, severe, lovely, and of ineradicable grace. It was not when she smiled and laughed that she most pleased. She did not charm only when she spoke; though, indeed, the expression of her speaking face was perfect. But she had the beauty of a marble bust. It would not be easy even for Sir Henry Harcourt, even for a young solicitor-general, to find a face more beautiful with which to adorn his drawing-room.

And then she had that air of fashion, that look of being able to look down the unfashionable, which was so much in the eyes of Sir Henry; though in those of George Bertram it had been almost a demerit. With Caroline, as with many women, this was an appearance rather than a reality. She had not moved much among high people; she had not taught herself to despise those of her own class, the women of Littlebath, the Todds and the Adela Gauntlets; but she looked as though she would be able to do so. And it was fitting she should have such a look if ever she were to be the wife of a solicitor-general.

And then Sir Henry thought of Mr. Bertram's coffers. Ah! if he could only be let into that secret, it might be easy to come to a decision. That the old man had quarrelled with his nephew, he was well aware. That George, in his pig-headed folly, would make no overtures towards a reconciliation; of that also he was sure. Was it not probable that at any rate a great portion of that almost fabulous wealth would go to the man's granddaughter? There was doubtless risk; but then one must run some risk in everything, It might be, if he could play his cards wisely, that he would get it all – that he would be placed in a position to make even the solicitor-generalship beneath his notice.

And so, in spite of Caroline's coldness, he resolved to persevere.

Having thus made up him mind, he turned the conversation to another subject.

"You liked the house on the whole; did you?" Caroline during the past week had been up to see the new house in Eaton Square.

"Oh, yes; very much. Nothing could be nicer. Only I am afraid it's expensive." This was a subject on which Caroline could talk to him.

"Not particularly," said Sir Henry. "Of course one can't get a house in London for nothing. I shall have rather a bargain of that if I can pay the money down. The great thing is whether you like it."

"I was charmed with it. I never saw prettier drawing-rooms – never. And the bedrooms for a London house are so large and airy."

"Did you go into the dining-room?"

"Oh, yes; I went in."

"There's room for four-and-twenty, is there not?"

"Well, I don't know. I can't give an opinion about that. You could have three times that number at supper."

"I'm not thinking of suppers; but I'm sure you could. Kitchen's convenient, eh?"

"Very – so at least aunt Mary said."

"And now about the furniture. You can give me two or three days in town, can't you?"

"Oh, yes; if you require it. But I would trust your taste in all those matters."

"My taste! I have neither taste nor time. If you won't mind going to – "

And so the conversation went on for another fifteen minutes, and then they were at home. Caroline's boots had begun to tease her, and their walk, therefore, had not been prolonged to a great distance.

Ah, me! again I say how pleasant, how delightful were those lovers' walks!

Then Caroline went up to her bedroom, and Sir Henry sat himself down near Mr. Bertram's chair in the dining-room.

"I wanted to speak to you, sir," said he, rushing at once into the midst of his subject, "about Caroline's settlement. It is time that all that should be arranged. I would have made my lawyer see Pritchett; but I don't know that Pritchett has any authority to act for you in such matters."

"Act for me! Pritchett has no authority to act – nor have I either." This little renunciation of his granddaughter's affairs was no more than Sir Henry expected. He was, therefore, neither surprised nor disgusted.

"Well! I only want to know who has the authority. I don't anticipate any great difficulty. Caroline's fortune is not very large; but of course it must be settled. Six thousand pounds, I believe."

"Four, Sir Henry. That is, if I am rightly informed."

"Four, is it? I was told six – I think by George Bertram in former days. I should of course prefer six; but if it be only four, why we must make the best of it."

"She has only four of her own," said the old man, somewhat mollified.

"Have you any objection to my telling you what I would propose to do?"

"No objection in life, Sir Henry."

"My income is large; but I want a little ready money at present to conclude the purchase of my house, and to furnish it. Would you object to the four thousand pounds being paid into my hands, if I insure my life for six for her benefit? Were her fortune larger, I should of course propose that my insurance should be heavier."

Sir Henry was so very reasonable that Mr. Bertram by degrees thawed. He would make his granddaughter's fortune, six thousand as he had always intended. This should be settled on her, the income of course going to her husband. He should insure his life for four thousand more on her behalf; and Mr. Bertram would lend Sir Henry three thousand for his furniture.

Sir Henry agreed to this, saying to himself that such a loan from Mr. Bertram was equal to a gift. Mr. Bertram himself seemed to look at it in a different light. "Mind, Sir Henry, I shall expect the interest to the day. I will only charge you four per cent. And it must be made a bond debt."

