CHAPTER I.

E-text prepared by Delphine Lettau and Joseph E. Loewenstein, M.D.

THE BERTRAMS.

A Novel.

by

ANTHONY TROLLOPE

Author of "Barchester Towers," "Doctor Thorne," etc.

In Three Volumes

VOL. I.

London:

Chapman & Hall, 193 Piccadilly.

1859.

[The right of Translation is reserved.]

London: Printed by W. Clowes and Sons, Stamford Street.

CONTENTS OF VOL. I.

I. VÆ VICTIS!

II. BREAKFAST AND LUNCH.

III. THE NEW VICAR.

IV. OUR PRIMA DONNA.

V. THE CHOICE OF A PROFESSION.

VI. JERUSALEM.

VII. THE MOUNT OF OLIVES.

VIII. SIR LIONEL BERTRAM.

IX. MISS TODD'S PICNIC.

X. THE EFFECTS OF MISS TODD'S PICNIC.

XI. VALE VALETE.

XII. GEORGE BERTRAM DECIDES IN FAVOUR OF THE BAR.

XIII. LITTLEBATH.

XIV. WAYS AND MEANS.

XV. MR. HARCOURT'S VISIT TO LITTLEBATH.

THE BERTRAMS.

CHAPTER I.

VÆ VICTIS!

This is undoubtedly the age of humanity--as far, at least, as England

is concerned. A man who beats his wife is shocking to us, and a

colonel who cannot manage his soldiers without having them beaten is

nearly equally so. We are not very fond of hanging; and some of us

go so far as to recoil under any circumstances from taking the blood

of life. We perform our operations under chloroform; and it has even

been suggested that those schoolmasters who insist on adhering in

some sort to the doctrines of Solomon should perform their operations

in the same guarded manner. If the disgrace be absolutely necessary,

let it be inflicted; but not the bodily pain.

So far as regards the low externals of humanity, this is doubtless a

humane age. Let men, women, and children have bread; let them have if

possible no blows, or, at least, as few as may be; let them also be

decently clothed; and let the pestilence be kept out of their way.

In venturing to call these low, I have done so in no contemptuous

spirit; they are comparatively low if the body be lower than the

mind. The humanity of the age is doubtless suited to its material

wants, and such wants are those which demand the promptest remedy.

But in the inner feelings of men to men, and of one man's mind to

another man's mind, is it not an age of extremest cruelty?

There is sympathy for the hungry man; but there is no sympathy for

the unsuccessful man who is not hungry. If a fellow mortal be ragged,

humanity will subscribe to mend his clothes; but humanity will

subscribe nothing to mend his ragged hopes so long as his outside

coat shall be whole and decent.

To him that hath shall be given; and from him that hath not shall

be taken even that which he hath. This is the special text that we

delight to follow, and success is the god that we delight to worship.

"Ah! pity me. I have struggled and fallen--struggled so manfully, yet

fallen so utterly--help me up this time that I may yet push forward

once again!" Who listens to such a plea as this? "Fallen! do you want

bread?" "Not bread, but a kind heart and a kind hand." "My friend, I

cannot stay by you; I myself am in a hurry; there is that fiend of

a rival there even now gaining a step on me. I beg your pardon; but

I will put my foot on your shoulder--only for one moment. _Occupet

extremum scabies._"

Yes. Let the devil take the hindmost; the three or four hindmost if

you will; nay, all but those strong-running horses who can force

themselves into noticeable places under the judge's eye. This is the

noble shibboleth with which the English youth are now spurred on

to deeds of--what shall we say?--money-making activity. Let every

place in which a man can hold up his head be the reward of some

antagonistic struggle, of some grand competitive examination. Let us

get rid of the fault of past ages. With us, let the race be ever to

the swift; the victory always to the strong. And let us always be

racing, so that the swift and strong shall ever be known among us.

But what, then, for those who are not swift, not strong? _Væ victis!_

Let them go to the wall. They can hew wood probably; or, at any rate,

draw water.

Were we to ask Lord Derby, or Lord Palmerston, or to consult the

shade of Lord George Bentinck--or to go to those greater authorities

on the subject, Mr. Scott, for instance, and the family of the

Days--we should, I believe, be informed that the race-horse requires

a very peculiar condition. It is not to be obtained quickly, and,

when obtained, will fit the beast for no other than that one purpose

of running races. Crucifix was never good at going in a cab; Ilione

never took her noble owner down to the house of Parliament; nor has

Toxopholite been useful in Leicestershire.

But, nevertheless, let all our work be done by race-horses; all, at

least, that shall be considered honourable. Let us have strength and

speed. And how shall we know who are strong and swift if we do not

train our horses to run against each other? But this early racing

will hardly produce that humanity of spirit of which we now deplore

the want. "The devil take the hindmost" is the very essence of the

young man's book of proverbs. The devil assuredly will take all the

hindmost. None but the very foremost can enter the present heaven of

good things. Therefore, oh my brother, my friend, thou companion of

my youth! may the devil take thee; thee quickly, since it needs must

be thee or me.

_Væ victis_--alas! for these hindmost ones; there are so many of

them! The skim-milk will always be so much more in quantity than the

cream. With us at present cream is required for everything; nothing

can be well done now unless it be done by cream of some sort. That

milk has been skimmed; the cream has been taken away. No matter; skim

it again. There shall be something yet which we will call cream.

Competitive examination will produce something that shall look to

be strong; that shall be swift, if it be only for a start of twenty

yards.

This is the experiment of the present day. Wise men say that when

nothing but cream is accepted, all mankind, all boykind rather, will

prepare itself for a skimming of some sort; and that the quantity of

cream produced will be immense. It is only done as an instigation to

education. Much may be said in opposition to this; but nothing shall

be said here. It is merely of the cruelty of spirit that is thus

engendered that we now speak. Success is the only test of merit.

Words have lost their old significance, and to deserve only is not

meritorious. _Væ victis!_ there are so many of them!

"Thompson," says Johnson, the young poet, when he has at last

succeeded in getting the bosomest of his friends alone into his

chamber with him, "have you happened to look at my Iphigenia yet?"

Thompson can't say that he has. He has been busy; has had so many

water-parties; and then, somehow, he doesn't think that he is very

partial to modern poetry on subjects of old mythology. Of course,

however, he means to read it--some of these days.

"I wish you would," says Johnson, tendering a copy of the thin

volume. "I really wish you would; and let me have your candid

opinion. The press certainly have not noticed it much, and what they

have said has been very luke-warm."

"I am sorry for that," says Thompson, looking grave.

"And I did my best with it too. You would hardly believe how hard

I worked at it. There is not a line that has not been weighed and

written, perhaps, three times over. I do not think I am conceited;

but I cannot but believe that there is something in it. The reviewers

are so jealous! if a man has not a name, they will give him credit

for nothing; and it is so hard to begin."

"I am sure it is," says Thompson.

"I don't expect fame; and as for money, of course I don't think of

that. But I should like to know that it had been read by one or two

persons who could understand it. I have given to it the best of

my time, the best of my labour. I cannot but think that there is

something in it." Thus pleads the unsuccessful one for mercy.

And thus answers to him the successful one, with no grain of mercy in

his composition:--"My dear Johnson, my maxim is this, that in this

world every man gets in the long run exactly what he deserves--"

"Did Milton get what he deserved?"

"These are not the days of Milton. I don't want to hurt your

feelings; but old friends as we are, I should not forgive myself if I

didn't tell you what I really think. Poetry is all very well; but you

can't create a taste for it if it doesn't exist. Nobody that I know

of cares a d---- for Iphigenia."

"You think I should change my subject, then?"

"To tell you the truth, I think you should change your trade. This is

the third attempt, you know. I dare say they are very good in their

way; but if the world liked them, the world would have found it out

by this time. '_Vox populi, vox Dei_'--that is my motto--I don't

trust my own judgment; I trust that of the public. If you will take

my advice, you will give up Iphigenia and the rest of them. You see

you are doing nothing whatever at the bar," &c., &c.

And thus Johnson is left, without a scrap of comfort, a word of

consolation, a spark of sympathy; and yet he had given to that

Iphigenia of his the best that was in him to give. Had his publisher

sold ten thousand copies of it, how Thompson would have admired it!

how he would have pressed the poet in his arms, and have given him

champagne up at Richmond! But who now has sympathy for failure? To

fail is to be disgraced. _Væ victis!_

There is something very painful in these races, which we English are

always running, to one who has tenderness enough to think of the nine

beaten horses instead of the one who has conquered. Look at that

list which has just come out after our grand national struggle at

Cambridge. How many wranglers are there? Thirty, shall we say? and

it is always glorious to be a wrangler. Out of that thirty there is

probably but one who has not failed, who is not called on to submit

to the inward grief of having been beaten. The youth who is second,

who has thus shown himself to be possessed of a mass of erudition

sufficient to crush an ordinary mind to the earth, is ready to eat

his heart with true bitterness of spirit. After all his labour, his

midnight oil, his many sleepless nights, his deserted pleasures, his

racking headaches, Amaryllis abandoned, and Neæra seen in the arms of

another--! After all this, to be beaten by Jones! Had it been Green

or Smith he could have borne it. Would it not have been better to do

as others had done? he could have been contented to have gone out in

the crowd; but there is nothing so base as to be second--and then

second to Jones!

Out of the whole lot, Jones alone is contented; and he is told by

his physician that he must spend his next two winters at Cairo. The

intensity of his application has put his lungs into very serious

jeopardy.

It was at Oxford, in the year 184--, that a young man sat in

his college-rooms at Balliol a wretched victim to unsuccessful

competition. It had been everything to him to come out as a first in

classics, and he had dared to dream even of a double-first. But he

had failed in both. The lists had just appeared, and he was only a

second-class man. Now, a second-class man is not much thought of at

Balliol, and he had lost his chance of an immediate fellowship.

But this was perhaps hardly the worst of it. Arthur Wilkinson, for

such was this gentleman's name, had hitherto run his race in life

alongside a friend and rival named George Bertram; and in almost

every phase of life had hitherto been beaten. The same moment that

had told Wilkinson of his failure had told him also that Bertram

had obtained the place he had so desired. Bertram was the only

double-first man of his year.

As these two young men will play the foremost parts in the following

pages, I will endeavour to explain, in as few words as possible, who

each of them was. As Bertram seems to have been the favourite with

fortune, I will begin with him.

His father at the time alluded to was still alive, but his son George

had seen but little of him. Sir Lionel Bertram had been a soldier

of fortune, which generally, I believe, means a soldier without a

fortune, and in that capacity he was still in some sort fighting his

country's battles. At the present moment he held a quasi-military

position in Persia, where he had been for the last five years, and

previously to that he had served in Canada, India, the Cape of Good

Hope, and on some special mission at Monte Video. He had, therefore,

seen a good deal of the world; but very little of his only child.

Mrs. Bertram, George's mother, had died early in life, and Mr.

(afterwards Sir Lionel) Bertram had roamed the world free from all

encumbrances.

The Rev. Arthur Wilkinson, vicar of Hurst Staple, on the borders

of Hampshire and Berkshire, had married a first-cousin of Mrs.

Bertram's; and when young George Bertram, at the age of nine, was

tossing about the world rather in want of a fixed home, Mr. Wilkinson

undertook to give him that home, and to educate him with his own

eldest child till they should both be sent to some school. For

three years George Bertram lived at Hurst Staple, and was educated

accordingly. During these years he used to go annually for one month

to the house of an uncle, who in due time will also be introduced to

the reader; and therefore, not unnaturally, this month was regarded

by the boy as his holidays.

Now, it may as well be explained in this place that Sir Lionel

Bertram, though a very gallant man, and peculiarly well adapted to

do business with outlandish people, had never succumbed to a habit

of punctuality in pecuniary matters. An arrangement had been perhaps

rather named than made, that one hundred and thirty pounds per annum

should be paid for young Bertram's needs; and as this was to include

pocket-money, clothing, and washing, as well as such trifles as the

boy's maintenance and education, perhaps the bargain was not a very

hard one as regarded Sir Lionel. The first seventy-five pounds were

paid; but after that, up to the end of the second year, Mr. Wilkinson

had received no more. As he was a poor man, with six children of his

own, and little besides his living, he then thought it better to

mention the matter to Sir Lionel's brother in London. The balance

was instantly paid, and Mr. Wilkinson had no further trouble on that

head. Nor had he much trouble on any other head as regarded young

Bertram. The lad was perhaps not fit to be sainted, and gave Mrs.

Wilkinson the usual amount of trouble as regarded his jackets and

pantaloons; but, on the whole, he was a good boy, free and generous

in his temper, quick in his parts, affectionate in disposition, and

full of humour. Those who examined him most closely (among whom,

perhaps, Mr. Wilkinson was not included) might have observed that

he was hardly as steady as he might have been in his likings and

dislikings; that he made too little of the tasks which he learnt

without trouble; and that, in fact, he was not sufficiently

solicitous about anything. He was, however, undoubtedly a lad of

great promise, and one of whom any father might have been proud.

He was not a handsome boy, nor did he become a handsome man. His face

was too solid, his cheeks too square, and his forehead too heavy; but

his eyes, though small, were bright, and his mouth was wonderfully

marked by intelligence. When he grew to be a man, he wore no beard,

not even the slightest apology for a whisker, and this perhaps

added to the apparent heaviness of his face; but he probably best

understood his own appearance, for in those days no face bore on it

more legible marks of an acute mind.

At the age of twelve, he was sent to Winchester, and as his holidays

were still passed with his uncle, he then ceased to regard Hurst

Staple as his home. Twice a year, as he went up to town, he stayed

there for a couple of days; but he was soon looked on as a visitor,

and the little Wilkinsons no longer regarded him as half a brother in

reality and quite a brother in love.

Arthur Wilkinson was very nearly of the same age. He was just older

than young Bertram--by three months or so; just sufficiently to

give to Wilkinson a feeling of seniority when they first met, and

a consciousness that as he was the senior in age, he should be the

senior in scholastic lore. But this consciousness Wilkinson was not

able to attain; and during all the early years of his life, he was

making a vain struggle to be as good a man as his cousin; that is,

as good in scholarship, as good in fighting, as good in play, and as

good in spirit.

In looks, at any rate, Arthur was superior to George; and much

consolation did his mother receive from this conviction. Young

Wilkinson was a very handsome lad, and grew up to be a handsome man;

but his beauty was of that regular sort which is more pleasing in a

boy than in a man. He also was an excellent lad, and no parent could

be so thankless as to be other than proud of him. All men said all

good things of him, so that Mr. Wilkinson could not but be contented.

Nevertheless, one would always wish to see one's own son not less

bright than one's friend's son.

Arthur Wilkinson was also sent to Winchester. Perhaps it would have

been better for the cousins that they should have gone to different

schools. The matter, however, had been left to Mr. Wilkinson, and

as he thought Winchester good for his own son, he naturally thought

the same school good for Sir Lionel's son. But Bertram was entered

as a commoner, whereas Wilkinson was in the college. Those who know

Winchester will understand, that though, as regarded school business

and school hours, they were at the same establishment, they were not

together at the much more important hours of eating, sleeping, and

playing. They did not cease to be friends, but they did cease to

live together as friends generally do live when educated at the same

school.

At Winchester they both did fairly well; but Bertram did much the

best. He got the prizes, whereas his cousin did but nearly get them.

He went up from class to class above the other, and when the last

tussle for pride of place came on at the close of their boyish

career, Bertram was the victor. He stood forth to spout out Latin

hexameters, and to receive the golden medal, while Wilkinson had no

other privilege but to sit still and listen to them.

I believe masters but seldom recognize the agony of spirit with which

boys endure being beaten in these contests. Boys on such subjects

are very reticent; they hardly understand their own feelings enough

to speak of them, and are too much accustomed both to ridicule and

censure to look anywhere for sympathy. A favourite sister may perhaps

be told of the hard struggle and the bitter failure, but not a word

is said to any one else. His father, so thinks the boy, is angry at

his failure; and even his mother's kisses will hardly be warmed by

such a subject. We are too apt to think that if our children eat

pudding and make a noise they require no sympathy. A boy may fail at

school, and afterwards eat much pudding, and make much noise; but,

ah! how his young heart may sigh for some one to grieve with him over

his failures!

Wilkinson was unfortunate at school. It was a great object with his

father that he should get a scholarship at New College, to which, as

all the world knows, his path lay through the college of Winchester.

When his time came, he was all but successful--but he was not

successful. The vacancies in his year were few in number, only three,

and of these two were preoccupied, according to the then rule of the

place, by those heaven-born Wykamists, called founder's kin He was

only the second best on the list, and lost the prize.

Bertram, having been a commoner, had had no right to think of New

College; but at the time when he was to be removed to Oxford, his

uncle gave him to understand that money was a great object to him.

His father's mind was still too fully absorbed in the affairs of his

country to enable him to think much of his son's expenditure, and his

uncle at this period took a fit of disgust on the subject.

"Very well," said George, "I will give up Oxford if I cannot do

something for myself."

He went up, however, to Trinity, and became a candidate for a

scholarship there. This he obtained to the great surprise of all the

Wilkinsons and of himself. In those days, a lad of eighteen who could

get a scholarship at Trinity was considered to be nearly safe in his

career. I do not know how far this may be altered now. The uncle,

when he heard of his nephew's success, immediately allowed him what

would have been amply sufficient for him had he been in possession of

no income from his scholarship. Bertram, therefore, had been almost a

rich man during his residence at Oxford.

Young Wilkinson, though he lost New College, received a small

scholarship from Winchester, and he also was sent by his father to

Oxford. To enable him to do this, Mr. Wilkinson was forced to make a

great struggle. He had five other children--four daughters, and one

younger son, and it was with difficulty that he could make up the

necessary allowance to carry Arthur through the University. But he

did do so, and the disappointed Wykamist went up to Balliol with an

income amounting to about half that which his cousin enjoyed.

We need not follow them very accurately through their college

careers. They both became prizemen--one by force of intellect, and

the other by force of industry. They both went through their little

goes and other goes with sufficient zeal, up to that important day

on which the great go of all was to be undergone. They both belonged

to the same debating society at Oxford, and though they thought very

differently on most important subjects, they remained, with some few

temporary interruptions, fast friends through their four years of

Oxford residence.

There were periods when the Balliol man was considered by his friends

to run a better chance of academical success than his brighter cousin

at Trinity. Wilkinson worked hard during his three first years, and

Bertram did not. The style of mind, too, of the former was the more

adapted to win friends at Oxford. In those days the Tracts were new,

and read by everybody, and what has since been called Puseyism was in

its robust infancy. Wilkinson proclaimed himself, while yet little

more than a boy, to be an admirer of poor Froude and a follower of

Newman. Bertram, on the other hand, was unsparing in his ridicule

of the "Remains," set himself in full opposition to the Sewells,

and came out as a poet--successfully, as far as the Newdegate was

concerned--in direct opposition to Keble and Faber.

For three years Wilkinson worked hard and regularly; but the _éclat_

attending on his success somewhat injured him. In his fourth year,

or, at any rate, in the earlier part of it, he talked more than he

read, and gave way too much to the delights of society--too much, at

least, for one who was so poor, and to whom work was so necessary. He

could not keep his position by dint of genius, as Bertram might do;

consequently, though he was held to have taken honours in taking his

degree, he missed the high position at which he had aimed; and on the

day which enabled him to write himself bachelor of arts, he was in

debt to the amount of a couple of hundred pounds, a sum which it was

of course utterly out of his power to pay, and nearly as far out of

the power of his father.

It had always been Bertram's delight to study in such a manner that

men should think he did not study. There was an affectation in this,

perhaps not uncommon to men of genius, but which was deleterious to

his character--as all affectations are. It was, however, the fact,

that during the last year before his examination, he did study hard.

There was a set round him at his college among whom he was esteemed

as a great man--a little sect of worshippers, who looked for their

idol to do great things; and it was a point of honour with them to

assist this pretence of his. They gloried in Bertram's idleness; told

stories, not quite veracious, of his doings at wine-parties; and

proved, to the satisfaction of admiring freshmen, that he thought of

nothing but his horse and his boating. He could do without study more

than any other man could do with it; and as for that plodding Balliol

hero, he might look to be beaten out of the field without an effort.

The Balliol men had been very confident in their hero up to the last

half-year; but then they began to doubt. Poor Wilkinson was beaten by

his rival out of the field, though, probably, not without an effort.

We may say that no man ever gets a double-first in anything without

an effort. But be that as it may, Wilkinson was sitting alone, a very

unhappy man, in his rooms at Balliol, while Bertram was being fêted

to his heart's content at Trinity.

It is a grievous thing to have to write home to one's father, and to

say that one has failed when that father has so anxiously longed for

success. Arthur Wilkinson would have been a made man for life--made

according to the making which both his father and himself at that

time thought the most desirable--if his name had but appeared in

that first-class list. A double-first his father had not hoped for;

but, in resolving not to hope for it, he had consoled himself with

thinking that the hopes which he did form were the more certain of

success;--and then there would always be that further chance of

happiness in store. But now Arthur Wilkinson had to tell his father

that he was neither first nor double-first. His degree was very

respectable for a man who had not looked for much, for one who had

not been talked of in high places; but it was not respectable for

Wilkinson of Balliol.

Væ victis! He was indeed unhappy as he sat there alone, meditating

how he would frame his letter. There were no telegraphs or telegrams

in those days, and it behoved him to write. If he did not, his father

would be at Oxford before the next night was over. How should he

write? Would it not be better to write to his mother? And then what

should he do, or what should he say, about that accursed debt?

His pen and ink and paper were on the table, and he had got into his

chair for the purpose. There he had been for some half-hour, but

still not a word was written; and his chair had somehow got itself

dragged round to the fire. He was thus sitting when he heard a loud

knock at his outer door.

"Come; open the door," said Bertram's voice, "I know you are there."

Wilkinson still sat silent. He had not seen Bertram since the lists

had come out, and he could hardly make up his mind whether he could

speak to him or no.

"I know you're there, and I'll have the door down if you don't

open it. There's nobody with me," shouted the manly voice of his

triumphant friend.

Slowly Wilkinson got up and undid the lock. He tried to smile as he

opened the door; but the attempt was a failure. However, he could

still speak a few words, heavy as his heart was.

"I have to congratulate you," said he to Bertram, "and I do it with

all my heart."

There was very little heart in the tone in which this was spoken; but

then, what could be expected?

"Thank'ee, old fellow, I'm sure you do. Come, Wilkinson, give us your

hand. It's better to have it all out at once. I wish you'd had more

luck, and there's an end of it. It's all luck, you know."

"No, it's not," said Wilkinson, barely able to suppress the tears.

"Every bit of it. If a chap gets a headache, or a fit of the colic,

it's all up with him. Or if he happens to have been loose as to some

pet point of the examiners, it's all up with him. Or if he has taken

a fad into his head, and had a pet point of his own, it's all up with

him then, too, generally. But it will never do, Wilkinson, to boody

over these things. Come, let you and I be seen walking together;

you'll get over it best in that way. We'll go over to Parker's, and

I'll stand a lunch. We'll find Gerard, and Madden, and Twisleton

there. Twisleton's so disgusted at getting a fourth. He says he won't

take it, and swears he'll make them let him go out in the ruck."

"He's got as much as he thought he'd get, at any rate, and therefore

he can't be unhappy."

"Unhappy! who's unhappy? Nonsense, my dear fellow. Shy all that to

the dogs. Come, let's go over to Parker's; we shall find Harcourt

there. You know he's up, don't you?"

"No; and I had rather not meet him just at present."

"My dear fellow, you must get over that."

"That's all very well for you, who have got nothing to get over."

"And have I never had anything to get over? I'll tell you what it is;

I've come here to prevent you from moping, and I don't mean to leave

you. So, you see, you may as well come with me at first."

With some little hesitation, Wilkinson made his friend understand

that he had not yet written home, and that he could not go out till

he had done so.

"Then I'll give you ten minutes to write your letter; it can't

possibly take you more, not even if you put into it my love to my

aunt and cousins."

"I cannot do it while you are here."

"Nonsense! gammon! You shall do it while I'm here. I'll not allow you

to make yourself a miserable ass all for nothing. Come, write. If

it's not written in ten minutes, I'll write it;" and so saying, he

took up a play of Aristophanes wherewith to amuse himself, by way of

light reading, after the heavy work of the week.

Poor Wilkinson again drew his chair to the table, but his heart was

very heavy. Væ victis!

CHAPTER II.

BREAKFAST AND LUNCH.

Wilkinson took the pen in his hand and bent himself over the paper

as though he were going to write; but not an ink-mark fell upon the

paper. How should he write it? The task might have been comparatively

light to him but for that dreadful debt. Bertram in the meantime

tossed over the pages of his book, looking every now and then at his

watch; and then turning sharply round, he exclaimed, "Well!"

"I wish you'd leave me," said Wilkinson; "I'd rather be alone."

"May I be doomed to live and die a don if I do; which style of life,

next to that of an English bishop, I look on as the most contemptible

in the world. The Queen's royal beef-eaters come next; but that, I

think, I could endure, as their state of do-nothingness is not so

absolute a quantity. Come; how far have you got? Give me the paper,

and I'll write you a letter in no time."

"Thank you; I'd rather write my own letter."

"That's just what I want you to do, but you won't;" and then again

he turned for two minutes to the "Frogs." "Well--you see you don't

write. Come, we'll both have a try at it, and see who'll have done

first. I wonder whether my father is expecting a letter from me?"

And, so saying, he seized hold of pen and paper and began to write.

My dearest Father,

This weary affair is over at last. You will be sorry to

hear that the event is not quite as well as it might have

been as far as I am concerned. I had intended to be a

first, and, lo! I am only a second. If my ambition had

been confined to the second class, probably I might have

come out a first. I am very sorry for it, chiefly for your

sake; but in these days no man can count on the highest

honours as a certainty. As I shall be home on Tuesday, I

won't say any more. I can't give you any tidings about the

fellowships yet. Bertram has had his old luck again. He

sends his love to mamma and the girls.

Your very affectionate son,

ARTHUR WILKINSON.

"There, scribble that off; it will do just as well as anything else."

Poor Wilkinson took the paper, and having read it, to see that it

contained no absurdity, mechanically copied the writing. He merely

added one phrase, to say that his friend's "better luck" consisted

in his being the only double-first of his year, and one short

postscript, which he took good care that Bertram should not see; and

then he fastened his letter and sent it to the post.

"Tell mamma not to be very unhappy." That was the postscript which he

added.

That letter was very anxiously expected at the vicarage of Hurst

Staple. The father was prepared to be proud of his successful son;

and the mother, who had over and over again cautioned him not to

overwork himself, was anxious to know that his health was good. She

had but little fear as to his success; her fear was that he should

come home thin, pale, and wan.

Just at breakfast-time the postman brought the letter, and the

youngest girl running out on to the gravel brought it up to her

expectant father.

"It is from Arthur," said she; "isn't it, papa? I'm sure I know his

handwriting."

The vicar, with a little nervousness, opened it, and in half a minute

the mother knew that all was not right.

"Is he ill?" said she; "do tell me at once."

"Ill! no; he's not ill."

"Well, what is it? He has not lost his degree?"

"He has not been plucked, papa, has he?" said Sophia.

"Oh, no; he has got his degree--a second in classics!--that's all;"

and he threw the letter over to his wife as he went on buttering his

toast.

"He'll be home on Tuesday," said Mary, the eldest girl, looking over

her mother's shoulder.

"And so George is a double-first," said Mrs. Wilkinson.

"Yes," said the vicar, with his mouth full of toast; not evincing any

great satisfaction at the success of his late pupil.

When the mother read the short postscript her heart was touched, and

she put her handkerchief up to her face.

"Poor Arthur! I am sure it has not been his own fault."

"Mamma, has George done better than Arthur?" said one of the younger

girls. "George always does do better, I think; doesn't he?"

"He has made himself too sure of it," said the father, in almost

an angry tone. Not that he was angry; he was vexed, rather, as he

would be if his wheat crop failed, or his potatoes did not come up

properly.

But he felt no sympathy with his son. It never occurred to him to

think of the agony with which those few lines had been written; of

the wretchedness of the young heart which had hoped so much and

failed so greatly; of the misery which the son felt in disappointing

the father. He was a good, kind parent, who spent his long days and

longer nights in thinking of his family and their welfare; he would,

too, have greatly triumphed in the triumph of his son; but it went

beyond his power of heart to sympathize with him in his misery.

"Do not seem to be vexed with him when he comes home," said the

mother.

"Vexed with him! you mean angry. Of course, I'm not angry. He has

done his best, I suppose. It's unlucky, that's all."

And then the breakfast was continued in silence.

"I don't know what he's to do," said the father, after awhile; "he'll

have to take a curacy, I suppose."

"I thought he meant to stop up at Oxford and take pupils," said Mary.

"I don't know that he can get pupils now. Besides, he'll not have a

fellowship to help him."

"Won't he get a fellowship at all, papa?"

"Very probably not, I should think." And then the family finished

their meal in silence.

It certainly is not pleasant to have one's hopes disappointed; but

Mr. Wilkinson was hardly just in allowing himself to be so extremely

put about by his son's failure in getting the highest honours. Did

he remember what other fathers feel when their sons are plucked? or,

did he reflect that Arthur had, at any rate, done much better than

nineteen out of every twenty young men that go up to Oxford? But then

Mr. Wilkinson had a double cause for grief. Had George Bertram failed

also, he might perhaps have borne it better.

As soon as the letter had been written and made up, Wilkinson

suffered himself to be led out of the room.

"And now for Parker's," said Bertram; "you will be glad to see

Harcourt."

"Indeed, I shall not. Harcourt's all very well; but just at present,

I would much rather see nobody."

"Well, then, he'll be glad to see you; and that will be quite the

same thing. Come along."

Mr. Harcourt was a young barrister but lately called to the bar, who

had been at Oxford spending his last year when Bertram and Wilkinson

were freshmen; and having been at Bertram's college, he had been

intimate with both of them. He was now beginning to practise, and men

said that he was to rise in the world. In London he was still a very

young man; but at Oxford he was held to be one who, from his three

years' life in town, had become well versed in the world's ways. He

was much in the habit of coming to Oxford, and when there usually

spent a good deal of his time with George Bertram.

And so Wilkinson walked forth into the street arm and arm with his

cousin. It was a grievous trial to him; but he had a feeling within

him that the sooner the sorrow was encountered the sooner it would

be over. They turned into the High Street, and as they went they met

crowds of men who knew them both. Of course it was to be expected

that Bertram's friends should congratulate him. But this was not the

worst; some of them were so ill advised as to condole with Wilkinson.

"Get it over at once," whispered Bertram to him, "and then it will be

over, now and for ever."

And then they arrived at Parker's, and there found all those whom

Bertram had named, and many others. Mr. Parker was, it is believed,

a pastrycook by trade; but he very commonly dabbled in more piquant

luxuries than jam tarts or Bath buns. Men who knew what was what, and

who were willing to pay--or to promise to pay--for their knowledge,

were in the habit of breakfasting there, and lunching. Now a

breakfast or a lunch at Parker's generally meant champagne.

Harcourt was seated on the table when they got into the back room,

and the other men were standing.

"Sound the timbrels, beat the drums;

See the conqu'ring hero comes,"

he sung out as Bertram entered the room. "Make way for the

double-first--the hero of the age, gentlemen! I am told that they

mean to put up an alabaster statue to him in the Common Room at

Trinity. However, I will vote for nothing more expensive than

marble."

"Make it in pie-crust," said Bertram, "and let Parker be the artist."

"Yes; and we'll celebrate the installation with champagne and _paté

de foie gras_," said Twisleton.

"And afterwards devour the object of our idolatry, to show how

short-lived is the fame for which we work so hard," said Madden.

"I should be delighted at such tokens of your regard, gentlemen.

Harcourt, you haven't seen Wilkinson."

Harcourt turned round and shook hands warmly with his other friend.

"Upon my word, I did not see you, Master Wilkinson. You have such a

habit of hiding yourself under a bushel that one always misses you.

Well; so the great day is over, and the great deed done. It's a bore

out of the way, trampled under foot and got rid of; that's my idea of

a degree."

Wilkinson merely smiled; but Harcourt saw at once that he was a

deeply-disappointed man. The barrister, however, was too much a man

of the world either to congratulate him or condole with him.

"There are fewer firsts this year than there have been for the

last nine years," said Gerard, thinking to soften the asperity of

Wilkinson's position.

"That may be because the examiners required more, or because the men

had less to give," said Madden, forgetting all about Wilkinson.

"Why, what noodles you are," said Bertram, "not to know that it's all

settled by chance at roulette the night before the lists come down!

If it's not, it ought to be. The average result would be just as

fair. Come, Harcourt, I know that you, with your Temple experiences,

won't drink Oxford wine; but your good nature will condescend to

see the children feeding. Wilkinson, sit opposite there and give

Twisleton some of that pie that he was talking of." And so they sat

down to their banquet; and Harcourt, in spite of the refinement which

London had doubtless given to his taste, seemed perfectly able to

appreciate the flavour of the University vintage.

