The Bertrams

  CHAPTER V.

  JUNO.

  In spite of his philosophy and his prayers, Bertram went to bed notin a very happy state of mind. He was a man essentially of a warm andloving 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 hismind to part from that which he had loved, he could not be happy. Hehad often lain awake, thinking of her faults to him; but now he laythinking of his faults to her. It was a pity, he said to himself,that their marriage should have been so delayed; she had actedfoolishly in that, certainly, had not known him, had not understoodhis character, or appreciated his affection; but, nevertheless, hemight have borne it better. He felt that he had been stern, almostsavage to her; that he had resented her refusal to marry him at oncetoo 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 himthat Caroline would be delighted to escape from her engagement if theway to do so were opened to her?

  He lost no time in carrying out his plans. By an early train on thefollowing day he went down to Littlebath, and at once went to hisfather's lodgings. For Sir Lionel, in order that he might be nearhis dear daughter, was still living in Littlebath. He had enteredthe second, or lighter fast set, played a good deal at cards, mightconstantly be seen walking up and down the assembly-rooms, and didsomething in horse-flesh.

  George first went to his father's lodgings, and found him stillin bed. The lighter fast set at Littlebath do not generally getup early, and Sir Lionel professed that he had not lately beenaltogether well. Littlebath was fearfully, fearfully cold. It was nowMay, and he was still obliged to keep a fire. He was in a very goodhumour however with his son, for the period of the two hundred andfifty pounds' loan was not long passed by. Gratitude for that had notyet given way to desire for more.

  "Oh, George! is that you? I am delighted to see you. Going up to theterrace, 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. SirLionel was going to dine out. He usually did dine out. He was one ofthose men who have a knack of getting a succession of gratis dinners;and it must be confessed in his favour--and the admission wasgenerally made in the dining-out world,--that Sir Lionel was worthhis dinner.

  "Then I shall probably return this evening; but I will see you beforeI go."

  Sir Lionel asked why he would not dine as usual in MontpellierTerrace; but on this subject George at present gave him no answer. Hemerely 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'sdrawing-room, he was almost out of breath, and partly from thatcause, and partly from his agitation, was unable to speak to thatlady in his usual unruffled manner.

  "Ah, how do you do, Miss Baker? I'm very glad to see you. I have rundown 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 veryshortly.

  "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 wasthe matter.

  "No; nothing the matter. But the truth is, I'm tired of this, MissBaker, and I want to settle it. I don't know how she may bear it, butit has half killed me."

  Miss Baker looked at him almost aghast, for his manner was energeticand almost wild. Only that he so frequently was wild, she would havefeared that something dreadful was about to happen. She had not,however, time to say anything further, for Caroline's step was heardon the stairs.

  "Could you let us be alone for ten minutes," said George. "But Ifeel the shame of turning you out of your own drawing-room. PerhapsCaroline 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 aboutto speak, but was stopped by the expression on her aunt's face.Ladies have little ways of talking to each other, with nods and becksand wreathed smiles, which are quite beyond the reach of men; and inthis language aunt Mary did say something as she passed which gaveher niece to understand that the coming interview would not consistmerely of the delights which are common among lovers. Caroline,therefore, as she entered the room composed her face for solemnthings, 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. Herfigure was perhaps not quite so full, nor the colour in her cheekquite so high as when he had first seen her in Jerusalem; but,otherwise, she had never seemed to him more lovely. The little effortshe had made to collect herself, to assume a certain majesty in hergait, was becoming to her. So also was her plain morning dress, andthe simple braid in which her hair was collected. It might certainlybe boasted of Miss Waddington that she was a beauty of the morningrather than of the night; that her complexion was fitted for the sunrather than for gaslight.

  He was going to give up all this! And why? That which he saw beforehim, that which he had so often brought himself to believe, thatwhich at this moment he actually did believe to be as perfect a formof feminine beauty as might be found by any search in England, was asyet his own. And he might keep it as his own. He knew, or thought heknew enough of her to be sure that, let her feelings be what theymight, she would not condescend to break her word to him. Doubtless,she would marry him; and that in but a few months hence if onlyhe 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! Allthis flashed through his mind in a moment. He lost no time in idlethoughts.

  "Caroline," he said, stretching out his hand to her--usually whenhe met her after any absence he had used his hand to draw hernearer to him with more warmth than his present ordinary greetingshowed--"Caroline, I have come down to have some talk with you. Thereis 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 amangry--"

  "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 Iso greatly dislike concealment that I am here."