"Oh, certainly," said Sir Henry.

And so the affair of the settlement was arranged.

CHAPTER XIV

MRS. LEAKE OF RISSBURY

Adela Gauntlet reached Littlebath without any adventures, and at the station she met Miss Baker ready to take her and her boxes in charge. She soon learned what was to be her fate for that autumn. It was imperatively necessary that Miss Baker should go up to town in a week or two. "There are such hundreds of things to be done about furniture and all that, you know," said Miss Baker, looking rather grand as she spoke of her niece's great match; and yet doing so with the least possible amount of intentional pride or vanity. Adela, of course, acknowledged that there must be hundreds of things, and expressed her deepest regret that she should be so much in the way. Perhaps she almost wished that she had remained at Hurst Staple.

"Not at all in the way, my dear," said Miss Baker; "I shall be back again in a week at the furthest, and Miss Todd will be delighted to have you for that time. Indeed, she would be very much disappointed now, and offended too if you did not go. But all the same, I would not leave you, only that Sir Henry insists that Caroline should choose all the things herself; and of course he has not time to go with her – and then the responsibility is so great. Why, I suppose she will have to lay out about two thousand pounds!"

"But what sort of a person is Miss Todd?" asked Adela.

"Oh, an extremely nice person; you'll like her amazingly – so lively, so good-natured, so generous; and very clever too. Perhaps, for her age, she's a little too fond – "

"Too fond of what? You were going to say dress, I suppose."

"No, indeed. I can't say that there's anything to blame her for in that. She dresses very handsomely, but always plain. No; what I was going to say is, that perhaps for a woman of her age – she is a little too fond of gentlemen's attention."

"Caroline told me that she was the most confirmed old maid she knew – an old maid who gloried in being an old maid."

"I don't know about that, my dear; but if a certain gentleman were to ask her, I don't think she'd glory in it much longer. But she's a very nice person, and you'll like her very much."

Miss Baker did go up to town, leaving Adela to Miss Todd's hospitality. She did go up, but in doing so resolved to return as soon as possible. Sir Lionel was now in the Paragon nearly every other day. To be sure, he did generally call in Montpellier Terrace on the alternate days. But then there was a reason for that. They had to talk about George and Caroline. What possible reason could there be for his going to the Paragon?

Adela was rather frightened when she found herself left at Miss Todd's lodgings; though that lady's manner to her was not such as need have inspired much awe.

"Now, my dear," she said, "don't mind me in the least. Do just whatever you like. If I only knew what you did like, you should have it if I could get it. What are you fond of now? Shall I ask some young people here to-night?"

"Oh, no, Miss Todd; not for me. I have never been much in society, and certainly do not wish for it at present."

"Well, society is not a bad thing. You don't play cards, I suppose?"

"I don't know one card from another."

"You'd just suit Mr. O'Callaghan then. Are you fond of young clergymen? There's one here might just suit you. All the young ladies are dying for him."

"Then pray don't let me interfere with them, Miss Todd."

"Perhaps you like officers better. There are heaps of them here. I don't know where they come from, and they never seem to have anything to do. The young ladies, however – those who don't run after Mr. O'Callaghan – seem to think them very nice."

"Oh, Miss Todd, I don't want clergymen or officers."

"Don't you? Well then, we'll get some novels from the circulating library. At three o'clock I always drive out, and we'll go to the pastrycook's. Oh, I declare, here's Sir Lionel Bertram, as usual. You know Sir Lionel, don't you?"

Adela said that she had met Sir Lionel at Miss Baker's.

"What a pity that match should have gone off, isn't it? I mean dear Miss Waddington. But though that match is off, another may come on. I for one should be very happy. You don't know anything about it, I see. I'll tell you some of these days. How do, Sir Lionel? You mustn't stay long, because Miss Gauntlet and I am going out. Or I'll tell you what. You shall take care of us. It's a beautiful day; and if Miss Gauntlet likes, we'll walk instead of having the fly." Miss Todd never aped grandeur, and always called her private carriage a fly, because it had only one horse.

Sir Lionel, having made his salutations to Miss Gauntlet, declared that he should be most happy to be trusted with their custody through the streets of Littlebath.

"But we can't walk either, Miss Gauntlet, to-day, because I must call on old Mrs. Leake, at Rissbury. I quite forgot Mrs. Leake. So you see, Sir Lionel, we shan't want you after all."

Sir Lionel declared that this last decision made him quite miserable.

"You'll be recovered by dinner-time, I don't doubt," said Miss Todd. "And now I'll go upstairs and put my bonnet on. As Miss Gauntlet has got hers, you can stay and talk to her."