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Bertrams

<h3>CHAPTER V.</h3> <h4>JUNO.  </h4> In spite of his philosophy and his prayers, Bertram went to bed not in a very happy state of mind. He was a man essentially of a warm and loving heart. He was exigeant, and perhaps even selfish in his love. Most men are so. But he did love, had loved; and having made up his mind to part from that which he had loved, he could not be happy. He had often lain awake, thinking of her faults to him; but now he lay thinking of his faults to her. It was a pity, he said to himself, that their marriage should have been so delayed; she had acted foolishly in that, certainly, had not known him, had not understood his character, or appreciated his affection; but, nevertheless, he might have borne it better. He felt that he had been stern, almost savage to her; that he had resented her refusal to marry him at once too violently: he threw heavy blame on himself. But through all this, he still felt that they could not now marry. Was it not clear to him that Caroline would be delighted to escape from her engagement if the way to do so were opened to her? He lost no time in carrying out his plans. By an early train on the following day he went down to Littlebath, and at once went to his father's lodgings. For Sir Lionel, in order that he might be near his dear daughter, was still living in Littlebath. He had entered the second, or lighter fast set, played a good deal at cards, might constantly be seen walking up and down the assembly-rooms, and did something in horse-flesh. George first went to his father's lodgings, and found him still in bed. The lighter fast set at Littlebath do not generally get up early, and Sir Lionel professed that he had not lately been altogether well. Littlebath was fearfully, fearfully cold. It was now May, and he was still obliged to keep a fire. He was in a very good humour however with his son, for the period of the two hundred and fifty pounds' loan was not long passed by. Gratitude for that had not yet given way to desire for more. "Oh, George! is that you? I am delighted to see you. Going up to the terrace, I suppose? I was with Caroline for a few minutes last night, and I never saw her looking better—never." George answered by asking his father where he meant to dine. Sir Lionel was going to dine out. He usually did dine out. He was one of those men who have a knack of getting a succession of gratis dinners; and it must be confessed in his favour—and the admission was generally made in the dining-out world,—that Sir Lionel was worth his dinner. "Then I shall probably return this evening; but I will see you before I go." Sir Lionel asked why he would not dine as usual in Montpellier Terrace; but on this subject George at present gave him no answer. He merely said that he thought it very improbable that he should do so, and then went away to his work. It was hard work that he had to do, and he thoroughly wished that it was over. He did not however allow himself a moment to pause. On the contrary, he walked so quick, that when he found himself in Miss Baker's drawing-room, he was almost out of breath, and partly from that cause, and partly from his agitation, was unable to speak to that lady in his usual unruffled manner. "Ah, how do you do, Miss Baker? I'm very glad to see you. I have run down to-day in a great hurry, and I am very anxious to see Caroline. Is she out?" Miss Baker explained that she was not out; and would be down very shortly. "I'm glad she's not away, for I am very anxious to see her—very." Miss Baker, with her voice also in a tremble, asked if anything was the matter. "No; nothing the matter. But the truth is, I'm tired of this, Miss Baker, and I want to settle it. I don't know how she may bear it, but it has half killed me." Miss Baker looked at him almost aghast, for his manner was energetic and almost wild. Only that he so frequently was wild, she would have feared that something dreadful was about to happen. She had not, however, time to say anything further, for Caroline's step was heard on the stairs. "Could you let us be alone for ten minutes," said George. "But I feel the shame of turning you out of your own drawing-room. Perhaps Caroline will not mind coming down with me into the parlour." But Miss Baker of course waived this objection, and as she retreated, the two ladies met just at the drawing-room door. Caroline was about to speak, but was stopped by the expression on her aunt's face. Ladies have little ways of talking to each other, with nods and becks and wreathed smiles, which are quite beyond the reach of men; and in this language aunt Mary did say something as she passed which gave her niece to understand that the coming interview would not consist merely of the delights which are common among lovers. Caroline, therefore, as she entered the room composed her face for solemn things, and walked slowly, and not without some dignity in her mien, into the presence of him who was to be her lord and master. "We hardly expected you, George," she said. His father had been right. She was looking well, very well. Her figure was perhaps not quite so full, nor the colour in her cheek quite so high as when he had first seen her in Jerusalem; but, otherwise, she had never seemed to him more lovely. The little effort she had made to collect herself, to assume a certain majesty in her