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Bertrams

<h3>CHAPTER XII.</h3> <h4>THE WOUNDED DOE.  </h4> It was a weary, melancholy household just then, that of Hurst Staple, and one may almost wonder that Bertram should have remained there; but still he did remain. He had been there a fortnight, when he learnt that in three days' time Adela was to go to Littlebath. She was to go down with Miss Baker; and was to remain there with her, or with Miss Todd if Miss Baker should go back to Hadley, till her own aunt should have returned. "I don't know why you should be in such a hurry to get to Littlebath," said Mrs. Wilkinson. "We have been very glad to have you; and I hope we have shown it." As Arthur had evinced no symptoms of making love to Miss Gauntlet, the good lady had been satisfied, and now she felt somewhat slighted that her hospitality was not more valued. But Adela explained in her own soft manner that it would be better for her to leave that neighbourhood; that her heart was sore there; that her sorrow for her father would be lighter if she were away. What hypocrites women are! Even Ophelia in her madness would pretend that she raved for her murdered father, when it was patent to all the world that she was mad for love for Hamlet. And now Adela must leave Hurst Staple because, forsooth, her poor old father lay buried at West Putford. Would not ten words have quieted that ghost for ever? But then, what is the use of a lady's speech but to conceal her thoughts? Bertram had spoken to Arthur about Caroline's marriage, but he had as yet said no word on the subject to any one else. Mrs. Wilkinson had tried him once or twice, but in vain. He could not bare his bosom to Mrs. Wilkinson. "So you are going, Adela?" he said the morning he had heard the news. They had all called her Adela in that house, and he had learned to do as others did. These intimacies will sometimes grow up in five days, though an acquaintance of twenty years will often not produce them. "Yes, Mr. Bertram. I have been a great trouble to them here, and it is time that I should be gone." "'Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest.' Had I a house, I should endeavour to act on that principle. I would never endeavour to keep a person who wished to go. But we shall all regret you. And then, Littlebath is not the place for you. You will never be happy at Littlebath." "Why not?" "Oh, it is a wretched place; full of horse-jockeys and hags—of card-tables and false hair." "I shall have nothing to do with the card-tables, and I hope not with the false hair—nor yet much, I suppose, with the horse-jockeys." "There will still remain the worst of the four curses." "Mr. Bertram, how can you be so evil-minded? I have had many happy days at Littlebath." And then she paused, for she remembered that her happy days there had all been passed with Caroline Waddington. "Yes, and I also have had happy days there," said he; "very happy. And I am sure of this—that they would have been happy still but for the influence of that wretched place." Adela could make no answer to this at the moment, so she went on hemming at her collar. Then, after a pause, she said, "I hope it will have no evil influence on me." "I hope not—I hope not. But you are beyond such influences. It seems to me, if I may say so, that you are beyond all influences." "Yes; as a fool is," she said, laughing. "No; but as a rock is. I will not say as ice, for ice will always melt." "And do I never melt, Mr. Bertram? Has that which has made you so unhappy not moved me? Do you think that I can love Caroline as I do, and not grieve, and weep, and groan in the spirit? I do grieve; I have wept for it. I am not stone." And in this also there had been some craft. She had been as it were forced to guard the thoughts of her own heart; and had, therefore, turned the river of the conversation right through the heart of her companion. "For whom do you weep? for which of us do you weep?" he asked. "For both; that, having so much to enjoy, you should between you have thrown it all away." "She will be happy. That at any rate is a consolation to me. Though you will hardly believe that." "I hope she will. I hope she will. But, oh! Mr. Bertram, it is so fearful a risk. What—what if she should not be? What if she shall find, when the time will be too late for finding anything—what if she shall then find that she cannot love him?" "Love him!" said the other with a sneer. "You do not know her. What need is there for love?" "Ah! do not be harsh to her; do not you be harsh to her." "Harsh, no; I will not be harsh to her. I will be all kindness. And being kind, I ask what need is there for love? Looking at it in any light, of course she cannot love him." "Cannot love him! why not?" "How is it possible? Had she loved me, could she have shaken off one lover and taken up another in two months? And if she never loved me; if for three years she could go on, never loving me—then what reason is there to think she should want such excitement now?" "But you—could you love her, and yet cast her from