"Gentlemen, silence for one moment," said Harcourt, when the graver

work of eating began to lull, and men torpidly peeled their pears,

and then cut them up into shapes instead of eating them. "It is

always said at all the breakfasts I go to--"

"This is not a breakfast," said Bertram, "it's a lunch."

"Well, all the lunches, then; and God bless you. It's always said at

these matutinal meals--which, by-the-by, would be the nicest things

in the world, only one doesn't know what on earth to do when they're

over."

"It's time to go to dinner then," said Twisleton.

"That may do for the '_dura ilia_' of a freshman, but now that you're

a B.A., you'll find that that power fails you greatly. But, for

heaven's sake, let me go on with my speech, or you'll not get away

either to dinner or to supper. It is commonly declared, I say,

that there should be no speaking at these delicious little morning

repasts."

"Do you call that a little repast?" said Madden, who was lying back

in his chair with a cigar in his mouth, of which he hardly had

strength enough left to puff out the smoke.

"I mean no offence to the feed, which, of its kind, has been only

too good. If I'm to be allowed to go on, I'll say, that this rule,

which is always laid down, is always broken; and therefore I feel

no hesitation in breaking it on this occasion. A long speech is a

long bore, and a little speech is a little bore; but bores must

be endured. We can't do very well without them. Now my bore shall

be a very short bore if I'm allowed to make an end of it without

interruption."

"All right, Harcourt," said Bertram. "Go ahead; we're only too

delighted to hear you. It isn't every day we have a London barrister

here."

"No; and it isn't every day that we have a double-first at old

Trinity. Gentlemen, there are, I think, five, six Trinity men here

including myself. It will be a point of honour with you to drink

health and prosperity to our friend Bertram with all the honours.

We have many men of whom we can boast at Trinity; but if I have any

insight into character, any power of judging what a man will do"--it

must be remembered that Mr. Harcourt, though a very young man in

London, was by no means a young man at Oxford--"there have been very

few before him who have achieved a higher place than will fall to his

lot, or whose name will be more in men's mouths than his. There are

also here four gentlemen of other colleges; they will not, I am sure,

begrudge us our triumph; they are his old friends, and will be as

proud of the Oxford man as we are of the Trinity man. Gentlemen, here

is prosperity to our friend the double-first, and health to enjoy the

fruits of his labour."

Whereupon the toast was drunk with a great deal of fervour. It was

astonishing that ten men should make so much uproar; even Wilkinson,

whose heart the wine had just touched sufficiently to raise it a

little from the depth to which it had fallen--even he cheered; and

Madden, overcoming by degrees his not unnatural repugnance to rise,

produced from certain vast depths a double-bass hurrah.

"Bertram," said he, when the voices and glasses were once more

silent, "you're a credit to your college, and I've a regard for you;

so I don't mind running the risk for once. But I must beg that I may

not be asked to repeat it."

Bertram of course returned thanks to his guests with all the mawkish

modesty which usually marks such speeches--or, rather, with modesty

which would be mawkish were it not so completely a matter of course.

And then he sat down; and then, with a face rather heightened in

colour, he got upon his legs again.

"In spite of Madden's difficulty of utterance," said he, "and his

very visible disinclination to move--"

"I'm not going to do any more shouting," said Madden, "even though

you propose the health of the chancellor, vice-chancellor, and two

members."

"Not even though he throws the proctor's into the bargain," said

Twisleton.

"You may shout or not as you like; but at the risk of giving some

temporary pain to as good a friend as I have in the world, I will ask

you to drink the health of one whom on this occasion fortune has not

favoured--I mean my cousin, Arthur Wilkinson. The lists as they come

down are, I dare say, made out with tolerable fairness. It is not at

any rate for me to grumble at them. But of this I am quite sure, that

did there exist some infallible test for finding out the best man,

no man's name in this year would have been placed before his. He is

not so jovial as the rest of us now, because he has partly failed;

but the time will come when he will not fail." And then Arthur

Wilkinson's health was toasted with a somewhat bated enthusiasm, but

still with sufficient _éclat_ to make every glass in Mr. Parker's

house ring on its shelf.

Poor Wilkinson's ears tingled when he heard his name pronounced; and

he would at the moment have given anything to be allowed to be quiet.

But it may be doubted whether he would not have been more hurt had he

been left there without any notice. It is very hard to tune oneself

aright to a disappointed man. "I'll break the ice for him, at any

rate," said Bertram to himself. "When he's used to talk about it, he

will suffer less."

Wilkinson had been accounted a good hand at speaking in the debating

society, and though rather more prolix than Bertram, and not quite

so vivacious, had been considered almost more than a match for his

cousin on account of his superior erudition and more practised

delivery; but now his voluble gift of words deserted him. "He was

much obliged to them," he said; "though perhaps, on the whole, it was

better that men who placed themselves in a mediocre condition should

be left to their mediocrity. He had no doubt himself of the justness

of the lists. It would be useless for him to say that he had not

aspired; all the world"--it was all the world to him--"knew too

well that he had aspired. But he had received a lesson which might

probably be useful to him for the rest of his life. As for failing,

or not failing, that depended on the hopes which a man might form for

himself. He trusted that his would henceforth be so moderate in their

nature as to admit of a probability of their being realized." Having

uttered these very lugubrious words, and almost succeeded in throwing

a wet blanket over the party, he sat down.

"Now, you're not going to do anybody else, are you?" said Madden.

"Only Twisleton, and Gerard, and Hopgood," answered Bertram; "and

Fortescue looks as if he expected it. Perhaps, however, he'll let us

off till the day after to-morrow."

And then, with a round of milk punch, another cigar apiece, and a

little more chat, the party broke up.

Bertram and Harcourt remained together, and Bertram endeavoured to

induce Wilkinson to stay with them. He, however, wished to be alone,

and got home to his college by himself.

"You always overrated that man," said Harcourt.

"I think not; but time will show. After all, a good degree is not

everything in the world. Who in London cares about senior wranglers

and double-firsts? When all is done, I don't see the use of it."

"Nobody cares much about wranglers and double-firsts; but these are

the men, nevertheless, who get the best of what's going. Wood that

will swim in one water will swim in all waters."

"You'll find Wilkinson will swim yet."

"That is, he won't sink. I don't say he will. Nine-tenths of the men

in the world neither swim nor sink; they just go along with their

bows above the wave, but dreadfully water-logged, barely able to

carry the burdens thrown on them; but yet not absolutely sinking;

fighting a hard fight for little more than mere bread, and forgetting

all other desires in their great desire to get that. When such a man

does get bread, he can't be said to sink."

"Ah! Wilkinson will do more than that."

"Something more, or something less, as the case may be. But, believe

me, he is not the man to make other men fall before him. Industry

alone never does that, and certainly not that sort of industry

which breaks down once in every six months. But come, Mr. Parker's

champagne makes my head buzz: let us take a walk up the river;

Twisleton's idea of going to dinner requires far too much pluck for

me."

And so they walked out along the towing-path, discussing many things

of much importance to them.

"There is a tide in the affairs of men

Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune."

In nine cases out of ten, this flood-tide comes _but_ once in life,

and then in early years. A man may have a second or a third chance

for decent maintenance, but hardly a second chance for fortune's

brighter favours. The horse that is to win the race needs not make

all his best running at once; but he that starts badly will rarely do

so. When a young man discusses what shall be his future walk in life,

he is talking of all that concerns his success as far as this world

is concerned. And it is so hard for a youth to know, to make even

a fair guess, as to what his own capacities are! The right man is

wanted in the right place; but how is a lad of two and twenty to

surmise what place will be right for him? And yet, if he surmises

wrong, he fails in taking his tide at its single flood. How many

lawyers are there who should have been soldiers! how many clergymen

who should have been lawyers! how many unsuccessful doctors who might

have done well on 'Change, or in Capel Court!

Bertram had an inkling of this; and Harcourt had more than an

inkling. His path in life was chosen, and he had much self-confidence

that he had chosen it well. He had never doubted much, and since he

had once determined had never doubted at all. He had worked hard, and

was prepared to work hard; not trusting over much in his own talents,

but trusting greatly in his own industry. But Bertram, with double

his friend's genius, had, at any rate as yet, but little of his

friend's stability. To him the world was all before him where to

choose; but he was sadly in want of something that should guide his

choice. He had a high, but at the same time a vague ambition. The

law, the church, letters, art, and politics all enticed him; but

he could not decide of which mistress the blandishments were the

sweetest.

"Well, when shall we have you up in London?" said Harcourt.

"In London! I don't know that I shall go to London. I shall go down

to Hadley for a few weeks of course"--Bertram's uncle lived at the

village of that name, in the close vicinity of Barnet--"but what I

shall do then, I don't in the least know."

"But I know you'll come to London and begin to keep your terms."

"What, at the Middle Temple?"

"At some Temple or some Inn: of course you won't go where anybody

else goes; so probably it will be Gray's Inn."

"No, I shall probably do a much more commonplace thing; come back

here and take orders."

"Take orders! You! You can no more swallow the thirty-nine articles

than I can eat Twisleton's dinner."

"A man never knows what he can do till he tries. A great deal of

good may be done by a clergyman if he be in earnest and not too much

wedded to the Church of England. I should have no doubt about it if

the voluntary principle were in vogue."

"A voluntary fiddlestick!"

"Well, even a voluntary fiddlestick--if it be voluntary and well

used."

"Of course you'll be a barrister. It is what you are cut out for, and

what you always intended."

"It is the most alluring trade going, I own;--but then they are all

such rogues. Of course you will be an exception."

"I shall do at Rome as Romans do--I hope always. My doctrine is, that

we have no immutable law of right and wrong."

"A very comfortable code. I wish I could share it."

"Well, you will some of these days; indeed, you do now practically.

But the subject is too long to talk of here. But as I know you won't

go into the church, I expect to see you settled in London before

Christmas."

"What am I to live on, my dear fellow?"

"Like all good nephews, live on your uncle. Besides, you will have

your fellowship; live on that, as I do."

"You have more than your fellowship; and as for my uncle, to tell you

the truth, I have no fancy for living on him. I am not quite sure

that he doesn't mean me to think that it's charity. However, I shall

have the matter out with him now."

"Have the matter out with him!--and charity! What an ass you are! An

uncle is just the same as a father."

"My uncle is not the same to me as my father."

"No; and by all accounts it's lucky for you that he is not. Stick to

your uncle, my dear fellow, and come up to London. The ball will be

at your foot."

"Did you ever read Marryat's novel, Harcourt?"

"What, Peter Simple?"

"No, that other one: I think of going out as another Japhet in search

of a father. I have a great anxiety to know what mine's like. It's

fourteen years now since I saw him."

"He is at Teheran, isn't he?"

"At Hong Kong, I think, just at present; but I might probably catch

him at Panama; he has something to do with the isthmus there."

"You wouldn't have half the chance that Japhet had, and would only

lose a great deal of time. Besides, if you talk of means, that would

want money."

They were now walking back towards Oxford, and had been talking about

fifty indifferent subjects, when Bertram again began.

"After all, there's only one decent career for a man in England."

"And what is the one decent career?"

"Politics and Parliament. It's all very well belonging to a free

nation, and ruling oneself, if one can be one of the rulers.

Otherwise, as far as I can see, a man will suffer less from the

stings of pride under an absolute monarch. There, only one man has

beaten you in life; here, some seven hundred and fifty do so,--not to

talk of the peers."

"Yes, but then a fellow has some chance of being one of the seven

hundred and fifty."

"I shall go in for that, I think; only who the deuce will return me?

How does a man begin? Shall I send my compliments to the electors of

Marylebone, and tell them that I am a very clever fellow?"

"Exactly; only do something first to show that you are so. I mean

also to look to that; but I shall be well contented if I find myself

in the house in twenty years' time,--or perhaps in thirty."

"Ah, you mean as a lawyer."

"How else should a man without property get into Parliament?"

"That's just what I want to know. But I have no idea, Harcourt, of

waiting twenty years before I make my start in life. A man at any

rate may write a book without any electors."

"Yes, but not have it read. The author who does any good must be

elected by suffrages at least as honestly obtained as those of a

member of Parliament."

CHAPTER III.

THE NEW VICAR.

Poor Arthur Wilkinson was in a very unhappy frame of mind when he

left the party at Parker's, and, indeed, as he went to bed that night

he was in a state not to be envied; but, nevertheless, when the end

of the week came, he was able to enter the parsonage with a cheerful

step, and to receive his mother's embrace with a smiling face. God

is good to us, and heals those wounds with a rapidity which seems to

us impossible when we look forward, but which is regarded with very

insufficient wonder when we look backward.

Before he left Oxford he had seen the head of his college and the

tutor; and had also felt himself bound to visit the tradesmen in

whose black books he was written down as a debtor. None of these

august persons made themselves so dreadful to him as he had expected.

The master, indeed, was more than civil--was almost paternally kind,

and gave him all manner of hope, which came as balm poured into

his sick heart. Though he had failed, his reputation and known

acquirements would undoubtedly get him pupils; and then, if he

resided, he might probably even yet have a college fellowship,

though, no doubt, not quite immediately. The master advised him to

take orders, and to remain within the college as long as the rules

permitted. If he should get his fellowship, they would all be

delighted to have him as one of their body; there could--so thought

the master--be no doubt that he might in the meantime maintain

himself at the University by his pupils. The tutor was perhaps not

quite so encouraging. He was a working man himself, and of a harder

temperament than his head. He thought that Wilkinson should have

got a first, that he had owed it to his college to do so, and that,

having failed to pay his debt, he should not be received with open

arms--at any rate just at first. He was therefore cool, but not

generous. "Yes; I am sorry too; it is a pity," was all he said when

Wilkinson expressed his own grief. But even this was not so bad as

Arthur had expected, and on the whole he left his college with a

lightened heart.

Nor were his creditors very obdurate. They did not smile so sweetly

on him as they would have done had his name been bruited down the

High Street as that of a successful University pet. Had such been his

condition, they would have begged him not to distress their ears by

anything so unnecessarily mundane as the mention of his very small

account. All that they would have wanted of him would have been the

continuation of his favours. As it was, they were very civil. Six

months would do very well. Oh! he could not quite undertake to pay it

in six months, but would certainly do so by instalments in two years.

Two years was a long time, certainly; would not Mr. Wilkinson senior

prefer some quicker arrangement? Oh! Mr. Wilkinson senior could do

nothing! Ah! that was unfortunate! And so the arrangement for two

years--with interest, of course--was accepted. And thus Mr. Wilkinson

junior began the swimming-match of life, as so many others do, with a

slight millstone round his neck. Well; it may be questioned whether

even that is not better than an air-puffed swimming-belt.

When he got home, his mother and sisters hung about him as they

always had done, and protected him in some measure from the cold

serenity of the vicar. To his father he said little on the subject,

and his father said as little to him. They talked, indeed, by the

hour as to the future; and Arthur, in spite of his having resolved

not to do so, told the whole story of his debts, and of his

arrangement for their payment.

"Perhaps I could do something in the spring," said Mr. Wilkinson.

"Indeed, father, you shall do nothing," said the son. "I had enough,

and should have lived on it; as I did not, I must live the closer

now." And so that matter was settled.

In a very few days Arthur found himself going into society with quite

a gay heart. His sisters laughed at him because he would not dance;

but he had now made up his mind for the church, and it would, he

thought, be well for him to begin to look to those amusements which

would be befitting his future sacerdotal life. He practised singing,

therefore, fasted on Fridays, and learnt to make chessmen with a

lathe.

But though his sisters laughed at him, Adela Gauntlet, the daughter

of the neighbouring vicar at West Putford, did not laugh. She so

far approved that by degrees she almost gave over dancing herself.

Waltzes and polkas she utterly abandoned; and though she did

occasionally stand up for a quadrille, she did it in a very

lack-a-daisical way, as though she would have refused that also had

she dared to make herself so peculiar. And thus on the whole Arthur

Wilkinson enjoyed himself that winter, in spite of his blighted

prospects, almost as well as he had on any previous winter that he

remembered.

Now and again, as he walked along the little river bank that ran with

so many turnings from Hurst Staple down to West Putford, he would

think of his past hopes, and lament that he could talk of them to

no one. His father was very good to him; but he was too cold for

sympathy. His mother was all affection, and kindly suggested that,

perhaps, what had happened was for the best: she kindly suggested

this more than once, but her imagination carried her no further. Had

she not four daughters, hitherto without husbands, and also, alas!

without portions? Was it not enough for her to sympathize with them?

As for his sisters--his sisters were well enough--excellent girls;

but they were so gay, so light-hearted, so full of fun and laughter,

that he could not talk to them of his sorrows. They were never

pensive, nor given to that sober sadness which is prone to sympathy.

If, indeed, Adela Gauntlet had been his sister--! And so he walked

along the river to West Putford.

He had now fully made up his mind to go into the church. While yet

thinking of high academical honours, and the brighter paths of

ambition, he also had dreamed of the bar. All young men I believe

do, who have high abilities, a taste for labour, and scanty fortune.

Senior wranglers and double-firsts, when not possessed of means for

political life, usually find their way to the bar. It is on the bench

of judges, not on the bench of bishops, that we must look for them in

after life. Arthur, therefore, had thought of the joys of a Chancery

wig, and had looked forward eagerly to fourteen hours' daily labour

in the purlieus of Lincoln's Inn. But when, like many another, he

found himself disappointed in his earliest hopes, he consoled himself

by thinking that after all the church was the safer haven. And when

he walked down to West Putford there was one there who told him that

it was so.

But we cannot follow him too closely in these early days. He did go

into the church. He did take pupils at Oxford, and went abroad with

two of them in the long vacation. After the lapse of the year, he did

get his fellowship; and had by that time, with great exertion, paid

half of that moiety of his debt which he had promised to liquidate.

This lapse in his purposed performance sat heavy on his clerical

conscience; but now that he had his fellowship he would do better.

And so somewhat more than a year passed away, during which he was but

little at Hurst Staple, and very little at West Putford. But still he

remembered the sweetly-pensive brow that had suited so well with his

own feelings; and ever and again, he heard from one of the girls at

home, that that little fool, Adela Gauntlet, was as bad as a parson

herself, and that now she had gone so far that nothing would induce

her to dance at all.

So matters stood when young Wilkinson received at Oxford a letter

desiring his instant presence at home. His father had been stricken

by paralysis, and the house was in despair. He rushed off, of course,

and arrived only in time to see his father alive. Within twenty-four

hours after his return he found himself the head of a wailing family,

of whom it would be difficult to say whether their wants or their

griefs were most heartrending. Mr. Wilkinson's life had been insured

for six hundred pounds; and that, with one hundred a year which

had been settled on the widow, was now the sole means left for the

maintenance of her and her five children;--the sole means excepting

such aid as Arthur might give.

"Let us thank God that I have got the fellowship," said he to his

mother. "It is not much, but it will keep us from starving."

But it was not destined that the Wilkinsons should be reduced even to

such poverty as this. The vicarage of Hurst Staple was in the gift of

the noble family of Stapledean. The late vicar had been first tutor

and then chaplain to the marquis, and the vicarage had been conferred

on him by his patron. In late years none of the Wilkinsons had seen

anything of the Stapledean family. The marquis, though not an old

man, was reported to be very eccentric, and very cross. Though he had

a beautiful seat in the neighbourhood--not in the parish of Hurst

Staple, but in that of Deans Staple, which adjoins, and which was

chiefly his property--he never came to it, but lived at a much less

inviting mansion in the north of Yorkshire. Here he was said to

reside quite alone, having been separated from his wife; whereas,

his children had separated themselves from him. His daughters were

married, and his son, Lord Stanmore, might more probably be found

under any roof in the country than that of his father.

The living had now to be given away by the marquis, and the Wilkinson

family, who of late years had had no communication with him, did

not even think of thinking of it. But a fortnight after the funeral,

Arthur received a letter with the postmark of Bowes on it, which, on

being opened, was found to be from Lord Stapledean, and which very

curtly requested his attendance at Bowes Lodge. Now Bowes Lodge was

some three hundred miles from Hurst Staple, and a journey thither

at the present moment would be both expensive and troublesome. But

marquises are usually obeyed; especially when they have livings to

give away, and when their orders are given to young clergymen. So

Arthur Wilkinson went off to the north of England. It was the middle

of March, and the east wind was blowing bitterly. But at twenty-four

the east wind does not penetrate deep, the trachea is all but

invulnerable, and the left shoulder knows no twinges.

Arthur arrived at the cold, cheerless village of Bowes with a red

nose, but with eager hopes. He found a little inn there, but he

hardly knew whether to leave his bag or no. Lord Stapledean had said

nothing of entertaining him at the Lodge--had only begged him, if it

were not too much trouble, to do him the honour of calling on him.

He, living on the northern borders of Westmoreland, had asked a man

in Hampshire to call on him, as though their houses were in adjacent

streets; but he had said nothing about a dinner, a bed, or given any

of those comfortable hints which seem to betoken hospitality.

"It will do no harm if I put my bag into the gig," said Arthur; and

so, having wisely provided for contingencies, he started for Bowes

Lodge.

Wisely, as regarded probabilities, but quite uselessly as regarded

the event! Hardy as he was, that drive in the gig from Bowes did

affect him unpleasantly. That Appleby road has few sheltered spots,

and when about three miles from Bowes he turned off to the right, the

country did not improve. Bowes Lodge he found to be six miles from

the village, and when he drove in at the gate he was colder than he

had been since he left Hurst Staple.

There was very little that was attractive about the house or grounds.

They were dark and sombre, and dull and dingy. The trees were all

stunted, and the house, of which half the windows were closed, was

green with the effects of damp. It was large enough for the residence

of a nobleman of moderate pretensions; but it had about it none of

that spruce, clean, well-cared-for appearance which is common to the

country-houses of the wealthy in England.

When he descended from the gig he thought that he might as well leave

his bag there. The sombre-looking servant in black clothes who opened

the door made no inquiry on the subject; and, therefore, he merely

told his Jehu to drive into the yard and wait for further orders.

His lordship was at home, said the sombre, dingy servant, and in

half a minute Arthur found himself in the marquis's study and in the

marquis's presence, with his nose all red and moist, his feet in an

agony of cold, his fingers benumbed, and his teeth chattering. He was

barely allowed time to take off his greatcoat, and, as he did so, he

felt almost disinclined to part with so good a friend.

"How do you do, Mr. Wilkinson?" said the marquis, rising from his

chair behind the study table, and putting out the ends of his fingers

so as to touch the young clergyman's hand. "Pray take a seat." And

Arthur seated himself--as, indeed, he had no alternative--on a

straight-backed old horsehair-bottomed chair which stood immediately

under a tall black book-case. He was miles asunder from the fire; and

had he been nearer to it, it would have availed him but little; for

the grate was one of those which our grandfathers cleverly invented

for transmitting all the heat up the chimney.

The marquis was tall, thin, and gray-haired. He was, in fact, about

fifty; but he looked to be at least fifteen years older. It was

evident from his face that he was a discontented, moody, unhappy

man. He was one who had not used the world over well; but who was

quite self-assured that the world had used him shamefully. He was

not without good instincts, and had been just and honest in his

dealings--except in those with his wife and children. But he believed

in the justness and honesty of no one else, and regarded all men as

his enemies--especially those of his own flesh and blood. For the

last ten years he had shut himself up, and rarely appeared in the

world, unless to make some statement, generally personal to himself,

in the House of Lords, or to proffer, in a plaintive whine to his

brother peers, some complaint as to his neighbour magistrates,

to which no one cared to listen, and which in latter years the

newspapers had declined to publish.

Arthur, who had always heard of the marquis as his father's old

pupil, was astonished to see before him a man so aged. His father had

been only fifty-five when he died, and had appeared to be a hale,

strong man. The marquis seemed to be worn out with care and years,

and to be one whose death might be yearly expected. His father,

however, was gone; but the marquis was destined to undergo yet many

more days of misery.

"I was very sorry to hear of your father's sudden death," said Lord

Stapledean, in his cold, thin voice.

"It was very sudden, my lord," said Arthur, shuddering.

"Ah--yes; he was not a prudent man;--always too fond of strong wine."

"He was always a temperate man," said the son, rather disgusted.

"That is, he never got drunk. I dare say not. As a parish clergyman,

it was not likely that he should. But he was an imprudent man in his

manner of living--very."

Arthur remained silent, thinking it better to say nothing further on

the subject.

"I suppose he has not left his family well provided for?"

"Not very well, my lord. There is something--and I have a

fellowship."

"Something!" said the marquis, with almost a sneer. "How much is this

something?" Whereupon Arthur told his lordship exactly the extent of

his mother's means.

"Ah, I thought as much. That is beggary, you know. Your father was a

very imprudent man. And you have a fellowship? I thought you broke

down in your degree." Whereupon Arthur again had to explain the facts

of the case.

"Well, well, well. Now, Mr. Wilkinson, you must be aware that your

family have not the slightest claim upon me."

"Your lordship is also aware that we have made none."

"Of course you have not. It would have been very improper on your

part, or on your mother's, had you done so--very. People make claims

upon me who have been my enemies through life, who have injured me

to the utmost of their power, who have never ceased striving to make

me wretched. Yes, these very people make claims on me. Here--here is

a clergyman asking for this living because he is a friend of Lord

Stanmore--because he went up the Pyramids with him, and encouraged

him in all manner of stupidity. I'd sooner--well, never mind. I

shan't trouble myself to answer this letter." Now, as it happened

that Lord Stanmore was a promising young nobleman, already much

thought of in Parliament, and as the clergyman alluded to was known

by Arthur to be a gentleman very highly reputed, he considered it

best to hold his tongue.

"No one has a claim on me; I allow no one to have such claims. What I

want I pay for, and am indebted for nothing. But I must put some one

into this living."

"Yes; your lordship must of course nominate some one." Wilkinson said

so much, as the marquis had stopped, expecting an answer.

"I can only say this: if the clergymen in Hampshire do their duty

as badly as they do here, the parish would be better off without a

parson."

"I think my father did his duty well."

"Perhaps so. He had very little to do; and as it never suited me to

reside there, there was never any one to look after him. However,

I make no complaint. Here they are intolerable--intolerable,

self-sufficient, impertinent upstarts, full of crotchets of their

own; and the bishop is a weak, timid fool; as for me, I never go

inside a church. I can't; I should be insulted if I did. It has

however gone so far now that I shall take permission to bring the

matter before the House of Lords."

What could Wilkinson say? Nothing. So he sat still and tried to drive

the cold out of his toes by pressing them against the floor.

"Your father certainly ought to have made some better provision,"

continued Lord Stapledean. "But he has not done so; and it seems to

me, that unless something is arranged, your mother and her children

will starve. Now, you are a clergyman?"

"Yes, I am in orders."

"And can hold a living? You distinctly understand that your mother

has no claim on me."

"Surely none has been put forward, Lord Stapledean?"

"I don't say it has; but you may perhaps fancy by what I say that I

myself admit that there is a claim. Mind; I do no such thing. Not in

the least."

"I quite understand what you mean."

"It is well that you should. Under these circumstances, if I had the

power, I would put in a curate, and pay over the extra proceeds of

the living for your mother's maintenance. But I have no such power."

Arthur could not but think that it was very well his lordship had no

such power. If patrons in general were so privileged there would be,

he thought, but little chance for clergymen.

"As the law stands I cannot do that. But as you are luckily in

orders, I can put you in--on this understanding, that you shall

regard the income as belonging rather to your mother and to your

sisters than to yourself."

"If your lordship shall see fit to present me to the living, my

mother and sisters will of course want nothing that I can give them."

"Ah--h--h--h, my young friend! but that will not be sufficient for

me. I must have a pledge from you--your word as a gentleman and a

clergyman, that you take the living on an understanding that the

income is to go to your father's widow. Why should I give you five

hundred pounds a year? Eh? Tell me that. Why should I nominate a

young man like you to such a living? you, whom I never saw in my

life? Tell me that."

Arthur Wilkinson was a man sufficiently meek in spirit, as ordinary

meekness goes--the ordinary meekness, that is, of a young clergyman

of the Church of England--but he was not quite inclined to put up

with this.

"I am obliged, my lord, to say again that I have not asked for so

great a favour from you. Indeed, till I received your letter desiring

me to come here, I had no other thought of the living than that of

vacating the house whenever your nominee should present himself."

"That's all very well," said Lord Stapledean; "but you must be a

very unnatural son if on that account you refuse to be the means of

providing for your unfortunate mother and sisters."

"I refuse! why, my lord, I regard it as much my duty to keep my

mother and sisters from want as my father did. Whether I am to have

this living or no, we shall live together; and whatever I have will

be theirs."

"That's all very well, Mr. Wilkinson; but the question I ask you is

this: if I make you vicar of Hurst Staple, will you, after deducting

a fair stipend for yourself as curate--say one hundred and fifty

pounds a year if you will--will you make over the rest of the income

to your mother as long as she lives?"

This was a question to which Wilkinson found it very difficult to

give a direct answer. He hardly knew whether he would not be guilty

of simony in making such a promise, and he felt that at any rate the

arrangement would be an improper one.

"If you knew," said he, at last, "the terms on which my mother and I

live together, you would perceive that such a promise is not needed."

"I shall not the less think it necessary to exact it. I am putting

great trust in you as it is, very great trust; more so perhaps than

I am justified in doing." His lordship here alluded merely to the

disposition of the vicarial tithes, and not at all to the care of

souls which he was going to put into the young man's hands.

Arthur Wilkinson again sat silent for awhile.

"One would think," said his lordship, "that you would be glad to

have the means of securing your mother from beggary. I imagined that

you would have been in some measure gratified by my--my--my good

intentions towards your family."

"So I am, my lord; so I am. But I doubt whether I should be justified

in giving such a pledge."

"Justified! you will make me almost doubt, Mr. Wilkinson, whether I

shall be justified in putting the living into your hands; but, at any

rate, I must have an answer."

"What time can you allow me to consider my answer?"

"What time! It never struck me that you could require time. Well;

you can let me have your decision to-morrow morning. Send it me in

writing, so that I may have it before ten. The post goes out at

twelve. If I do not hear from you before ten, I shall conclude that

you have refused my offer." And so speaking the marquis got up from

his chair.

Arthur also got up, and promised that he would send a letter over

from Bowes the first thing on the following morning.

"And tell the messenger to wait for an answer," said his lordship;

"and pray express yourself definitely, so that there may be no

doubt." And then, muttering something as to his hope that the inn was

comfortable, and saying that the state of his health prohibited him

from entertaining visitors, the marquis again put out his fingers,

and Arthur soon found himself in the gig on his journey to Bowes.

He intended returning to town on the following day by the

twelve-o'clock mail, of which Lord Stapledean had spoken. But before

that he had a difficult task to perform. He had no friend to consult,

no one of whom he could ask advice, nothing to rely on but his own

head and his own heart. That suggestion as to simony perplexed him.

Had he the right, or could he have it, to appropriate the income of

the living according to terms laid down by the lay impropriator? At

one time he thought of calling on the old clergyman of the parish and

asking him; but then he remembered what the marquis had said of the

neighbouring parsons, and felt that he could not well consult one of

them on any matter in which his lordship was concerned.

In the evening he considered the matter long and painfully, sitting

over a cup of some exquisitely detestable concoction called tea by

the Bowesian landlady. "If he had only left me to myself," thought

Arthur, "I should do at least as much as that for them. It is for

them that I want it; as for myself, I should be more comfortable at

Oxford." And then he thought of West Putford, and Adela Gauntlet.

This arrangement of Lord Stapledean's would entirely prevent the

possibility of his marrying; but then, the burden of his mother and

sisters would prevent that equally under any circumstances.

It would be a great thing for his mother to be left in her old house,

among her old friends, in possession of her old income. As regarded

money, they would all be sufficiently well provided for. For himself,

his fellowship and his prescribed stipend would be more than enough.

But there was something in the proposition that was very distasteful

to him. He did not begrudge the money to his mother; but he did

begrudge her the right of having it from any one but himself.

But yet the matter was of such vital moment. Where else was he to

look for a living? From his college in the course of years he might

get one; but he could get none that would be equal in value to this

of Hurst Staple, and to his fellowship combined. If he should refuse

it, all those whom he loved would in truth suffer great privation;

and that privation would not be rendered more endurable by the

knowledge that such an offer had been refused.

Thus turning the matter over painfully in his mind, he resolved at

last to accept the offer of the marquis. The payment after all was

to be made to his own mother. The funds of the living were not to be

alienated--were not, in truth, to be appropriated otherwise than they

would have been had no such conditions as these been insisted on.

And how would he be able to endure his mother's poverty if he should

throw away on her behalf so comfortable a provision? He determined,

therefore, to accept the goods the gods had provided him, clogged

though they were with alloy, like so many other gifts of fortune;

and accordingly he wrote a letter to Lord Stapledean, in which he

stated "that he would accept the living, subject to the stipulations

named--namely, the payment to his mother, during her life, of three

hundred and fifty pounds per annum out of the tithes." To this he

received an answer from the marquis, very short and very cold, but

nevertheless satisfactory.