gait, was becoming to her. So also was her plain morning dress, and the simple braid in which her hair was collected. It might certainly be boasted of Miss Waddington that she was a beauty of the morning rather than of the night; that her complexion was fitted for the sun rather than for gaslight. He was going to give up all this! And why? That which he saw before him, that which he had so often brought himself to believe, that which at this moment he actually did believe to be as perfect a form of feminine beauty as might be found by any search in England, was as yet his own. And he might keep it as his own. He knew, or thought he knew enough of her to be sure that, let her feelings be what they might, she would not condescend to break her word to him. Doubtless, she would marry him; and that in but a few months hence if only he would marry her! Beautiful as she was, much as she was his own, much as he still loved her, he had come there to reject her! All this flashed through his mind in a moment. He lost no time in idle thoughts. "Caroline," he said, stretching out his hand to her—usually when he met her after any absence he had used his hand to draw her nearer to him with more warmth than his present ordinary greeting showed—"Caroline, I have come down to have some talk with you. There is that between us which should be settled." "Well, what is it?" she said, with the slightest possible smile. "I will not, if I can help it, say any word to show that I am angry—" "But are you angry, George? If so, had you not better show it? Concealment will never sit well on you." "I hope not; nor will I conceal anything willingly. It is because I so greatly dislike concealment that I am here." "You could not conceal anything if you tried, George. It is useless for you to say that you will not show that you are angry. You are angry, and you do show it. What is it? I hope my present sin is not a very grievous one. By your banishing poor aunt out of the drawing-room, I fear it must be rather bad." "I was dining with Mr. Harcourt last night, and it escaped him in conversation that you had shown to him the letter which I wrote to you from Paris. Was it so, Caroline? Did you show him that very letter?" Certainly, no indifferent listener would have said that there was any tone of anger in Bertram's voice; and yet there was that in it which made Miss Waddington feel that the room was swimming round and round her. She turned ruby red up to her hair. Bertram had never before seen her blush like that; for he had never before seen her covered by shame. Oh! how she had repented showing that letter! How her soul had grieved over it from the very moment that it had passed out of her hand! She had done so in the hotness of her passion. He had written to her sharp stinging words which had maddened her. Up to that moment she had never known how sharp, how stinging, how bitter words might be. The world had hitherto been so soft to her! She was there told that she was unfeminine, unladylike! And then, he that was sitting by her was so smooth, so sympathizing, so anxious to please her! In her anger and her sympathy she had shown it; and from that day to this she had repented in the roughness of sackcloth and the bitterness of ashes. It was possible that Caroline Waddington should so sin against a woman's sense of propriety; that, alas! had been proved; but it was impossible that she should so sin and not know that she had sinned, not feel the shame of it. She did stand before him red with shame; but at the first moment she made no answer. It was in her heart to kneel at his feet, to kneel in the spirit if not in the body, and ask his pardon; but hitherto she had asked pardon of no human being. There was an effort in the doing of it which she could not at once get over. Had his eyes looked tenderly on her for a moment, had one soft tone fallen from his lips, she would have done it. Down she would have gone and implored his pardon. And who that he had once loved had ever asked aught in vain from George Bertram? Ah, that she had done so! How well they might have loved each other! What joy there might have been! But there was nothing tender in his eye, no tender tone softened the words which fell from his mouth. "What!" he said, and in spite of his promise, his voice had never before sounded so stern,—"what! show that letter to another man; show that letter to Mr. Harcourt! Is that true, Caroline?" A child asks pardon from his mother because he is scolded. He wishes to avert her wrath in order that he may escape punishment. So also may a servant of his master, or an inferior of his superior. But when one equal asks pardon of another, it is because he acknowledges and regrets the injury he has done. Such acknowledgment, such regret will seldom be produced by a stern face and a harsh voice. Caroline, as she looked at him and listened to him, did not go down on her knees—not even mentally. Instead of doing so, she remembered her dignity, and wretched as she was at heart, she continued to seat herself without betraying her misery. "Is that true, Caroline? I will believe the charge against you from no other lips than your own." "Yes, George; it is true. I did show your letter to Mr. Harcourt." So stern had he been in his bearing that she could not condescend even to a word of apology. He had hitherto remained standing; but on hearing this he flung himself