  "You could not conceal anything if you tried, George. It is uselessfor you to say that you will not show that you are angry. You areangry, and you do show it. What is it? I hope my present sin isnot a very grievous one. By your banishing poor aunt out of thedrawing-room, I fear it must be rather bad."

  "I was dining with Mr. Harcourt last night, and it escaped him inconversation that you had shown to him the letter which I wrote toyou from Paris. Was it so, Caroline? Did you show him that veryletter?"

  Certainly, no indifferent listener would have said that there was anytone of anger in Bertram's voice; and yet there was that in it whichmade Miss Waddington feel that the room was swimming round and roundher. She turned ruby red up to her hair. Bertram had never beforeseen her blush like that; for he had never before seen her covered byshame. Oh! how she had repented showing that letter! How her soul hadgrieved over it from the very moment that it had passed out of herhand! She had done so in the hotness of her passion. He had writtento her sharp stinging words which had maddened her. Up to that momentshe had never known how sharp, how stinging, how bitter words mightbe. The world had hitherto been so soft to her! She was there toldthat she was unfeminine, unladylike! And then, he that was sitting byher was so smooth, so sympathizing, so anxious to please her! In heranger and her sympathy she had shown it; and from that day to thisshe had repented in the roughness of
sackcloth and the bitterness ofashes. It was possible that Caroline Waddington should so sin againsta woman's sense of propriety; that, alas! had been proved; but it wasimpossible 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 shemade no answer. It was in her heart to kneel at his feet, to kneel inthe spirit if not in the body, and ask his pardon; but hitherto shehad asked pardon of no human being. There was an effort in the doingof it which she could not at once get over. Had his eyes lookedtenderly 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 hispardon. And who that he had once loved had ever asked aught in vainfrom George Bertram? Ah, that she had done so! How well they mighthave loved each other! What joy there might have been!

  But there was nothing tender in his eye, no tender tone softened thewords which fell from his mouth.

  "What!" he said, and in spite of his promise, his voice had neverbefore 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 wishesto avert her wrath in order that he may escape punishment. So alsomay a servant of his master, or an inferior of his superior. But whenone equal asks pardon of another, it is because he acknowledges andregrets the injury he has done. Such acknowledgment, such regretwill 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 herknees--not even mentally. Instead of doing so, she remembered herdignity, and wretched as she was at heart, she continued to seatherself without betraying her misery.

  "Is that true, Caroline? I will believe the charge against you fromno other lips than your own."

  "Yes, George; it is true. I did show your letter to Mr. Harcourt." Sostern had he been in his bearing that she could not condescend evento a word of apology.

  He had hitherto remained standing; but on hearing this he flunghimself into a chair and buried his face in his hands. Even then shemight have been softened, and he might have relented, and all mighthave been well!

  "I was very unhappy, George," she said; "that letter had made me veryunhappy, and I hardly knew where to turn for relief."

  "What!" he said, jumping up and flashing before her in a storm ofpassion 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! fromme who am--no, who was, your affianced husband! Had you no idea ofthe sort of bond that existed between you and me? Did you not knowthat there were matters in which you could not look for sympathy tosuch as him without being false, nay, almost worse than false? Haveyou ever thought what it is to be the one loved object of a man'sheart, and to have accepted that love?" She had been on the point ofinterrupting him, but the softness of these last words interruptedher 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. Iwould 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 defendit--it was one which from the very nature of it should have beensacred between us. It was written to you as to one to whom I had aright 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 anarbiter between us. I made a special request that to him, at least,you would not talk of what causes of trouble there might be betweenus; 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; hadnot you yourself told me so, I could not have believed it."

  "George!--"

  "Good God! that you should take my letters and read them over withhim! Why, Caroline, it admits but of one solution; there is but onereading 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 friendto whom I allow the privilege of going between me and my own heart'slove. Yes, you were my own heart's love. I have to get over thatcomplaint 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 disposeof to whom you will. Let you have what confidences you will, theywill no longer imply falsehood to me."

  "Then, sir, if such be the case, I think you may cease to scold mewith such violence."

  "I have long felt that I ought to give you this release; for I haveknown that you have not thoroughly loved me."

