The Bertrams

  CHAPTER V.

  CAN I ESCAPE?

  Had not George Bertram been of all men the most infirm of purpose, hewould have quitted London immediately after that ball--at any rate,for many months. But he was lamentably infirm of purpose. He saidto himself over and over again, that it behoved him to go. What hadeither of them done for him that he should regard them? That hadhitherto been the question within his own breast; but now it waschanged. Had he not greatly injured her? Had she not herself toldhim that his want of mercy had caused all her misery? Ought he not,at any rate, to spare her now? But yet he remained. He must ask herpardon before he went; he would do that, and then he would go.

  His object was to see her without going to Eaton Square. His instincttold him that Sir Henry no longer wished to see him there, and hewas unwilling to enter the house of any one who did not wish hispresence. For two weeks he failed in his object. He certainly did seeLady Harcourt, but not in such a way as to allow of conversation; butat last fortune was propitious,--or the reverse, and he found himselfalone with her.

  She was seated quite alone, turning over the engravings which lay ina portfolio before her, when he came up to her.

  "Do not be angry," he said, "if I ask you to listen to me for a fewmoments."

  She still continued to move the engravings before her, but with aslower motion than before; and though her eye still rested on theplates, he might have seen, had he dared to look at her, that hermind was far away from them. He might have seen also that there wasno flash of anger now in her countenance: her spirit was softer thanon that evening when she had reproached him; for she had rememberedthat he also had been deeply injured. But she answered nothing to therequest which he thus made.

  "You told me that I was unforgiving," he continued, "I now come tobeg that you will not be unforgiving also; that is, if I have doneanything that has caused you--caused you to be less happy than youmight have been."

  "Less happy!" she said; but not with that scorn with which she hadbefore repeated his words.

  "You believe, I hope, that I would wish you to be happy; that I woulddo anything in my power to make you so?"

  "There can be nothing now in your power, Mr. Bertram." And as shespoke she involuntarily put an emphasis on the now, which made herwords convey much more than she had intended.

  "No," he said. "No. What can such a one as I do? What could I everhave done? But say that you forgive me, Lady Harcourt."

  "Let us both forgive," she whispered, and as she did so, she put outher hand to him. "Let us both forgive. It is all that we can do foreach other."

  "Oh, Caroline, Caroline!" he said, speaking hardly above his breath,and with his eyes averted, but still holding her hand; or attemptingto hold it, for as he spoke she withdrew it.

  "I was unjust to you the other night. It is so hard to be justwhen one is so wretched. We have been like two children who havequarrelled over their plaything, and broken it in pieces while it wasyet new. We cannot put the wheels again together, or made the brokenreed produce sweet sounds."

  "No," he said. "No, no, no. No sounds are any longer sweet. There isno music now."

  "But as we have both sinned, Mr. Bertram, so should we both forgive."

  "But I--I have nothing to forgive."

  "Alas, yes! and mine was the first fault. I knew that you reallyloved me, and--"

  "Loved you! Oh, Caroline!"

  "Hush, Mr. Bertram; not so; do not speak so. I know that you wouldnot wrong me; I know you would not lead me into trouble--not intofurther trouble; into worse misery."

  "And I, that might have led you--no; that might have been led to suchhappiness! Lady Harcourt, when I think of what I have thrown away--"

  "Think of it not at all, Mr. Bertram."

  "And you; can you command your thoughts?"

  "Sometimes; and by practice I hope always; at any rate, I make aneffort. And now, good-bye. It will be sweet to me to hear that youhave forgiven me. You were very angry, you know, when you parted fromme last at Littlebath."

  "If there be anything for me to forgive, I do forgive it with all myheart; with all my heart."

  "And now, God bless you, Mr. Bertram. The thing that would most tendto make me contented would be to see you married to some one youcould love; a weight would then be off my soul which now weighs onit very heavily." And so saying, she rose from her seat and left himstanding over the engravings. He had thrown his pearl away; a pearlricher than all his tribe. There was nothing for him now but to bearthe loss.

  There were other sources of unpleasantness between Sir Henry and hiswife besides her inclination for dancing. Sir Henry had now paid onehalf-year's interest on the sum of money which had been lent to himby the old gentleman at Hadley, and had been rather disgusted atfinding that it was taken as a matter of course. He was not at thepresent moment by any means over-burdened with money. His constantdevotion to politics interfered considerably with his practice. Hewas also perhaps better known as a party lawyer than as a practicalor practising one; and thus, though his present career was verybrilliant, it was not quite so profitable as he had hoped. Mostlawyers when they begin to devote themselves to politics havesecured, if not fortune, at least the means of making it. And, evenat his age, Sir Henry might have been said to have done this had hisaspirations been in any way moderate. But they were not moderate. Hewished to shine with extreme brilliancy; to live up to the characterfor wealth which the world gave him; and to give it out as a fact tobe understood by all men that he was to be the heir of the HadleyCroesus.