into a chair and buried his face in his hands. Even then she might have been softened, and he might have relented, and all might have been well! "I was very unhappy, George," she said; "that letter had made me very unhappy, and I hardly knew where to turn for relief." "What!" he said, jumping up and flashing before her in a storm of passion to which his former sternness had been as nothing—"what! my letter made you so unhappy that you were obliged to go to Mr. Harcourt for relief! You appealed for sympathy from me to him! from me who am—no, who was, your affianced husband! Had you no idea of the sort of bond that existed between you and me? Did you not know that there were matters in which you could not look for sympathy to such as him without being false, nay, almost worse than false? Have you ever thought what it is to be the one loved object of a man's heart, and to have accepted that love?" She had been on the point of interrupting him, but the softness of these last words interrupted her for a moment. "Such a letter as that! Do you remember that letter, Caroline?" "Yes, I remember it; remember it too well; I would not keep it. I would not feel that such words from you were ever by me." "You mean that it was harsh?" "It was cruel." "Harsh or cruel, or what you will—I shall not now stop to defend it—it was one which from the very nature of it should have been sacred between us. It was written to you as to one to whom I had a right to write as my future wife." "No one could have a right to write such a letter as that." "In it, I particularly begged that Mr. Harcourt might not be made an arbiter between us. I made a special request that to him, at least, you would not talk of what causes of trouble there might be between us; and yet you selected him as your confidant, read it with him, poured over with him the words which had come hot from my heart, discussed with him my love—my—my—my— Bah! I cannot endure it; had not you yourself told me so, I could not have believed it." "George!—" "Good God! that you should take my letters and read them over with him! Why, Caroline, it admits but of one solution; there is but one reading to the riddle; ask all the world." "We sent for him as your friend." "Yes, and seem to have soon used him as your own. I have no friend to whom I allow the privilege of going between me and my own heart's love. Yes, you were my own heart's love. I have to get over that complaint now as best I may." "I may consider then that all is over between us." "Yes; there. You have back your hand. It is again your own to dispose of to whom you will. Let you have what confidences you will, they will no longer imply falsehood to me." "Then, sir, if such be the case, I think you may cease to scold me with such violence." "I have long felt that I ought to give you this release; for I have known that you have not thoroughly loved me." Miss Waddington was too proud, too conscious of the necessity to maintain her pride at the present moment to contradict this. But, nevertheless, in her heart she felt that she did love him, that she would fain not give him up, that, in spite of his anger, his bitter railing anger, she would keep him close to her if she only could do so. But now that he spoke of giving her up, she could not speak passionately of her love—she who had never yet shown any passion in her speech to him. "It has grown on me from day to day; and I have been like a child in clinging to a hope when I should have known that there was no hope. I should have known it when you deferred our marriage for three years." "Two years, George." "Had it been two years, we should now have been married. I should have known it when I learned that you and he were in such close intimacy in London. But now—I know it now. Now at least it is all over." "I can only be sorry that you have so long had so much trouble in the matter." "Trouble—trouble! But I will not make a fool of myself. I believe at any rate that you understand me." "Oh! perfectly, Mr. Bertram." But she did not understand him; nor perhaps was it very likely that she should understand him. What he had meant her to understand was this: that in giving her up he was sacrificing only himself, and not her; that he did so in the conviction that she did not care for him; and that he did so on this account, strong as his own love still was, in spite of all her offences. This was what he intended her to understand;—but she did not understand the half of it. "And I may now go?" said she, rising from her chair. The blush of shame was over, and mild as her words sounded, she again looked the Juno. "And I may now go?" "Now go! yes; I suppose so. That is, I may go. That is what you mean. Well, I suppose I had better go." Not a moment since he was towering with passion, and his voice, if not loud, had been masterful, determined, and imperious. Now it was low and gentle enough. Even now, could she have been tender to him, he would have relented. But she could not be tender. It was her profession to be a Juno. Though she knew that when he was gone from her her heart would be breaking, she would not bring herself down to use a woman's softness. She could not say that she had been wrong, wrong because distracted by her misery, wrong because he was away from her, wrong because disturbed in her spirits by the depth of the love she felt for him; she could not confess this, and then, taking