The presentation to the living was, in fact, made in his favour, and

he returned home to his family laden with good news. The dear old

vicarage would still be their own; the trees which they had planted,

the flower-beds which they had shaped, the hives which they had put

up, would not go into the hands of strangers. And more than this,

want no longer stared them in the face. Arthur was welcomed back

with a thousand fond caresses, as one is welcomed who bringeth glad

tidings. But yet his heart was sad. What should he now say to Adela

Gauntlet?

CHAPTER IV.

OUR PRIMA DONNA.

When Arthur first explained to his mother the terms on which the

living had been given to him, she refused to receive the income.

No such promise with reference to money matters between mother and

son could be binding. Were they not, moreover, one and the same

household? Would it not be in the end the same if Arthur should keep

the money himself? If it were paid to her, she should only pay it

back again; and so on. But the vicar declared that he would adhere

strictly to his promised engagement; and the mother soon fell into

the way of thinking the arrangement not altogether a bad one. She had

received intimation through the lord's man of business of the exact

steps which had been taken for the relief of her great pecuniary

distress--so the letter was worded--and it was not long before she

regarded the income as fairly her own.

We are so apt to be generous in the hot moments of impulse; but so

equally apt to be only coldly just, even if coldly just, in the long

years of our ordinary existence.

And so the family again settled down; the commenced packings were

again unpacked; the preliminary arrangements for living on a very

small income were thrown to the winds; the pony that was to have been

sold, and which with that object was being fattened up on boiled

barley, was put on his accustomed rations; the old housekeeper's

warning was revoked, as was also that of the old gardener. It was

astonishing how soon the new vicar seemed to fill the old vicar's

shoes in the eyes and minds of the people of Hurst Staple. Had Mr.

Wilkinson come up from his grave at the end of three months, he would

hardly have found that he was missed. A very elegant little tablet

had been placed to his memory; and there apparently was an end of

him. The widow's cap did make some change in the appearance of the

family circle; but it is astonishing how soon we get used even to a

widow's cap!

There had of course been visits of condolence between West Putford

and Hurst Staple, and the Hurst Staple girls and Adela had been as

much, or perhaps more, together than usual. But Arthur's walks along

the river had not been frequent. This, however, was not thought of

by any one. He had had new duties to assume, and old duties to put

off. He had been a fortnight up at Oxford; and when at home, had

been calling on all his parishioners. He had been attending to the

dilapidations of the vicarage, and rearranging the books in the

book-room. The dingy volumes of thirty years since had been made to

give way to the new and brighter bindings which he had brought from

college.

And therefore no one had remarked that he had but once been at West

Putford. But he thought of it himself. He often longed to go thither,

and as often feared to do so. When he next went, it must be to tell

Adela, not that he loved her, but that such love was forbidden to

him.

The family at West Putford consisted only of the vicar and his

daughter. Mrs. Gauntlet had been long dead, and there had been no

other child. A maiden sister of Mr. Gauntlet's occasionally visited

them, and had, indeed, lived there altogether while Adela's education

had required it; but this lady preferred her own lodgings at

Littlebath, and Adela, therefore, was in general the sole mistress of

the parsonage.

I beg my reader not to imagine that there had been love-passages

between Arthur Wilkinson and Adela Gauntlet: nothing of the sort had

occurred. They had known and loved each other as children together,

and now that they were no longer children, they still knew and loved

each other--that was all. It is true that Arthur, when he had wished

to talk of his own disappointments, had found a better listener at

West Putford than any that he could find at Hurst Staple. It is true

that Adela had always been glad to listen to him; that she had had

pleasure in cheering his fainting heart, and telling him that the

work of a soldier of Christ was worthier of a man than the bickerings

of a statesman or the quibbles of a lawyer; that she had gravely, yet

withal so sweetly, spoken to him of the comforts of a rural life, and

made him almost in love with his own failure. Such passages there had

been between them; but Arthur had never taken her hand and sworn that

it must be his own, nor had Adela ever blushed while half refusing to

give him all he asked.

Why then need he trouble himself about West Putford? Why not let

matters rest as they were? Miss Gauntlet would still be his friend;

though seeing that she could never be more, it might not be well

for him to walk so often along that river. As there had been no

love-passages, one would say that nothing else was necessary.

But he could not content himself that this should be so. Adela would

think him strange if he should say nothing to her of his future

prospects. True, he had spoken no word of love, but had he not

looked at her as though it was in his mind to speak such? Was it not

incumbent on him to make her understand why he threw from him such

golden hopes? And then, as to her, he did not flatter himself that

she loved him--at least, not much; but yet it might be well to let

her know that she was now at liberty to love any other swain. So at

last he once more went his way to West Putford.

Adela Gauntlet was-- No; for once I will venture to have a heroine

without describing her. Let each reader make what he will of her;

fancy her of any outward shape and colour that he please, and endow

her with any amount of divine beauty. But for her inner character,

let him take that from me as I go on, if so be that I can succeed in

making clear to others that which is clear enough to my own mind's

eye. I have called her a heroine; it is the novelist's customary name

for his prima donna, and so I use it. But many opera companies have

more than one prima donna. There is the donna prima, and if one may

so say, the donna primissima. Now Adela Guantlet is no more than my

donna prima. My donna primissima will be another guess sort of lady

altogether.

Arthur, as he walked along, communed with himself as to what he

was going to say. "At any rate, she shall know it all; we shall be

more comfortable when we meet afterwards. Not that it will make any

difference to her;" and then he sighed deeply, and cut at the river

rushes with his walking-stick.

He found her as usual alone in the drawing-room, and, as usual, she

smiled sweetly when she saw him. Since the day on which he had first

gone up to Oxford, she had always called him "Mr. Wilkinson"--so

instructed by Aunt Penelope; but in other respects her manner to

him was almost that of a sister, only that it was softer, and more

gracious.

"I declare, I thought we were never to see you again, Mr. Wilkinson."

Ah, Adela! whom did the _we_ mean? But is it possible that any girl

should live fairly before the world without some little

insincerities?

"I have been so occupied, Adela. There is so much to do in taking up

a parish. Even though I know all the people so well, there has been

so much to do."

"Yes, yes, I am sure of it. But now that you are settled, I do so

hope that you will be comfortable. I saw Mary the other day, and she

told me that your mother was quite well again."

"Yes, she is pretty well. We are all very well now, I think."

"I do so love that old lord for giving you the living, though they

say he is such a Turk. It was such a good thing in him to do; so

considerate to everybody."

"Yes; it has made my mother and the girls comfortable; that, of

course, is what I had first to think of."

"As for yourself, I have no doubt you would have done better at

Oxford. But you could have got no home for them like their old home;

could you?"

"No, of course not," said Arthur, answering almost at random, and

thinking how best he might explain the sacrifice which he had made

without taking too much credit to himself.

"And then, if you had remained up there, you would only have become a

musty old don. I don't think you would have been happy, not so happy

as in a parish. And when a man is a clergyman"--this she said in

a lower and somewhat a solemn voice--"surely he cannot be so well

placed as in charge of a parish. Don't you think so, Mr. Wilkinson?"

"Certainly. It is the life for which he is intended; for which he

should have intended himself."

"And I am sure it is a happy life: look at papa; I do not know any

happier man--only that poor mamma died."

And upon this hint he spake. "Yes, your father I am sure has been a

happy man, and he is an excellent clergyman."

"Is he not? even still so active! And he is so glad now to have you

near him."

"I wish I had received my living as he did his; not that it would

make any real difference."

"He got his, you know, from the bishop. But do you dislike being Lord

Stapledean's nominee?"

"It would be ungrateful to say that; but I certainly do not like

Lord Stapledean. However, I have taken his living, and should not

complain."

"I did not know that there was anything disagreeable."

"There is this, Adela. I had rather tell you; and I came over to-day

in part to do so: but you will see that the matter is one that should

not be talked about," and he looked down on the floor, poking about

on the carpet pattern with his stick, being unable any longer to meet

the clear gaze of her soft eye.

"Oh, I am sorry if there is anything to distress you."

"Not exactly to distress me, perhaps; but I will tell you. When the

marquis offered me the living, he did it on the stipulation that I

should pay over to my mother three hundred and fifty pounds a year

during her life. I doubt whether it was right to accept it on these

conditions; but I did so. The living, therefore, is rather hers than

mine."

"Oh, Arthur, how good of you!" In spite of all Aunt Penelope's

lessons, old habits would sometimes get the better of her.

"I don't know; I am afraid that it was not good."

"Why? I can't understand? Surely it must be good to give up your

time, your labour, your hopes"--Adela did not say his heart--"for

your mother and sisters' good! Why, how can it be else than good? I

think it good, and shall think so."

"At any rate, Adela, I could not withstand the offer when it was made

to me."

"I am sure you could not."

"So I am little more than a curate in the parish as far as the income

is concerned; with this difference, that I can't change my curacy for

a living should a chance offer."

Adela had never before known him to be solicitous about money for

himself, and now she felt that she did not understand him. "But you

have got your fellowship," said she.

"Yes, I have got my fellowship: oh, as far as that is concerned, I am

better off than I could ever have expected to be. But, nevertheless,

one feels--feels crippled by such an arrangement. It is quite

impossible, you know, for instance, that--that--that I should do a

great many things." His courage failed him as he was about to make

the fatal announcement.

"What things?" said Adela, with all the boldness of innocence.

It was necessary that he should say it. "Why, for instance," he

continued, "it is quite impossible, though perhaps that does not make

much matter; but it is quite impossible--that I should ever marry."

And still looking down upon the ground, he poked sedulously among the

patterns with his stick.

"Oh!" said Adela, with a tremour in her voice, and her eye was no

longer able to rest upon his face.

There was a pause during which neither of them said a word, or saw

each other. As far as Adela was concerned, immediate speech was

impossible. She neither cried, nor sighed, nor sobbed, nor became

hysterical. She was simply dumb. She could not answer this little

announcement of her neighbour's. Heretofore, when he had come to her

with his sorrows, she had sympathized with him, and poured balm into

his wounds. But she had no balm for him now--and no sympathy. There

they sat, mute; he poking the while at the carpet, while she did not

even move a limb.

And then it gradually came home to both of them that this utter

silence, this prostration of all power of self-management, told

to each the secret of the other. Each felt that every moment of

prolonged silence committed both of them the deeper. Why should not

Adela be able to speak when thus informed of her neighbour's intended

celibacy? Why should he sit like a fool before her merely because he

had told her that on which he had long decided?

But it was clearly Wilkinson's duty to have disembarrassed the lady

as soon as possible. It was almost unmanly in him to be put thus

beyond the power of speech or action. But still he poked the carpet

and said nothing. It was Adela who first broke that tell-tale

silence; and grievous was the effort which it cost her to do so.

"But you will have your mother and sisters with you, Mr. Wilkinson;

and so, perhaps, you won't mind that."

"Yes, I shall have them," said he; and then there was another

silence, which seemed about to be equally dangerous and equally

difficult. But Adela, who was fully aware of the error which she had

already committed, strove hard to save herself from repeating it.

"You will have a family round you; and if, as you say"--but the

ground that she approached was so hot that she could not walk on it.

She could not get further in that direction, and therefore merely

added: "I am sure I hope you will always be happy."

At length Arthur shook himself, positively shook himself, as though

that were the only mode by which he could collect his faculties; and

then getting up from his chair, and standing with his back against

the wall, he spoke out as follows:--

"Perhaps, Adela, there was no necessity for me to have mentioned this

subject. At least, I am sure there was no necessity. But you have

ever been such a friend to me, have so understood my feelings when

no one else seemed to do so, that I could not but tell you this as I

have told you everything else. I hope I have not annoyed you by doing

so."

"Oh, no; not at all."

"It does make me a little sad to think that I shall never be my own

master."

"Never, Mr. Wilkinson!" Had Arthur but known it, there was balm,

there was sympathy in this word. Had his intellect been as sharp as

his feelings, he would have known it. But it passed him unperceived,

as it had fallen from her unawares: and she said no other word that

could encourage him. If he was cold, she at least would be equally

so.

"Certainly not during my mother's life; and you know how good ground

we have for hoping that her life will be long. And then there are

my sisters. My duty to them will be the same as to my mother, even

though, as regards them, I may not be tied down as I am with regard

to her."

"We cannot have everything here," said Adela, trying to smile. "But I

am sure I need not teach you that."

"No, we cannot have everything." And Arthur thought that, in spite of

the clerical austerity which he was about to assume, he should very

much like to have Adela Gauntlet.

"It will make you happy to know that you are making your mother

happy, and the dear girls--and--and I have no doubt you will very

soon get used to it. Many clergymen, you know, think that they ought

not to marry."

"Yes; but I never made up my mind to that."

"No, perhaps not; but now perhaps you will think of it more

seriously."

"Indeed, I used to have an idea that a parish clergyman should be a

married man. There are so many things which he can do better when he

has a woman to assist him who thinks exactly as he thinks."

"You will have your sisters, you know. Both Mary and Sophia were

always active in the parish, and Jane and Fanny have their school."

"Yes;" and he uttered a gentle sigh as he paused before he answered

her. "But it is not quite the same thing, Adela. I love my sisters

dearly; but one always longs to have one heart that shall be entirely

one's own."

And had he come over to tell her this in the same breath with which

he informed her that marriage was a privilege quite beyond his reach?

What did he think of her, or of what did he imagine that she was

made? There was cruelty in it, of which Adela became immediately

conscious, and which she could hardly help wishing to resent. He had

performed the object of his visit; why did he not leave her? He had

made himself thoroughly understood; why did he not go? His former

many sweet visits had created hopes which were all but certain.

He had said nothing of love; but coming there as he had come, and

gazing at her as he had gazed, Adela could not doubt but that she was

loved. That was all now set at rest; but why should he remain there,

breaking her heart with allusions to his own past tenderness?

"You must put up with the world as you find it, Mr. Wilkinson."

"Oh, yes; of course. But when one has had such happy dreams, the

waking reality, you know, does make one sad."

"You are too happy in your friends and your position to be an object

of pity. How many clergymen are there of your age who would look upon

your lot as almost beyond their ambition! How many men are there

with mothers and sisters for whom they cannot provide! How many who

have made rash marriages which have led to no happiness! Surely,

Mr. Wilkinson, with you there is more cause for thankfulness than

for complaint!" And thus, as it was necessary that she should say

something, she moralized to him--very wisely.

"It is all true," said he; "and perhaps it is for the best. I might

probably have been made more wretched in another way."

"Yes; very likely." Oh, Adela, Adela!

"I begin to know that a man should not be sanguine. I have always

hoped for more than I have had a right to expect, and, therefore, I

have always been disappointed. It was so at school, and at Oxford,

and it is so now: it shows how true it is that a man should not look

for his happiness here. Well; good-bye, Adela. I see that you think I

am wrong to have any regrets."

"Useless regrets are always foolish: we laugh at children who cry for

what is quite out of their reach."

"Yes; and you laugh at me. I dare say you are right."

"No; do not say that, Mr. Wilkinson. I have never laughed at you.

But--" She did not wish to be actually unkind to him, though he had

been so cruel to her.

At last he went. They shook hands with each other in their accustomed

manner, but Wilkinson felt that he missed something from her touch,

some warmth from the soft pressure, some scintillation of sympathy

which such last moments of his visits had usually communicated to

him. Yes; there was much to miss.

As he went back along the river his heart was sad within him. He

had made up his mind to give up Adela Gauntlet, but he had not made

up his mind to discover that she did not care for him--that she was

indifferent to his happiness, and unable to sympathize with his

feelings. The fact was, that though he had resolved that duty and his

circumstances required him to remain single, nevertheless, he had at

the bottom of his heart a sort of wish that Adela should be in love

with him. He had his wish; but he was not sharp enough to discover

that he had it. "I never thought her unfeeling before," said he to

himself. "But all the world is alike. Well; as it is, it does not

signify; but it might have been that I should have half broken my

heart to find her so unfeeling.--More cause for thankfulness than

complaint! Yes; that is true of us all. But it was unfriendly, nay

unfeminine in her to say so when she must have known how much I was

giving up." And so he walked on complaining; understanding perhaps

accurately the wants of his own heart, but being quite in the dark as

to the wants of that other heart.

But his grief, his discontent was mild in comparison with hers. She

shook hands with him when he went, and endeavoured to say her last

word of farewell in her usual tone; nay, for a few minutes after his

departure she retained her seat calmly, fearing that he possibly

might return; but then, when the door had closed on him, and she had

seen him from her window passing across the lawn, then her spirits

gave way, and bitterly she made her moan.

What was this that he had said to her? He would not marry because

he had his mother and sisters to support. Would not she have helped

to support them? Would not she have thrown in her lot with his for

better or for worse, let that lot have been ever so poor? And could

it be possible that he had not known this--had not read her heart

as she had read his? Could it be that he had come there day after

day, looking to her for love, and sympathy, and kindness--that sort

of kindness which a man demands from no one but her he loves, and

which no one can give him unless she loves him? Could it be that he

had done this and then thought that it all meant nothing? that the

interchange of such feelings had no further signification?

Money! Had she asked about his money in those days when his father

still lived, when there was no question of this living belonging

to him? She would have waited for him for years had years been

necessary, even though they should be counted by tens and tens. Nay,

she would have been contented to wait, even though that waiting

should never have been rewarded, had he given her the privilege of

regarding herself as his. Money! She would have been contented to

live on potato-parings could he have been contented to live with her

on potatoes.

She had over and over again questioned herself as to her love, and

reminded herself that as yet he had said nothing to her to justify

it: but as often she had answered herself that with him she could

have no doubt. It was impossible that he should so look into her eyes

and so speak to her if he did not love her. And so she had resolved

to risk all her happiness upon her conviction of his faithfulness.

She had so risked it all; and now he came to her, telling her coldly

that he could not afford to marry.

He, to tell her of his happy dreams and his waking reality! he who

had not the courage to realize the bliss of his dreams when that

bliss was within his reach! He, to talk of sympathy, of a woman

thinking with him exactly as he thought! he who was so timid of the

world that he feared to love less perchance his supplies of bread and

meat should fail him! What could heart wounds signify to him, or hurt

feelings? Had he not his arms sound and his head clear? If, having

them, he would not venture for his love's sake to meet the world and

its burdens, he could hardly have heart enough to know what love

really meant.

Flinging herself on her sofa with outstretched arms, thus Adela made

her moan; not in these words, for she spake none: but such were the

thoughts which ran through her mind as she bewailed all that she had

risked and all that she had lost.

"What would I not have done for him!" she suddenly exclaimed aloud,

as, rising from the sofa, she stood erect upon the ground, pressing

her hand upon her heart. "Fool that I have been--fool, fool, fool!"

And then, with her hand still close to her side, she walked up and

down the room with quick step.

And she had been a fool according to the world's wisdom. Of what

use had been Aunt Penelope's teaching, strictly enacting as it did

all the nice proprieties of young-lady life, seeing that it had not

sufficed to guard her heart against the first comer? Unasked she had

given it all away, had poured it out to the last drop of its warm

flood; and now she was told that it was not wanted, that the article

was one not exactly in the gentleman's walk of life! She might well

call herself a fool:--but what was she to call him?

"It is quite impossible, you know, that I should ever marry!" Why had

he not asked her whether or no it were possible; if not now, then

in ten years' time--if not in ten years, then in twenty? Had he not

been as faithless to her, was he not as much man-sworn, as though a

thousand oaths had passed between them? Oaths between lovers are but

Cupid's phrases, made to enable them to talk of love. They are the

playthings of love, as kisses are. When lovers trust each other they

are sweet bonds; but they will never bind those who do not trust.

When he had told her that she, and she only, understood his feelings,

that she, and she only, knew his moods, and when she had answered

him by the encouragement of her soft smile, could it be that more

was necessary between them? Ah! yes, Adela, much more! Never know a

gentleman's moods, never understand his feelings till, in the plain

language of his mother-tongue, he has asked you to be mistress of

them.

When her father came in before dinner, she was still pacing up and

down the room. But she had not spent the two hours since Arthur had

left her in vain sorrow or in vainer anger. She had felt that it

behoved her to resolve how she would act, and what she would do; and

in those two hours she had resolved. A great misfortune, a stunning

blow had fallen on her; but the fault had been with her rather than

with him. She would school herself to bear the punishment, to see him

occasionally, and bear with him as she would have done had he never

taken those walks along the river; she would still love his sisters;

still go when needs was to the Hurst Staple parsonage. As for him,

she would wish him no evil, rather every good. As for herself, she

would check her rebel heart if she could; but, at any rate, she would

learn to check the rising blood which would otherwise tell her tale.

"Arthur Wilkinson has been here to-day, papa," she was able to say,

with composed voice; "they are quite settled again at the parsonage."

"Ah! he is a lucky fellow," said the old vicar; "he'll be wanting a

wife now before the year's out."

CHAPTER V.

THE CHOICE OF A PROFESSION.

We must now go back to our other hero, or, rather, to another of our

heroes. Arthur Wilkinson is our melancholy love-lorn tenor, George

Bertram our eager, excitable barytone, and Mr. Harcourt--Henry

Harcourt--our bass, wide awake to the world's good things, impervious

to sentimentality, and not over-scrupulous--as is always the case

with your true deep-mouthed opera bass.

Our present business is with the excitable barytone, whom we left

some year and a half ago in not a very clear state of mind as to

the walk in life which would be best suited for his peculiar legs.

Harcourt, who was himself a lawyer, recommended the law. Selfish as

was the general tone of Harcourt's heart, still he had within him a

high, if not a generous feeling, which made him wish to have near

him in his coming life a friend of such promise as George Bertram.

Bertram might beat him in his career; nay, probably would do so; but,

nevertheless, Harcourt wished to see him keeping his terms in London.

He was convinced that he should gain more than he should lose by such

a friend.

But Bertram's own mind was not so easily made up. His personal

possessions in life may be thus catalogued. He had come of a good

family; he had received the best education which England could

give him; he was quick in speech and ready in thought; he had a

double-first degree, and would at once have a fellowship; he had also

an uncle who was very rich and occasionally very disagreeable, and a

father who was very poor, and of whom he heard all men say that he

was one of the most agreeable fellows that ever lived. Such being his

stock in trade, how was he to take it to the best market? and what

market would be the best?

In thinking over his markets, it must not be supposed that his

only object, or his chief object, was the making of money. That was

a rock, rather, of which it behoved him to be very careful. The

money-making part of every profession was, according to his present

views, a necessary incidental evil. To enable a poor man like him to

carry on his work some money must be made; for some sorts of work,

perhaps for that very sort which he would most willingly choose, much

money must be made. But the making of it should never be his triumph.

It could be but a disagreeable means to a desirable end. At the age

of twenty-two so thought our excitable barytone hero on that point.

Two ends appeared to him to be desirable. But which of the two was

the most desirable--that to him was the difficult question. To do

good to others, and to have his own name in men's mouths--these were

the fitting objects of a man's life. But whether he would attempt the

former in order to achieve the latter; or obtain, if he did obtain,

the latter by seeking success in the former: on this point his

character was not sufficiently fixed, nor his principles sufficiently

high to enable him fitly to resolve.

But the necessity of seeing his uncle before he took any actual steps

secured him from the necessity of coming to any absolutely immediate

decision. He and Harcourt were together for three or four days, and

he listened not unmoved to his friend's eloquence in favour of public

life in London. Not unmoved, indeed, but always with a spirit of

antagonism. When Harcourt told of forensic triumphs, Bertram spoke of

the joy of some rustic soul saved to heaven in the quiet nook of a

distant parish. When his friend promised to him Parliament, and the

later glories of the ermine, he sighed after literary fame, to be

enjoyed among the beauties of nature. But Harcourt understood all

this: he did not wish to convince his friend, but only to lead him.

Mr. George Bertram senior was a notable man in the city of London. I

am not prepared to say what was his trade, or even whether he had one

properly so called. But there was no doubt about his being a moneyed

man, and one well thought of on 'Change. At the time of which I

write, he was a director of the Bank of England, chairman of a

large insurance company, was deep in water, far gone in gas, and an

illustrious potentate in railway interests. I imagine that he had

neither counting-house, shop, nor ware-rooms: but he was not on that

account at a loss whither to direct his steps; and those who knew

city ways knew very well where to meet Mr. George Bertram senior

between the hours of eleven and five.

He was ten years older than his brother, Sir Lionel, and at the time

of which I write might be about seventy. He was still unmarried, and

in this respect had always been regarded by Sir Lionel as a fountain

from whence his own son might fairly expect such waters as were

necessary for his present maintenance and future well-being. But Mr.

George Bertram senior had regarded the matter in a different light.

He had paid no shilling on account of his nephew, or on other

accounts appertaining to his brother, which he had not scored down

as so much debt against Sir Lionel, duly debiting the amount with

current interest; and statements of this account were periodically

sent to Sir Lionel by Mr. Bertram's man of business,--and

periodically thrown aside by Sir Lionel, as being of no moment

whatsoever.

When Mr. Bertram had paid the bill due by his brother to Mr.

Wilkinson, there was outstanding some family unsettled claim from

which the two brothers might, or might not, obtain some small sums

of money. Sir Lionel, when much pressed by the city Croesus, had

begged him to look to this claim, and pay himself from the funds

which would be therefrom accruing. The city Croesus had done so: a

trifle of two or three hundred pounds had fallen to Sir Lionel's lot,

and had of course been duly credited to his account. But it went a

very little way towards squaring matters, and the old man of business

went on sending his half-yearly statements, which became anything but

"small by degrees."

Mr. Bertram had never absolutely told George of this debt, or

complained of his not being repaid the advances which he had made;

but little hints dropped from him, which were sometimes understood

for more than they were worth, and which made the young Oxonian feel

that he would rather not be quite so much in his uncle's hands. The

old man gave him to understand that he must not look on himself as

an heir to wealth, or imagine that another lot was his than that

ordinary to mortals--the necessity, namely, of eating his bread in

the sweat of his brow.

Old Mr. Bertram ordinarily lived at Hadley, a village about a mile

beyond Barnet, just on the border of what used to be called Enfield

Chase. Here he had an establishment very fit for a quiet old

gentleman, but perhaps not quite adequate to his reputed wealth. By

my use of the word reputed, the reader must not be led to think that

Mr. Bertram's money-bags were unreal. They were solid, and true as

the coffers of the Bank of England. He was no Colonel Waugh, rich

only by means of his rich impudence. It is not destined that he shall

fall brilliantly, bringing down with him a world of ruins. He will

not levant to Spain or elsewhere. His wealth is of the old-fashioned

sort, and will abide at any rate such touch of time as it may

encounter in our pages. But none of the Hadleyites, or, indeed, any

other ites--not even, probably, the Bank-of-Englandites, or the

City-of-London-Widows'-Fundites--knew very well what his means were;

and when, therefore, people at Hadley spoke of his modest household,

they were apt to speak of it as being very insufficient for such a

millionaire.

Hitherto George had always passed some part of his vacations at

Hadley. The amusements there were not of a very exciting nature;

but London was close, and even at Hadley there were pretty girls

with whom he could walk and flirt, and the means of keeping a horse

and a couple of pointers, even if the hunting and shooting were not

conveniently to be had.

A few days after the glories of his degree, when his name was still

great on the High Street of Oxford, and had even been touched by

true fame in a very flattering manner in the columns of the "Daily

Jupiter," he came home to Hadley. His uncle never encouraged visits

from him in the city, and they met, therefore, for the first time in

the old man's drawing-room just before dinner.

"How are you, George?" said the uncle, putting out his hand to his

nephew, and then instantly turning round and poking the fire. "What

sort of a journey have you had from Oxford? Yes, these railways make

it all easy. Which line do you use? Didcot, eh? That's wrong. You'll

have a smash some of these days with one of those Great Western

express trains"--Mr. Bertram held shares in the opposition line by

which Oxford may be reached, and never omitted an opportunity of

doing a little business. "I'm ready for dinner; I don't know whether

you are. You eat lunch, I suppose. John, it's two minutes past the

half-hour. Why don't we have dinner?"

Not a word was said about the degree--at least, not then. Indeed Mr.

Bertram did not think very much about degrees. He had taken no degree

himself, except a high degree in wealth, and could not understand

that he ought to congratulate a young man of twenty-two as to a

successful termination of his school-lessons. He himself at that

age had been, if not on 'Change, at any rate seated on the steps of

'Change. He had been then doing a man's work; beginning to harden

together the nucleus of that snowball of money which he had since

rolled onwards till it had become so huge a lump--destined, probably,

to be thawed and to run away into muddy water in some much shorter

space of time. He could not blame his nephew: he could not call him

idle, as he would have delighted to do had occasion permitted; but he

would not condescend to congratulate him on being great in Greek or

mighty in abstract mathematics.

"Well, George," said he, pushing him the bottle as soon as the cloth

was gone, "I suppose you have done with Oxford now?"

"Not quite, sir; I have my fellowship to receive."

"Some beggarly two hundred pounds a year, I suppose. Not that I mean

to say you should not be glad to have it," he added, thus correcting

the impression which his words might otherwise have made. "As you

have been so long getting it, it will be better to have that than

nothing. But your fellowship won't make it necessary for you to live

at Oxford, will it?"

"Oh, no. But then I may perhaps go into the church."

"Oh, the church, eh? Well, it is a respectable profession; only men

have to work for nothing in it."

"I wish they did, sir. If we had the voluntary system--"

"You can have that if you like. I know that the Independent

ministers--"

"I should not think of leaving the Church of England on any account."

"You have decided, then, to be a clergyman?"

"Oh, no; not decided. Indeed, I really think that if a man will work,

he may do better at the bar."

"Very well, indeed--if he have the peculiar kind of talent

necessary."

"But then, I doubt whether a practising barrister can ever really be

an honest man."

"What?"

"They have such dirty work to do. They spend their days in making out

that black is white; or, worse still, that white is black."

"Pshaw! Have a little more charity, master George, and do not be so

over-righteous. Some of the greatest men of your country have been

lawyers."

"But their being great men won't alter the fact; nor will my being

charitable. When two clear-headed men take money to advocate the

different sides of a case, each cannot think that his side is true."

"Fiddlestick! But mind, I do not want you to be a lawyer. You must

choose for yourself. If you don't like that way of earning your

bread, there are others."

"A man may be a doctor, to be sure; but I have no taste that way."

"And is that the end of the list?"

"There is literature. But literature, though the grandest occupation

in the world for a man's leisure, is, I take it, a slavish

profession."

"Grub Street, eh? Yes, I should think so. You never heard of

commerce, I suppose?"

"Commerce. Yes, I have heard of it. But I doubt whether I have the

necessary genius."

The old man looked at him as though he doubted whether or no he were

being laughed at.

"The necessary kind of genius, I mean," continued George.

"Very likely not. Your genius is adapted to dispersing, perhaps,

rather than collecting."

"I dare say it is, sir."

"And I suppose you never heard of a man with a--what is it you call

your degree? a double-first--going behind a counter. What sort of men

are the double-lasts, I wonder!"

"It is they, I rather think, who go behind the counters," said

George, who had no idea of allowing his uncle to have all the

raillery on his side.

"Is it, sir? But I rather think they don't come out last when the

pudding is to be proved by the eating. Success in life is not to be

won by writing Greek verses; not though you write ever so many. A

ship-load of them would not fetch you the value of this glass of wine

at any market in the world."

"Commerce is a grand thing," said George, with an air of conviction.

"It is the proper work for men," said his uncle, proudly.

"But I have always heard," replied the nephew, "that a man in this

country has no right to look to commerce as a profession unless he

possesses capital." Mr. Bertram, feeling that the tables had been

turned against him, finished his glass of wine and poked the fire.

A few days afterwards the same subject was again raised between them.

"You must choose for yourself, George," said the old man; "and you

should choose quickly."

"If I could choose for myself--which I am aware that I cannot do; for

circumstances, after all, will have the decision--but, if I could

choose, I would go into Parliament."

"Go where?" said Mr. Bertram, who would have thought it as reasonable

if his nephew had proposed to take a house in Belgrave Square with

the view of earning a livelihood.

"Into Parliament, sir."

"Is Parliament a profession? I never knew it before."

"Perhaps not, ordinarily, a money-making profession; nor would I wish

to make it so."

"And what county, or what borough do you intend to honour by

representing it? Perhaps the University will return you."

"Perhaps it may some of these days."

"And, in the meantime, you mean to live on your fellowship, I

suppose?"

"On that and anything else that I can get."

Mr. Bertram sat quiet for some time without speaking, and George also

seemed inclined to muse awhile upon the subject. "George," said the

uncle, at last, "I think it will be better that we should thoroughly

understand each other. You are a good fellow in your way, and I like

you well enough. But you must not get into your head any idea that

you are to be my heir."

"No, sir; I won't."

"Because it would only ruin you. My idea is that a man should make

his own way in the world as I made mine. If you were my son, it may

be presumed that I should do as other men do, and give you my money.