  Miss Waddington was too proud, too conscious of the necessity tomaintain her pride at the present moment to contradict this. But,nevertheless, in her heart she felt that she did love him, that shewould fain not give him up, that, in spite of his anger, his bitterrailing anger, she would keep him close to her if she only coulddo so. But now that he spoke of giving her up, she could not speakpassionately of her love--she who had never yet shown any passion inher speech to him.

  "It has grown on me from day to day; and I have been like a child inclinging to a hope when I should have known that there was no hope. Ishould 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 shouldhave known it when I learned that you and he were in such closeintimacy in London. But now--I know it now. Now at least it is allover."

  "I can only be sorry that you have so long had so much trouble in thematter."

  "Trouble--trouble! But I will not make a fool of myself. I believe atany rate that you understand me."

  "Oh! perfectly, Mr. Bertram."

  But she did not understand him; nor perhaps was it very likely thatshe should understand him. What he had meant her to understand wasthis: that in giving her up he was sacrificing only himself, and nother; 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 stillwas, in spite of all her offences. This was what he intended her tounderstand;--but she did not understand the half of it.

  "And I may now go?" said she, rising from her chair. The blush ofshame was over, and mild as her words sounded, she again looked theJuno. "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 toweringwith passion, and his voice, if not loud, had been masterful,determined, and imperious. Now it was low and gentle enough. Evennow, could she have been tender to him, he would have relented. Butshe could not be tender. It was her profession to be a Juno. Thoughshe 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 couldnot say that she had been wrong, wrong because distracted by hermisery, wrong because he was away from her, wrong because disturbedin her spirits by the depth of the love she felt for him; she couldnot confess this, and then, taking his hand, promise him that if hewould remain close to her she would not so sin again. Ah! if shecould have done this, in one moment her head would have been on hisshoulder and his arm round her waist; and in twenty minutes more MissBaker would have been informed, sitting as she now was up in herbedroom, that the wedding-day had been fixed.

  But very different news Miss Baker had to hear. Had things turned outso, 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 beenrailed at and scolded as never goddess was scolded before. Whatevershe threw away, it behoved her to maintain her dignity. She would notbend to a storm that had come blustering over her so uncourteously.

  Bertram had now risen to go. "I
t would be useless for me to troubleyour aunt," he said. "Tell her from me that I would not have gonewithout 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 handto her.

  "Good-bye, Mr. Bertram." She would have said something more, but shefeared to trust herself with any word that might have any sound oftenderness. She took his hand, however, and returned the pressurewhich 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, CarolineWaddington! if it had but been given thee to know, even then, howmuch of womanhood there was in thy bosom, of warm womanhood, howlittle of goddess-ship, of cold goddess-ship, it might still havebeen well with thee! But thou didst not know. Thou hadst gotten thereat any rate thy Juno's pedestal; and having that, needs was that thoushouldst stand on it.

  "God bless you, Caroline; good-bye," he repeated again, and turned tothe door.

  "I wish to ask you one question before you go," she said, as his handwas on the handle of the lock; and she spoke in a voice that wasalmost 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. Butin making it you mentioned Mr. Harcourt's name. While you were absentin Paris, I did talk with that gentleman on our private affairs,yours and mine. I hope I am believed to have done so because Iregarded Mr. Harcourt as your friend?"

  Bertram did not understand her, and he showed that he did not by hislook.

  "It is difficult for me to explain myself"--and now she blushedslightly--very slightly. "What I mean is this; I wish to be acquittedby you of having had recourse to Mr. Harcourt on my own account--fromany partiality of my own." She almost rose in height as she stoodthere before him, uttering these words in all her cold but beautifuldignity. Whatever her sins might have been, he should not accuse herof having dallied with another while her word and her troth had beenhis. She had been wrong. She could not deny that he had justice onhis side--stern, harsh, bare justice--when he came there to her andflung back her love and promises into her teeth. He had the right todo so, and she would not complain. But he should not leave her tillhe had acquitted her of the vile, missish crime of flirting withanother because he was absent. Seeing that he still hardly understoodher, she made her speech yet plainer.

  "At the risk of being told again that I am unfeminine, I must explainmyself. Do you charge me with having allowed Mr. Harcourt to speak tome as a lover?"

  "No; I make no such charge. Now, I have no right to make any chargeon 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 whetheramong other sins, that sin also is charged against me?"