his hand, promise him that if he would remain close to her she would not so sin again. Ah! if she could have done this, in one moment her head would have been on his shoulder and his arm round her waist; and in twenty minutes more Miss Baker would have been informed, sitting as she now was up in her bedroom, that the wedding-day had been fixed. But very different news Miss Baker had to hear. Had things turned out so, Miss Waddington would have been a woman and not a goddess. No; great as was the coming penalty, she could not do that. She had been railed at and scolded as never goddess was scolded before. Whatever she threw away, it behoved her to maintain her dignity. She would not bend to a storm that had come blustering over her so uncourteously. Bertram had now risen to go. "It would be useless for me to trouble your aunt," he said. "Tell her from me that I would not have gone without seeing her had I not wished to spare her pain. Good-bye, Caroline, and may God bless you;" and, so saying, he put out his hand to her. "Good-bye, Mr. Bertram." She would have said something more, but she feared to trust herself with any word that might have any sound of tenderness. She took his hand, however, and returned the pressure which he gave it. She looked into his eyes, and saw that they were full of tears; but still she did not speak. Oh, Caroline Waddington, Caroline Waddington! if it had but been given thee to know, even then, how much of womanhood there was in thy bosom, of warm womanhood, how little of goddess-ship, of cold goddess-ship, it might still have been well with thee! But thou didst not know. Thou hadst gotten there at any rate thy Juno's pedestal; and having that, needs was that thou shouldst stand on it. "God bless you, Caroline; good-bye," he repeated again, and turned to the door. "I wish to ask you one question before you go," she said, as his hand was on the handle of the lock; and she spoke in a voice that was almost goddess-like; that hardly betrayed, but yet that did betray, the human effort. Bertram paused, and again turned to her. "In your accusation against me just now—" "I made no accusation, Caroline." "You not only made it, Mr. Bertram, but I pleaded guilty to it. But in making it you mentioned Mr. Harcourt's name. While you were absent in Paris, I did talk with that gentleman on our private affairs, yours and mine. I hope I am believed to have done so because I regarded Mr. Harcourt as your friend?" Bertram did not understand her, and he showed that he did not by his look. "It is difficult for me to explain myself"—and now she blushed slightly—very slightly. "What I mean is this; I wish to be acquitted by you of having had recourse to Mr. Harcourt on my own account—from any partiality of my own." She almost rose in height as she stood there before him, uttering these words in all her cold but beautiful dignity. Whatever her sins might have been, he should not accuse her of having dallied with another while her word and her troth had been his. She had been wrong. She could not deny that he had justice on his side—stern, harsh, bare justice—when he came there to her and flung back her love and promises into her teeth. He had the right to do so, and she would not complain. But he should not leave her till he had acquitted her of the vile, missish crime of flirting with another because he was absent. Seeing that he still hardly understood her, she made her speech yet plainer. "At the risk of being told again that I am unfeminine, I must explain myself. Do you charge me with having allowed Mr. Harcourt to speak to me as a lover?" "No; I make no such charge. Now, I have no right to make any charge on such a matter." "No; should Mr. Harcourt be my lover now, that is my affair and his, not yours. But had he been so then— You owe it to me to say whether among other sins, that sin also is charged against me?" "I have charged and do charge nothing against you, but this—that you have ceased to love me. And that charge will be made nowhere but in my own breast. I am not a jealous man, as I think you might know. What I have said to you here to-day has not come of suspicion. I have thought no ill against you, and believed no ill against you beyond that which you have yourself acknowledged. I find that you have ceased to love me, and finding that, I am indifferent to whom your love may be given." And so saying, he opened the door and went out; nor did he ever again see Miss Waddington at Littlebath. Some few minutes after he had left the room, Miss Baker entered it. She had heard the sound of the front door, and having made inquiry of the servant, had learned that their visitor had gone. Then she descended to her own drawing-room, and found Caroline sitting upright at the table, as though in grief she despised the adventitious aid and every-day solace of a sofa. There was no tear in her eye, none as yet; but it required no tears to tell her aunt that all was not well. Judging by the face she looked at, aunt Mary was inclined to say that all was as little well as might be. There was still to be seen there the beauty, and the dignity, and still even in part the composure of a Juno; but it was such composure as Juno might have shown while she devoted to a third destruction the walls of a thrice-built Troy; of Juno in grief, in jealousy, almost in despair; but of Juno still mindful of her pedestal, still remembering