you?" "Yes; I could do it. I did do it—and were it to do again, it should be done again. I did love her. If I know what love is, if I can at all understand it, I did love her with all my heart. And yet—I will not say I cast her off; it would be unmanly as well as false; but I let her go." "Ah! you did more than that, Mr. Bertram." "I gave her back her troth; and she accepted it;—as it was her duty to do, seeing that her wishes were then changed. I did no more than that." "Women, Mr. Bertram, well know that when married they must sometimes bear a sharp word. But the sharp word before marriage; that is very hard to be borne." "I measure my words— But why should I defend myself? Of course your verdict will be on your friend's side. I should hate you if it were not so. But, oh! Adela, if I have sinned, I have been punished. I have been punished heavily. Indeed, indeed, I have been punished." And sitting down, he bowed himself on the table, and hid his face within his hands. This was in the drawing-room, and before Adela could venture to speak to him again, one of the girls came into the room. "Adela," said she, "we are waiting for you to go down to the school." "I am coming directly," said Adela, jumping up, and still hoping that Mary would go on, so as to leave her one moment alone with Bertram. But Mary showed no sign of moving without her friend. Instead of doing so, she asked her cousin whether he had a headache? "Not at all," said he, looking up; "but I am half asleep. This Hurst Staple is a sleepy place, I think. Where's Arthur?" "He's in the study." "Well, I'll go into the study also. One can always sleep there without being disturbed." "You're very civil, master George." And then Adela followed her friend down to the school. But she could not rest while the matter stood in this way. She felt that she had been both harsh and unjust to Bertram. She knew that the fault had been with Caroline; and yet she had allowed herself to speak of it as though he, and he only, had been to blame. She felt, moreover, an expressible tenderness for his sorrow. When he declared how cruel was his punishment, she could willingly have given him the sympathy of her tears. For were not their cases in many points the same? She was determined to see him again before she went, and to tell him that she acquitted him;—that she knew the greater fault was not with him. This in itself would not comfort him; but she would endeavour so to put it that he might draw comfort from it. "I must see you for a moment alone, before I go," she said to him that evening in the drawing-room. "I go very early on Thursday morning. When can I speak to you? You are never up early, I know." "But I will be to-morrow. Will you be afraid to come out with me before breakfast?" "Oh no! she would not be at all afraid," she said: and so the appointment was made. "I know you'll think me very foolish for giving this trouble," she began, in rather a confused way, "and making so much about nothing." "No man thinks there is much ado about nothing when the ado is about himself," said Bertram, laughing. "Well, but I know it is foolish. But I was unjust to you yesterday, and I could not leave you without confessing it." "How unjust, Adela?" "I said you had cast Caroline off." "Ah, no! I certainly did not do that." "She wrote to me, and told me everything. She wrote very truly, I know; and she did not say a word—not a word against you." "Did she not? Well—no—I know she would not. And remember this, Adela: I do not say a word against her. Do tell her, not from me, you know, but of your own observation, that I do not say one word against her. I only say she did not love me." "Ah! Mr. Bertram." "That is all; and that is true. Adela, I have not much to give; but I would give it all—all—everything to have her back—to have her back as I used to think her. But if I could have her now—as I know her now—by raising this hand, I would not take her. But this imputes no blame to her. She tried to love me, but she could not." "Ah! she did love you." "Never!" He almost shouted as he said this; and as he did so, he stood across his companion's path. "Never! She never loved me. I know it now. What poor vile wretches we are! It is this I think that most torments me." And then they walked on. Adela had come there expressly to speak to him, but now she was almost afraid to speak. Her heart had been full of what it would utter, but now all utterance seemed to have left her. She had intended to console, but she did not dare to attempt it. There was a depth, almost a sublimity about his grief which kept her silent. "Oh! Adela," he said, "if you knew what it is to have an empty heart—or rather a heart not empty—that would fain be empty that you might again refill it. Dear Adela!" And he put out his hand to take her own. She hardly knew why, but she let him take her hand. "Dear Adela; have you never sighed for the comfort of an empty heart? You probe my wounds to the bottom; may I not search your own?" She did not answer him. Was it possible that she should answer such a