And, most probably, you would make no better use of it than the sons

of other men who, like me, have made money. But you are not my son."

"Quite true, sir; and therefore I shall be saved the danger. At any

rate, I shall not be the victim of disappointment."

"I am very glad to hear it," said Mr. Bertram, who, however, did not

give any proof of his gladness, seeing that he evinced some little

addition of acerbity in his temper and asperity in his manner. It was

hard to have to deal with a nephew with whom he could find so little

ground for complaint.

"But I have thought it right to warn you," he continued, "You are

aware that up to the present moment the expense of your education has

been borne by me."

"No, sir; not my education."

"Not your education! How, then, has it been borne?"

"I speak of my residence at Oxford. I have had a great many

indulgences there, and you have paid for them. The expenses of my

education I could have paid myself." This was fair on George's part.

He had not asked his uncle for a liberal allowance, and was hardly

open to blame for having taken it.

"I only know I have paid regularly one hundred and fifty pounds a

year to your order, and I find from Pritchett"--Pritchett was his man

of business--"that I am paying it still."

"He sent me the last quarter the other day; but I have not touched

it."

"Never mind; let that pass. I don't know what your father's views are

about you, and never could find out."

"I'll ask him. I mean to go and see him."

"Go and see him! Why, he's at Bagdad."

"Yes. If I start at once I shall just catch him there, or perhaps

meet him at Damascus."

"Then you'll be a great fool for your pains--a greater fool almost

than I take you to be. What do you expect your father can do for you?

My belief is, that if four hundred pounds would take him to heaven,

he couldn't make up the money. I don't think he could raise it either

in Europe or Asia. I'm sure of this; I wouldn't lend it him."

"In such a case as that, sir, his personal security would go for so

little."

"His personal security has always gone for little. But, as I was

saying, I have consented ever since you went to Wilkinson's to allow

your father to throw the burthen of your expenses on my shoulders.

I thought it a pity that you should not have the chance of a decent

education. Mind, I claim no gratitude, as I shall expect your father

to pay me what I have advanced."

"How on earth can he do that, sir? But perhaps I can."

"Can you? very well; then you can settle it with him. But listen to

me."

"Listen to me for a moment, uncle George. I think you are hard on my

father, and certainly hard on me. When I went to Wilkinson's, what

did I know of who paid the bill?"

"Who says you knew anything, sir?"

"And, counting on from that time, at what period ought I to have

begun to know it? When should I have first learnt to feel that I was

a burden to any one?"

"Who has talked about a burden?"

"You say I am not to be your heir?"

"Certainly not."

"I never thought of being your heir. I don't care a straw about being

anybody's heir. What you have given freely, I have taken freely. As

for my father, if you felt so harshly towards him, why did you let

him incur this debt?"

"I was to see you kicked out of Wilkinson's house and starve in the

ditch, I suppose? But now, if you can control your fine feelings for

one moment, will you listen to me? I have never blamed you in the

matter at all, and don't blame you now--at least not yet."

"I hope you never will--that is about money matters."

"Now do listen to me. It seems to me that you are quite astray about

a profession. You don't like commerce, and what you said the other

day about capital is quite true. I count a man a knave who goes into

trade without capital. In a small way we might, perhaps, have managed

it. But in a very small way you would not have liked it."

"Neither small nor great, sir."

"Very well. You need not be afraid that anything very great will be

thrust upon you. But it seems to me that what you are most fitted for

is a lawyer."

Young Bertram paused a moment. "Uncle, I really hardly know.

Sometimes I have a strange desire to go into orders."

"Very strange indeed! But now, if you will listen to me--I have been

speaking to Mr. Dry. Messrs. Dry and Stickatit have done business for

me for the last forty years. Now, George, I will advance you three

thousand pounds at four per cent.--"

"What should I want with three thousand pounds?"

"You don't suppose you can get into a house like that without money,

do you?"

"And be an attorney?" said George, with a look of horror which almost

penetrated the thick skin of the old man's feelings. What! had he

taken a double-first, been the leading man of his year, spouted at

the debating club, and driven himself nearly dizzy with Aristotle

for this--for a desk in the office of Messrs. Dry and Stickatit,

attorneys of old Bucklersbury! No, not for all the uncles! not for

any uncle!

"They net four thousand pounds a year," said Mr. Bertram; "and in

process of time you would be the working partner, and have, at any

rate, a full half of the business."

But, no! George was not to be talked into such a scheme as that by

the offer of any loan, by the mention of any number of thousands. He

positively refused to consider the proposition; and his uncle, with

equal positiveness, refused to hold any further converse with him on

the subject of a profession. "Pritchett will pay you your present

allowance," said he, "for two years longer--that is, if I live."

"I can do without it, sir," said George.

"Pritchett will pay that amount for two years," said the uncle, with

great positiveness; "after that it will be discontinued. And for the

next three months I shall be happy to see you here as my guest."

It will be readily believed that George Bertram did not overstay the

three months.

CHAPTER VI.

JERUSALEM.

But there was no quarrel between George Bertram uncle and George

Bertram nephew: though in such conversations as they had about

business they were not over civil to each other, still they went on

together as good friends, at any rate as they ever had been. Indeed,

after the last scene which has been reported, the old man became more

courteous to his nephew, and before the three months were over was

almost cordial.

There was that about George the younger which made the old uncle

respect him, despite himself. The London merchant had a thorough

contempt for his brother, the soldier of fortune: he had acted as

he had done on behalf of that brother's son almost more with the

view of showing his contempt, and getting thereby an opportunity for

expressing it, than with any fixed idea of doing a kindness. He had

counted also on despising the son as he had despised the father; but

here he found himself foiled. George had taken all that he had given,

as any youth would take what an uncle gave; but he had never asked

for more: he had done as well as it was possible for him to do in

that line of education which had been tendered to him; and now,

though he would not become an attorney or a merchant, was prepared to

earn his own bread, and professed that he was able to support himself

without further assistance from any one.

Before the three months were over, his uncle had more than once asked

him to prolong his visit; but George had made up his mind to leave

Hadley. His purpose was to spend three or four months in going out

to his father, and then to settle in London. In the meantime, he

employed himself with studying the law of nations, and amused his

leisure hours with Coke and Blackstone.

"You'll never find your father," said Mr. Bertram.

"At any rate, I'll try; and if I miss him, I shall see something of

the world."

"You'll see more in London in three months than you will there in

twelve; and, moreover, you would not lose your time."

But George was inexorable, and before the three months were over he

had started on his trip.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. George," said Mr. Pritchett to him the day

before he went (his uncle had requested him to call on Pritchett in

the city)--"I beg your pardon, Mr. George, but if I may be allowed to

speak a word or so, I do hope you'll write a line now and then to the

old gentleman while you are away."

Now George had never written a line to his uncle in his life; all his

communications as to his journeys and proposed arrivals had, by his

uncle's special direction, been made to the housekeeper, and he had

no present intention of commencing a correspondence.

"Write to him, Mr. Pritchett! No, I don't suppose I shall. I take it,

my uncle does not much care for such letters as I should write."

"Ah! but he would, Mr. George. You shouldn't be too quick to take

persons by their appearances. It's half a million of money, you know,

Mr. George; half--a--million--of--money!" And Mr. Pritchett put great

stress on the numeration of his patron's presumed wealth.

"Half a million, is it? Well, that's a great deal, no doubt; and I

fully see the force of your excellent argument. But I fear there is

nothing to be done in that line: I'm not born to be the heir to half

a million of money; you might see that in my face."

Mr. Pritchett stared at him very hard. "Well, I can't say that I do,

Mr. George; but take my word for it, the old gentleman is very fond

of you."

"Very fond! That's a little too strong, isn't it?"

"That is, if he's very fond of anything. Now, he said to me

yesterday, 'Pritchett,' says he, 'that boy's going to Bagdad.'

'What! Mr. George?' says I. 'Yes,' says he; 'and to Hong Kong too, I

suppose, before he comes back: he's going after his father;' and then

he gave one of those bitter looks, you know. 'That's a pity,' says

I, for you know one must humour him. 'He is a fool,' says your uncle,

'and always will be.'"

"I'm sure, Mr. Pritchett, I'm very much obliged for the trouble you

are at in telling me."

"Oh! I think nothing of the trouble. 'And he knows no more about

money,' says your uncle, 'than an ostrich. He can't go to Bagdad out

of his allowance.' 'Of course he can't,' said I. 'You had better put

three hundred pounds to his credit,' said the old gentleman; and so,

Mr. George, I have."

"I could have done very well without it, Mr. Pritchett."

"Perhaps so; but three hundred pounds never hurt anybody--never, Mr.

George; and I can tell you this: if you play your cards well, you

may be the old gentleman's heir, in spite of all he says to the

contrary."

"At any rate, Mr. Pritchett, I'm very much obliged to you:" and so

they parted.

"He'll throw that three hundred pounds in my teeth the next time I

see him," said George to himself.

Good as Mr. Pritchett's advice undoubtedly was, Bertram did not take

it; and his uncle received no line from him during the whole period

of his absence. Our hero's search after his father was not quite of

so intricate a nature as was supposed by his uncle, nor so difficult

as that made by Japhet under similar circumstances. His route was to

be by Paris, Marseilles, Malta, Alexandria, Jaffa, Jerusalem, and

Damascus, and he had written to Sir Lionel, requesting him to write

to either or all of those addresses. Neither in France, nor Malta,

nor Egypt did he receive any letters; but in the little town of

Jaffa, where he first put his foot on Asiatic soil, a despatch from

his father was awaiting him. Sir Lionel was about to leave Persia,

and was proceeding to Constantinople on public service; but he would

go out of his course to meet his son at Jerusalem.

The tone of Sir Lionel's letter was very unlike that of Mr. Bertram's

conversation. He heartily congratulated his son on the splendid

success of his degree; predicted for him a future career both

brilliant and rich; declared that it was the dearest wish of his

heart to embrace his son, and spoke of their spending a few weeks

together at Jerusalem almost with rapture.

This letter very much delighted George. He had a natural anxiety to

think well of his father, and had not altogether believed the evil

that had been rather hinted than spoken of him by Mr. Bertram. The

colonel had certainly not hitherto paid him very much parental

attention, and had generally omitted to answer the few letters

which George had written to him. But a son is not ill inclined to

accept acts of new grace from a father; and there was something so

delightful in the tone and manner of Sir Lionel's letter, it was so

friendly as well as affectionate, so perfectly devoid of the dull,

monotonous, lecture-giving asperity with which ordinary fathers too

often season their ordinary epistles, that he was in raptures with

his newly-found correspondent.

"I would not miss seeing you for worlds," wrote Sir Lionel; "and

although I have been ordered to Constantinople with all the

_immediate haste_ which your civil-service grandees always use

in addressing us military slaves, it shall go hard with me but I

will steal a fortnight from them in order to pass it with you at

Jerusalem. I suppose I shall scarce know you, or you me; but when

you see an old gentleman in a military frock, with a bald head, a

hook nose, and a rather short allowance of teeth, you may then be

sure that you look upon your father. However, I will be at Z----'s

Hotel--I believe they honour the caravansary with that name--as soon

as possible after the 14th."

His uncle had at any rate been quite wrong in predicting that his

father would keep out of his way. So far was this from being the

case, that Sir Lionel was going to put himself to considerable

inconvenience to meet him. It might be, and no doubt was the case,

that Mr. Bertram the merchant had put together a great deal more

money than Colonel Bertram the soldier; but the putting together

of money was no virtue in George's eyes; and if Sir Lionel had not

remitted a portion of his pay as regularly as he perhaps should have

done, that should not now be counted as a vice. It may perhaps be

surmised that had George Bertram suffered much in consequence of his

father's negligence in remitting, he might have been disposed to look

at the matter in a different light.

He had brought but one servant with him, a dragoman whom he had

picked up at Malta, and with him he started on his ride from the city

of oranges. Oranges grow plentifully enough in Spain, in Malta, in

Egypt, in Jamaica, and other places, but within five miles of Jaffa

nothing else is grown--if we except the hedges of prickly pear which

divide the gardens. Orange garden succeeds to orange garden till one

finds oneself on the broad open desert that leads away to Jerusalem.

There is something enticing to an Englishman in the idea of riding

off through the desert with a pistol girt about his waist, a

portmanteau strapped on one horse before him, and an only attendant

seated on another behind him. There is a _soupçon_ of danger in the

journey just sufficient to give it excitement; and then it is so

un-English, oriental, and inconvenient; so opposed to the accustomed

haste and comfort of a railway; so out of his hitherto beaten way of

life, that he is delighted to get into the saddle. But it may be a

question whether he is not generally more delighted to get out of it;

particularly if that saddle be a Turkish one.

George had heard of Arab horses, and the clouds of dust which rise

from their winged feet. When first he got beyond the hedges of the

orange gardens, he expected to gallop forth till he found himself

beneath the walls of Jerusalem. But he had before him many an hour

of tedious labour ere those walls were seen. His pace was about four

miles an hour. During the early day he strove frequently to mend it;

but as the sun became hot in the heavens, his efforts after speed

were gradually reduced, and long before evening he had begun to think

that Jerusalem was a myth, his dragoman an impostor, and his Arab

steed the sorriest of jades.

"It is the longest journey I ever took in my life," said George.

"Longest; yes. A top of two mountain more, and two go-down, and then

there; yes," said the dragoman, among whose various accomplishments

that of speaking English could hardly be reckoned as the most

prominent.

At last the two mountains more and the two go-downs were performed,

and George was informed that the wall he saw rising sharp from the

rocky ground was Jerusalem. There is something very peculiar in the

first appearance of a walled city that has no suburbs or extramural

adjuncts. It is like that of a fortress of cards built craftily on

a table. With us in England it is always difficult to say where the

country ends and where the town begins; and even with the walled

towns of the Continent, one rarely comes upon them so as to see the

sharp angles of a gray stone wall shining in the sun, as they do in

the old pictures of the cities in "Pilgrim's Progress."

But so it is with Jerusalem. One rides up to the gate feeling

that one is still in the desert; and yet a moment more, with the

permission of those very dirty-looking Turkish soldiers at the gate,

will place one in the city. One rides up to the gate, and as every

one now has a matured opinion as to the taking of casemated batteries

and the inefficiency of granite bastions, one's first idea is how

delightfully easy it would be to take Jerusalem. It is at any rate

easy enough to enter it, for the dirty Turkish soldiers do not even

look at you, and you soon become pleasantly aware that you are beyond

the region of passports.

George Bertram had promised himself that the moment in which he first

saw Jerusalem should be one of intense mental interest; and when,

riding away from the orange gardens at Jaffa, he had endeavoured to

urge his Arab steed into that enduring gallop which was to carry him

up to the city of the sepulchre, his heart was ready to melt into

ecstatic pathos as soon as that gallop should have been achieved.

But the time for ecstatic pathos had altogether passed away before

he rode in at that portal. He was then swearing vehemently at his

floundering jade, and giving up to all the fiends of Tartarus the

accursed saddle which had been specially contrived with the view of

lacerating the nether Christian man.

"Where on earth is this d---- hotel?" said he, when he and his

dragoman and portmanteau had been floundering for about five minutes

down a steep, narrow, ill-paved lane, with a half-formed gully in

the middle, very slippery with orange-peel and old vegetables, and

crowded with the turbans of all the Eastern races. "Do you call this

a street?" After all his sentiment, all his emotions, all his pious

resolves, it was thus that our hero entered Jerusalem! But what piety

can withstand the wear and tear of twelve hours in a Turkish saddle?

"Is this a street?" said he. It was the main street in Jerusalem. The

first, or among the first in grandeur of those sacred ways which he

had intended hardly to venture to pass with shoes on his feet. His

horse turning a corner as he followed the dragoman again slipped and

almost fell. Whereupon Bertram again cursed. But then he was not

only tired and sore, but very hungry also. Our finer emotions should

always be encouraged with a stomach moderately full.

At last they stopped at a door in a wall, which the dragoman

pronounced to be the entrance of Z----'s hotel. In fact they had not

yet been full ten minutes within the town; but the streets certainly

were not well paved. In five minutes more, George was in his room,

strewing sofas and chairs with the contents of his portmanteau, and

inquiring with much energy what was the hour fixed for the table

d'hôte. He found, with much inward satisfaction, that he had just

twenty minutes to prepare himself. At Jerusalem, as elsewhere, these

after all are the traveller's first main questions. When is the table

d'hôte? Where is the cathedral? At what hour does the train start

to-morrow morning? It will be some years yet, but not very many,

before the latter question is asked at Jerusalem.

Bertram had arrived about a fortnight before Easter, and the town

was already full of pilgrims, congregated for that ceremony, and of

English and Americans who had come to look at the pilgrims.

The inn was nearly full, and George, when he entered the public room,

heard such a Babel of English voices, and such a clatter of English

spoons that he might have fancied himself at the top of the _Righi_

or in a Rhine steamboat. But the subjects under discussion all

savoured of the Holy Land.

"Mrs. Rose, we are going to have a picnic on Monday in the Valley of

Jehoshaphat; will you and your young ladies join us? We shall send

the hampers to the tomb of Zachariah."

"Thank you, Miss Todd; we should have been so happy; but we have only

three days to do Bethlehem, the Dead Sea, and Jericho. We must be off

to-morrow."

"Mamma, I lost my parasol somewhere coming down the Mount of Offence.

Those nasty Arab children must have stolen it."

"They say the people in Siloam are the greatest thieves in Syria; and

nobody dares to meddle with them."

"But I saw it in your hand, my dear, at the Well of Enrogel."

"What, no potatoes! there were potatoes yesterday. Waiter, waiter;

who ever heard of setting people down to dinner without potatoes?"

"Well, I didn't know what to say to it. If that is the tomb of

Nicodemus, that seems to settle the question. May I trouble you for

the salt?"

"Mr. Pott, I won't have anything more to say to you; you have no

faith. I believe it all."

"What, all? from Calvary upstairs in the gallery down to the dark

corner where the cock crew?"

"Yes, all, Mr. Pott. Why should not a cock crow there as well as

anywhere else? It is so beautiful to believe."

George Bertram found himself seated next to a lady-like well-dressed

Englishwoman of the middle age, whom he heard called Miss Baker; and

next to her again sat--an angel! whom Miss Baker called Caroline,

and whom an odious man sitting on the other side of her called Miss

Waddington.

All my readers will probably at different times have made part of a

table-d'hôte assemblage; and most of them, especially those who have

travelled with small parties, will know how essential it is to one's

comfort to get near to pleasant neighbours. The young man's idea of a

pleasant neighbour is of course a pretty girl. What the young ladies'

idea may be I don't pretend to say. But it certainly does seem to be

happily arranged by Providence that the musty fusty people, and the

nicy spicy people, and the witty pretty people do severally assemble

and get together as they ought to do.

Bertram's next-door neighbour was certainly of the nicy spicy order;

but this did not satisfy him. He would have been very well pleased to

talk to Miss Baker had it not been for the close contiguity of Miss

Waddington; and even her once-removed vicinity would not have made

him unhappy had not that odious man on her left had so much to say

about the village of Emmaus and the Valley of Ajalon.

Now, be it known to all men that Caroline Waddington is our donna

primissima--the personage of most importance in these pages. It is

for her that you are to weep, with her that you are to sympathize,

and at her that you are to wonder. I would that I could find it

compatible with my duty to introduce her to this circle without any

minute details of her bodily and mental charms; but I have already

been idle in the case of Adela Gauntlet, and I feel that a donna

primissima has claims to description which I cannot get over.

Only not exactly now; in a few chapters hence we shall have Miss

Waddington actively engaged upon the scene, and then she shall be

described.

It must suffice now to say that she was an orphan; that since her

father's death she had lived with her aunt, Miss Baker, chiefly

at Littlebath; that Miss Baker had, at her niece's instance, been

to Egypt, up the Nile, across the short desert--(short!) having

travelled from Cairo to Jerusalem,--and that now, thoroughly sick of

the oriental world, she was anxious only to get back to Littlebath;

while Caroline, more enthusiastic, and much younger, urged her to go

on to Damascus and Lebanon, to Beyrout and Smyrna, and thence home,

merely visiting Constantinople and Athens on the way.

Had Bertram heard the terms in which Miss Waddington spoke of the

youth who was so great about Ajalon when she and her aunt were in

their own room, and also the words in which that aunt spoke of him,

perhaps he might have been less provoked.

"Aunt, that Mr. M'Gabbery is an ass. I am sure he has ears if one

could only see them. I am so tired of him. Don't you think we could

get on to Damascus to-morrow?"

"If we did I have no doubt he'd come too." Mr. M'Gabbery had been one

of the party who crossed the desert with them from Cairo.

"Impossible, aunt. The Hunters are ready to start to-morrow, or, if

not, the day after, and I know they would not have him."

"But, my dear, I really am not equal to Damascus. A few more days on

a camel--"

"But, aunt, you'll have a horse."

"That's worse, I'm sure. And, moreover, I've found an old friend, and

one that you will like very much."

"What, that exceedingly ugly young man that sat next to you?"

"Yes. That exceedingly ugly young man I remember as the prettiest

baby in the world--not that I think he is ugly. He is, however, no

other than the nephew of Mr. Bertram."

"What, papa's Mr. Bertram?"

"Yes; your father's Mr. Bertram. Therefore, if old Mr. Bertram should

die, and this young man should be his heir, he would have the charge

of all your money. You'd better be gracious to him."

"How odd! But what is he like?"

"He is one of the cleverest young men of the day. I had heard that he

had distinguished himself very much at Oxford; and he certainly is a

most agreeable companion." And so it was arranged between them that

they would not start to Damascus as yet, in spite of any evil that

Mr. M'Gabbery might inflict on them.

On the next morning at breakfast, Bertram managed to separate the

aunt from the niece by sitting between them. It was long, however,

before Mr. M'Gabbery gave up the battle. When he found that an

interloper was interfering with his peculiar property, he began to

tax his conversational powers to the utmost. He was greater than

ever about Ajalon, and propounded some very startling theories with

reference to Emmaus. He recalled over and over again the interesting

bits of their past journey; how tired they had been at Gaza, where

he had worked for the ladies like a slave--how terribly Miss Baker

had been frightened in the neighbourhood of Arimathea, where he,

Mr. M'Gabbery, had specially looked to his pistols with the view of

waging war on three or four supposed Bedouins who were seen to be

hovering on the hill-sides. But all would not do. Miss Waddington was

almost tired of Gaza and Arimathea, and Miss Baker seemed to have a

decided preference for London news. So at last Mr. M'Gabbery became

silent and grand, and betook himself to his associations and a map of

Palestine in a corner.

Bertram, when fortified with a night's rest and a good breakfast, was

able to recover his high-toned feeling, and, thus armed, proceeded

alone to make his first visit to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.

It was a Sunday, the last Sunday in Lent; and he determined to hear

mass in the Greek Church, and ascertain for himself how much devotion

an English Protestant could experience in the midst of this foreign

worship. But one mass was over and another not begun when he reached

the building, and he had thus time to follow his dragoman to the

various wonders of that very wonderful building.

It is now generally known in England of what the church of the holy

places consists; but no one who has not seen it, and none, indeed,

who have not seen it at Easter-time, can fully realize all the

absurdity which it contains and all the devotion which it occasions.

Bertram was first carried to the five different churches which have

crowded themselves together under the same roof. The Greeks have by

far the best of it. Their shrine is gaudy and glittering, and their

temple is large and in some degree imposing. The Latins, whom we call

Roman Catholics, are much less handsomely lodged, and their tinsel

is by far more dingy. The Greeks, too, possess the hole in which

stood--so they say--the cross of Our Saviour; while the Latins are

obliged to put up with the sites on which the two thieves were

crucified. Then the church of the Armenians, for which you have to

descend almost into the bowels of the earth, is still less grand in

its pretensions, is more sombre, more dark, more dirty; but it is as

the nave of St. Peter's when compared to the poor wooden-cased altar

of the Abyssinians, or the dark unfurnished gloomy cave in which

the Syrian Christians worship, so dark that the eye cannot at first

discover its only ornament--a small ill-made figure of the crucified

Redeemer.

We who are accustomed to Roman Catholic gorgeousness in Italy and

France can hardly at first understand why the Pope here should

playso decidedly a second fiddle. But as he is held to be God's

viceregent among the people of south-western Europe, so is the

Russian emperor among the Christians of the East. He, the Russian, is

still by far the greatest pope in Jerusalem, and is treated with a

much greater respect, a much truer belief, than is his brother of

Rome, even among Romans.

Five or six times Bertram had attempted to get into the Tabernacle of

the Holy Sepulchre; but so great had been the rush of pilgrims, that

he had hitherto failed. At last his dragoman espied a lull, and went

again to the battle. To get into the little outside chapel, which

forms, as it were, a vestibule to the cell of the sepulchre, and from

which on Easter Saturday issue the miraculous flames, was a thing to

be achieved by moderate patience. His close contiguity to Candiotes

and Copts, to Armenians and Abyssinians was not agreeable to our

hero, for the contiguity was very close, and Christians of these

nations are not very cleanly. But this was nothing to the task of

entering the sanctum sanctorum. To this there is but one aperture,

and that is but four feet high; men entering it go in head foremost,

and those retreating come out in the other direction; and as it is

impossible that two should pass, and as two or three are always

trying to come out, and ten or twelve equally anxious to get in, the

struggle to an Englishman is disagreeably warm, though to an Oriental

it is probably matter of interesting excitement.

But for his dragoman, Bertram would never have succeeded. He,

however, so pulled and hauled these anxious devotees, so thrust in

those who endeavoured to come out, and clawed back those who strove

to get in, that the passage became for a moment clear, and our hero,

having bent low his head, found himself standing with his hand on the

marble slab of the tomb.

Those who were there around him seemed to be the outcasts of the

world, exactly those whom he would have objected to meet, unarmed, on

the roads of Greece or among the hills of Armenia; cut-throat-looking

wretches, with close-shaven heads, dirty beards, and angry eyes; men

clothed in skins, or huge skin-like-looking cloaks, filthy, foul,

alive with vermin, reeking with garlic,--abominable to an Englishman.

There was about them a certain dignity of demeanour, a natural

aptitude to carry themselves with ease, and even a not impure taste

for colour among their dirt. But these Christians of the Russian

Church hardly appeared to him to be brothers of his own creed.

But he did put his hand on the slab of the tomb; and as he did so,

two young Greeks, brothers by blood--Greeks by their creed, though of

what actual nation Bertram was quite unable say--pressed their lips

vehemently to the marble. They were dirty, shorn about the head,

dangerous looking, and skin-clothed, as we have described; men very

low in the scale of humanity when compared with their fellow-pilgrim;

but, nevertheless, they were to him at that moment objects of envy.

They believed: so much at any rate was clear to him. By whatever code

of morals they might be able to govern their lives, whether by any,

or as, alas! might be too likely, by none, at least they possessed a

faith. Christ to them was an actual living truth, though they knew

how to worship him no better than by thus kissing a stone, which had

in fact no closer reference to the Saviour than any other stone they

might have kissed in their own country. They believed; and as they

reverently pressed their foreheads, lips, and hands to the top and

sides and edges of the sepulchre, their faith became ecstatic. It was

thus that Bertram would fain have entered that little chapel, thus

that he would have felt, thus that he would have acted had he been

able. So had he thought to feel--in such an agony of faith had he

been minded there to kneel. But he did not kneel at all. He remarked

to himself that the place was inordinately close, that his contiguity

to his religious neighbours was disagreeable; and then, stooping low

his head, not in reverence, but with a view to backing himself out

from the small enclosure, with some delay and much precaution, and,

to speak truth, with various expressions of anger against those who

with their heads continued to push him the way he did not wish to go,

he retreated from the chapel. Nor while he was at Jerusalem did he

feel sufficient interest in the matter again to enter it. He had done

that deed, he had killed that lion, and, ticking it off from his list

of celebrities as one celebrity disposed of, he thought but little

more about it. Such, we believe, are the visits of most English

Christians to the so-called Holy Sepulchre.

And then he killed the other lions there: Calvary up in the gallery;

the garden, so called, in which the risen Saviour addressed the women

running from the sepulchre; the place where Peter's cock crew; the

tomb of Nicodemus--all within the same church, all under the one

roof--all at least under what should be a roof, only now it has

fallen into ruin, so that these sacred places are open to the rain

of heaven, and Greeks and Latins having quarrelled about the repairs,

the Turks, now lords of the Holy Sepulchre, have taken the matter

into their own hands, and declared that no repairs shall be done by

any of them.

And then he attended the Greek mass--at least, he partly believed

that he did so, somewhat doubting, for the mass was not said as are

those of the Romans, out at an open altar before the people, but in

a holy of holies; very holy, it may be imagined, from the manner

in which the worshippers rubbed their foreheads against certain

gratings, through which a tantalizing glimpse might be had of the

fine things that were going on within. Had they but known it, it

might all have been seen, holy of holies, head-wagging priest, idle

yawning assistant, with legs stretched out, half asleep, mumblement,

jumblement and all, from a little back window in a passage opening

from that Calvary gallery upstairs. From thence at least did these

profane eyes look down and see all the mumblement and jumblement,

which after all was little enough; but saw especially the idle

clerical apprentice who, had that screen been down, and had he been

called on to do his altar work before the public eye, would not have

been so nearly asleep, as may perhaps be said of other clerical

performers nearer home.

But Bertram's attention was mainly occupied with watching the

devotions of a single woman. She was a female of one of those strange

nations, decently clad, about thirty years of age, pleasant to the

eye were she not so dirty, and had she not that wild look, half way

between the sallow sublime and the dangerously murderous, which seems

common to oriental Christians, whether men or women. Heaven might

know of what sins she came there to leave the burden: heaven did

know, doubtless; but from the length of her manoeuvres in quitting

herself of their weight, one would say that they were heavy; and yet

she went through her task with composed dignity, with an alacrity

that was almost joyous, and certainly with no intentional

self-abasement.

Entering the church with a quick step, she took up a position as

though she had selected a special stone on which to stand. There,

with head erect, but bowing between each ceremony, she crossed

herself three times; then sinking on her knees, thrice she pressed

her forehead to the floor; then rising again, again she crossed

herself. Having so done somewhat to the right of the church, but near

the altar-screen, she did the same on the corresponding stone towards

the left, and then again the same on a stone behind the others, but

in the centre. After this she retreated further back, and did three

more such worshippings, always choosing her stone with an eye to

architectural regularity; then again, getting to the backward, she

did three more, thus completing her appointed task, having crossed

herself thirty-six times, and pressed her head with twenty-seven

pressures upon the floor. And so, having finished, she quickly

withdrew. Did any slightest prayer, any idea of praying, any thought

of a God giving grace and pardon if only asked to give, once enter

that bowing bosom?

"Why do those Turks sit there?" said Bertram, as he left the

building. Why, indeed? It was strange to see five or six stately

Turks, strict children of the Prophet doubtless, sitting there within

the door of this temple dedicated to the Nazarene God, sitting there

and looking as though they of all men had the most right so to sit,

and were most at home in so sitting; nay, they had a divan there,

were drinking coffee there out of little double cups, as is the

manner of these people; were not smoking, certainly, as is their

manner also in all other places.

"Dem guard de keys," said the dragoman.

"Guard the keys!"

"Yes, yes; open de lock, and not let de Christian fight."

So it is. In such manner is proper, fitting, peaceable conduct

maintained within the thrice Christian walls of the Church of the

Holy Sepulchre.

On his return to the hotel, Bertram accepted an invitation to join

Miss Todd's picnic in the Valley of Jehoshaphat, and then towards

evening strolled up alone on to the Mount of Olives.

CHAPTER VII.

THE MOUNT OF OLIVES.

If there be one place told of in holy writ, the name of which gives

rise to more sacred feelings than any other, it is that of the Mount

of Olives; and if there be a spot in that land of wondrous memories

which does bring home to the believer in Christ some individualized

remembrance of his Saviour's earthly pilgrimage, that certainly is

it.

There is no doubting there, no question there whether or no the

ground on which you tread was not first called "the mount" by some

Byzantine Sophia; whether tradition respecting it can go back further

than Constantine; whether, in real truth, that was the hill over

which Jesus walked when he travelled from the house of Lazarus at

Bethany to fulfil his mission in the temple. No: let me take any

ordinary believing Protestant Christian to that spot, and I will as

broadly defy him to doubt there as I will defy him to believe in that

filthy church of the holy places.

The garden of Gethsemane near the city, "over the brook Cedron,"

where he left his disciples resting while he went yonder to pray; the

hill-side on which the angel appeared unto him, strengthening him,

and whither Judas and the multitude came out to take him; Bethany,

the town of Mary and Martha, "fifteen furlongs from Jerusalem," where

Lazarus was raised from the dead; the spot from whence he sent for

the ass and the ass's colt; the path from thence to the city by which

he rode when the multitude "cried, saying, Hosanna to the Son of

David!" the same multitude which afterwards came out against him with

staves: these places are there, now as they were in his day, very

credible--nay, more, impossible not to be believed. These are the

true holy places of Jerusalem, places for which Greeks and Latins do

not fight, guarded by no sedate, coffee-drinking Turks, open there

to all men under the fair heavens, and desolate enough, too, even in

these pilgrim weeks, for any one or two who will sit there alone and

ponder over the wondrous history of the city that still lies over

against him.