that there she stood a mark for the admiration of gods and men. How long shall this Juno mood serve to sustain her? Ah! how long? "Has he gone?" said Miss Baker, as she looked at her niece. "Yes, aunt, he has gone." "When will he return?" "He will not return, aunt. He will not come any more; it is all over at last." Miss Baker stood for a moment trembling, and then threw herself upon a seat. She had at least had no celestial gift by which she could compose herself. "Oh, Caroline!" she exclaimed. "Yes, aunt Mary; it is all over now." "You mean that you have quarrelled?" said she, remembering to her comfort, that there was some old proverb about the quarrels of lovers. Miss Baker had great faith in proverbs. The reader may find it hard to follow Miss Baker's mind on the subject of this engagement. Some time since she was giving advice that it should be broken off, and now she was au désespoir because that result had been reached. She had one of those minds that are prone to veering, and which show by the way they turn, not any volition of their own, but the direction of some external wind, some external volition. Nor can one be angry with, or despise Miss Baker for this weathercock aptitude. She was the least selfish of human beings, the least opinionative, the most good-natured. She had had her hot fits and her cold fits with regard to Bertram; but her hot fits and her cold had all been hot or cold with reference to what she conceived to be her niece's chances of happiness. Latterly, she had fancied that Caroline did love Bertram too well to give him up; and circumstances had led her to believe more strongly than ever that old Mr. Bertram wished the marriage, and that the two together, if married, would certainly inherit his wealth. So latterly, during the last month or so, Miss Baker had blown very hot. "No, there has been no quarrel," said Caroline, with forced tranquillity of voice and manner. "No such quarrel as you mean. Do not deceive yourself, dear aunt; it is over now, over for ever." "For ever, Caroline!" "Yes, for ever. That has been said which can never be unsaid. Do not grieve about it"—aunt Mary was now in tears—"it is better so; I am sure it is better. We should not have made each other happy." "But three years, Caroline; three years!" said aunt Mary through her tears, thinking of the time that had been so sadly lost. Aunt Mary was widely awake to the fact that three years was a long period in a girl's life, and that to have passed three years as the betrothed of one man and then to leave him was injurious to the matrimonial prospects of a young lady. Miss Baker was full of these little mundane considerations; but then they were never exercised, never had been exercised, on her own behalf. "Yes, three years!" and Caroline smiled, even through her grief. "It cannot be helped, aunt. And the rest of it; neither can that be helped. Three years! say thirty, aunt." Miss Baker looked at her, not quite understanding. "And must it be so?" said she. "Must! oh, yes, indeed it must. It must now, must—must—must." Then they both sat silent for awhile. Miss Baker was longing to know the cause of this sudden disruption, but she hesitated at first to inquire. It was not, however, to be borne that the matter should be allowed to remain altogether undiscussed. "But what is it he has said?" she at last asked. Caroline had never told her aunt that that letter had been shown to Mr. Harcourt, and had no intention of telling her so now. "I could not tell you, aunt, all that passed. It was not what he said more than what I said. At least—no; that is not true. It did arise from what he said; but I would not answer him as he would have me; and so we agreed to part." "He wished to have the marriage at once?" "No; I think he wished no such thing. You may rest assured he wishes no marriage now; none with me, at least. And rest assured of this, too, that I wish none with him. Wish! it is no use wishing. It is now impossible." Again there was a silence, and again it was broken by Miss Baker. "I wonder whether you ever really loved him? Sometimes I have thought you never did." "Perhaps not," said she, musing on her fate. "If it is never to be, I hope that you did not." "It would be to be hoped—to be hoped for me, and to be hoped also for him." "Oh, he loved you. There is no doubt of that; no doubt at all of that. If any man ever loved a girl, he loved you." To this Miss Waddington answered nothing, nor would she just then talk any further with her aunt upon the subject. They were to dine early on that day, as their custom was when they went out in the evening. On this evening they were going to the house—lodgings rather—of an old friend they had not seen for some time. She had arrived a week or two since at Littlebath, and though there had been callings between them, they had not yet succeeded in meeting. When Bertram had arrived it was near their dinner hour and before he went that hour was already passed. Had his manner been as it ordinarily was, he would of course have been asked to join them; but, as we have seen, that had been no moment for such customary civility. Now, however, they went to dinner, and while seated there, Miss Waddington told her aunt that she did not feel equal to going out that evening. Miss Baker of course said something in opposition to this, but that something was not much. It might easily be understood