question? Her eyes became suffused with tears, and she was unable to raise them from the ground. She could not recall her hand—not at that moment. She had come there to lecture him, to talk to him, to comfort him; and now she was unable to say a word. Did he know the secret of her heart; that secret which once and but once had involuntarily broken from out her lips? Had Caroline told him? Had she been so false to friendship—as false to friendship as she had been to love? "Adela! Adela! I would that we had met earlier in our lives. Yes, you and I." These last words he added after she had quickly rescued her hand from his grasp. Very quickly she withdrew it now. As quickly she lifted up her face, all covered as it was with tears, and endured the full weight of his gaze. What! was it possible that he knew how she had loved, and thought that her love had been for him! "Yes, you and I," he continued. "Even though your eyes flash upon me so sternly. You mean to say that had it been ever so early, that prize would have been impossible for me. Speak out, Adela. That is what you mean?" "Yes; it would have been impossible; impossible every way; impossible, that is, on both sides." "Then you have not that empty heart, Adela? What else should make it impossible?" "Mr. Bertram, when I came here, I had no wish, no intention to talk about myself." "Why not of yourself as well as of me? I say again, I would we had both met earlier. It might have been that I should have been saved from this shipwreck. I will speak openly to you, Adela. Why not?" he added, seeing that she shrunk from him, and seemed as though she would move on quickly—away from his words. "Mr. Bertram, do not say that which it will be useless for you to have said." "It shall not be useless. You are my friend, and friends should understand each other. You know how I have loved Caroline. You believe that I have loved her, do you not?" "Oh, yes; I do believe that." "Well, you may; that at any rate is true. I have loved her. She will now be that man's property, and I must love her no longer." "No; not with that sort of love." "That sort! Are there two sorts on which a man may run the changes, as he may from one room to another? I must wipe her out of my mind—out of my heart—or burn her out. I would not wish to love anything that he possesses." "No!" said she, "not his wife." "Wife! she will never be his wife. She will never be bone of his bone, and flesh of his flesh, as I would have made her. It will be but a partnership between them, to be dissolved when they have made the most of their world's trading." "If you love her, Mr. Bertram, do not be so bitter in speaking of her." "Bitter! I tell you that I think her quite right in what she does. If a woman cannot love, what better can she do than trade upon her beauty? But, there; let her go; I did not wish to speak of her." "I was very wrong in asking you to walk with me this morning." "No, Adela, not wrong; but very, very right. There, well, I will not ask you for your hand again, though it was but in friendship." "In friendship I will give it you," and she stretched out her hand to him. It was ungloved, and very white and fair; a prettier hand than even Caroline could boast. "I must not take it. I must not lie to you, Adela. I am broken-hearted. I have loved; I have loved that woman with all my heart, with my very soul, with the utmost strength of my whole being—and now it has come to this. If I know what a broken heart means, I have it here. But yet—yet—yet. Oh, Adela! I would fain try yet once again. I can do nothing for myself; nothing. If the world were there at my feet, wealth, power, glory, to be had for the stooping, I would not stoop to pick them, if I could not share them with—a friend. Adela, it is so sad to be alone!" "Yes, it is sad. Is not sadness the lot of many of us?" "Yes; but nature bids us seek a cure when a cure is possible." "I do not know what you wish me to understand, Mr. Bertram?" "Yes, Adela, you do; I think you do. I think I am honest and open. At any rate, I strive to be so. I think you do understand me." "If I do, then the cure which you seek is impossible." "Ah!" "Is impossible." "You are not angry with me?" "Angry; no, not angry." "And do not be angry now, if I speak openly again. I thought—I thought. But I fear that I shall pain you." "I do not care for pain if any good can come of it." "I thought that you also had been wounded. In the woods, the stricken harts lie down together and lick each other's wounds while the herd roams far away from them." "Is it so? Why do we hear then 'of the poor sequestered stag, left and abandoned of his velvet friend?' No, Mr. Bertram, grief, I fear, must still be solitary." "And so, unendurable." "God still tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, now as he has ever done. But there is no sudden cure for these evils. The time will come when all this will be remembered, not without sorrow, but with a calm, quiet mourning that will be endurable; when your heart, now not broken as you say, but tortured, will be able to receive