But what is the so strong evidence of the actual identity of these

places? What is it that makes me so sure that this is the Mount of

Olives, and that water-channel there the brook Cedron, and the hamlet

on the other side the veritable Bethany? Why is one to be so sure of

these, and yet feel such an infinity of doubt as to that village of

Emmaus, that valley of Ajalon, that supposed Arimathea, and the rest

of them? Nay, I cannot well say, at any rate not in these light novel

pages. Dr. Stanley, with considerable distinctness does say. But go

and see: with the ordinary Protestant Christian seeing here will be

believing, as seeing over in that church of the holy places most

indisputably will be disbelieving.

Hither Bertram strolled, and, seated on the brow of the hill, looked

over to Jerusalem till the short twilight of the Syrian evening had

left him, and he could no longer discern the wondrous spots on which

his eye still rested. Wondrous, indeed! There before him were the

walls of Jerusalem, standing up erect from the hill-side--for the

city is still all fenced up--stretching from hill to hill in varying

but ever continued line: on the left was the Hill of Sion, David's

hill, a hill still inhabited, and mainly by Jews. Here is still

the Jews' quarters, and the Jews' hospital too, tended by English

doctors, nurtured also by English money; and here, too, close to

David's Gate, close also to that new huge Armenian convent, shall

one, somewhat closely scrutinizing among heaps of rubbish, come upon

a colony of lepers. In the town, but not of it, within the walls, but

forbidden all ingress to the streets, there they dwell, a race of

mournfullest Pariahs. From father to son, from mother to daughter,

dire disease, horrid, polluting, is handed down, a certain legacy,

making the body loathsome, and likening the divine face of man to a

melancholy ape. Oh! the silent sadness, the inexpressible melancholy

of those wan, thoughtless, shapeless, boneless, leaden faces! To them

no happy daily labour brings rest and appetite; their lot forbids

them work, as it forbids all other blessings. No; on their dunghills

outside their cabins there they sit in the sun, the mournfullest

sight one might look on, the leper parents with their leper children,

beggars by inheritance, paupers, outcasts, mutilated victims,--but

still with souls, if they or any round them did but know it.

There also, directly facing him, was the Mount Moriah, also inside

the walls, where Solomon built the house of the Lord, "where the Lord

appeared unto David his father, in the place that David had prepared,

in the threshing-floor of Ornan the Jebusite." For this city,

Jerusalem, had, in still more ancient days, before the thought of

that temple had come into men's minds, been the city Jebus, a city

even then fenced up, and here had been the threshing-floor which

Ornan tendered to David without price, but which the king bought for

six hundred shekels of gold.

Yes; here before him as he sat was the site of that temple, Solomon's

temple, "exceeding magnificent, of fame and glory throughout all

countries," of which David had been worthy only to collect the

materials. The site! nay, but there were the very stones themselves.

Seen from that hill, the city seems so close that you may lay your

hand upon it. Between you and it (you, if ever you should happily

come to sit there) lies that valley of Jehoshaphat, in which Miss

Todd is going to celebrate her picnic. This is the valley in which

the Jews most love to have themselves buried; as there, according

to them, is the chosen site of the resurrection: and thus they who

painfully journeying thither in their old age, and dying there can

there be buried, will have no frightful, moles'-work, underground

pilgrimage to detain them when that awful trumpet shall once more

summon them to the upper world.

The air, in Syria there, is thin and clear, clouded by no fogs; and

the lines of the wall and the minarets of the mosque are distinct and

bright and sharp against the sky, as in the evening light one looks

across from one hill to the other. The huge stones of the wall now

standing, stones which made part of that ancient temple, can be

counted, one above another, across the valley. Measured by a rough

estimate, some of them may be two and twenty feet in length, seven in

depth, and five in height, single blocks of hewn rock, cut certainly

by no Turkish enterprise, by no mediæval empire, by no Roman labour.

It is here, and here only, at the base of the temple, that these huge

stones are to be found, at the base of what was the temple, forming

part of the wall that now runs along the side of Mount Moriah, but

still some forty feet above the ground.

Over them now is the Mosque of Omar--a spot to be desecrated no more

by Christian step. On the threshing-floor of Ornan, the children of

Mahomet now read the Koran and sing to Allah with monotonous howl.

Oh, what a history! from the treading of the Jebusite's oxen down

to the first cry of the Mussulman! Yes; no Christian may now enter

here, may hardly look into the walled court round the building. But

dignified Turks, drinking coffee on their divan within the building,

keep the keys of the Christian church--keep also the peace, lest

Latin and Greek should too enthusiastically worship their strange

gods.

There can be few spots on the world's surface more sacred to any

Christian than that on which Bertram sat. Coming up from Bethany,

over a spur on the southern side of the Mount of Olives, towards

Jerusalem, the traveller, as he rises on the hill, soon catches a

sight of the city, and soon again loses it. But going onward along

his path, the natural road which convenience would take, he comes

at length to the brow of the hill, looking downwards, and there has

Mount Sion, Moriah, and the site of the temple full before him. No

one travelling such a road could do other than pause at such a spot.

'Twas here that Jesus "sat upon the mount, over against the temple."

There is no possibility of mistaking the place. "And as he went, one

of the disciples saith unto him, 'Master, see what manner of stones

and what buildings are here.' And Jesus answering, said unto him,

'Seest thou these great buildings? There shall not be left one stone

upon another that shall not be thrown down.'" There are the stones,

the very stones, thrown down indeed from the temple, but now standing

erect as a wall, supporting Omar's mosque.

"And when he was come near, he beheld the city, and wept over it."

Yes, walk up from Bethany, my reader, and thou, too, shalt behold it,

even yet; a matter to be wept over even now. 'Tis hard to sit there

and not weep, if a man have any heart within him, any memory of those

histories. "If thou hadst known, even, then, at least in this thy

day, the things which belong unto thy peace!" But thou wouldest not

know. And where art thou now, O Jew? And who is it that sittest in

thy high place, howling there to Allah most unmusically?

"O, Jerusalem, Jerusalem!" Not silently, and in thought only, but

with outspoken words and outstretched hands, so then spake our young

English friend, sitting there all alone, gazing on the city. What

man familiar with that history could be there and not so speak? "O,

Jerusalem, Jerusalem! thou that killest the prophets, and stonest

them which are sent unto thee, how often would I have gathered

thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under

her wings, and ye would not! Behold, your house is left unto you

desolate."

When talking over the matter with Harcourt at Oxford, and afterwards

with his uncle at Hadley, Bertram had expressed a sort of half-formed

wish to go into the church; not, indeed, in such a manner as to leave

on the minds of either of his counsellors an idea that he would

really do so; but this profession of being a parson had been one of

those of which he had spoken as being in some sort desirable for

himself. Now, as he sat there, looking at the once holy city, it

seemed to him to be the only profession in any way desirable. He

resolved that he would be a clergyman; thanked his God in that he had

brought him there to this spot before it was too late; acknowledged

that, doubting as he had done, he had now at length found a Divine

counsellor--one whose leading his spirit did not disdain. There he

devoted himself to the ministry, declared that he, too, would give

what little strength he had towards bringing the scattered chickens

of the new house of Israel to that only wing which could give them

the warmth of life. He would be one of the smallest, one of the least

of those who would fight the good fight; but, though smallest and

least, he would do it with what earnestness was in him.

Reader! you may already, perhaps, surmise that George Bertram does

not become a clergyman. It is too true. That enthusiasm, strong,

true, real as it was, did not last him much longer than his last walk

round Jerusalem; at least, did not bide by him till he found himself

once more walking on the High Street of Oxford. Very contemptible

this, you will say. Yes, contemptible enough, as humanity so often

is. Who amongst us have not made such resolves--some resolve of

self-devotion, at the sound of the preacher's voice--and forgotten it

before our foot was well over the threshold? It is so natural, that

wish to do a great thing; so hard, that daily task of bathing in

Jordan.

When the bright day had disappeared, all but suddenly, and he could

no longer see the minarets of the mosque, Bertram descended the hill.

It is but a short walk thence to Jerusalem--thence even into the

centre of Jerusalem.

But what a walk! To the left is the valley-side--that valley of the

Resurrection--covered with tombs--flat, sturdy, short stones, each

bearing a semblance, at least, of some short Hebraic epitaph, unmoved

through heaven knows how many centuries! apparently immovable;

the place, in this respect, being very unlike our more ornamental

cemeteries. On his right was the Mount of Olives; a mount still of

olives, sprinkled over with olive-trees quite sufficiently to make it

properly so called, even to this day. Then he passed by the garden

of Gethsemane, now a walled-in garden, in which grow rue and other

herbs; in which, also, is one fine, aged olive-tree, as to which

tradition of course tells wondrous tales. This garden is now in

charge of an old Latin monk--a Spaniard, if I remember well--who, at

least, has all a Spaniard's courtesy.

It was here, or near to this, just above, on the hill-side, if our

topography be reliable, that Jesus asked them whether they could not

watch one hour. Bertram, as he passed, did not take the question to

himself; but he well might have done so.

Turning round the wall of the garden, on his pathway up to Stephen's

Gate, the so-called tomb of the Virgin was on his right hand, with

its singular, low, subterranean chapel. A very singular chapel,

especially when filled to the very choking with pilgrims from those

strange retreats of oriental Christendom, and when the mass is being

said--inaudible, indeed, and not to be seen, at the furthest end of

that dense, underground crowd, but testified to by the lighting of

a thousand tapers, and by the strong desire for some flicker of the

holy flame.

And then he ascended to the city, up the steep hill, the side of

Mount Moriah, to St. Stephen's Gate; and there, on his left, was

the entrance to Omar's mosque, guarded by fierce dervishes against

pollution from stray Christian foot. Hence to his hotel every

footstep was over ground sacred in some sense, but now desecrated by

traditionary falsehoods. Every action of our Saviour's passion has

its spot assigned to it; of every noted word the _locale_ is given.

When once you are again within the walls, all is again unbelievable,

fabulous, miraculous; nay, all but blasphemous. Some will say quite

so. But, nevertheless, in passing by this way, should you, O reader!

ever make such passage, forget not to mount to the top of Pilate's

house. It is now a Turkish barrack; whether it ever were Pilate's

house, or, rather, whether it stands on what was ever the site of

Pilate's house or no. From hence you see down into the court of the

mosque, see whatever a Christian can see of that temple's site, and

see also across them gloriously to those hills of Jerusalem, Scopus,

and the hill of the men of Galilee, and the Mount of Olives, and

the Mount of Offence--so called because there "did Solomon build an

high place for Chemosh, the abomination of Moab, on the hill that is

before Jerusalem."

On his return to his inn, Bertram at once found that there had been

an arrival of some importance during his absence. Waiters and boots

were all busy--for there are waiters and boots at Jerusalem, much

the same as at the "Saracen's Head," or "White Lion;" there is no

chambermaid, however, only a chamberman. Colonel Sir Lionel Bertram

was there.

CHAPTER VIII.

SIR LIONEL BERTRAM.

The personal peculiarities which Sir Lionel had mentioned in his

letter to his son as being characteristic of himself were certainly

true. He was an old, or, perhaps, rather an elderly gentleman, in a

military frock, with a bald head, a hook nose, and a short allowance

of teeth. But he was more than this: though elderly he was tall and

upright; he was distinguished looking, and, for an old man, handsome

in spite of his lost teeth; and though bald as to the top of his

head, had yet enough hair to merit considerable attention, and to be

the cause of considerable pride. His whiskers, also, and mustache,

though iron-gray, were excellent in their way. Had his baldness been

of an uglier description, or his want of teeth more disagreeably

visible, he probably might not have alluded to them himself. In

truth, Sir Lionel was not a little vain of his personal appearance,

and thought that in the matter of nose, he was quite equal to the

Duke in aristocratic firmness, and superior to Sir Charles Napier in

expression and general design.

But though a vain man, Sir Lionel was too clever to let his vanity

show itself in an offensive manner. The "ars celare artem" was

his forte; and he was able to live before the world as though he

never cast a thought on his coat and pantaloons, or ever did more

than brush and smooth his iron-gray locks with due attention to

cleanliness.

I was going to say that Sir Lionel's appearance was the best thing

about him; but in saying so I should belie his manner, with which it

was certainly difficult for any one to find fault. It was what the

world calls happy, meaning thereby, that so great was the possessor's

luck that he was able to make it pleasant to all men, and to all

women--for a while. Mrs. Bertram--she had not lived to be my

lady--had, I believe, not always found it so.

These, joined to a readiness in the use of one or two languages

besides his own, were the qualifications which had given Sir Lionel

his title, and had caused him to be employed in so many missions in

so many countries; and on duty, too, which could not be said to be of

a military nature. He never made difficulties or enemies of his own,

and could generally smooth down the difficulties and enemies left

behind them by others, perhaps of a more sturdy temperament.

But now the catalogue of his virtues is complete. He was not a man of

genius, or even a man of talent. He had performed no great service

for his country; had neither proposed nor carried through any

valuable project of diplomacy; nor had he shown any close insight

into the habits and feelings of the people among whom he had lived.

But he had been useful as a great oil-jar, from whence oil for the

quiescence of troubled waters might ever and anon be forthcoming.

Expediency was his god, and he had hitherto worshipped it with a

successful devotion.

That he had not been a good husband has been hinted; that he had been

a very indifferent father has been made apparent. But at the moment

of his meeting with his son, he atoned for all his past sins in this

respect by the excellence of his manner; and before the evening was

over, George liked his father, who had owed him everything and given

him nothing, ten times better than he had ever liked his uncle who

had given him everything though he had owed him nothing.

"It's an odd place for us to have met in at last, is it not, sir?"

said George. They were sitting after supper very close together on

one of those stationary sofas which are found affixed to the wall in

every room in the East, and the son was half holding, half caressing

his father's arm. Sir Lionel, to tell the truth, did not much care

for such caresses, but under the peculiar circumstances of this

present interview he permitted it.

"You see, I'm always in odd places, George."

"You've been in Jerusalem before?"

"No, never. It's not on the road anywhere, or on any road at all, as

one may well see. I never knew such a place to get to. Now there are

roads of some sort even about Bagdad."

"And Damascus?"

"Oh, Damascus is a highway; but nobody comes to Jerusalem except the

pilgrims, and those who like to look after the pilgrims. We are just

in the thick of them now, I believe."

"Yes, sir. There are thirteen thousand here. I am sure you'll like

the place. I am delighted with it, although I have been here as yet

only two days."

"Perhaps more so than you will be when you have been ten."

"I don't think it. But it is not the city itself."

"No; that seems poor and dirty enough."

"I would not mind the dirt if the place were but true." Sir Lionel

did not quite understand him, but he said nothing. "It is the country

round, the immediate vicinity of Jerusalem that fascinates so

wonderfully."

"Ah! the scenery is good, is it?"

"Well, in one way it is; but I do not mean that. I cannot explain it;

but to-morrow you will go to the Mount of Olives with me."

"Mount of Olives, eh? I'm not very good at climbing up a hill, Master

George; you must remember the difference between twenty-three and

sixty-three. What is there to see there?"

What was there to see there! This was said in a tone which made

George feel rather indisposed to describe, if describe he could, what

there was there to be seen. He had quite wit enough to perceive that

his father was not enthusiastic about Bible history.

And then they changed the conversation, and began to talk about

George Bertram the elder.

"It's eighteen years since I've seen my brother," said Sir Lionel.

"He was usually cross enough then. I suppose he has hardly improved?"

"I can't exactly call him cross. He has been very kind to me, you

know."

"Kind--well. If you are contented, I am; but, considering that you

are his natural heir, I don't think he has done so very much. If he

means to be kind, why does he bother me every other month with a long

account, of which the postage comes to heaven knows how much?"

"Ah! but, sir, I am not his heir."

"Not his heir!" said Sir Lionel, with more of sharpness in his tone

than was at all usual with him; with a little sharpness also in his

eye, as George quickly observed. "Not his heir--who is his heir

then?"

"Ah, that I do not know. Some corporation, perhaps, or some hospital.

All I know is, that I am not. That he has told me quite plainly. And

he was very right to do so," added George, after a pause.

Sir Lionel repressed the exclamation of anger against his brother

which was in his heart, and had all but risen to his tongue. He had

not been wandering for thirty years on foreign missions for nothing.

He must find out more of this lad's disposition and feelings before

he spoke out plainly before him what he thought. He had intended

not only that his son should be the rich uncle's heir, but the rich

uncle's adopted child also; so that some portion of that vast wealth

might be made use of, certainly by George, perhaps even in some

modest degree by himself, without the unnecessary delay of waiting

for his brother's death. It would be bad enough to wait, seeing how

probable it was that that brother might outlive himself. But now to

be told not only that his hopes in this respect were vain, but that

the old miser had absolutely repudiated his connection with his

nephew! This was almost too much for his diplomatic equanimity.

Almost, I say; for in fact he did restrain himself.

"And did he say, George, in so many words that he meant to give you

nothing?"

"Yes, very plainly--in so many words. And I told him as plainly, and

in as many, that I wanted nothing from him."

"Was that prudent, my boy?"

"It was the truth, sir. But I must tell you the whole. He offered me

a loan of three thousand pounds--"

"Well, you took that?"

"Indeed, no. He offered it on the condition that I should be an

attorney."

"An attorney! and you with a double-first?"

"Ah, he does not much value double-firsts. Of course, I was not going

to make myself an attorney."

"Of course not. But what is he doing about an allowance for you?"

"He has been very liberal. He has given me a hundred and fifty a

year--"

"Yes; and sent me the bill of it--with great regularity."

The son did not remind the father that all regularity in the matter

had ended there, and that the bills so sent had never been paid; but

he could not help thinking that in justice he might do so.

"But that expense will soon be over, sir, as regards either you or

him. The allowance will be discontinued next year."

"What! he is going to stop even that school-boy's pittance?"

"Why not, sir? I have no claim on him. And as he has not forgotten to

tell me so once or twice--"

"He was always a vulgar fellow," said Sir Lionel. "How he came to

have such a spirit of trade in his very blood, I can't conceive. God

knows I have none of it."

"Nor I either, sir."

"Well, I hope not. But does he expect you to live upon air? This is

bad news, George--very bad."

"Of course I have always intended to go into a profession. I have

never looked at it in the same light as you do. I have always

intended to make my own way, and have no doubt that I shall do so. I

have quite made up my mind about it now."

"About what, George?"

"I shall go into orders, and take a college living."

"Orders!" said Sir Lionel; and he expressed more surprise and almost

more disgust at this idea than at that other one respecting the

attorney scheme.

"Yes; I have been long doubting; but I think I have made up my mind."

"Do you mean that you wish to be a parson, and that after taking a

double-first?"

"I don't see what the double-first has to do with it, sir. The only

objection I have is the system of the establishment. I do not like

the established church."

"Then why go into it?" said Sir Lionel, not at all understanding the

nature of his son's objection.

"I love our liturgy, and I like the ritual; but what we want is the

voluntary principle. I do not like to put myself in a position which

I can, in fact, hold whether I do the duties of it or no. Nor do I

wish--"

"Well; I understand very little about all that; but, George, I

had hoped something better for you. Now, the army is a beggarly

profession unless a man has a private fortune; but, upon my word, I

look on the church as the worst of the two. A man _may_ be a bishop

of course; but I take it he has to eat a deal of dirt first."

"I don't mean to eat any dirt," said the son.

"Nor to be a bishop, perhaps," replied the father.

They were quite unable to understand each other on this subject. In

Sir Lionel's view of the matter, a profession was--a profession.

The word was understood well enough throughout the known world. It

signified a calling by which a gentleman, not born to the inheritance

of a gentleman's allowance of good things, might ingeniously obtain

the same by some exercise of his abilities. The more of these good

things that might be obtained, the better the profession; the easier

the labour also, the better the profession; the less restriction that

might be laid on a man in his pleasurable enjoyment of the world, the

better the profession. This was Sir Lionel's view of a profession,

and it must be acknowledged that, though his view was commonplace, it

was also common sense; that he looked at the matter as a great many

people look at it; and that his ideas were at any rate sufficiently

intelligible. But George Bertram's view was different, and much less

easy of explanation. He had an idea that in choosing a profession

he should consider, not so much how he should get the means of

spending his life, but how he should in fact spend it. He would

have, in making this choice, to select the pursuit to which he would

devote that amount of power and that amount of life which God should

allot to him. Fathers and mothers, uncles and aunts, guardians and

grandfathers, was not this a singular view for a young man to take in

looking at such a subject?

But in truth George was somewhat afflicted by a _tête monté_ in this

matter. I say afflicted, because, having imagination and ideality to

lead him to high views, he had not a sufficient counterbalance in

his firmness of character. If his father was too mundane, he was too

transcendental. As for instance, he approved at the present moment,

in theory, of the life of a parish clergyman; but could he have

commenced the life to-morrow, he would at once have shrunk from its

drudgery.

They did not understand each other; perceiving which, Sir Lionel gave

up the subject. He was determined not to make himself disagreeable to

his son. He, at any rate, intended to make him no allowance, to give

him no fortune, and was aware, therefore, that he had no right to

interfere otherwise than as his advice might be asked. Nor indeed had

he any wish to do so, if he could only instil into the young man's

mind a few--not precepts; precepts are harsh and disagreeable--a few

comfortable friendly hints as to the tremendous importance of the

game which might be played with Mr. George Bertram senior. If he

could only do this pleasantly, and without offence to his son, he

would attempt nothing further.

He turned the conversation, and they talked agreeably on other

matters--of Oxford, of the Wilkinsons, of Harcourt, and by degrees

also a little of uncle George.

"What sort of a house does my brother keep at Hadley--eh, George?

Dull enough it used to be."

"Well; it is dull. Not that he is dull himself; I can always talk to

my uncle when he will talk to me."

"Sees no company, I suppose?"

"Not much."

"Never goes into society?"

"He dines out in London sometimes; and sometimes gives dinners too."

"What! at taverns?"

"Yes; at Blackwall, or Greenwich, or some of those places. I have

been at his dinners, and he never spares anything."

"He doesn't feel his years, then? He's not infirm? no rheumatism or

anything of that sort--strong on his legs, eh?"

"As strong as you are, sir."

"He's ten years my senior, you know."

"Yes, I know he is. He's not nearly so young a man as you are; but

I really think he is as strong. He's a wonderful man for his years,

certainly."

"I'm delighted to hear it," said Sir Lionel. A keen judge of

character, however, scrutinizing the colonel's face closely, would

not then have read much warm delight therein depicted.

"You rather like him on the whole, then--eh, George?"

"Well; I really think I do. I am sure I ought to like him. But--"

"Well, George; speak out. You and I need have no secrets."

"Secrets, no; I've no secret. My uncle has a way of saying too much

himself about what he does for one."

"Sends in the bill too often--eh, George?"

"If it is to be a bill, let him say so. I for one shall not blame

him. There is no reason he should give me anything. But situated as I

have been at Oxford, it would have been almost absurd in me to refuse

his allowance--"

"Quite absurd."

"When he knew I was coming out to you, he made Pritchett--you know

Pritchett?"

"And his handwriting--very well indeed."

"He made Pritchett put three hundred pounds to my credit; that was

over and above my allowance. Well, I did almost make up my mind to

return that; as it is, I have not touched it, and I think I shall

repay it."

"For heaven's sake do no such thing. It would be an offence which he

would never forgive." Sir Lionel did say so much with something of

parental energy in his tone and manner.

"Yes, sir; but to be told of it!"

"But he does not ask you to pay it him back again?"

"If he asks you;--is not that the same thing? But you hardly

understand me, or him either."

"I think I understand him, George. I wonder whether they could give

us a cup of coffee here?"

"Of course they can:" and George rang the bell.

"Perhaps so; but as far as my experience goes, wherever Englishmen

frequent, there the coffee is spoilt. Englishmen, as far as I can

see, have a partiality for chicory, but none at all for coffee."

"What I mean, sir, is this. Connected as I and my uncle are together,

seeing that he has all my life--" Here George paused a moment, for

what he was about to say might have seemed to imply a censure on his

father.

"Paid your school-bills, and all that sort of thing," filled in Sir

Lionel.

"Yes; as he has always done that, it seemed so natural that I should

take what he gave me."

"Quite natural. You could have done nothing else."

"And now he speaks of it as though--as though;--of course I am under

an obligation to him--a very deep obligation. I understand that, and

should not fret at it. But he thinks of it as though I had been to

blame in spending his money. When I see him next, he'll say something

of the same sort about that three hundred pounds. All I can do is to

remind him that I did not ask for it, and tell him that he may have

it back again."

"Do nothing of the kind, George," said Sir Lionel, who regarded as

little less than lunacy on his son's part this declared intention to

refund money to a rich man. "I know very well what you mean. It is

disagreeable to be reminded of money that you have spent."

"But I haven't spent it."

"Well, of money that you have received. But what can you do? It is

not your fault. As you truly say, it would be absurd and ungrateful

too if you were to decline to take such trifles from your own uncle;

especially seeing what he has done for you. It is his manner, and

that was always disagreeable; especially in money matters." And so

having given to his son the best advice he had to offer, Sir Lionel

sipped his coffee. "Very bad--very bad, indeed; it always is at these

English places. If I could have my own way, I would always keep out

of English haunts." In this respect Sir Lionel had had his own way

during the greater portion of his life.

Before they parted for the evening, George communicated to his father

the great fact of Miss Todd's picnic as settled for the next day;

and Sir Lionel expressed himself as willing to make one of the party

if Miss Todd could be induced to extend to him the light of her

countenance. On this head young Bertram, though his own acquaintance

had certainly been short, thought that he might take on himself to

answer. People soon get intimate with each other at such places as

Jerusalem. When you have been up the Great Pyramid with a lady, the

chances are you know more about her than you would do from a year's

acquaintance fostered by a dozen London parties; and a journey up the

Nile with a man may be considered quite equal to three years spent

together at the same college,--that is, if the fellow-travellers be

young. After a certain age, men never become really intimate, let

their relations with each other be ever so close.

"There will be a Miss Baker there, sir, who says she knows you; and a

Miss Waddington, a very fine girl, who at any rate knows my name."

"What! Caroline Waddington?"

"Yes, Caroline Waddington."

"She is a ward of your uncle."

"So Miss Baker tells me; but I never heard my uncle mention them.

Indeed, he never mentions anything."

"It will be very desirable that you should know Miss Waddington.

There is no saying what your uncle may do with his money. Yes, I'll

go to the picnic; only I hope the place is not distant." So that

matter was settled.

CHAPTER IX.

MISS TODD'S PICNIC.

That matter of obtaining permission for Sir Lionel to join the

picnic was not found difficult of arrangement. Good-looking,

pleasant-mannered Sir Lionels, who bear the Queen's commission,

and have pleasant military ways with them, are welcome enough at

such parties as these, even though they be sixty years of age. When

George mentioned the matter to Miss Todd, that lady declared herself

delighted. She had heard, she said, of the distinguished arrival at

the hotel, but she had been almost afraid to ask such a man as Sir

Lionel to join their foolish little party. Then Miss Baker, who in

this affair bore the next authority to Miss Todd, declared that she

had intended to ask him, taking upon herself the freedom of an old

acquaintance; and so that matter was arranged.

The party was not to be a large one. There was Miss Todd, the

compounder of it, a maiden lady, fat, fair, and perhaps almost forty;

a jolly jovial lady, intent on seeing the world, and indifferent to

many of its prejudices and formal restraints. "If she threw herself

in Sir Lionel's way, people would of course say that she wanted to

marry him; but she did not care a straw what people said; if she

found Sir Lionel agreeable, she would throw herself in his way." So

she told Miss Baker--with perhaps more courage than the occasion

required.

Then there was Mrs. and Miss Jones. Miss Jones was the young lady who

lost her parasol on the Mount of Offence, and so recklessly charged

the Arab children of Siloam with the theft. Mr. Jones was also in

Jerusalem, but could not be persuaded to attend at Miss Todd's

behest. He was steadily engaged in antiquarian researches, being

minded to bring out to the world some startling new theory as to

certain points in Bible chronology and topography. He always went

about the city with a trowel and a big set of tablets; and certain

among the more enthusiastic of the visitors to Jerusalem had put him

down as an infidel.

There were also Mr. and Mrs. Hunter--a bridegroom and bride, now on

their wedding trip; a somewhat fashionable couple, who were both got

up with considerable attention as to oriental costume. Mrs. Hunter

seemed to think a good deal about her trousers, and Mr. Hunter's mind

was equally taken up with the fact that he had ceased to wear any.

They had a knowing way of putting on their turbans, and carried their

sashes gracefully; those, however, who had seen Mr. Hunter roll

himself into his sash, were of opinion that sooner or later he would

suffer from vertigo in his head. Miss Baker and her niece had fallen

in with these people, and were considered to be of the same party.

There was a clergyman to be there, one Mr. Cruse, the gentleman who

had been so keenly annoyed at the absence of potatoes from the dinner

board. He was travelling in charge of a young gentleman of fortune,

a Mr. Pott, by whose fond parents the joint expense of the excursion

was defrayed. Mr. Cruse was a University man, of course; had been

educated at Trinity College Cambridge, and piqued himself much on

being far removed from the dangers of Puseyism. He was a man not of

a happy frame of mind, and seemed to find that from Dan to Beersheba

everything in truth was barren. He was good-looking, unmarried, not

without some talent, and seemed to receive from the ladies there

assembled more attention than his merits altogether deserved.

Mr. M'Gabbery had talked of not going, but had been over-persuaded by

the good-natured Miss Todd. He had become almost overwhelmed by the

intensity of his feelings in regard to the sacred associations of the

place, since George Bertram had contrived to seat himself between

Miss Baker and Miss Waddington. Up to that moment, no one had been

merrier than he. He had, so he had flattered himself, altogether cut

out Mr. Cruse in that special quarter, the good graces namely of

those two ladies, and had been prepared to take on his own shoulders

all the hard work of the picnic. But now things were altered with

him; he had some doubts whether the sacredness of the valley would

not be desecrated by such a proceeding, and consulted Mr. Cruse on

the matter. Hitherto these gentlemen had not been close friends;

but now they allied themselves as against a common enemy. Mr. Cruse

did not care much for associations, seemed indeed to think that

any special attention to sacred places savoured of idolatry, and

professed himself willing to eat his dinner on any of the hills or

in any of the valleys round Jerusalem. Fortified with so good an

opinion, and relying on the excellence of his purpose, Mr. M'Gabbery

gave way, and renewed his offers of assistance to Miss Todd.

There was also Mr. Pott, Mr. Cruse's young charge, the son of a man

largely engaged in the linen trade; a youth against whom very little

can be alleged. His time at present was chiefly given up to waiting

on Miss Jones; and, luckier in this respect than his tutor, Mr.

Cruse, he had no rival to interfere with his bliss.

Miss Baker and Miss Waddington made up the party. Of the former,

little more need be said, and that little should be all in her

praise. She was a lady-like, soft-mannered, easy-tempered woman,

devoted to her niece, but not strongly addicted to personal exertions

on her own part. The fact that she was now at Jerusalem, so far away

from her own comfortable drawing-room, sufficiently proved that she

_was_ devoted to her niece.

And now for Caroline Waddington, our donna primissima. Her qualities,

attributes, and virtues must be given more in detail than those of

her companions at the picnic, seeing that she is destined to fill a

prominent place upon our canvas.

At the time of which we are speaking, she might perhaps be twenty

years of age; but her general appearance, her figure, and especially

the strong character marked in her face, would have led one to

suspect that she was older. She was certainly at that time a

beautiful girl--very beautiful, handsome in the outline of her face,

graceful and dignified in her mien, nay, sometimes almost majestic--a

Juno rather than a Venus. But any Paris who might reject her, awed by

the rigour of her dignity, would know at the time that he was wrong

in his judgment. She was tall, but not so tall as to be unfeminine

in her height. Her head stood nobly on her shoulders, giving to her

bust that ease and grace of which sculptors are so fond, and of

which tight-laced stays are so utterly subversive. Her hair was

very dark--not black, but the darkest shade of brown, and was worn

in simple rolls on the side of her face. It was very long and very

glossy, soft as the richest silk, and gifted apparently with a

delightful aptitude to keep itself in order. No stray jagged ends

would show themselves if by chance she removed her bonnet, nor did it

even look as though it had been prematurely crushed and required to

be afresh puffed out by some head-dresser's mechanism. She had the

forehead of a Juno; white, broad, and straight; not shining as are

some foreheads, which seem as though an insufficient allowance of

skin had been vouchsafed for their covering. It was a forehead on

which an angel might long to press his lips--if angels have lips, and

if, as we have been told, they do occasionally descend from their

starry heights to love the daughters of men.