that a young lady who had just lost her lover was not in a fit state to go to a Littlebath card-party. And thus early in the evening Caroline contrived to be alone; and then for the first time she attempted to realize all that had come upon her. Hitherto she had had to support herself—herself and her goddess-ship,—first before George Bertram, and then with lighter effort before her aunt. But now that she was alone, she could descend to humanity. Now that she was alone she had so to descend. Yes; she had lost three years. To a mortal goddess, who possessed her divinity but for a short time, this was much. Her doctrine had been to make the most of the world. She had early resolved not to throw away either herself or her chances. And now that she was three-and-twenty, how had she kept her resolves? how had her doctrine answered with her? She had lived before the world for the last two years as a girl betrothed to a lover—before such of the world as she knew and as knew her; and now her lover was gone; not dismissed by her, but gone! He had rather dismissed her, and that not in the most courteous manner. But, to do her justice, this was not the grief that burnt most hotly into her heart. She said to herself that it was so, that this was her worst grief; she would fain have felt that it was so; but there was more of humanity in her, of the sweetness of womanly humanity, than she was aware. He had left her, and she knew not how to live without him. That was the thorn that stuck fast in her woman's bosom. She could never again look into those deep, thoughtful eyes; never again feel the pressure of that strong, manly arm; never hear the poetry of that rich voice as she had heard it when he poured words of love and truth into her ear. Bertram had many faults, and while he belonged to her, she had thought of them often enough; but he had many virtues also, and now she could think but of them. She had said that he was gone, gone for ever. It was easy enough to say that with composed voice to Miss Baker. There is nothing so easy as bravado. The wretch who is to be hung can step lightly while multitudes are looking at him. The woman who is about to give up all that her heart most values can declare out loud that the matter is very indifferent to her. But when the victim of the law is lying in his solitary cell, thinking on his doom, the morning before the executioner comes to him; when the poor girl is sitting alone on her bedside, with her heart all empty,—or rather not empty, only hopeless; it is very difficult then to maintain a spirit of bravado! Caroline Waddington did try it. She had often said to herself, in months now some time past, that she repented of her engagement. If so, now was the time to congratulate herself that she was free from it. But she could not congratulate herself. While he had entirely belonged to her, she had not known how thoroughly she had loved him. When she had only thought of parting with him, she had believed that it would be easy. But now she found that it was not so easy. It was about as easy for her to pluck his image from her heart as to draw one of her limbs from the socket. But the limb had to be drawn from the socket. There was no longer any hope that it could be saved. Nay, it had been already given up as far as the expression of the will was concerned, and there was nothing left but to bear the pain. So she sat down and began to draw out the limb. Oh, my sensitive reader! have you ever performed the process? It is by no means to be done with rose-water appliances and gentle motherly pressure. The whole force of the hospital has to be brought out to perform this operation. She now discovered, perhaps, for the first time, that she had a strong beating heart, and that she loved this violent capricious man with every strong pulse of it. There was more about him now that was lovable by such a woman as Caroline Waddington than when he had first spoken of his love on the side of Mount Olivet. Then he had been little more than a boy; a boy indeed with a high feeling, with a poetic nature, and much humour. But these gifts had hardly sufficed to win her heart. Now he had added to these a strong will, a power of command, a capability of speaking out to the world with some sort of voice. After all, power and will are the gifts which a woman most loves in a man. And now that Caroline had lost her lover, she confessed to herself that she did love him. Love him! Yes! How could she recover him? That was her first thought. She could not recover him in any way. That was her second thought. As to asking him to come back to her; the wrenching of the limb from the socket would be better than that. That, at least, she knew she could not do. And was it possible that he of his own accord should come back to her? No, it was not possible. The man was tender hearted, and could have been whistled back with the slightest lure while yet they two were standing in the room together. But he was as proud as he was tender. Though there might also be some wrenching to be done within his heart, he would never come back again uninvited. And thus, while Miss Baker was at her old friend's card-party, Miss Waddington sat in her own bedroom, striving, with bitter tears and violent struggles, to reconcile herself to her loss. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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