other images. But that time cannot come at once. Nor, I think, is it well that we should wish it. Those who have courage to love should have courage to suffer." "Yes, yes, yes. But if the courage be wanting? if one have it not? One cannot have such courage for the asking." "The first weight of the blow will stun the sufferer. I know that, Mr. Bertram. But that dull, dead, deathly feeling will wear off at last. You have but to work; to read, to write, to study. In that respect, you men are more fortunate than we are. You have that which must occupy your thoughts." "And you, Adela—?" "Do not speak of me. If you are generous, you will not do so. If I have in any way seemed to speak of myself, it is because you have made it unavoidable. What God has given me to bear is bearable;—though I would that he could have spared my poor father." And, so saying, Adela at last gave way to tears. On that subject she might be allowed to weep. Bertram said nothing to disturb her till they were near the house, and then he again held out his hand to her. "As a true friend; I hope as a dear friend. Is it not so?" said he. "Yes," she answered, in her lowest voice, "as a dear friend. But remember that I expect a friend's generosity and a friend's forbearance." And so she made her way back to her own room, and appeared at breakfast in her usual sober guise, but with eyes that told no tales. On the next morning she took her departure. The nearest station on the railway by which she was to go to Littlebath was distant about twelve miles, and it was proposed that she should be sent thither in Mrs. Wilkinson's phaëton. This, indeed, except the farm-yard cart, was the only vehicle which belonged to the parsonage, and was a low four-wheeled carriage, not very well contrived for the accommodation of two moderate-sized people in front, and of two immoderately-small people on the hind seat. Mrs. Wilkinson habitually drove it herself, with one of her daughters beside her, and with two others—those two whose legs had been found by measurement to be the shortest—in durance vile behind; but when so packed, it was clear to all men that the capacity of the phaëton was exhausted. Now the first arrangement proposed was, that Arthur should drive the phaëton, and that Sophy should accompany Adela to the station. But Sophy, in so arranging, had forgotten that her friend had a bag, a trunk, and a bonnet-box, the presence of which at Littlebath would be indispensable; and, therefore, at the last moment, when the phaëton came to the door with the luggage fastened on the hinder seat, it was discovered for the first time that Sophy must be left behind. Arthur Wilkinson would willingly have given up his position, and George Bertram would willingly have taken it. Adela also would have been well pleased at such a change. But though all would have been pleased, it could not be effected. The vicar could not very well proclaim that, as his sister was not to accompany him and shield him, he would not act as charioteer to Miss Gauntlet; nor could the lady object to be driven by her host. So at last they started from the vicarage door with many farewell kisses, and a large paper of sandwiches. Who is it that consumes the large packets of sandwiches with which parting guests are always laden? I imagine that station-masters' dogs are mainly fed upon them. The first half-mile was occupied, on Wilkinson's part, in little would-be efforts to make his companion more comfortable. He shifted himself about into the furthest corner so as to give her more room; he pulled his cloak out from under her, and put it over her knees to guard her from the dust; and recommended her three times to put up her parasol. Then he had a word or two to say to the neighbours; but that only lasted as long as he was in his own parish. Then he came to a hill which gave him an opportunity of walking; and on getting in again he occupied half a minute in taking out his watch, and assuring Adela that she would not be too late for the train. But when all this was done, the necessity for conversation still remained. They had hardly been together—thrown for conversation on each other as they now were—since that day when Arthur had walked over for the last time to West Putford. Reader, do you remember it? Hardly; for have not all the fortunes and misfortunes of our more prominent hero intervened since that chapter was before you? "I hope you will find yourself comfortable at Littlebath," he said at last. "Oh, yes; that is, I shall be when my aunt comes home. I shall be at home then, you know." "But that will be some time?" "I fear so; and I dread greatly going to this Miss Todd, whom I have never seen. But you see, dear Miss Baker must go back to Hadley soon, and Miss Todd has certainly been very good-natured in offering to take me." Then there was another silence, which lasted for about half a mile. "My mother would have been very glad if you would have stayed at the parsonage till your aunt's return; and so would my sisters—and so should I." "You are all very kind—too kind," said Adela. Then