Nor would an angel with a shade of human passion in his temperament

have been contented with her forehead. Her mouth had all the richness

of youth, and the full enticing curves and ruby colour of Anglo-Saxon

beauty. Caroline Waddington was no pale, passionless goddess; her

graces and perfections were human, and in being so were the more

dangerous to humanity. Her forehead we have said, or should have

said, was perfect; we dare not affirm quite so much in praise of her

mouth: there was sometimes a hardness there, not in the lines of the

feature itself, but in the expression which it conveyed, a want of

tenderness, perhaps of trust, and too much self-confidence, it may

be, for a woman's character. The teeth within it, however, were never

excelled by any that ever graced the face of a woman.

Her nose was not quite Grecian; had it been so, her face might have

been fairer, but it would certainly have been less expressive. Nor

could it be called _retroussé_, but it had the slightest possible

tendency in that direction; and the nostrils were more open, more

ready to breathe forth flashes of indignation than is ever the case

with a truly Grecian nose.

The contour of her face was admirable: nothing could exceed in beauty

the lines of her cheeks or the shape and softness of her chin. Those

who were fastidious in their requirements might object to them that

they bore no dimple; but after all, it is only prettiness that

requires a dimple: full-blown beauty wants no such adventitious aid.

But her eyes! Miss Waddington's eyes! The eyes are the poet's

strongest fortress; it is for their description that he most gathers

up his forces and puts forth all his strength. What of her eyes?

Well, her eyes were bright enough, large enough, well set in her

head. They were clever eyes too--nay, honest eyes also, which is

better. But they were not softly feminine eyes. They never hid

themselves beneath their soft fringes when too curiously looked into,

as a young girl at her window half hides herself behind her curtain.

They were bold eyes, I was going to say, but the word would signify

too much in their dispraise; daring eyes, I would rather say,

courageous, expressive, never shrinking, sometimes also suspicious.

They were fit rather for a man than for so beautiful a girl as our

Caroline Waddington.

But perhaps the most wonderful grace about her was her walk. "Vera

incessu patuit Dea." Alas! how few women can walk! how many are

wilfully averse to attempting any such motion! They scuffle, they

trip, they trot, they amble, they waddle, they crawl, they drag

themselves on painfully, as though the flounces and furbelows around

them were a burden too heavy for easy, graceful motion; but, except

in Spain, they rarely walk. In this respect our heroine was equal to

an Andalusian.

Such and so great were Miss Waddington's outward graces. Some attempt

must also be made to tell of those inner stores with which this

gallant vessel was freighted; for, after all, the outward bravery is

not everything with a woman. It may be that a man in selecting his

wife rarely looks for much else;--for that in addition, of course, to

money; but though he has looked for little else, some other things do

frequently force themselves on his attention soon after the knot is

tied; and as Caroline Waddington will appear in these pages as wife

as well as maid, as a man's companion as well as his plaything,

it may be well to say now something as to her fitness for such

occupation.

We will say, then, that she was perhaps even more remarkable for her

strength of mind than for her beauty of person. At present, she was

a girl of twenty, and hardly knew her own power; but the time was to

come when she should know it and should use it. She was possessed of

a stubborn, enduring, manly will; capable of conquering much, and not

to be conquered easily. She had a mind which, if rightly directed,

might achieve great and good things, but of which it might be

predicted that it would certainly achieve something, and that if not

directed for good, it might not improbably direct itself for evil.

It was impossible that she should ever grow into a piece of domestic

furniture, contented to adapt itself to such uses as a marital tyrant

might think fit to require of it. If destined to fall into good

hands, she might become a happy, loving wife; but it was quite as

possible that she should be neither happy nor loving.

Like most other girls, she no doubt thought much of what might be her

lot in love--thought much of loving, though she had never yet loved.

It has been said that her turn of mind was manly; but it must not

on that account be imagined that her wishes and aspirations were at

present other than feminine. Her heart and feeling's were those of a

girl, at any rate as yet; but her will and disposition were masculine

in their firmness.

For one so young, she had great and dangerous faults of

character--great, as being injurious to her happiness; and dangerous,

as being likely to grow with her years. Her faults were not young

faults. Though true herself, she was suspicious of others; though

trustworthy, she was not trustful: and what person who is not

trustful ever remains trustworthy? Who can be fit for confidence who

cannot himself confide? She was imperious, too, when occasion offered

itself to her proud spirit. With her aunt, whom she loved, she was

not so. Her she was content to persuade, using a soft voice and a

soft eye; but with those whom she could not persuade and wished to

rule, her voice was sometimes stern enough, and her eye far from

soft.

She was a clever girl, capable of talking well, and possessed of more

information than most young ladies of the same age. She had been at

an excellent school, if any schools are really excellent for young

ladies; but there was, nevertheless, something in her style of

thought hardly suitable to the softness of girlhood. She could speak

of sacred things with a mocking spirit, the mockery of philosophy

rather than of youth; she had little or no enthusiasm, though there

was passion enough deep seated in her bosom; she suffered from

no transcendentalism; she saw nothing through a halo of poetic

inspiration: among the various tints of her atmosphere there was no

rose colour; she preferred wit to poetry; and her smile was cynical

rather than joyous.

Now I have described my donna primissima, with hardly sufficient

detail for my own satisfaction, doubtless with far too much for

yours, oh, my reader! It must be added, however, that she was an

orphan; that she lived entirely with her aunt, Miss Baker; that her

father had been in early life a sort of partner with Mr. George

Bertram; that Mr. George Bertram was her guardian, though he had

hitherto taken but little trouble in looking after her, whatever

trouble he may have taken in looking after her money; and that she

was possessed of a moderate fortune, say about four thousand pounds.

A picnic undertaken from Jerusalem must in some respects be unlike

any picnic elsewhere. Ladies cannot be carried to it in carriages,

because at Jerusalem there are no carriages; nor can the provisions

be conveyed even in carts, for at Jerusalem there are no carts. The

stock of comestibles was therefore packed in hampers on a camel's

back, and sent off to the valley by one route, whereas Miss Todd and

her friends went on horseback and on donkey-back by another and a

longer road.

It may as well be mentioned that Miss Todd was a little ashamed of

the magnitude to which her undertaking had attained. Her original

plan had merely been this:--that she and a few others should ride

through the valleys round the city, and send a basket of sandwiches

to meet them at some hungry point on the road. Now there was a

_cortège_ of eleven persons, exclusive of the groom-boys, a boiled

ham, sundry chickens, hard-boiled eggs, and champagne. Miss Todd

was somewhat ashamed of this. Here, in England, one would hardly

inaugurate a picnic to Kensal Green, or the Highgate Cemetery, nor

select the tombs of our departed great ones as a shelter under which

to draw one's corks. But Miss Todd boasted of high spirits: when this

little difficulty had been first suggested to her by Mr. M'Gabbery,

she had scoffed at it, and had enlarged her circle in a spirit of

mild bravado. Then chance had done more for her; and now she was

doomed to preside over a large party of revellers immediately over

the ashes of James the Just.

None but Englishmen or Englishwomen do such things as this. To other

people is wanting sufficient pluck for such enterprises; is wanting

also a certain mixture of fun, honest independence, and bad taste.

Let us go into some church on the Continent--in Italy, we will

say--where the walls of the churches still boast of the great

works of the great masters.--Look at that man standing on the very

altar-step while the priest is saying his mass; look at his gray

shooting-coat, his thick shoes, his wide-awake hat stuck under one

arm, and his stick under the other, while he holds his opera-glass

to his eyes. How he shuffles about to get the best point of sight,

quite indifferent as to clergy or laity! All that bell-ringing,

incense-flinging, and breast-striking is nothing to him: he has paid

dearly to be brought thither; he has paid the guide who is kneeling a

little behind him; he is going to pay the sacristan who attends him;

he is quite ready to pay the priest himself, if the priest would only

signify his wish that way; but he has come there to see that fresco,

and see it he will: respecting that he will soon know more than

either the priest or his worshippers. Perhaps some servant of the

church, coming to him with submissive, almost suppliant gesture, begs

him to step back just for one moment. The lover of art glares at

him with insulted look, and hardly deigns to notice him further:

he merely turns his eye to his Murray, puts his hat down on the

altar-step, and goes on studying his subject. All the world--German,

Frenchman, Italian, Spaniard--all men of all nations know that that

ugly gray shooting-coat must contain an Englishman. He cares for no

one. If any one upsets him, he can do much towards righting himself;

and if more be wanted, has he not Lord Malmesbury or Lord Clarendon

at his back? But what would this Englishman say if his place of

worship were disturbed by some wandering Italian?

It was somewhat in this way with Miss Todd. She knew that what she

was about to do was rather absurd, but she had the blood of the Todds

warm at her heart. The Todds were a people not easily frightened, and

Miss Todd was not going to disgrace her lineage. True, she had not

intended to feed twelve people over a Jewish sepulchre, but as the

twelve people had assembled, looking to her for food, she was not the

woman to send them away fasting: so she gallantly led the way through

the gate of Jaffa, Sir Lionel attending her on a donkey.

When once out of the town, they turned sharp to the left. Their path

lay through the valley of Gihon, through the valley of Hinnom, down

among those strange, open sepulchres, deeply excavated in caves on

the mountain-sides--sepulchres quite unlike those below in the valley

of Jehoshaphat. There they are all covered, each stone marking a

grave; but here they lie in open catacombs--in caves, at least, of

which the entrance is open. The hardy stranger crawling in may lay

his hand within the cell--nay, may crawl up into it if he will--in

which have mouldered the bones of some former visitor to Jerusalem.

For this, so saith tradition, is the field purchased with the reward

of iniquity. It was the burying-place for strangers, Aceldama, the

field of blood.

But where be these bones now? for the catacombs are mostly empty. Mr.

Pott, descending as far as he could into the deepest of them, did at

last bring forth a skull and two parts of a back-bone; did present

the former with much grace to Miss Jones, who, on beholding it, very

nearly fell from off her donkey.

"For shame, Pott," said Mr. Cruse. "How could you handle anything

so disgusting? You are desecrating the grave of some unfortunate

Mussulman who has probably died within the last fifty years." Mr.

Cruse was always intent on showing that he believed none of the

traditions of the country.

"It was quite dreadful of you, Mr. Pott," said Miss Jones; "quite

dreadful! Indeed, I don't know what you would not do. But I am quite

sure he was never a Mahomedan."

"He looked like a Jew, didn't he?" said Pott.

"Oh! I did not see the face; but he was certainly either a Jew or a

Christian. Only think. Perhaps those remains have been there for

nearly eighteen hundred years. Is it not wonderful? Mamma, it was

just here that I lost my parasol."

Sir Lionel had headed the cavalcade with Miss Todd, but George

Bertram was true to his new friends, Miss Baker and Miss Waddington.

So also, for a time, were Mr. M'Gabbery and Mr. Cruse. As the aunt

and niece rode beside each other, a great part of this gallant

attention fell upon the former. Indeed, the easiest way of addressing

the beauty was often found to be through the beauty's aunt; and it

may be doubted whether Mr. M'Gabbery would not have retreated long

since in despair, but for the scintillations of civility which fell

to him from Miss Baker's good-humour. He had had the good fortune

of some previous days' journeying with them on horseback through

the desert, and had found that privilege gave him an inestimable

advantage over Mr. Cruse. Why should it not also suffice as regarded

this new comer? He had held much commune with himself on the subject

that morning; had called himself to task for his own pusillanimity,

and had then fortified his courage with the old reflection about fair

ladies and faint hearts--and also with a glass of brandy. He was

therefore disposed to make himself very unpleasant to poor George if

occasion should require.

"How delighted you must have been to see your father!" said Miss

Baker, who, though her temper would not permit her to be uncivil to

Mr. M'Gabbery, would readily have dispensed with that gentleman's

attendance.

"Indeed, I was. I never saw him before, you know."

"Never saw him, your father, before, Mr. Bertram?" said Caroline.

"Why, aunt Mary says that I have seen him."

"I never saw him to remember him. One doesn't count one's

acquaintance before seven or eight years of age."

"Your memory must be very bad, then," said Mr. M'Gabbery, "or your

childhood's love for your father very slight. I perfectly remember

the sweetness of my mother's caresses when I was but three years

old. There is nothing, Miss Waddington, to equal the sweetness of a

mother's kisses."

"I never knew them," said she. "But I have found an aunt's do nearly

as well."

"A grandmother's are not bad," said Bertram, looking very grave.

"I can never think of my mother without emotion," continued Mr.

M'Gabbery. "I remember, as though it were yesterday, when I first

stood at her knee, with a picture-book on her lap before me. It is

the furthest point to which memory carries me--and the sweetest."

"I can remember back much before that," said George; "a great deal

before that. Listen to this, Miss Baker. My earliest impression was a

hatred of dishonesty."

"I hope your views have not altered since," said Caroline.

"Very materially, I fear. But I must tell you about my memory. I was

lying once in my cradle--"

"You don't mean to tell me you remember that?" said M'Gabbery.

"Perfectly, as you do the picture-book. Well, there I was lying, Miss

Baker, with my little eyes wide open. It is astonishing how much

babies see, though people never calculate on their having eyes at

all. I was lying on my back, staring at the mantelpiece, on which my

mother had left her key-basket."

"You remember, of course, that it was her key-basket?" said Miss

Waddington, with a smile that made M'Gabbery clench his walking-stick

in his hand.

"Perfectly; because she always kept her halfpence there also. Well,

there was a nursery-girl who used to be about me in those days. I

distinctly saw her go to that basket, Miss Baker, and take out a

penny; and I then made up my mind that the first use I would make of

my coming speech should be to tell my mother. That, I think, is the

furthest point to which my memory carries me."

The ladies laughed heartily, but Mr. M'Gabbery frowned bitterly. "You

must have dreamt it," said he.

"It is just possible," said George; "but I don't think it. Come, Miss

Waddington, let us have your earliest recollections."

"Ah! mine will not be interesting. They do not go back at all so far.

I think they have reference to bread and butter."

"I remember being very angry," said Miss Baker, "because papa

prophesied that I should be an old maid. It was very hard on me, for

his prophecy no doubt brought about the fact."

"But the fact is no fact as yet," said Mr. M'Gabbery, with a smirking

gallantry for which he ought to have been kicked.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. M'Gabbery," said Miss Waddington. "It is

quite an established fact. My aunt will never have my consent to

marry; and I am sure she will never dream of such a thing without

it."

"And so Mr. M'Gabbery's hopes in that direction are all at an end,"

said George, who was now able to speak to Caroline without being

heard by the others.

"I declare I think he has entertained some such idea, for he never

leaves my aunt alone for a minute. He has been very civil, very; but,

Mr. Bertram, perhaps you know that a very civil man may be a bore."

"He always is, I think. No man is really liked who is ever ready to

run on messages and tie up parcels. It is generally considered that a

man knows his own value, and that, if he be willing to do such work,

such work is fit for him."

"You never do anything to oblige, then?"

"Very rarely; at least, not in the little domestic line. If one could

have an opportunity of picking a lady out of a fire, or saving her

from the clutches of an Italian bravo, or getting her a fortune of

twenty thousand pounds, one would be inclined to do it. In such

cases, there would be no contempt mixed up with the lady's gratitude.

But ladies are never really grateful to a man for turning himself

into a flunky."

"Ah! I like to be attended to all the same."

"Then there is Mr. M'Gabbery. Half a smile will keep him at your feet

the whole day."

Mr. M'Gabbery and poor Miss Baker were now walking behind them, side

by side. But his felicity in this respect was not at all sufficient

for that gentleman. In their long journey from Egypt, he and Miss

Waddington had always been within speaking distance; and who was the

stranger of to-day that was thus to come and separate them?

"Miss Waddington," he cried, "do you remember when your horse

stumbled in the sand at El Arish? Ah! what a pleasant day that was!"

"But you have not recalled it by a very pleasant incident. I was very

nearly being thrown out of my saddle."

"And how we had to wait for our dinner at Gaza till the camels came

up?" And Mr. M'Gabbery, urging on his horse, brought him up once more

abreast with that of Miss Waddington.

"I shall soon have as great a horror of Gaza as Samson had," said

she, _sotto voce_. "I almost feel myself already in bonds under

Philistian yoke whenever it is mentioned."

"Talking of recollections, that journey will certainly be among the

sunniest of my life's memories," said Mr. M'Gabbery.

"It was sunny, certainly," said Miss Waddington; for the heat of the

desert had been oppressive.

"Ah! and so sweet! That encamping in your own tent; preparing your

own meals; having everything, as it were, within yourself. Civilized

life has nothing to offer equal to that. A person who has only gone

from city to city, or from steamboat to steamboat, knows nothing of

oriental life. Does he, Miss Waddington?" This was intended as a blow

at Bertram, who had got to Jerusalem without sleeping under canvas.

"What ignorant wretches the natives must be!" said George; "for

they apparently sleep as regularly in their own beds as any stupid

Christian in England."

"I am not sure that even Mr. M'Gabbery would admire the tents so much

if he had not some Christian comforts along with him."

"His brandy-flask and dressing-case, for instance," said George.

"Yes; and his mattress and blankets," said Caroline.

"His potted meat and preserved soup."

"And especially his pot to boil his potatoes in."

"That was Mr. Cruse," said Mr. M'Gabbery, quite angrily. "For myself,

I do not care a bit about potatoes."

"So it was, Mr. M'Gabbery; and I beg your pardon. It is Mr. Cruse

whose soul is among the potatoes. But, if I remember right, it was

you who were so angry when the milk ran out." Then Mr. M'Gabbery

again receded, and talked to Mrs. Jones about his associations.

"How thoroughly the Turks and Arabs beat us in point of costume,"

said Mrs. Hunter to Mr. Cruse.

"It will be very hard, at any rate, for any of them to beat you,"

said the tutor. "Since I have been out here, I have seen no one adopt

their ways with half as much grace as you do."

Mrs. Hunter looked down well pleased to her ancles, which were

covered, and needed to be covered, by no riding-habit. "I was not

thinking so much of myself as of Mr. Hunter. Women, you know, Mr.

Cruse, are nothing in this land."

"Except when imported from Christendom, Mrs. Hunter."

"But I was speaking of gentlemen's toilets. Don't you think the

Turkish dress very becoming? I declare, I shall never bear to see

Charles again in a coat and waistcoat and trousers."

"Nor he you in an ordinary silk gown, puffed out with crinoline."

"Well, I suppose we must live in the East altogether then. I am sure

I should not object. I know one thing--I shall never endure to put a

bonnet on my head again. By-the-by, Mr. Cruse, who is this Sir Lionel

Bertram that has just come? Is he a baronet?"

"Oh dear, no; nothing of that sort, I imagine. I don't quite know who

he is; but that young man is his son."

"They say he's very clever, don't they?"

"He has that sort of boy's cleverness, I dare say, which goes towards

taking a good degree." Mr. Cruse himself had not shone very brightly

at the University.

"Miss Waddington seems very much smitten with him; don't you think

so?"

"Miss Waddington is a beautiful girl; and variable--as beautiful

girls sometimes are."

"Mr. Cruse, don't be satirical."

"'Praise undeserved is satire in disguise,'" said Mr. Cruse, not

quite understanding, himself, why he made the quotation. But it did

exceedingly well. Mrs. Hunter smiled sweetly on him, said that he was

a dangerous man, and that no one would take him to be a clergyman;

upon which Mr. Cruse begged that she would spare his character.

And now they had come to the fountain of Enrogel, and having

dismounted from their steeds, stood clustering about the low wall

which surrounds the little pool of water.

"This, Sir Lionel," said Miss Todd, acting cicerone, "is the fountain

of Enrogel, which you know so well by name."

"Ah!" said Sir Lionel. "It seems rather dirty at present; doesn't

it?"

"That is because the water is so low. When there has been much rain,

there is quite a flood here. Those little gardens and fields there

are the most fertile spot round Jerusalem, because there is so much

irrigation here."

"That's where the Jerusalem artichokes are grown, I suppose."

"It is a singular fact, that though there are plenty of artichokes,

that special plant is unknown," said Mr. M'Gabbery. "Do you remember,

Miss Waddington--"

But Miss Waddington had craftily slipped round the corner of the

wall, and was now admiring Mrs. Hunter's costume, on the other side

of the fountain.

"And that is the village of Siloam," continued Miss Todd, pointing to

a range of cabins, some of which seemed to be cut out of the rock on

the hill-side, on her right hand as she looked up towards the valley

of Jehoshaphat. "And that is the pool of Siloam, Sir Lionel; we shall

go up there."

"Ah!" said Sir Lionel again.

"Is it not interesting?" said Miss Todd; and a smiling gleam of

satisfaction spread itself across her jovial ruddy face.

"Very," said Sir Lionel. "But don't you find it rather hot?"

"Yes, it is warm. But one gets accustomed to that. I do so like to

find myself among these names which used to torment me so when I

was a child. I had all manner of mysterious ideas about the pool of

Bethesda and the beautiful gate, about the hill of Sion, and Gehenna,

and the brook Cedron. I had a sort of belief that these places were

scattered wide over the unknown deserts of Asia; and now, Sir Lionel,

I am going to show them all to you in one day."

"Would they were scattered wider, that the pleasure might last the

longer," said Sir Lionel, taking off his hat as he bowed to Miss

Todd, but putting it on again very quickly, as he felt the heat.

"Yes; but the mystery, the beautiful mystery, is all gone," said Miss

Jones. "I shall never feel again about these places as I used to do."

"Nor I either, I hope," said Mr. Pott. "I always used to catch it for

scripture geography."

"Yes, the mystery of your childhood will be gone, Miss Jones," said

Mr. M'Gabbery, who, in his present state of hopelessness as regarded

Miss Waddington, was ill-naturedly interfering with young Pott. "The

mystery of your childhood will be gone; but another mystery, a more

matured mystery, will be created in your imagination. Your

associations will henceforth bear a richer tint."

"I don't know that," said Miss Jones, who did not approve of being

interfered with a bit better than did Mr. Pott.

And then they remounted, and the cavalcade moved on. They turned up

the rising ground towards the city wall, and leaving on the left the

gardens in which Jerusalem artichokes did not grow, they came to the

pool of Siloam. Here most of them again descended, and climbed down

to the water, which bursts out from its underground channel into a

cool, but damp and somewhat dirty ravine.

"You are my guide, Miss Todd, in everything," said Sir Lionel. "Is it

necessary that I should study scripture geography down in that hole?

If you bid me, I'll do it."

"Well, Sir Lionel, I'll let you off; the more especially as I have

been down there myself already, and got dreadfully draggled in doing

so. Oh! I declare, there is Miss Waddington in the water."

Miss Waddington was in the water. Not in such a manner, gentlest

of readers, as to occasion the slightest shock to your susceptible

nerves; but in such a degree as to be very disagreeable to her boots,

and the cause of infinite damage to her stockings. George Bertram had

handed her down, and when in the act of turning round to give similar

assistance to some other adventurous lady, had left her alone on the

slippery stones. Of course any young lady would take advantage of

such an unguarded moment to get into some catastrophe.

Alas! and again alas! Unfortunately, Mr. M'Gabbery had been the first

to descend to the pool. He had calculated, cunningly enough, that in

being there, seeing that the space was not very large, the duty must

fall to his lot of receiving into his arms any such ladies as chose

to come down--Miss Waddington, who was known to be very adventurous,

among the number. He was no sooner there, however, than George

Bertram jumped in almost upon him, and hitherto he had not had an

opportunity of touching Miss Waddington's glove. But now it seemed

that fortune was to reward him.

"Good heavens!" cried Mr. M'Gabbery, as he dashed boldly into the

flood, thereby splashing the water well up into Caroline's face.

There was not much occasion for this display, for the gentleman could

have assisted the lady quite as effectually without even wetting his

toes; but common misfortunes do create common sympathies--or at least

they should do. Would it not be natural that Miss Waddington and

Mr. M'Gabbery, when both wet through up to their knees, should hang

together in their sufferings, make common cause of it, talk each of

what the other felt and understood so well? Nay, might it not be

probable that, in obedience to the behests of some wise senior, they

might be sent back to the city together;--understand, O reader, that

the wall of Jerusalem had never yet been distant from them half a

mile--back, we say, together to get dry stockings? To achieve such an

object, Mr. M'Gabbery would have plunged bodily beneath the wave--had

the wave been deep enough to receive his body. As it was, it only

just came over the tops of his boots, filling them comfortably with

water.

"Oh, Mr. M'Gabbery!" exclaimed the ungrateful lady. "Now you have

drowned me altogether."

"I never saw anything so awkward in my life," said M'Gabbery, looking

up at Bertram with a glance that should have frozen his blood.

"Nor I, either," said Caroline.

"What had you better do? Pray give me your hand, Miss Waddington. To

leave you in such a manner as that! We managed better in the desert,

did we not, Miss Waddington? You really must go back to Jerusalem for

dry shoes and stockings; you really must. Where is Miss Baker? Give

me your hand, Miss Waddington; both hands, you had better."

So much said Mr. M'Gabbery while struggling in the pool of Siloam.

But in the meantime, Miss Waddington, turning quickly round, had put

out her hand to Bertram, who was standing--and I regret to say all

but laughing--on the rock above her; and before Mr. M'Gabbery's

eloquence was over, she was safely landed among her friends.

"Oh, Mr. Bertram," said she; "you are a horrid man. I'll never

forgive you. Had I trusted myself to poor Mr. M'Gabbery, I should

have been dry-footed at this moment." And she shook the water from

off her dress, making a damp circle around herself as a Newfoundland

dog sometimes does. "If I served you right, I should make you go to

the hotel for a pair of shoes."

"Do, Miss Waddington; make him go," said Sir Lionel. "If he doesn't,

I'll go myself."

"I shall be delighted," said Mr. Cruse; "my donkey is very quick;"

and the clergyman mounted ready to start. "Only I shouldn't know

where to find the things."

"No, Mr. Cruse; and I couldn't tell you. Besides, there is nothing I

like so much as wet feet,--except wet strings to my hat, for which

latter I have to thank Mr. M'Gabbery."

"I will go, of course," said M'Gabbery, emerging slowly from the

pool. "Of course it is for me to go; I shall be glad of an

opportunity of getting dry boots myself."

"I am so sorry you have got wet," said the beauty.

"Oh! it's nothing; I like it. I was not going to see you in the water

without coming to you. Pray tell me what I shall fetch. I know all

your boxes so well, you know, so I can have no difficulty. Will they

be in the one with C. W. on it in brass nails? That was the one which

fell off the camel near the Temple of Dagon." Poor Mr. M'Gabbery!

that ride through the desert was an oasis in his otherwise somewhat

barren life, never to be forgotten.

"I am the sinner, Miss Waddington," said George, at last, "and on me

let the punishment fall. I will go back to Jerusalem; and in order

that you may suffer no inconvenience, I will bring hither all your

boxes and all your trunks on the backs of a score of Arab porters."

"You know you intend to do no such thing," said she. "You have

already told me your ideas as to waiting upon young ladies."

There was, however, at last some whispering between Miss Baker and

her niece, in which Mr. M'Gabbery vainly attempted to join, and the

matter ended in one of the grooms being sent into the town, laden

with a bunch of keys and a written message for Miss Baker's servant.

Before dinner-time, Miss Waddington had comfortably changed her

stockings in the upper story of the tomb of St. James, and Mr.

M'Gabbery--but Mr. M'Gabbery's wet feet did not receive the attention

which they deserved.

Passing on from the pool of Siloam, they came to a water-course at

which there was being conducted a considerable washing of clothes.

The washerwomen--the term is used as being generic to the trade and

not to the sex, for some of the performers were men--were divided

into two classes, who worked separately; not so separately but what

they talked together, and were on friendly terms; but still there was

a division. The upper washerwomen, among whom the men were at work,

were Mahomedans; the lower set were Jewesses. As to the men, but

little observation was made, except that they seemed expert enough,

dabbing their clothes, rubbing in the soap, and then rinsing, very

much in the manner of Christians. But it was impossible not to look

at the women. The female followers of the Prophet had, as they

always have, some pretence of a veil for their face. In the present

instance, they held in their teeth a dirty blue calico rag, which

passed over their heads, acting also as a shawl. By this contrivance,

intended only to last while the Christians were there, they concealed

one side of the face and the chin. No one could behold them without

wishing that the eclipse had been total. No epithet commonly applied

to women in this country could adequately describe their want of

comeliness. They kept their faces to their work, and except that they

held their rags between their teeth, they gave no sign of knowing

that strangers were standing by them.

It was different with the Jewesses. When they were stared at, they

stood up boldly and stared again;--and well worth looking at they

were. There were three or four of them, young women all, though

already mothers, for their children were playing on the grass behind

them. Each bore on her head that moon-shaped head-dress which is

there the symbol of a Jewess; and no more graceful tiara can a woman

wear. It was wonderful that the same land should produce women

so different as were these close neighbours. The Mahomedans were

ape-like; but the Jewesses were glorious specimens of feminine

creation. They were somewhat too bold, perhaps; there was too much

daring in their eyes, as, with their naked shoulders and bosoms

nearly bare, they met the eyes of the men that were looking at them.

But there was nothing immodest in their audacity; it was defiant

rather, and scornful.

There was one among them, a girl, perhaps of eighteen, who might have

been a sculptor's model, not only for form and figure, but for the

expression of her countenance and the beautiful turn of her head and

shoulders. She was very unlike the Jewess that is ordinarily pictured

to us. She had no beaky nose, no thin face, no sharp, small, black,

bright eyes; she was fair, as Esther was fair; her forehead and face

were broad, her eyes large and open; yet she was a Jewess, plainly a

Jewess; such a Jewess as are many still to be seen--in Palestine, at

least, if not elsewhere.

When they came upon her, she was pressing the dripping water from

some large piece of linen, a sheet probably. In doing this she had

cunningly placed one end firmly under her foot upon a stone, and

then, with her hands raised high above her head, she twisted and

retwisted it till the water oozing out fell in heavy drops round her

feet. Her arms and neck were bare, as were also her feet; and it was

clear that she put forth to her work as much strength as usually

falls to the lot of a woman in any country.

She was very fair to look at, but there was about her no feminine

softness. Do not laugh, reader, unless you have already stopped to

think, and, thinking, have decided that a girl of eighteen, being a

washerwoman, must therefore be without feminine softness. I would not

myself say that it is so. But here at least there was no feminine

softness, no tenderness in the eye, no young shame at being gazed at.

She paused for a moment in her work, and gave back to them all the

look they gave her; and then, as though they were beneath her notice,

she strained once more at her task, and so dropped the linen to the

ground.

"If I knew how to set about the bargain, I would take that woman home

with me, and mould her to be my wife." Such was George Bertram's

outspoken enthusiasm.

"Moulded wives never answer well," said Sir Lionel.

"I think he would prefer one that had been dipped," whispered Miss

Todd to the colonel; but her allusion to Miss Waddington's little

accident on the water, and to the chandler's wares, was not

thoroughly appreciated.

It has been said that the hampers were to be sent to the tomb of

Zachariah; but they agreed to dine immediately opposite to that of

St. James the Less. This is situated in the middle of the valley of

Jehoshaphat, in the centre of myriads of Jewish tombs, directly

opposite to the wall built with those huge temple stones, not many

feet over the then dry water-course of the brook Cedron. Such was the

spot chosen by Miss Todd for her cold chickens and champagne.

Of course they wandered about a little in pairs and trios while these

dainties were being prepared for them. This St. James's tomb is a

little temple built on the side of the rock, singularly graceful. The

front towards the city is adorned with two or three Roman pillars,

bearing, if I remember rightly, plain capitals. There is, I think,

no pediment above them, or any other adjunct of architectural

pretension; but the pillars themselves, so unlike anything else

there, so unlike any other sepulchral monument that I, at least, have

seen, make the tomb very remarkable. That it was built for a tomb is,

I suppose, not to be doubted; though for whose ashes it was in fact

erected may perhaps be questioned. I am not aware that any claimant

has been named as a rival to St. James.

The most conspicuous of these monuments is that which tradition

allots to Absalom, close to this other which we have just described.

It consists of a solid square erection, bearing what, for want of

a better name, I must call a spire, with curved sides, the sides

curving inwards as they fall from the apex to the base. This spiral

roof, too low and dumpy to be properly called a spire, is very

strong, built with stones laid in circles flat on each other, the

circles becoming smaller as they rise towards the top. Why Absalom

should have had such a tomb, who can say? That his bones were buried

there, the Jews at least believe; for Jewish fathers, as they walk by

with their children, bid their boys each cast a stone there to mark

their displeasure at the child who rebelled against his parent. It is

now nearly full of such stones.

While Miss Waddington was arranging her toilet within the tomb of St.

James, her admirers below were not making themselves agreeable to

each other. "It was the awkwardest thing I ever saw," said Mr. Cruse

to Mr. M'Gabbery, in a low tone, but not so low but what Bertram was

intended to hear it.