  "I have charged and do charge nothing against you, but this--that youhave ceased to love me. And that charge will be made nowhere but inmy 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 havethought no ill against you, and believed no ill against you beyondthat which you have yourself acknowledged. I find that you haveceased to love me, and finding that, I am indifferent to whom yourlove 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 inquiryof the servant, had learned that their visitor had gone. Then shedescended to her own drawing-room, and found Caroline sitting uprightat the table, as though in grief she despised the adventitious aidand every-day solace of a sofa. There was no tear in her eye, none asyet; 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 thatall was as little well as might be.

  There was still to be seen there the beauty, and the dignity, andstill even in part the composure of a Juno; but it was such composureas Juno might have shown while she devoted to a third destructionthe walls of a thrice-built Troy; of Juno in grief, in jealousy,almost in despair; but of Juno still mindful of her pedestal, stillremembering that there she stood a mark for the admiration of godsand men. How long shall this Juno mood serve to sustain her? Ah! howlong?

  "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 overat last."

  Miss Baker stood for a moment trembling, and then threw herself upona seat. She had at least had no celestial gift by which she couldcompose herself. "Oh, Caroline!" she exclaimed.

  "Yes, aunt Mary; it is all over now."

  "You mean that you have quarrelled?" said she, remembering to hercomfort, that there was some old proverb about the quarrels oflovers. Miss Baker had great faith in proverbs.

  The reader may find it hard to follow Miss Baker's mind on thesubject of this engagement. Some time since she was giving advicethat it should be broken off, and now she was _au desespoir_ becausethat result had been reached. She had one of those minds that areprone to veering, and which show by the way they turn, not anyvolition of their own, but the direction of some external wind, someexternal volition. Nor can one be angry with, or despise Miss Bakerfor this weathercock aptitude. She was the least selfish of humanbeings, the least opinionative, the most good-natured. She had hadher hot fits and her cold fits with regard to Bertram; but her hotfits and her cold had all been hot or cold with reference to what sheconceived to be her niece's chances of happiness. Latterly, she hadfancied that Caroline did love Bertram too well to give him up; andcircumstances had led her to believe more strongly than ever thatold Mr. Bertram wished the marriage, and that the two together, ifmarried, would certainly inherit his wealth. So latterly, during thelast month or so, Miss Baker had blown very hot.

  "No, there has been no quarrel," said Caroline, with forcedtranquillity of voice and manner. "No such quarrel as you mean. Donot 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 notgrieve about it"--aunt Mary was now in tears--"it is better so; I amsure it is better. We should not have made each other happy."

  "But three years, Caroline; three years!" said aunt Mary through hertears, thinking of the time that had been so sadly lost. Aunt Marywas widely awake to the fact that three years was a long period ina girl's life, and that to have passed three years as the betrothedof one man and then to leave him was injurious to the matrimonialprospects of a young lady. Miss Baker was full of these littlemundane considerations; but then they were never exercised, never hadbeen exercised, on her own behalf.

  "Yes, three years!" and Caroline smiled, even through her grief. "Itcannot be helped, aunt. And the rest of it; neither can that behelped. Three years! say thirty, aunt."

  Miss Baker looked at her, not quite understanding. "And must it beso?" 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 knowthe cause of this sudden disruption, but she hesitated at first toinquire. It was not, however, to be borne that the matter should beallowed to remain altogether undiscussed.

  "But what is it he has said?" she at last asked. Caroline had nevertold her aunt that that letter had been shown to Mr. Harcourt, andhad no intention of telling her so now.

  "I could not tell you, aunt, all that passed. It was not what he saidmore than what I said. At least--no; that is not true. It did arisefrom 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 thi
ng. You may rest assured he wishesno 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 nowimpossible."

  Again there was a silence, and again it was broken by Miss Baker. "Iwonder whether you ever really loved him? Sometimes I have thoughtyou 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 alsofor him."

  "Oh, he loved you. There is no doubt of that; no doubt at all ofthat. If any man ever loved a girl, he loved you." To this MissWaddington answered nothing, nor would she just then talk any furtherwith her aunt upon the subject. They were to dine early on thatday, as their custom was when they went out in the evening. On thisevening they were going to the house--lodgings rather--of an oldfriend they had not seen for some time. She had arrived a week or twosince at Littlebath, and though there had been callings between them,they had not yet succeeded in meeting. When Bertram had arrived itwas near their dinner hour and before he went that hour was alreadypassed. Had his manner been as it ordinarily was, he would of coursehave been asked to join them; but, as we have seen, that had been nomoment for such customary civility.