came another pause, perhaps for a quarter of a mile, but it was up-hill work, and the quarter of a mile passed by very slowly. "It seems so odd that you should go away from us, whom you have known so long, to stay with Miss Todd, whom you never have even seen." "I think change of scene will be good for me, Mr. Wilkinson." "Well, perhaps so." And then the other quarter of a mile made away with itself. "Come, get along, Dumpling." This was said to the fat steed; for they had now risen to level ground. "Our house, I know, must be very stupid for you. It is much changed from what it was; is it not?" "Oh, I don't know." "Yes, it is. There is neither the same spirit, nor the same good-will. We miss my father greatly." "Ah, yes. I can feel for you there. It is a loss; a great loss." "I sometimes think it unfortunate that my mother should have remained at the vicarage after my father's death." "You have been very good to her, I know." "I have done my best, Adela." It was the first time she had distinctly heard him call her by her Christian name since she had come to stay with them. "But I have failed. She is not happy there; nor, indeed, for that matter, am I." "A man should be happy when he does his duty." "We none of us do that so thoroughly as to require no other source of happiness. Go on, Dumpling, and do your duty." "I see that you are very careful in doing yours." "Perhaps you will hardly believe me, but I wish Lord Stapledean had never given me the living." "Well; it is difficult to believe that. Think what it has been for your sisters." "I know we should have been very poor, but we should not have starved. I had my fellowship, and I could have taken pupils. I am sure we should have been happier. And then—" "And then—well?" said Adela; and as she spoke, her heart was not quite at rest within her breast. "Then I should have been free. Since I took that living, I have been a slave." Again he paused a moment, and whipped the horse; but it was only now for a moment that he was silent. "Yes, a slave. Do you not see what a life I live? I could be content to sacrifice myself to my mother if the sacrifice were understood. But you see how it is with her. Nothing that I can do will satisfy her; and yet for her I have sacrificed everything—everything." "A sacrifice is no sacrifice if it be agreeable. The sacrifice consists in its being painful." "Well, I suppose so. I say that to myself so often. It is the only consolation I have." "Not that I think your home should be made uncomfortable to you. There is no reason why it should be. At least, I should think not." She spoke with little spasmodic efforts, which, however, did not betray themselves to her companion, who seemed to her to be almost more engaged with Dumpling than with the conversation. It certainly had been through no wish of hers that they were thus talking of his household concerns; but as they were speaking of them, she was forced into a certain amount of hypocrisy. It was a subject on which she could not speak openly. There was then another hill to be walked up, and Adela thought there would be no more of it. The matter had come up by accident, and would now, probably, drop away. But no. Whether by design, or from chance, or because no other topic presented itself, Arthur went back to the subject, and did so now in a manner that was peculiarly startling to Miss Gauntlet. "Do you remember my calling once at West Putford, soon after I got the living? It is a long time ago now, and I don't suppose you do remember it." "Yes, I do; very well." "And do you remember what I told you then?" "What was it?" said Adela. It clearly is the duty of a young lady on very many occasions to be somewhat hypocritical. "If there be any man to whose happiness marriage is more necessary than to that of another, it is a country clergyman." "Yes, I can believe that. That is, if there be not ladies of his own family living with him." "I do not know that that makes any difference." "Oh, yes; it must make a difference. I think that a man must be very wretched who has no one to look after his house." "And is that your idea of the excellence of a wife? I should have expected something higher from you, Adela. I suppose you think, then, that if a man have his linen looked after, and his dinner cooked, that is sufficient." Poor Adela! It must be acknowledged that this was hard on her. "No, I do not think that sufficient." "It would seem so from what you say." "Then what I said belied my thoughts. It seems to me, Mr. Wilkinson, since you drive me to speak out, that the matter is very much in your own hands. You are certainly a free agent. You know better than I can tell you what your duty to your mother and sisters requires. Circumstances have made them dependent on you, and you certainly are not the man to disacknowledge the burden." "Certainly not." "No, certainly not. But, having made up my mind to that, I would not, were I you, allow myself to be a slave." "But what can I do?" "You mean that you would be a poor man, were you—were you to give up your fellowship and at