  There was, perhaps, a certain wisdom in this, a wisdom of a dashingchancy nature. Fortune favours the brave; and the world certainlygives the most credit to those who are able to give an unlimitedcredit to themselves. But there was certainly risk in the life heled. The giving of elegant little dinners two or three times a weekin London is an expensive amusement--and so he began to be veryanxious about the old gentleman.

  But what was he to do that he might get near those money-bags? Therewas the game. What best sportsman's dodge might he use so as to getit into his bag? Perhaps to do nothing, to use no sportsman's dodgewould have been the best. But then it is so hard to do nothing whenso much might be gained by doing something very well.

  Sir Henry, duly instructed as to the weaknesses customary to old men,thought his wife would be his best weapon--his surest dodge. If shecould be got to be attentive and affectionate to her grandfather, tovisit him, and flatter him, and hover about him, much might be done.So thought Sir Henry. But do what he might, Lady Harcourt would notassist him. It was not part of her bargain that she should toady anold man who had never shown any special regard for her.

  "I think you ought to go down to Hadley," Sir Henry said to her onemorning.

  "What, to stay there?" said Caroline.

  "Yes; for a fortnight or so. Parliament will be up now in threeweeks, and I shall go to Scotland for a few days. Could not you makeit out with the old gentleman till you go to the Grimsdale's?"

  "I would much rather remain at home, Sir Henry."

  "Ah, yes; that is just like you. And I would much rather that youwent."

  "If you wish to shut the house up, I shall not object to go toLittlebath."

  "Very probably not. But I should object to you goingthere--exceedingly object to it. Of all places, it is the mostvulgar! the most--"

  "You forget that I have dear friends living there."

  "Dear friends! Yes; Miss Todd, I suppose. I think we may as wellleave Miss Todd alone. At the present moment, I am particularlyanxious that you should be attentive to your grandfather."

  "But I have never been in the habit of staying at Hadley."

  "Then the sooner you get into the habit the better."

  "I cannot think why you should wish me to trouble an old man whowould not have the slightest pleasure in seeing me."

  "That is all nonsense. If you behaved well to him, he would havepleasure. Do you ever write to him?"

  "Never."

  "Write to him to-day then,
and ask whether he would be glad to haveyou."

  Caroline did not answer her husband immediately, but went onbuttering her toast, and sipping her tea. She had never yet disobeyedany positive order that he had given, and she was now thinkingwhether she could obey this order; or, if not, how she would explainto him that she could not do so.

  "Well!" said he; "why do you not answer me? Will you write to himto-day?"

  "I had much rather not."

  "Does that mean that you won't?"

  "I fear, Sir Henry, that it must mean it. I have not been on termswith my grandfather which would admit of my doing so."

  "Nonsense!" said her lord and master.

  "You are not very civil to me this morning."

  "How can a man be civil when he hears such trash as that? You knowhow I am situated--how great the stake is; and you will do nothing tohelp me win it." To this she made no answer. Of what use would it befor her to answer? She also had thrown away her pearl, and taken inexchange this piece of brass. There was nothing for her, too, but tobear her misery.

  "Upon my word, you take it all very coolly," he continued; "you seemto think that houses, and furniture, and carriages, and horses are togrow up all round you without any effort on your own part. Does itever strike you that these things cost money?"

  "I will give them all up to-morrow if you wish it."

  "That you know is nonsense."

  "It was your doing to surround me with these things, and yourreproach is not just. Nay, it is not manly."

  "A woman's idea of manliness is very extended. You expect to geteverything, and to do nothing. You talk of justice! Do you not knowthat when I married you, I looked to your uncle's fortune?"

  "Certainly not: had I known it, I should have told you how vain Ibelieved any such hope to be."

  "Then, why on earth--?" But he refrained from finishing his question.Even he could not bring himself to tell her that he had married herwith no other view. He merely slammed the door behind him as he leftthe room. Yes; she had certainly thrown her pearl away. What a lifewas this to which she had doomed herself! what treatment was this forthat Caroline Waddington, who had determined to win the world andwear it! She had given herself to a brute, who had taken her onlybecause she might perhaps be the heiress of a rich old man.

  And then she thought of that lost pearl. How could she do other thanthink of it? She thought of what her life would have been had shebravely committed herself to his hands, fearing nothing, trustingeverything. She remembered his energy during those happy days inwhich he had looked forward to an early marriage. She remembered histenderness of manner, the natural gallantry of his heart, the lovinglook of his bold eye; and then she thought of her husband.