  Now, however, they went to dinner, and while seated there, MissWaddington told her aunt that she did not feel equal to going outthat evening. Miss Baker of course said something in opposition tothis, but that something was not much. It might easily be understoodthat a young lady who had just lost her lover was not in a fit stateto go to a Littlebath card-party.

  And thus early in the evening Caroline contrived to be alone; andthen for the first time she attempted to realize all that had comeupon her. Hitherto she had had to support herself--herself and hergoddess-ship,--first before George Bertram, and then with lightereffort before her aunt. But now that she was alone, she could descendto humanity. Now that she was alone she had so to descend.

  Yes; she had lost three years. To a mortal goddess, who possessedher divinity but for a short time, this was much. Her doctrine hadbeen to make the most of the world. She had early resolved not tothrow away either herself or her chances. And now that she wasthree-and-twenty, how had she kept her resolves? how had her doctrineanswered with her? She had lived before the world for the last twoyears as a girl betrothed to a lover--before such of the world as sheknew and as knew her; and now her lover was gone; not dismissed byher, but gone! He had rather dismissed her, and that not in the mostcourteous manner.

  But, to do her justice, this was not the grief that burnt most hotlyinto her heart. She said to herself that it was so, that this was herworst grief; she would fain have felt that it was so; but there wasmore of humanity in her, of the sweetness of womanly humanity, thanshe was aware. He had left her, and she knew not how to live withouthim. That was the thorn that stuck fast in her woman's bosom. Shecould never again look into those deep, thoughtful eyes; never againfeel the pressure of that strong, manly arm; never hear the poetry ofthat rich voice as she had heard it when he poured words of love andtruth into her ear. Bertram had many faults, and while he belonged toher, she had thought of them often enough; but he had many virtuesalso, and now she could think but of them.

  She had said that he was gone, gone for ever. It was easy enough tosay that with composed voice to Miss Baker. There is nothing so easyas bravado. The wretch who is to be hung can step lightly whilemultitudes are looking at him. The woman who is about to give up allthat her heart most values can declare out loud that the matter isvery indifferent to her. But when the victim of the law is lyingin his solitary cell, thinking on his doom, the morning before theexecutioner comes to him; when the poor girl is sitting alone onher bedside, with her heart all empty,--or rather not empty, onlyhopeless; it is very difficult then to maintain a spirit of bravado!

  Caroline Waddington did try it. She had often said to herself, inmonths now some time past, that she repented of her engagement. Ifso, now was the time to congratulate herself that she was free fromit. But she could not congratulate herself. While he had entirelybelonged to her, she had not known how thoroughly she had loved him.When she had only thought of parting with him, she had believed thatit would be easy. But now she found that it was not so easy. It wasabout as easy for her to pluck his image from her heart as to drawone of her limbs from the socket.

  But the limb had to be drawn from the socket. There was no longer anyhope that it could be saved. Nay, it had been already given up as faras the expression of the will was concerned, and there was nothingleft but to bear the pain.

  So she sat down and began to draw out the limb. Oh, my sensitivereader! have you ever performed the process? It is by no means to bedone with rose-water appliances and gentle motherly pressure. Thewhole force of the hospital has to be brought out to perform thisoperation.

  She now discovered, perhaps, for the first time, that she had astrong beating heart, and that she loved this violent capricious manwith every strong pulse of it. There was more about him now that waslovable by such a woman as Caroline Waddington than when he had firstspoken of his love on the side of Mount Olivet. Then he had beenlittle more than a boy; a boy indeed with a high feeling, with apoetic nature, and much humour. But these gifts had hardly sufficedto win her heart. Now he had added to these a strong will, a power ofcommand, a capability of speaking out to the world with some sort ofvoice. After all, power and will are the gifts which a woman mostloves in a man.

  And now that Caroline had lost her lover, she confessed to herselfthat she did love him. Love him! Yes! How could she recover him? Thatwas her first thought. She could not recover him in any way. Thatwas her second thought. As to asking him to come back to her; thewrenching of the limb from the socket would be better than that.That, at least, she knew she could not do. And was it possiblethat he of his own accord should come back to her? No, it was notpossible. The man was tender hearted, and could have been whistledback with the slightest lure while yet they two were standing in theroom together. But he was as proud as he was tender. Though theremight also be some wrenching to be done within his heart, he wouldnever come back again uninvited.

  And thus, while Miss Baker was at her old friend's card-party, MissWaddington sat in her own bedroom, striving, with bitter tears andviolent struggles, to reconcile herself to her loss.