"Very," said Mr. M'Gabbery. "Some men are awkward by nature;--seem,

indeed, as though they were never intended for ladies' society."

"And then to do nothing but laugh at the mischief he had caused. That

may be the way at Oxford; but we used to flatter ourselves at

Cambridge that we had more politeness."

"Cambridge!" said Bertram, turning round and speaking with the most

courteous tone he could command. "Were you at Cambridge? I thought

I had understood that you were educated at St. Bees." Mr. Cruse had

been at St. Bees, but had afterwards gone to the University.

"I was a scholar at St. John's, sir," replied Mr. Cruse, with much

dignity. "M'Gabbery, shall we take a stroll across the valley till

the ladies are ready?" And so, having sufficiently shown their

contempt for the awkward Oxonian, they moved away.

"Two very nice fellows, are they not?" said Bertram to Mr. Hunter.

"It's a stroke of good fortune to fall in with such men as that at

such a place as this."

"They're very well in their own way," said Mr. Hunter, who was lying

on the grass, and flattering himself that he looked more Turkish than

any Turk he had yet seen. "But they don't seem to me to be quite at

home here in the East. Few Englishman in fact are. Cruse is always

wanting boiled vegetables, and M'Gabbery can't eat without a regular

knife and fork. Give me a pilau and a bit of bread, and I can make a

capital dinner without anything to help me but my own fingers."

"Cruse isn't a bad kind of coach," said young Pott. "He never

interferes with a fellow. His only fault is that he's so spoony about

women."

"They're gentlemanlike men," said Sir Lionel; "very. One can't

expect, you know, that every one should set the Thames on fire."

"Cruse won't do that, at any rate," put in Mr. Pott.

"But Mr. M'Gabbery perhaps may," suggested George. "At any rate, he

made a little blaze just now at the brook above." And then the ladies

came down, and the business of the day commenced; seeing which, the

two injured ones returned to their posts.

"I am very fond of a picnic," said Sir Lionel, as, seated on a corner

of a tombstone, he stretched out his glass towards Miss Todd, who had

insisted on being his cupbearer for the occasion; "excessively fond.

I mean the eating and drinking part, of course. There is only one

thing I like better; and that is having my dinner under a roof, upon

a table, and with a chair to sit on."

"Oh, you ungrateful man; after all that I am doing for you!"

"I spoke of picnics generally, Miss Todd. Could I always have my

nectar filled to me by a goddess, I would be content with no room,

but expect to recline on a cloud, and have thunderbolts ready at my

right hand."

"What a beautiful Jupiter your father would make, Mr. Bertram!"

"Yes; and what a happy king of gods with such a Juno as you, Miss

Todd!"

"Ha! ha! ha! oh dear, no. I pretend to no _rôle_ higher than that of

Hebe. Mr. M'Gabbery, may I thank you for a slice of ham? I declare,

these tombs are very nice tables, are they not? Only, I suppose it's

very improper. Mr. Cruse, I'm so sorry that we have no potatoes; but

there is salad, I know."

"Talking of chairs," said Mr. Hunter, "after all there has been no

seat yet invented by man equal to a divan, either for ease, dignity,

or grace." Mr. Hunter had long been practising to sit cross-legged,

and was now attempting it on on the grass for the first time in

public. It had at any rate this inconvenient effect, that he was

perfectly useless; for, when once seated, he could neither help

himself nor any one else.

"The cigar divan is a very nice lounge when one has nothing better to

do," suggested Mr. Pott. "They have capital coffee there."

"A divan and a sofa are much the same, I suppose," said George.

But to this Mr. Hunter demurred, and explained at some length what

were the true essential qualities of a real Turkish divan: long

before he had finished, however, George had got up to get a clean

plate for Miss Waddington, and in sitting down had turned his back

upon the Turk. The unfortunate Turk could not revenge himself, as in

his present position any motion was very difficult to him.

Picnic dinners are much the same in all parts of the world, and

chickens and salad are devoured at Jerusalem very much in the same

way as they are at other places--except, indeed, by a few such

proficients in Turkish manners as Mr. Hunter. The little Arab

children stood around them, expectant of scraps, as I have seen

children do also in England; and the conversation, which was dull

enough at the commencement of the feast, became more animated when a

few corks had flown. As the afternoon wore on, Mr. M'Gabbery became

almost bellicose under the continual indifference of his lady-love;

and had it not been for the better sense of our hero--such better

sense may be expected from gentlemen who are successful--something

very like a quarrel would have taken place absolutely in the presence

of Miss Todd.

Perhaps Miss Waddington was not free from all blame in the matter.

It would be unjust to accuse her of flirting--of flirting, at least,

in the objectionable sense of the word. It was not in her nature to

flirt. But it was in her nature to please herself without thinking

much of the manner in which she did it, and it was in her nature also

to be indifferent as to what others thought of her. Though she had

never before known George Bertram, there was between them that sort

of family knowledge of each other which justified a greater intimacy

than between actual strangers. Then, too, he pleased her, while

Mr. M'Gabbery only bored. She had not yet thought enough about

the world's inhabitants to have recognized and adjudicated on the

difference between those who talk pleasantly and those who do not;

but she felt that she was amused by this young double-first Oxonian,

and she had no idea of giving up amusement when it came in her way.

Of such amusement, she had hitherto known but little. Miss Baker

herself was, perhaps, rather dull. Miss Baker's friends at Littlebath

were not very bright; but Caroline had never in her heart accused

them of being other than amusing. It is only by knowing his contrast

that we recognize a bore when we meet him. It was in this manner that

she now began to ascertain that Mr. M'Gabbery certainly had bored

her. Ascertaining it, she threw him off at once--perhaps without

sufficient compunction.

"I'll cut that cock's comb before I have done with him," said

M'Gabbery to his friend Mr. Cruse, as they rode up towards St.

Stephen's gate together, the rest of the cavalcade following them.

Sir Lionel had suggested to Miss Todd that they might as well return,

somewhat early though it was, seeing that there was cause why that

feast of reason and that flow of soul should no longer be continued

by them round the yet only half-emptied hampers. So the ladies had

climbed up into the tomb and there adjusted their hats, and the

gentlemen had seen to the steeds; and the forks had been packed up;

and when Mr. M'Gabbery made the state of his mind known to Mr. Cruse,

they were on their way back to Jerusalem, close to the garden of

Gethsemane.

"I'll cut that young cock's comb yet before I have done with him,"

repeated Mr. M'Gabbery.

Now Mr. Cruse, as being a clergyman, was of course not a fighting

man. "I shouldn't take any notice of him," said he; "nor, indeed, of

her either; I do not think she is worth it."

"Oh, it isn't about that," said M'Gabbery. "They were two women

together, and I therefore was inclined to show them some attention.

You know how those things go on. From one thing to another it has

come to this, that they have depended on me for everything for the

last three or four weeks."

"You haven't paid any money for them, have you?"

"Well, no; I can't exactly say that I have paid money for them. That

is to say, they have paid their own bills, and I have not lent them

anything. But I dare say you know that a man never travels with

ladies in that free and easy way without feeling it in his pocket.

One is apt to do twenty things for them which one wouldn't do for

oneself; nor they for themselves if they had to pay the piper."

Now here a very useful moral may be deduced. Ladies, take care how

you permit yourselves to fall into intimacies with unknown gentlemen

on your travels. It is not pleasant to be spoken of as this man was

speaking of Miss Baker and her niece. The truth was, that a more

punctilious person in her money dealings than Miss Baker never

carried a purse. She had not allowed Mr. M'Gabbery so much as to lay

out on her behalf a single piastre for oranges on the road. Nor had

he been their sole companion on their journey through the desert.

They had come to Jerusalem with a gentleman and his wife: Mr.

M'Gabbery had been kindly allowed to join them.

"Well, if I were you, I should show them a cold shoulder," said Mr.

Cruse; "and as to that intolerable puppy, I should take no further

notice of him, except by cutting him dead."

Mr. M'Gabbery at last promised to follow his friend's advice, and so

Miss Todd's picnic came to an end without bloodshed.

CHAPTER X.

THE EFFECTS OF MISS TODD'S PICNIC.

Sir Lionel did not participate violently either in his son's disgust

at the falsehood of that holy sepulchre church, nor in his enthusiasm

as to the Mount of Olives. In the former, he walked about as he had

done in many other foreign churches, looked a little to the right and

a little to the left, observed that the roof seemed to be rather out

of order, declined entering the sanctum sanctorum, and then asked

whether there was anything more to be seen. He did not care, he said,

about going upstairs into the gallery; and when George suggested

that he should descend into the Armenian chapel, he observed that it

appeared to be very dark and very crowded. He looked at the Turkish

janitors without dismay, and could not at all understand why George

should not approve of them.

He was equally cold and equally complaisant on the Mount of Olives.

He would willingly have avoided the ascent could he have done so

without displeasing his son; but George made a point of it. A donkey

was therefore got for him, and he rode up.

"Ah! yes," said he, "a very clear view of the city; oh, that was

Solomon's temple, was it? And now they have a mosque there, have

they? Ah! perhaps the Brahmins will have a turn at it before the

world is done. It's a barren sort of hill after all, is it not?"

And then George tried very much in vain to make his father understand

why he wished to go into the church.

"By-the-by," said Sir Lionel--they were then sitting exactly on the

spot where George had placed himself before, when he made that grand

resolve to give up everything belonging to this world for the sake

of being one of Christ's shepherds--"by-the-by, George, for heaven's

sake don't throw your uncle over in choosing a profession. I

certainly should be sorry to see you become an attorney."

"I have never thought of it for a moment," said George.

"Because, with your abilities, and at any rate with your chance of

money, I think you would be very much thrown away; but, considering

his circumstances and yours, were I you, I would really submit almost

to anything."

"I will not at any rate submit to that," said George, not very well

able to reconcile his father's tone to the spot on which they were

sitting.

"Well, it's your own affair, my boy. I have no right to interfere,

and shall not attempt to do so; but of course I must be anxious. If

you did go into the church, I suppose he'd buy a living for you?"

"Certainly not; I should take a college living."

"At your age any that you could get would be very small. Ah, George!

if I could only put an old head upon young shoulders, what a hand of

cards you would have to play! That old man could leave you half a

million of money!"

This was certainly not the object with which the son had ascended the

mount, and he did not use much eloquence to induce his father to

remain long in the place. Sir Lionel got again on his donkey, and

they returned to Jerusalem; nor did George ever again talk to him

about the Mount of Olives.

And he was not very much more successful with another friend into

whose mind he endeavoured to inculcate his own high feelings. He got

Miss Baker up to his favourite seat, and with her Miss Waddington;

and then, before he had left Jerusalem, he succeeded in inducing the

younger lady to ramble thither with him alone.

"I do not know that I think so highly of the church as you do," said

Caroline. "As far as I have seen them, I cannot find that clergymen

are more holy than other men; and yet surely they ought to be so."

"At any rate, there is more scope for holiness if a man have it

in him to be holy. The heart of a clergyman is more likely to be

softened than that of a barrister or an attorney."

"I don't exactly know what you mean by heart-softening, Mr. Bertram."

"I mean--" said Bertram, and then he paused; he was not quite able,

with the words at his command, to explain to this girl what it was

that he did mean, nor was he sure that she would appreciate him if

he did do so; and, fond as he still was of his idea of a holy life,

perhaps at this moment he was fonder still of her.

"I think that a man should do the best he can for himself in a

profession. You have a noble position within your grasp, and if I

were you, I certainly would not bury myself in a country parsonage."

What this girl of twenty said to him had much more weight than the

time-honoured precepts of his father; and yet both, doubtless, had

their weight. Each blow told somewhat; and the seed too had been sown

upon very stony ground.

They sat there some three or four minutes in silence. Bertram was

looking over to Mount Moriah, imaging to himself the spot where

the tables of the money-changers had been overturned, while Miss

Waddington was gazing at the setting sun. She had an eye to see

material beauty, and a taste to love it; but it was not given to her

to look back and feel those things as to which her lover would fain

have spoken to her. The temple in which Jesus had taught was nothing

to her.

Yes, he was her lover now, though he had never spoken to her of love,

had never acknowledged to himself that he did love her--as so few

men ever do acknowledge till the words that they have said make it

necessary that they should ask themselves whether those words are

true. They sat there for some minutes in silence, but not as lovers

sit. The distance between them was safe and respectful. Bertram was

stretched upon the ground, with his eyes fixed, not upon her, but on

the city opposite; and she sat demurely on a rock, shading herself

with her parasol.

"I suppose nothing would induce you to marry a clergyman?" said he at

last.

"Why should you suppose that, Mr. Bertram?"

"At any rate, not the parson of a country parish. I am led to suppose

it by what you said to me yourself just now."

"I was speaking of you, and not of myself. I say that you have a

noble career open to you, and I do not look on the ordinary life of

a country parson as a noble career. For myself, I do not see any

nobility in store. I do not know that there is any fate more probable

for myself than that of becoming a respectable vicaress."

"And why may not a vicar's career be noble? Is it not as noble to

have to deal with the soul as with the body?"

"I judge by what I see. They are generally fond of eating, very

cautious about their money, untidy in their own houses, and apt to go

to sleep after dinner."

George turned upon the grass, and for a moment or two ceased to look

across into the city. He had not strength of character to laugh at

her description and yet to be unmoved by it. He must either resent

what she said, or laugh and be ruled by it. He must either tell her

that she knew nothing of a clergyman's dearest hopes, or else he must

yield to the contempt which her words implied.

"And could you love, honour, and obey such a man as that, yourself,

Miss Waddington?" he said at last.

"I suppose such men do have wives who love, honour, and obey them;

either who do or do not. I dare say I should do much the same as

others."

"You speak of my future, Miss Waddington, as though it were a subject

of interest; but you seem to think nothing of your own."

"It is useless for a woman to think of her future; she can do so

little towards planning it, or bringing about her plans. Besides, I

have no right to count on myself as anything out of the ordinary run

of women; I have taken no double-first degree in anything."

"A double-first is no sign of a true heart or true spirit. Many a man

born to grovel has taken a double-first."

"I don't perhaps know what you mean by grovelling, Mr. Bertram. I

don't like grovellers myself. I like men who can keep their heads

up--who, once having them above the water, will never allow them to

sink. Some men in every age do win distinction and wealth and high

place. These are not grovellers. If I were you I would be one of

them."

"You would not become a clergyman?"

"Certainly not; no more than I would be a shoemaker."

"Miss Waddington!"

"Well; and what of Miss Waddington? Look at the clergymen that

you know; do they never grovel? You know Mr. Wilkinson; he is an

excellent man, I am sure, but is he conspicuous for highmindedness,

for truth and spirit?" It must be remembered that the elder Mr.

Wilkinson was at this time still living. "Are they generally men of

wide views and enlightened principles? I do not mean to liken them

to shoemakers; but were I you, I should think of the one business as

soon as the other."

"And in my place, what profession would you choose?"

"Ah, that I cannot say. I do not know your circumstances."

"I must earn my bread, like other sons of Adam."

"Well, earn it then in such manner that the eyes of the world shall

be upon you; that men and women shall talk of you, and newspapers

have your name in their columns. Whatever your profession, let it be

a wakeful one; not one that you can follow half asleep."

Again he paused for awhile, and again sat looking at the rock of the

temple. Still he thought of the tables of the money-changers, and

the insufficiency of him who had given as much as half to the poor.

But even while so thinking, he was tempted to give less than half

himself, to set up on his own account a money-changing table in his

own temple. He would fain have worshipped at the two shrines together

had he been able. But he was not able; so he fell down before that of

Mammon.

"You can talk to me in this way, urge me to be ambitious, and yet

confess that you could give yourself to one of those drones of whom

you speak with such scorn."

"I speak of no one with scorn; and I am not urging you; and at

present am not talking of giving myself to any one. You ask as to the

possibility of my ever marrying a clergyman; I say that it is very

possible that I may do so some day."

"Miss Waddington," said George; and now he had turned his face

absolutely from the city, and was looking upwards to the hill;

upwards, full into the beauty of her countenance. "Miss Waddington!"

"Well, Mr. Bertram?"

"You speak of me as though I were a being high in the scale of

humanity--"

"And so I think of you."

"Listen for a moment--and of yourself as one comparatively low."

"No, no, not low; I have too much pride for that; much lower than

you, certainly, for I have given no proofs of genius."

"Well--lower than me. That is what you have said, and I do not

believe that you would say so falsely. You would not descend to

flatter me?"

"Certainly not; but--"

"Believe equally of me that I would not flatter you. I have told you

no falsehood as yet, and I have a right to claim your belief. As you

look on me, so do I on you. I look up to you as one whose destiny

must be high. To me there is that about you which forbids me to think

that your path in the world can ever be other than conspicuous. Your

husband, at least, will have to live before the world."

"I shall not have the slightest objection to his doing so; but that,

I think, will depend a great deal more on him than on me."

Bertram was very anxious to say something which might tend towards

the commingling of his destiny with hers. He was hardly yet prepared

to swear that he loved her, and to ask her in good set terms to be

his wife. But he did not like to leave her without learning whether

he had at all touched her heart. He was fully sure now that his own

was not whole.

"Come, Mr. Bertram," said she; "look at the sun, how nearly it is

gone. And you know we have no twilight here. Let us go down; my aunt

will think that we are lost."

"One minute, Miss Waddington; one minute, and then we will go.

Miss Waddington--if you care enough for me to bid me take up any

profession, follow any pursuit, I will obey you. You shall choose for

me, if you will."

She blushed, not deeply, but with a colour sufficiently heightened

to make it visible to him, and with a tingling warmth which made

her conscious of it herself. She would have given much to keep her

countenance, and yet the blush became her greatly. It took away from

the premature firmness of her womanly look, and gave her for the

moment something of the weakness natural to her age.

"You know that is nonsense: on such a subject you must of course

choose for yourself."

Bertram was standing in the path before her, and she could not well

go on till he had made way for her. "No," said he; "thinking as I do

of you, feeling as I do regarding you, it is not nonsense. It would

be absolute nonsense if I said so to your aunt, or to Mrs. Hunter, or

to Miss Jones. I could not be guided by a person who was indifferent

to me. But in this matter I will be guided by you if you will consent

to guide me."

"Of course I shall do no such thing."

"You have no personal wish, then, for my welfare?"

"Yes, I have. Your uncle is my guardian, and I may therefore be

allowed to look upon you as a friend of a longer standing than merely

of yesterday. I do regard you as a friend, and shall be glad of your

success." Here she paused, and they walked on a few steps together in

silence; and then she added, becoming still redder as she did so, but

now managing to hide her face from her companion, "Were I to answer

you in the way that you pretend to wish, I should affect either less

friendship than I feel, or much more."

"Much more!" said Bertram, with a shade of despondency in his tone.

"Yes, much more, Mr. Bertram. Why, what would you have me say?"

"Ah me! I hardly know. Nothing--nothing--I would have you say

nothing. You are quite right to say nothing." And then he walked

on again for a hundred yards in silence. "Nothing, Miss Waddington,

nothing; unless, indeed--"

"Mr. Bertram;" and as she spoke she put out her hand and gently

touched his arm. "Mr. Bertram, stop yourself; think, at any rate,

of what you are going to say. It is a pity when such as you speak

foolishly." It was singular to see how much more composed she was

than he; how much more able to manage the occasion--and yet her

feelings were strong too.

"Nothing; I would have you say nothing--nothing, unless this: that

whatever my destiny may be, you will share it with me."

As he spoke he did not look towards her, but straight before him down

the path. He did not sigh, nor look soft. There was indeed not much

capability for soft looks in his square and strongly-featured face.

He frowned rather, set his teeth together, and walked on faster than

before. Caroline did not answer him immediately; and then he repeated

his words. "I do not care for you to say anything now, unless you can

say this--that whatever your lot may be, I may share it; whatever

mine, that you will share it."

"Mr. Bertram."

"Well--"

"Now you have spoken foolishly. Do you not know that you have spoken

foolishly?"

"I have spoken truly. Do you speak as truly. You should be as much

above false girlish petty scruples, as you will be and are above

falsehood of another kind. You will never tell a man that you love

him if you do not."

"No; certainly, I never will."

"And do not deny it if it be the truth."

"But it is not the truth. How long have we known each other, Mr.

Bertram?"

"Counting by days and hours, some fortnight. But what does that

signify? You do not love a man the better always, the longer you know

him. Of you, I discern that there is that in you I can love, that

would make me happy. I have talent, some sort of talent at least. You

have a spirit which would force me to use it. I will not pretend to

say that I am suited for you. You must judge that. But I know that

you are suited for me. Now I will take any answer you will give me."

To tell the truth, Miss Waddington hardly knew what answer to give

him. He was one, it seemed, who, having spoken with decision himself,

would take any answer as decisive. He was one not to be tampered

with, and one also hardly to be rejected without consideration; and

certainly not so to be accepted. She had liked him much--very much,

considering the little she had known of him. She had even asked

herself, half playfully, whether it were not possible that she might

learn to love him. He was a gentleman, and that with her was much.

He was a man of talent, and that with her was more. He was one whose

character and mode of thought she could respect. He was a man whom

any woman might probably be able to respect. But Caroline Waddington

wanted much more than this in her future lord. She could talk

pleasantly of the probability of her marrying a country parson; but

she had, in truth, a much wider ambition for herself. She would never

marry--such was the creed which was to govern her own life--without

love; but she would not allow herself to love where love would

interfere with her high hopes. In her catalogue of human blisses

love in a cottage was not entered. She was not avaricious; she did

not look to money as the summum bonum;--certainly not to marry for

money's sake. But she knew that no figure in the world could be made

without means. Her own fortune was small, and she did not even rate

her beauty high. Her birth was the birth of a lady, but that was

all; her talents had never been tried, but she thought of them more

indifferently than they deserved. She felt, therefore, that she had

no just ground to hope for much; but she was determined that no folly

on her own part should rob her of any chance that fortune might

vouchsafe to her.

Under such circumstances what answer should she make to Bertram? Her

heart would have bid her not reject him, but she was fearful of her

own heart. She dreaded lest she should be betrayed into sacrificing

herself to love. Ought prudence now to step in and bid her dismiss a

suitor whose youth had as yet achieved nothing, whose own means were

very small, with whom, if he were accepted, her marriage must be

postponed; who, however, was of great talent, who gave such promise

of future distinction? Bertram, when he made his offer, made it from

a full heart; but Caroline was able to turn these matters in her mind

before she answered him.

She will be called cold-hearted, mercenary, and unfeminine. But when

a young girl throws prudence to the winds, and allows herself to love

where there is nothing to live on, what then is she called? It seems

to me that it is sometimes very hard for young girls to be in the

right. They certainly should not be mercenary; they certainly should

not marry paupers; they certainly should not allow themselves to

become old maids. They should not encumber themselves with early,

hopeless loves; nor should they callously resolve to care for nothing

but a good income and a good house. There should be some handbook

of love, to tell young ladies when they may give way to it without

censure. As regards our heroine, however, she probably wanted no such

handbook. "Now I will take any answer you will give me." Bertram,

when he had said that, remained silent, awaiting her reply.

"Mr. Bertram," she said at last, "I think that you have spoken

unwisely; let us agree to forget it. What you have said has come from

impulse rather than judgment."

"Not so, Miss Waddington. I cannot forget it; nor can you. I would

not have it again unsaid if I could. When I once learned that I loved

you, it became natural to me to tell you so."

"Such quick speaking is not perhaps natural to me. But as you demand

an immediate answer, I must give you one. I have had much pleasure in

your society, but I have never thought of loving you. Nor can I love

you without thinking of it."

It would be hard to say what answer Bertram expected; indeed, he had

no expectations. He had had no idea of making this offer when he

walked up the hill with her. His heart was then turned rather to

worship at that other shrine: it had been her own words, her own

eloquence in favour of the world's greatness, that had drawn him on.

He had previously filled his mind with no expectation; but he had

felt an intense desire for success when once he had committed himself

to his offer.

And now, as he walked down beside her, he hardly knew what to make

of her answer. A man, if he be not absolutely rejected, is generally

inclined to think that any answer from a lady may be taken as having

in it some glimmer of favour. And ladies know this so well, that

they almost regard any reply on their own part, short of an absolute

refusal, as an acceptance. If a lady bids a gentleman wait awhile

for his answer, he thinks himself quite justified in letting all

the world know that she is his own. We all know what a reference to

a parent's judgment means. A lady must be very decisive--very, if

she means to have her "no" taken at its full meaning. Now Caroline

Waddington had not been very decisive.

Whatever Bertram's thoughts or his hopes might be, he said nothing

more on the present occasion. He walked silently down the hill by her

side, somewhat moody-looking, but yet not with the hang-dog aspect

of a rejected suitor. There was a fire in his eyes and a play upon

his countenance which did not tell of hope altogether extinguished.

Before they were at the foot of the hill, he had resolved that he

would have Caroline Waddington for his wife, let the difficulties in

his way be what they might. But then he was ever so keen to resolve;

so often beaten from his resolutions!

And Caroline also walked silently down the hill. She knew that she

had given an ambiguous answer, and was content to let it remain so.

In the silence of her chamber, she would think over this thing and

make her calculations. She would inquire into her own mind, and learn

whether she could afford to love this man whom she could not but

acknowledge to be so loveable. As for asking any one else, seeking

counsel in the matter from her aunt, that never for a moment

suggested itself to Caroline Waddington.

They had left Miss Baker and Miss Todd at the bottom of the hill. It

was a beautiful evening, and those ladies had consented to sit down

and rest there while the more enthusiastic and young lovers of the

mount ascended to the spot of which Bertram was so fond. But in

giving that consent, they had hardly expected that such encroachment

would be made on their good-nature. When Caroline and Bertram again

found them, the daylight had almost waned away.

CHAPTER XI.

VALE VALETE.

Miss Baker was a little querulous at being left so long sitting with

Miss Todd at the corner of the garden wall; but Miss Todd was never

querulous: she was one of those good-humoured persons who never

complain, and find some antidote to every ill in life, even in the

ill itself. True, she had been kept a couple of hours and more

sitting on a stone by the brook Cedron; but then she had acquired

the privilege of telling how Mr. George Bertram and Miss Caroline

Waddington had passed those hours, _tête-à-tête_ together, on the

mountain-side.

"Why, Caroline, we thought you were never coming down again," said

Miss Baker.

"It was Mr. Bertram's fault, aunt; he is immoveable when he gets

to a certain rock up there. He has an idea of turning hermit, and

constructing a cell for himself in that spot."

"If I did turn hermit, it should certainly be for the sake of living

there," said he. "But I fear I want the proper spirit for so holy a

life."

"I hope you have not kept us all this time for nothing: you have had

some success, I trust?" said Miss Todd to Bertram, in a laughing

whisper. Miss Todd's face was quite joyous as she whispered; but then

her face was always joyous.

"I certainly have not done that which I intended to do," said

Bertram, with mock sententiousness. "And so far I have been

unsuccessful."

"Then she has rejected him," said Miss Todd to herself. "What a fool

the girl must be!" but it was a great comfort to Miss Todd that she

knew all about it.

That evening their plans were decided on as to leaving Jerusalem--the

plans, that is, of those whose fortunes we must follow;--Miss Baker,

namely, and her niece; Sir Lionel and his son. Of Miss Todd we may

here take our leave for awhile. She did not on this occasion marry

Sir Lionel, nor did she even have the satisfaction of knowing that

her friends accused her of wishing to do so. Miss Todd had her weak

points, but taking her as a whole, and striking the balance between

good and bad, I do not care how soon we may meet her again. To her

friends also we may bid adieu. Mr. M'Gabbery did not die of love. Mr.

Pott did propose to and was accepted by Miss Jones; but the match

was broken off by the parental Potts who on the occasion nearly

frightened poor Mrs. Jones out of her life. The Hunters sojourned

for awhile on the sides of Lebanon, but did at last return to the

discomforts of European life. Mrs. Hunter tried the effect of her

favourite costume at Tenby, but it was not found to answer. Of Mr.

Cruse, I can only say that he was dreadfully scolded by Mrs. Pott,

in that he had allowed her son to fall in love; and that Mr. Pott

threatened to stop his salary. An attorney's letter, however, settled

that.

It must be confessed that Miss Baker had allowed her plans to be

altered by the arrival of the Bertrams at Jerusalem; and confessed

also that Miss Baker's complaisance in this respect had been brought

about by her niece's persuasion. Their original intention had been

to go on to Damascus. Then Miss Baker had begged off this further

journey, alleging that her clothes as well as her strength were

worn out; and Caroline had consented to return home by the shortest

route. Then came the temptation of going as far as Beyrout with the

Bertrams, and Miss Baker had been enjoined to have herself patched

up externally and internally. She was accordingly being patched up;

but now things were altered again. Caroline knew that she could not

travel with George Bertram without engaging herself to be his wife;

or that if she did, their journey would not be a happy one. And

she did not wish so to engage herself without further thought. She

determined, therefore, that they would fall back upon her aunt's

plan, and return home by the easier route, by Jaffa, that is, and

Alexandria.

Her altered mind had to be explained, not only to her aunt, but

to the Bertrams; and she came to the somewhat singular resolve to

explain it in both cases by the simple truth. She would tell her

aunt what had happened; and she would make George Bertram understand

in a few and as kind words as might be, that under the present

circumstances it would be better that they should not be thrown into

the very close intercourse necessary for fellow-travellers in the

East. She was very prudent, was Miss Waddington; and having freed

herself of one lover because she did not like him, she prepared to

rid herself of another because she did.

The Bertrams were to leave Jerusalem together in a couple of days'

time. George was to go with his father as far as Constantinople, and,

having seen something of real Turks in real Turkey, was to return at

once to England. After his last visit to the Mount of Olives, he said

nothing further about the church as a profession.

That evening Caroline settled it all with her aunt. "Aunt," said she,

as they sat together brushing their hair before they went to bed,

"you will think me very fanciful; but after all, I believe we had

better go back by Alexandria."

"Oh dear, I shall be so glad, my dear. Jane says that I could not

possibly get a travelling dress made here that I could wear."

"You could get a dress in Damascus, I don't doubt, aunt. But--"

"And I really am not fit for much more riding. I don't like to

disappoint you; but if you really wouldn't mind it--"

"Well, I should mind it,--and I should not. But let me tell you. You

must not think that I am so very changeable, first pressing you to go

one way, and then begging you to go another, without a reason."

"No; I know you do it for my sake."

"Not that either, aunt--quite; but do listen. Mr. Bertram to-day

made--"

"He has not offered to you, has he?"

"Yes, aunt; that is just what he has done. And, therefore, perhaps it

will not be quite so well that we should travel together."

"But, Caroline, tell me--pray do tell me; what did he say, and what

have you said? Oh dear me, this is very sudden." And Miss Baker

sat back in her chair, with her now grayish hair hanging over her

shoulders, with her hair-brush still held in one hand, and with the

other resting on the toilet-table.

"As for what he said, I may skip that, aunt. It was the old story, I

suppose, merely signifying that he wanted me to marry him."

"Well, well."

"As you truly say, aunt; it was too sudden. Mr. Bertram has a great

deal to recommend him; a very great deal; one cannot but like him. He

is very clever too."

"Yes, Caroline; and will be his uncle's heir--doubtless."

"I know nothing of that; to tell the truth, indeed, I never thought

of that. But it would have made no difference."

"And you refused him."

"Well, I hardly know. I do know this--that I did more towards

refusing him than accepting him; that I must have much more love for

any man I do marry than I have for him at present; and that after

what has passed, I think we had better not go to Damascus together."

To this latter proposition aunt Mary fully agreed; and thus it was

decided that the extra patching for the longer journey need not be

accomplished. Miss Baker would explain the matter to Sir Lionel in

her way; and Caroline would do the same to George Bertram in hers. On

one other point, also, Miss Baker made up her mind fully; though on

this matter she did not think it prudent to make her mind known to

her niece. She was very confident that the marriage would take place,

and resolved to do all in her power to bring it about. Personally,

she was fond of George Bertram; she admired his talents, she liked

his father, and felt very favourably inclined towards his uncle's

wealth. She finished her toilet therefore in calm happiness. She had

an excellent match in view for her niece--and, after all, she would

escape that dreadful horseback journey to Damascus.

During the next day Caroline and George Bertram were not together for

a moment--that is, they were not together alone; for they breakfasted

and dined at the same table, and he sat between the aunt and her

niece as he had done continually since he had been at Jerusalem.

Sir Lionel told him in the forenoon that they were not to have the

pleasure of the ladies' company on their journey, and rallied him as

to the heart-breaking tendency of these tidings. But George showed,

in his countenance at least, no symptoms of heart-breaking.

That evening, as they all parted for the night, George did press

Miss Waddington's hand more warmly than was usual with him; and,

as he did so, he did look into her face for one moment to see what

encouragement he might find there. I cannot say that there was no

encouragement. The pressure was perhaps not met by any similar warmth

on her part, but it was submitted to without any touch of resentment:

the love which shot from his eye was not returned to him from hers,

but hers were soft beneath his glance, softer than was usual with

Caroline Waddington.