  Yes, she thought of him long and wildly. And as she did so, theindifference with which she had regarded him grew into hatred. Sheshuddered as her imagination made that frightful contrast between thepicture which her eyes would have so loved to look on if it were onlylawful, and that other picture to look on which was her legal doom.Her brow grew wildly black as she thought of his caresses, his love,which were more hateful to her even than his coarse ill-humour. Shethought of all this; and, as she did so, she asked herself thatquestion which comes first to the mind of all creatures when inmisery: Is there no means of release; no way of escape? was her barkutterly ruined, and for ever?

  That marriage without love is a perilous step for any woman who has aheart within her bosom. For those who have none--or only so much asmay be necessary for the ordinary blood-circulating department--suchan arrangement may be convenient enough. Caroline Waddingtonhad once flattered herself that that heart of hers was merely ablood-circulating instrument. But she had discovered her mistake, andlearned the truth before it was too late. She had known what it wasto love--and yet she had married Henry Harcourt! Seldom, indeed, willpunishment be so lame of foot as to fail in catching such a criminalas she had been.

  Punishment--bitter, cruel, remorseless punishment--had caught hernow, and held her tight within its grasp. He, too, had said that hewas wretched. But what could his wretchedness be to hers? He wasnot married to a creature that he hated: he was not bound in a foulMezentian embrace to a being against whom all his human gorge rosein violent disgust. Oh! if she could only be alone, as he was alone!If it could be granted to her to think of her love, to think of himin solitude and silence--in a solitude which no beast with a frontof brass and feet of clay had a right to break, both by night andday! Ah! if her wretchedness might only be as his wretchedness! Howblessed would she not think herself!

  And then she again asked herself whether there might not be someescape. That women had separated themselves from their husbands,she well knew. That pleas of ill-usage, of neglect, of harshnessof temper, had been put forward and accepted by the world, to thepartial enfranchisement of the unhappy wife, she had often heard. Butshe had also heard that in such cases cruelty must be proved. A hastyword, a cross look, a black brow would not suffice. Nor could sheplead that she hated the man, that she had never loved him, that shehad married him in wounded pique, because her lover--he whom she didlove--had thrown her off. There was no ground, none as yet, on whichshe could claim her freedom. She had sold herself as a slave, andshe must abide her slavery. She had given herself to this beast withthe face of brass and the feet of clay, and she must endure the coldmisery of his den. Separation--solitude--silence! He--that he whomher heart worshipped--he might enjoy such things; but for her--therewas no such relief within her reach.

  She had gone up into her room when Sir Henry left her, in order thatno one might see her wretchedness, and there she remained for hours."No!" at last she said aloud, lifting her head from the pillow onwhich her face had been all but hid, and standing erect in the room;"no! I will not bear it. I will not endure it. He cannot make me."And with quick steps she walked across and along the room, stretchingforth her arms as though seeking aid from some one; ay, and as thoughshe were prepared to fight the battle herself if no one would come toaid her.

  At this moment there was a knock at her chamber-door, and her maidcame in.

  "Mr. Bertram is in the drawing-room, my lady."

  "Mr. Bertram! Which Mr. Bertram?"

  "Mr. Bertram, my lady; the gentleman that comes here. Sir Henry'sfriend."

  "Oh, very well. Why did John say that I was at home?"

  "Oh, my lady, I can't say that. Only he told me to tell your ladyshipthat Mr. Bertram was in the drawing-room."

  Lady Harcourt paused for a moment. Then she said, "I will be downdirectly;" and the Abigail retired. During that moment she haddecided that, as he was there, she would meet him yet once again.

  It has been said that Bertram was unwilling to go to Sir Henry'shouse. As long as he had thought of remaining in town he was so. Butnow he had resolved to fly, and had resolved also that before he didso he would call in the ordinary way and say one last farewell. John,the servant, admitted him at once; though he had on that same morningsent bootless away a score of other suppliants for the honour ofbeing admitted to Lady Harcourt's presence.

  Bertram was standing with his back to the door, looking into a smallconservatory that opened from the drawing-room, when the mistressof the house entered. She walked straight up to him, after havingcarefully closed the door, and just touching his hand, she said, "Mr.Bertram, why are you here? You should be thousands and thousands ofmiles away if that were possible. Why are you here?"

  "Lady Harcourt, I will divide myself from you by any distance you maydemand. But may I not come to you to tell you that I am going?"

  "To tell me that you are going!"

  "Yes. I shall not trouble you much longer. I have become sure ofthis: that to remain near you and not to love you, to remain nearyou and not to say that I love you is impossible. And therefore Iam going." And he held out his hand, which she had as yet hardlytaken--had barely touched.

  He was going; but she was to remain. He would escape; but her prisonbars could not be broken. Ah, that she could have gone with him! Howlittle n
ow would wealth have weighed with her; or high worldly hopes,or dreams of ambition! To have gone with him anywhere--honestly tohave gone with him--trusting to honest love and a true heart. Ah! howmuch joy is there in this mortal, moribund world if one will but openone's arms to take it!