the same time take upon yourself other cares as well. Do as other poor men do." "I know no other man situated as I am." "But you know men who are much worse situated as regards their worldly means. Were you to give your mother the half of your income, you would still, I presume, be richer than Mr. Young." Mr. Young was the curate of a neighbouring parish, who had lately married on his curacy. It will be said by my critics, especially by my female critics, that in saying this, Adela went a long way towards teaching Mr. Wilkinson the way to woo. Indeed, she brought that accusation against herself, and not lightly. But she was, as she herself had expressed it, driven in the cause of truth to say what she had said. Nor did she, in her heart of hearts, believe that Mr. Wilkinson had any thought of her in saying what she did say. Her mind on that matter had been long made up. She knew herself to be "the poor sequestered stag, left and abandoned by his velvet friend." She had no feeling in the matter which amounted to the slightest hope. He had asked her for her counsel, and she had given him the only counsel which she honestly could give. Therefore, bear lightly on her, oh my critics! Bear lightly on her especially, my critics feminine. To the worst of your wrath and scorn I willingly subject the other lovers with whom my tale is burthened. "Yes, I should be better off than Young," said Wilkinson, as though he were speaking to himself. "But that is not the point. I do not know that I have ever looked at it exactly in that light. There is the house, the parsonage I mean. It is full of women"—'twas thus irreverently that he spoke of his mother and sisters—"what other woman would come among them?" "Oh, that is the treasure for which you have to search"—this she said laughingly. The bitterness of the day was over with her; or at least it then seemed so. She was not even thinking of herself when she said this. "Would you come to such a house, Adela? You, you yourself?" "You mean to ask whether, if, as regards other circumstances, I was minded to marry, I would then be deterred by a mother-in-law and sister-in-law?" "Yes, just so," said Wilkinson, timidly. "Well, that would depend much upon how well I might like the gentleman; something also upon how much I might like the ladies." "A man's wife should always be mistress in his own house." "Oh yes, of course." "And my mother is determined to be mistress in that house." "Well, I will not recommend you to rebel against your mother. Is that the station, Mr. Wilkinson?" "Yes—that's the station. Dear me, we have forty minutes to wait yet!" "Don't mind me, Mr. Wilkinson. I shall not in the least dislike waiting by myself." "Of course, I shall see you off. Dumpling won't run away; you may be sure of that. There is very little of the runaway class to be found at Hurst Staple Parsonage; except you, Adela." "You don't call me a runaway, I hope?" "You run away from us just when we are beginning to feel the comfort of your being with us. There, he won't catch cold now;" and so having thrown a rug over Dumpling's back, he followed Adela into the station. I don't know anything so tedious as waiting at a second-class station for a train. There is the ladies' waiting-room, into which gentlemen may not go, and the gentlemen's waiting-room, in which the porters generally smoke, and the refreshment room, with its dirty counter covered with dirtier cakes. And there is the platform, which you walk up and down till you are tired. You go to the ticket-window half a dozen times for your ticket, having been warned by the company's bills that you must be prepared to start at least ten minutes before the train is due. But the man inside knows better, and does not open the little hole to which you have to stoop your head till two minutes before the time named for your departure. Then there are five fat farmers, three old women, and a butcher at the aperture, and not finding yourself equal to struggling among them for a place, you make up your mind to be left behind. At last, however, you do get your ticket just as the train comes up; but hearing that exciting sound, you nervously cram your change into your pocket without counting it, and afterwards feel quite convinced that you have lost a shilling in the transaction. 'Twas somewhat in this way that the forty minutes were passed by Wilkinson and Adela. Nothing of any moment was spoken between them till he took her hand for the last time. "Adela," he then whispered to her, "I shall think much of what you have said to me, very much. I do so wish you were not leaving us. I wonder whether you would be surprised if I were to write to you?" But the train was gone before she had time to answer. Two days afterwards, Bertram also left them. "Arthur," he said, as he took leave of the vicar, "if I, who have made such a mess of it myself, may give advice on such a subject, I would not leave Adela Gauntlet long at Littlebath if I were you." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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