  Ah! young ladies, sweet young ladies, dear embryo mothers of ourEngland as it will be, think not overmuch of your lovers' incomes. Hethat is true and honest will not have to beg his bread--neither hisnor yours. The true and honest do not beg their bread, though it maybe that for awhile they eat it without much butter. But what then? Ifa wholesome loaf on your tables, and a strong arm round your waists,and a warm heart to lean on cannot make you happy, you are not thegirls for whom I take you.

  Caroline's bread was buttered, certainly; but the butter had beenmixed with gall, and she could not bring herself to swallow it. Andnow he had come to tell her that he was going; he whose loaf, andarm, and heart she might have shared. What would the world say of herif she were to share his flight?

  "Good-bye," she said, as she took his proffered hand.

  "And is that all?"

  "What would you have, Mr. Bertram?"

  "What would I have? Ah, me! I would have that which isutterly--utterly--utterly beyond my reach."

  "Yes, utterly--utterly," she repeated. And as she said so, shethought again, what would the world say of her if she were to sharehis flight?

  "I suppose that now, for the last time, I may speak truly--as a manshould speak. Lady Harcourt, I have never ceased to love you, neverfor one moment; never since that day when we walked together amongthose strange tombs. My love for you has been the dream of my life."

  "But, why--why--why?--" She could not speak further, for her voicewas choked with tears.

  "I know what you would say. Why was I so stern to you!"

  "Why did you go away? Why did you not come to us?"

  "Because you distrusted me; not as your lover, but as a man. But Idid not come here to blame you, Caroline."

  "Nor to be blamed."

  "No, nor to be blamed. What good can come of reproaches? We now knoweach other's faults, if we never did before. And we know also eachother's truth--" He paused a moment, and then added, "For, Caroline,your heart has been true."

  She sat herself down upon a chair, and wept, with her face hiddenwithin her hands. Yes, her heart had been true enough; if only herwords, her deeds, her mind could have been true also.

  He came up to her, and lightly put his hand upon her shoulder.His touch was very light, but yet she felt that there was love init--illicit, dishonest love. There was treason in it to her lord'srights. Her lord! Yes, he was her lord, and it was treason. But itwas very sweet that touch; it was as though a thrill of love passedacross her and embraced her whole body. Treason to such a creature asthat! a brute with a face of brass and feet of clay, who had got holdof her with a false idea that by her aid he could turn his base brassinto gold as base! Could there be treason to such a one as he? Ah!what would the world say of her were she to share that flight?

  "Caroline," he murmured in her ear. "Caroline; dearest Caroline!"Thus he murmured soft words into her ear, while his hand stillrested gently on her shoulder--oh, so gently! And still she answerednothing, but the gurgling of her sobs was audible to him enough."Caroline," he repeated; "dearest, dearest Caroline." And then he wason his knees beside her; and the hand which had touched her shoulderwas now pressed upon her arm.

  "Caroline, speak to me--say one word. I will go if you bid me. Yes,even alone. I will go alone if you have the heart to say so. Speak,Caroline."

  "What would you have me say?" and she looked at him through hertears, so haggard, so wild, so changed, that he was almost frightenedat her countenance. "What would you have me say? what would you haveme do?"

  "I will be your slave if you will let me," said he.

  "No, George--you mean that I might be your slave--for awhile, tillyou thought me too base even for that."

  "Ah! you little know me."

  "I should but little know you if I thought you could esteem mein that guise. There; God's mercy has not deserted me. It isover now. Go, George--go--go; thou, only love of my heart; mydarling; mine that might have been; mine that never can benow--never--never--never. Go, George. It is over now. I have beenbase, and vile, and cowardly--unworthy of your dear memory. But itshall not be so again. You shall not blush that you have loved me."

  "But, ah! that I have lost your love."

  "You shall not blush that you have loved me, nor will I blush thatI, too, have loved you. Go, George; and remember this, the farther,the longer, the more entirely we are apart, the better, the safer itwill be. There; there. Go now. I can bear it now; dearest, dearestGeorge."

  He took her outstretched hands in his, and stood for awhile gazinginto her face. Then, with the strong motion of his arms, he drew herclose to his breast, pressed her to his heart, and imprinted one warmkiss upon her brow. Then he left her, and got to the drawing-roomdoor with his fleetest step.

  "I beg your pardon, sir," said John, who met him exactly on thelanding; "but I think my lady rang."

  "Lady Bertram did not ring. She is not well, and you had better notdisturb her," said Bertram, trying to look as though he were no whitdisconcerted.

  "Oh, very well, sir; then I'll go down again;" and so saying Johnfollowed George Bertram into the hall, and opened the door for himvery politely.