But on the next morning they did come together. It was the day before

the departure of the Bertrams, and whatever was to be said must be

said then. Caroline watched her opportunity, and as soon as breakfast

was over--they all breakfasted in the public salon--asked him to come

into her aunt's sitting-room. She was quite collected, had fully

made up her mind what to say, and was able also to say it without

hesitation, and with perfect self-possession. This was more than

could be boasted of on the gentleman's behalf.

"You know, Mr. Bertram, that we are not going to travel together?"

"Yes; my father told me so yesterday."

"And you will understand the reason of it, I am sure?"

"Not exactly, Miss Waddington. I cannot say I do understand it. I

may have been presumptuous in what I said to you the other day; but

I do not see why on that account your aunt should be put to the

inconvenience of altering her plans. You fear, I suppose, that I

should annoy you; but you might trust me--and still may if you will

do so."

"Now, Mr. Bertram, you are hardly so sincere as you asserted yourself

to be, and required me to be on the mount. You are yourself quite

aware that nobody has thought you presumptuous. I have nothing to

complain of, and much to thank you for--independently of the honour

you have now done me;--for from you it is an honour. But I cannot say

that I love you. It would not be natural that I should do so."

"Good heavens! not natural. I love you with the whole strength of my

heart. Is that unnatural?"

"It is the province of men to take the initiative in such matters,"

said Caroline, smiling.

"I know nothing as to man's province, or of woman's province either.

By province, you mean custom and conventional rule; and conventional

rule means falsehood. I have known you but a week or two, and I love

you dearly. You, of course, have known me as long, and are at any

rate as capable of loving as I am. There would be nothing unnatural

in you loving me--though, indeed, it may be very unlikely that you

should do so."

"Well; I will not contradict you in anything if I can help it, except

perhaps as to that last little would-be-proud, petulant protest. But

putting out of sight all question of likelihood, what ought I to

do if I do not love you? What in such a case would you recommend a

sister to do? Is it not better that we should not be immediately

thrown together, as must so certainly be the case in travelling?"

"Then I am to understand that you positively can never love me?"

"I have not said so: but you press me unfairly, Mr. Bertram."

"Unfairly. No, by heavens! no pressure in such case can be unfair. I

would press the truth out from you--the real truth; the truth that so

vitally concerns myself. You will not say that you have an aversion

to me?"

"Aversion! No, certainly not."

"Or that you cannot love me? Then why not let us remain together? You

argue that you do not yet know me well enough; will not that be the

way to know me better?"

"If I were to travel with you now, Mr. Bertram, it would be

tantamount to accepting you. Your own sense will certainly tell you

that. Were I to do so, I should give you the privilege of coming with

me as my lover. Forgive me for saying that I cannot give you that

privilege. I grieve to hurt your feelings for a day even; but I am

sure you will ultimately approve of what I am doing."

"And are we to meet no more, then?"

"Of course we shall meet again; at least, in all human probability.

My guardian is your uncle."

"I never even knew that till I met you the other day."

"Because you have always been at school or at college; but you know

it now. I, at least, shall look forward to meeting you--and so will

my aunt."

"Yes; as acquaintances. It would be impossible for me to meet you

in that way. I hardly think you know or realize what my feelings to

you are. I can only meet you to tell you again and again that I love

you. You are so cold yourself that you cannot understand my--my--my

impetuosity, if you choose to call it so."

"In three or four months, Mr. Bertram, you will be laughing at

your own impetuosity--when I perhaps shall be grieving over my own

coldness." These last words she said with a smile in which there was

much archness, and perhaps also a little encouragement.

"You will tell me at any rate that I may hope?"

"No; certainly not. You will hope enough for anything you really

desire without my telling you. But I will not joke, as I believe that

you are serious."

"Oh, you believe so, do you?"

"Yes; I suppose I must believe so. Your declaration the other day

took me very much by surprise. I had no conception that you had any

feelings towards me of that sort. I certainly had entertained none

such towards you. Love with me cannot be the birth of a moment. I

cannot say that I will love merely because I am asked. You would not

wish me to be false even in your own favour. We will part now, Mr.

Bertram; and being apart we shall better learn to know, each of us,

how we value the other. On my part I can truly say that I hope we

shall meet again--at any rate, as friends." And then she held out her

hand to him.

"Is this to be our farewell?" said he, without at once taking it.

"It shall be if you so please. We shall meet again only at the public

table."

"And you will not tell me that I may hope?"

"I will tell you nothing further, Mr. Bertram. You will shake hands

with me as with a friend, will you not?"

He then took her hand, and, holding it in his own, gazed for a moment

into her face. She bore the weight of his eyes with unabashed front.

She showed neither anger nor pleasure; neither disdain nor pride; the

same sweet smile was still upon her face, somewhat playful, somewhat

hopeful, but capable of no definite construction either for making or

marring a man's comfort.

"Caroline!" he said at last.

"Good-bye, Mr. Bertram. I thoroughly hope you may enjoy your

journey."

"Caroline!"

She essayed to withdraw her hand from his. Feeling this, he raised it

to his lips and kissed it, and then left the room. As he closed the

door the same smile was on her face.

I hope it will be admitted that Miss Waddington had played her part

with skill, and judgment, and good breeding; and not altogether

heartlessly either. She had thought much on the subject since George

had first thrown himself at her feet, and had concluded, putting the

good against the bad, and balancing the affair as accurately as facts

would enable her, that the match would be one which she ought to

regard as desirable. There were two valid reasons, however, why she

should not at once accept his offer. Firstly, he might not know his

own mind, and it might be serviceable to him to have the option of

renewing his proposal or retreating from it after a few months' trial

of his own feelings. And secondly, she hardly knew her own mind. She

could not in truth say yet whether she did love him, or whether she

did not. She was rather inclined to think she did; but it would be

well that she should try the matter before she committed herself.

The statement made by her aunt that George would doubtless be his

uncle's heir certainly had its weight with her. It would be wrong

in her to engage herself to a man who was without the means of

maintaining her in that rank of life in which she had resolved to

live; wrong both on his account and on her own. She felt that she

could not be a good poor man's wife. It was not the walk of life for

which she had destined herself. She had made up her mind on that

point too, and having made it up was not weak enough to be driven

from her resolve by any little gust of feeling. She did like

Bertram--much, very much, better then she had ever liked any other

man. He came up in many points to her idea of what a man should be.

He was not sufficiently collected, not sufficiently thoughtful, and

perhaps almost too enthusiastic: success in life would be easier to

a man who put less heart into everything he said and did. But years

would teach him much in this respect, and she also might perhaps

teach him something. She did like Bertram; and what objection could

there be to the match if, as appeared so probable, he was to inherit

his uncle's money?

Prudent as she was, she was ready to run some risk in this respect.

She did not wish to be a poor man's wife; but neither did she wish

to be an idle man's wife. What she did desire was, that her husband

should be an earnest, rising, successful man;--one whose name, as she

had herself said to Bertram, might be frequent in men's mouths, and

daily to be read in the columns of newspapers. She would not marry

a fool, even though he were also a Croesus; she would not marry a

fool, even though he were also an earl. In choosing a master, her

first necessity was that she should respect him, then that the world

should do so also. She could respect talent--talent if needs be

alone--but nothing without talent. The world's respect could not be

had without wealth. As for love, that was necessary too; but it was

only a third necessity.

Such being our heroine's mind about marriage, I make bold to say

that she had behaved with skill and judgment, and not altogether

heartlessly either.

On the following morning, Sir Lionel and George left Jerusalem

together. The colonel had his own servant, as he always had; George

was followed by the dragoman, who had now been with him for some

time; and each had also an Arab groom. On quitting Jerusalem, Sir

Lionel had made no objection to having the entire bill settled by his

son.

"Well, George," he had said with a smile, "I know you are in ample

funds, and I never am. You, moreover, have a milch cow that will not

run dry. The government is my cow, and she is apt to be very chary in

her supply; she does run dry with uncommon quickness."

George smiled also, and paid the bill readily, protesting that of

course he ought to do so, as Sir Lionel had come there only to see

him. The colonel plumed himself at once upon having managed well; but

he was greatly mistaken. His calculation in this respect had been

made on a false basis. "George," he said to himself, "is a young man;

he will think nothing of this: a fellow at his age cares nothing for

money." George did care but little for the money, but he did care

about his father; and he understood the ways of the world well enough

to know that his father ought to have paid his own bill. He began

for the first time to experience something of that feeling which his

uncle so often expressed.

They started, too, with somewhat different ideas as to the purport

of their route. Sir Lionel wished to get to Constantinople, and was

content, for George's sake, to go by Damascus and Beyrout; but George

had to visit Ramah, and Gibeon, and Luz; to see the well of the woman

of Samaria at Sichem; to climb Mount Carmel, and to sleep at least

for a night within its monastery. Mount Tabor also, and Bethsaida,

and Capernaum, he must visit; he must bathe in the Sea of Galilee, as

he had already bathed in Jordan and the Dead Sea; Gadara he must see,

and Gergesa, and Chorazin; and, above all, he must stand with naked

feet in Nazareth, and feel within his heart that he was resting on

holy ground.

Sir Lionel did not care a straw for Bethsaida or Chorazin--not a

straw even for Nazareth. For many reasons he wished to be well with

his son. In the first place, a man whose bill is paid for him always

makes some concession to the man who pays it. He should do so, at

any rate; and on this point Sir Lionel was willing to be just. And

then he had ulterior views, which made it very necessary that George

should like him. In this respect he had hitherto played his cards

well--well, with the exception of that Jerusalem bill. He had made

his society very pleasant to his son, had done much towards gaining

the young man's heart, and was well inclined to do more--anything,

indeed, short of putting himself to real personal inconvenience. We

may perhaps add, without doing too much violence to Sir Lionel's

established character, that he himself really liked his son.

All this for some days carried him hither and thither, if not with

patience, at any rate with perseverance. He went to spots which

he was told had a world-wide celebrity, of the names of which he

had but a bare distant remembrance, and which he found to be arid,

comfortless, and uninteresting. Gibeon he did endure, and Shiloh, and

Sichem; Gilgal, also, and Carmel. But there he broke down: he could

not, he said, justify it to himself to be absent longer from his

official duties. He found that he was near Beyrout: he could ride

thither in two days, avoiding Damascus altogether. The cookery at

Mount Carmel did not add to his love of the Holy Land. He found

himself to be not very well. He laughingly reminded George that

there was a difference between twenty-three and sixty; and ended by

declining altogether to go backwards towards the Sea of Galilee. If

George could only be induced to think that he had seen enough of

these regions, his father would be so delighted to have his company

direct from Beyrout to Constantinople!

George, however, was inexorable about Nazareth: and so they parted,

agreeing that they would meet again at Constantinople. We need

not closely follow either on his journey. Sir Lionel, having had

everything paid for him up to the moment of their separation,

arrived--let us hope with a full purse--at the Bosphorus. George,

when left to himself, travelled more slowly, and thought much of

these holy places--much also of his love. He could have found it in

his heart to rush back, and catch Miss Baker and Caroline at Jaffa.

He would have done so as soon as he quitted Nazareth, only that he

was ashamed.

About a fortnight after his father's departure, he found himself at

Damascus, and in another week, he was stepping on board the packet

at Beyrout. When leaving Palestine, that land of such wondrous

associations, his feelings were not altogether consolatory. He had at

one moment acknowledged what he believed to be a spiritual influence

within him, and yielding himself to it, had spoken of devoting his

life to a high and holy purpose. He had, indeed, spoken only to

himself, and the wound to his pride was therefore the less. But his

high and holy purpose had been blown to the winds by a few words from

a pair of ruby lips, by one glance of scorn from a pair of bright

eyes. And he had so yielded, even though those lips would acknowledge

no love for him; though those eyes would not look on him kindly. He

could not be proud of his visit to the Holy Land; and yet he felt a

longing to linger there. It might be, that if he would return once

more to that mount, look once again on Sion and the temple, the

spirit might yet get the better of the flesh. But, alas! he had to

own to himself that he had now hardly a wish that the spirit should

predominate. The things of the world were too bright to be given up.

The charms of the flesh were too strong for him. With a sigh, he

looked back for the last time from Mount Hermon, stretched out his

arms once more towards Jerusalem, said one farewell in his heart as

his eye rested for a moment on the distant glassy waters of Galilee,

and then set his horse's head towards Damascus.

When a traveller in these railroad days takes leave of Florence,

or Vienna, or Munich, or Lucerne, he does so without much of the

bitterness of a farewell. The places are now comparatively so near

that he expects to see them again, or, at any rate, hopes that he

may do so. But Jerusalem is still distant from us no Sabbath-day's

journey. A man who, having seen it once, takes his leave, then sees

it probably for the last time. And a man's heart must be very cold

who can think of Palestine exactly as of any other land. It is not

therefore surprising that Bertram was rather sad as he rode down the

further side of Mount Hermon.

At Constantinople, Sir Lionel and George again met, and our hero

spent a pleasant month there with his father. It was still spring,

the summer heats had hardly commenced, and George was charmed, if not

with the city of the Sultan, at any rate with the scenery around it.

Here his father appeared in a new light: they were more intimate with

each other than they had been at Jerusalem; they were not now living

in ladies' society, and Sir Lionel by degrees threw off what little

restraint of governorship, what small amount of parental authority he

had hitherto assumed. He seemed anxious to live with his son on terms

of perfect equality; began to talk to him rather as young men talk to

each other than men of ages so very different, and appeared to court

a lack of reverence.

In his ordinary habits of life, and, indeed, in his physical

vivacity, Sir Lionel was very young for his time of life. He never

pleaded his years in bar of any pleasure, and never pleaded them at

all except when desirous of an excuse for escaping something that

was disagreeable. There are subjects on which young men talk freely

with each other, but on which they hesitate to speak to their elders

without restraint. Sir Lionel did his best to banish any such feeling

on the part of his son. Of wine and women, of cards and horses,

of money comforts and money discomforts, he spoke in a manner

which Bertram at first did not like, but which after awhile was not

distasteful to him. There is always some compliment implied when an

old man unbends before a young one, and it is this which makes the

viciousness of old men so dangerous. I do not say that Sir Lionel

purposely tempted his son to vice; but he plainly showed that he

regarded morality in a man to be as thoroughly the peculiar attribute

of a clergyman as a black coat; and that there could be no reason for

other men even to pretend to it when there were no women by to be

respected and deceived.

Bertram certainly liked his father, and was at ease in his company;

but, in spite of this, he was ashamed of him, and was sometimes very

sorrowful. He was young, full of vivacity, and without that strength

of character which should have withstood the charm of Sir Lionel's

manner; but he knew well that he would fain have had in his father

feelings of a very different nature, and he could not but acknowledge

that the severity of his uncle's tone was deserved.

It had been George's intention to stay a week only at Constantinople,

but his father had persuaded him to remain four. He had boasted that

when he returned to England he would be in a position to give back to

his uncle the three hundred pounds which Pritchett had placed to his

account. But he would not now be able to do this: his father lived

expensively; and even here, where Sir Lionel was now at home, George

paid more than his own share of the expense.

One of their chief subjects of conversation, that, indeed, which

Sir Lionel seemed to prefer to any other, was the ultimate disposal

of his brother's money. He perceived that George's thoughts on

this subject were by far too transcendental, that he was childishly

indifferent to his own interests, and that if not brought to a keener

sense of his own rights, a stronger feeling as to his position as

the only nephew of a very wealthy man, he might let slip through his

fingers a magnificent fortune which was absolutely within his reach.

So thinking, he detained his son near him for awhile, that he might,

if possible, imbue him with some spark of worldly wisdom.

He knew how useless it would be to lecture a young man like George

as to the best way in which he could play tuft-hunter to his uncle.

From such lectures George would have started away in disgust; but

something, Sir Lionel thought, might be done by tact, by _finesse_,

and a daily half-scornful badinage, skilfully directed towards the

proper subject. By degrees, too, he thought that George did listen to

him, that he was learning, that he might be taught to set his eyes

greedily on those mountains of wealth. And so Sir Lionel persevered

with diligence to the end.

"Say everything that is civil from me to my brother," said the

colonel, the day before George left him.

"Uncle George does not care much for civil speeches," said the other,

laughing.

"No, I know he does not; he'd think more of it if I could send home

a remittance by you to pay the bill; eh, George? But as I can't do

that, I may as well send a few civil words." Uncle George's bill had

gradually become a source of joke between the father and son. Sir

Lionel, at least, was accustomed to mention it in such a way that the

junior George could not help laughing; and though at first this had

gone against the grain of his feelings, by degrees he had become used

to it.

"He expects, I fancy, neither money nor civil words," said George the

younger.

"He will not, on that account, be the less pleased at getting either

the one or the other. Don't you believe everything that everybody

tells you in his own praise: when a man says that he does not like

flattery, and that he puts no value on soft words, do not on that

account be deterred from making any civil speeches you may have

ready. He will not be a bit stronger than another because he boasts

of his strength."

"I really think you would find it difficult to flatter your brother."

"Perhaps so; and therefore I should set about it with the more care.

But, were I in your shoes, I should not attempt flattery; I should be

very submissive rather. He always loved to play the tyrant."

"And I do not love to play the slave."

"An only nephew's slavery would probably be of a very mild

description."

"Yes; no harder than sitting on a clerk's stool in a merchant's

counting-house for seven or eight hours a day."

"That would be an unendurable bore as a continuance; but take my word

for it, George, if you could bring yourself to do it for six months,

by the end of that time you would have the game in your own hands."

"At any rate, I shall not try it, sir."

"Well, you are your own master: I can only say that the temptation

would be too strong for most men. I have not the slightest doubt that

if you would give way to him for six months, two years would see you

in Parliament." Sir Lionel had already ascertained that to sit in the

House of Commons was the dearest object of his son's ambition.

On the evening of that day, as they were drinking their coffee and

smoking together, Sir Lionel for the first time spoke to his son on

another matter. "George," said he, "I don't know whether there was

anything in it, but when we were at Jerusalem, I thought you were

very sweet on Caroline Waddington."

George blushed deeply, and affected to laugh.

"She was certainly a very fine girl," continued his father; "I think

as handsome a girl as I have seen these ten years. What a shoulder

and neck she had! When you used to be dragging her up the Mount

of Olives, I could not but think there was more in it than mere

scripture geography--eh, George?"

George merely laughed, and looked rather like a simpleton.

"If you were not in love with her, I can only say that you ought to

have been. I was, I know."

"Well, sir, I believe she is free as yet; you can try your chance if

you have a mind."

"Ah! I would I could. If I knew Medea's secret, I would have myself

chopped and boiled that I might come out young on her behalf; but,

George, I can tell you something about her."

"Well, sir!"

"I would have told you then, when we were at Jerusalem, but we were

not so well acquainted then as we are now, and I did not like to

interfere."

"It could not be interference from you."

"Well, but the matter is this: if my brother ever loved any human

being--and I am not quite sure he ever did--but if he did, it was

that girl's father. Had Waddington lived, he would now have been my

age. Your uncle took him early by the hand, and would have made his

fortune for him, but the poor fellow died. In my opinion, it would

assist your views if your uncle knew that you were going to marry

Caroline Waddington."

George said nothing, but sat sucking the mouth-piece of his

pipe-stick and blowing out great clouds of smoke. Sir Lionel said

nothing further, but easily changed the conversation. Early on the

following morning, Bertram left Constantinople, having received a

promise that Sir Lionel would visit him in England as soon as the

exigencies of the public service would permit of his doing so.

CHAPTER XII.

GEORGE BERTRAM DECIDES IN FAVOUR OF THE BAR.

George Bertram did not return directly to England. Since he had

been in Turkey, he had made arrangement by letter with his friend

Harcourt to meet him in the Tyrol, and to travel home with him

through Switzerland. It was about the middle of June when he left

Constantinople, and Harcourt was to be at Innspruck on the 5th

August. George might therefore well have remained a week or two

longer with his father had either of them so wished; but neither of

them did wish it. The living at Constantinople was dear, and George's

funds would not stand much more of it; and Sir Lionel, free and easy

as he was, still felt his son's presence as some impediment--perhaps

in the way of his business, perhaps in that of his pleasures.

From Constantinople Bertram went up across the Balkan to the Danube,

and thence through Bucharest into Transylvania, travelling, as in

those days was necessary, somewhat by permission of the Russian

authorities. He then again struck the Danube at Pesth; remained some

little time there; again a week or so at Vienna; from thence he

visited Saltzburg, and exactly on the appointed day shook hands with

his friend in the hall of the old "Golden Sun" at Innspruck.

At first, on leaving his father, George was very glad to be once more

alone. Men delighted him not; nor women either at that moment--seeing

that his thoughts were running on Caroline Waddington, and that her

presence was not to be had. But by the time that he found himself in

the Tyrol, he was delighted once more to have a companion. He had

of course picked up Englishmen, and been picked up by them at every

town he had passed; one always does; some ladies also he had casually

encountered--but he had met with no second Caroline. While wandering

about the mountains of Transylvania, he had been quite contented to

be alone: at Pesth he had not ceased to congratulate himself on his

solitude, though sometimes he found the day a little too long for

his purpose in doing so; at Vienna he was glad enough to find an old

Oxonian; though, even while enjoying the treat, he would occasionally

say to himself that, after all, society was only a bore. But by the

time he had done the Saltzburg country, he was heartily sick of

himself, somewhat sick also of thinking of his love, and fully able

to re-echo all that Harcourt had to say in praise of some very fine

old wine which that fastidious gentleman caused to be produced for

them from the cellars of the "Golden Sun."

Innspruck is a beautiful little town. Perhaps no town in Europe can

boast a site more exquisitely picturesque. Edinburgh would be equal

to it, if it had a river instead of a railroad running through its

valley and under its Castle-hill. But we sojourned too long in the

Holy Land to permit of our dwelling even for half a chapter in

the Tyrol. George, however, and his friend remained there for a

fortnight. They went over the Brenner and looked down into Italy;

made an excursion to those singular golden-tinted mountains, the

Dolomites, among which live a race of men who speak neither German

nor Italian, nor other language known among the hundred dialects

of Europe, but a patois left to them from the ancient Latins; they

wandered through the valleys of the Inn and its tributaries and

wondered at the odd way of living which still prevails in their

picturesque castellated mansions.

For awhile Bertram thought that Harcourt was the best companion in

the world. He was as agreeable and easy tempered as his father; and

was at the same time an educated man, which his father certainly was

not. Harcourt, though he put his happiness in material things perhaps

quite as much as did Sir Lionel, required that his material things

should be of a high flavour. He was a reading man, addicted, in a

certain cynical, carping sort of way, even to poetry, was a critic

almost by profession, loved pictures, professed to love scenery,

certainly loved to watch and scrutinize the different classes of his

brother-men. He was gifted pre-eminently with a lawyer's mind, but it

was not a lawyer's mind of a vulgar quality. He, too, loved riches,

and looked on success in the world as a man's chief, nay, perhaps

his only aim; but for him it was necessary that success should be

polished. Sir Lionel wanted money that he might swallow it and

consume it, as a shark does its prey; but, like sharks in general,

he had always been hungry,--had never had his bellyful of money.

Harcourt's desire for money was of a different class. It would not

suit him to be in debt to any one. A good balance at his banker's was

a thing dear to his soul. He aimed at perfect respectability, and

also at perfect independence.

For awhile, therefore, Harcourt's teaching was a great improvement

on Sir Lionel's, and was felt to be so. He preached a love of good

things; but the good things were to be corollaries only to good work.

Sir Lionel's summum bonum would have been an unexpected pocketful of

money, three months of idleness in which to spend it, and pleasant

companions for the time, who should be at any rate as well provided

in pocket as himself. Harcourt would have required something more.

The world's respect and esteem were as necessary to him as the

world's pleasures.

But nevertheless, after a time, Harcourt's morality offended Bertram,

as Bertram's transcendentalism offended Harcourt. They admired the

same view, but they could not look at it through the same coloured

glass.

"And so on the whole you liked your governor?" said Harcourt to him

one day as they were walking across a mountain range from one valley

to another.

"Yes, indeed."

"One is apt to be prejudiced in one's father's favour, of course,"

said Harcourt. "That is to say, when one hasn't seen him for twenty

years or so. A more common, constant knowledge, perhaps, puts the

prejudice the other way."

"Sir Lionel is undoubtedly a very pleasant man; no one, I fancy,

could help liking his society."

"I understand it all as well as though you had written a book about

him. You have none of that great art, Bertram, which teaches a man to

use his speech to conceal his thoughts."

"Why should I wish to conceal my thoughts from you?"

"I know exactly what you mean about your father: he is no martinet

in society, even with his son. He assumes to himself no mysterious

unintelligible dignity. He has none of the military Grimgruffenuff

about him. He takes things easily, and allows other people to do the

same."

"Exactly."

"But this was not exactly what you wanted. If he had treated you as

though a father and son were necessarily of a different order of

beings, had he been a little less familiar, a little colder, perhaps

a thought more stern and forbidding in his parental way of pushing

the bottle to you, you would have liked him better?"

"No, not have liked him better; I might perhaps have thought it more

natural."

"Just so; you went to look for a papa with a boy's feelings, and the

papa, who had not been looking for you at all, took you for a man as

you are when he found you."

"I am sure of this at any rate, that he was delighted to see me."

"I am sure he was, and proud of you when he did see you. I never

supposed but that the gallant colonel had some feelings in his

bowels. Have you made any arrangements with him about money?"

"No--none."

"Said not a word about so mundane a subject?"

"I don't say that; it is only natural that we should have said

something. But as to income, he fights his battle, and I fight mine."

"He should now have a large income from his profession."

"And large expenses. I suppose there is no dearer place in Europe

than Constantinople."

"All places are dear to an Englishman exactly in comparison as he

knows, or does not know, the ways of the place. A Turk, I have no

doubt, could live there in a very genteel sort of manner on what you

would consider a moderate pittance."

"I suppose he could."

"And Sir Lionel by this time should be a Turk in Turkey, a Greek in

Greece, or a Persian in Bagdad."

"Perhaps he is. But I was not. I know I shall be very fairly cleared

out by the time I get to London; and yet I had expected to have three

hundred pounds untouched there."

"Such expectations always fall to the ground--always. Every quarter

I allow myself exactly what I shall want, and then I double it for

emergencies."

"You are a lucky fellow to have the power to do so."

"Yes, but then I put my quarterly wants at a _very_ low figure; a

figure that would be quite unsuitable--quite unintelligible to the

nephew of a Croesus."

"The nephew of a Croesus will have to put his quarterly wants at

something about fifty pounds, as far as I can see."

"My dear fellow, when I observe that water bubbles up from a certain

spot every winter and every spring, and occasionally in the warm

weather too, I never think that it has run altogether dry because it

may for a while cease to bubble up under the blazing sun of August.

Nature, of whose laws I know so much, tells me that the water will

come again."

"Yes, water will run in its natural course. But when you have been

supplied by an artificial pipe, and have cut that off, it is probable

that you may run short."

"In such case I would say, that having a due regard to prudence, I

would not cut off that very convenient artificial pipe."

"One may pay too dear, Harcourt, even for one's water."

"As far as I am able to judge, you have had yours without paying for

it at all; and if you lose it, it will only be by your own obstinacy.

I would I had such an uncle to deal with."

"I would you had; as for me, I tell you fairly, I do not mean to deal

with him at all."

"I would I had; I should know then that everything was open to me.

Now I have everything to do for myself. I do not despair, however. As

for you, the ball is at your foot."

They talked very freely with each other as to their future hopes and

future destinies. Harcourt seemed to take it as a settled matter that

Bertram should enter himself at the bar, and Bertram did not any

longer contradict him. Since he had learnt Miss Waddington's ideas

on the subject, he expressed no further desire to go into the church,

and had, in fact, nothing serious to say in favour of any of those

other professions of which he had sometimes been accustomed to speak.

There was nothing but the bar left for him; and therefore when

Harcourt at last asked him the question plainly, he said that he

supposed that such would be his fate.

But on one subject Bertram did not speak openly to his friend. He

said not a word to him about Caroline. Harcourt was in many respects

an excellent friend; but he had hardly that softness of heart, or

that softness of expression which tempts one man to make another a

confidant in an affair of love. If Harcourt had any such affairs

himself, he said nothing of them to Bertram, and at the present time

Bertram said nothing on the subject to him. He kept that care deep in

his own bosom. He had as yet neither spoken a word nor written a word

concerning it to any one; and even when his friend had once casually

asked him whether he had met much in the way of beauty in Jerusalem,

he had felt himself to wince as though the subject were too painful

to be spoken of.

They reached London about the middle of October, and Harcourt

declared that he must immediately put himself again into harness.

"Ten weeks of idleness," said he, "is more than a man can well afford

who has to look to himself for everything; and I have now given

myself eleven."

"And what are you going to do?"

"Do! work all day and read all night. Take notice of all the dullest

cases I can come across, and read the most ponderous volumes that

have been written on the delightful subject of law. A sucking

barrister who means to earn his bread has something to do--as you

will soon know."

Bertram soon learnt--now for the first time, for Harcourt himself

had said nothing on the subject--that his friend's name was already

favourably known, and that he had begun that career to which he so

steadily looked forward. His ice was already broken: he had been

employed as junior counsel in the great case of Pike _v_ Perch; and

had distinguished himself not a little by his success in turning

white into black.

"Then you had decidedly the worst of it?" said Bertram to him, when

the matter was talked over between them.

"Oh, decidedly; but, nevertheless, we pulled through. My opinion all

along was that none of the Pikes had a leg to stand upon. There were

three of them. But I won't bore you with the case. You'll hear more

of it some day, for it will be on again before the lords-justices in

the spring."

"You were Pike's counsel?"

"One of them--the junior. I had most of the fag and none of the

honour. That's of course."

"And you think that Perch ought to have succeeded?"

"Well, talking to you, I really think he ought; but I would not admit

that to any one else. Sir Ricketty Giggs led for us, and I know he

thought so too at first; though he got so carried away by his own

eloquence at last that I believe he changed his mind."

"Well, if I'd thought that, I wouldn't have held the brief for all

the Pikes that ever swam."

"If a man's case be weak, then, he is to have no advocate? That's

your idea of justice."

"If it be so weak that no one can be got to think it right, of course

he should have no advocate."

"And how are you to know till you have taken the matter up and sifted

it? But what you propose is Quixotic in every way. It will not hold

water for a moment. You know as well as I do that no barrister would

keep a wig on his head who pretended to such a code of morals in his

profession. Such a doctrine is a doctrine of puritanism--or purism,

which is worse. All this moonshine was very well for you when you

talked of being a clergyman, or an author, or a painter. One allows

outsiders any amount of nonsense in their criticism, as a matter

of course. But it won't do now, Bertram. If you mean to put your

shoulders to the wheel in the only profession which, to my mind,

is worthy of an educated man's energies, you must get rid of those

cobwebs."

"Upon my word, Harcourt, when you hit on a subject you like, your

eloquence is wonderful. Sir Ricketty Giggs himself could hardly say

more to defend his sins of forty years' endurance."

Harcourt had spoken in earnest. Such milk-and-water, unpractical

scruples were disgusting to his very soul. In thinking of them to

himself, he would call them unmanly. What! was such a fellow as

Bertram, a boy just fresh from college, to animadvert upon and

condemn the practice of the whole bar of England? He had, too, a

conviction, clearly fixed in his own mind, though he could hardly

explain the grounds of it in words, that in the long run the cause of

justice would be better served by the present practice of allowing

wrong and right to fight on equal terms; by giving to wrong the same

privilege that is given to right; by giving to wrong even a wider

privilege, seeing that, being in itself necessarily weak, it needs

the more protection. He would declare that you were trampling on the

fallen if you told him that wrong could be entitled to no privilege,

no protection whatever--to no protection, till it was admitted by

itself, admitted by all, to be wrong.

Bertram had now to establish himself in London; and he was also, as

he thought, under the necessity of seeing two persons, his uncle and

Miss Waddington. He could not settle himself well to work before he

had done both. One preliminary business he did settle for himself, in

order that his uncle, when he saw him, might know that his choice for

the bar was made up and past recalling. He selected that great and

enduring Chancery barrister, Mr. Neversaye Die, as the Gamaliel at

whose feet he would sit; as the fountain from whence he would draw

the coming waters of his own eloquence; as the instructor of his

legal infancy and guide of his legal youth. Harcourt was at the

Common Law bar, and therefore he recommended the other branch of the

profession to his friend. "The Common Law," said he, "may have the

most dash about it; but Chancery has the substance." George, after

thinking over the matter for some days, gave it as his opinion that

Chancery barristers were rogues of a dye somewhat less black than the

others, and that he would select to be a rogue of that colour. The

matter was therefore so settled.

His first step, then, was to see his uncle. He told himself--and as

he thought, truly--that his doing so was a duty, disagreeable in all

respects, to be attended with no pecuniary results, but necessary

to be performed. In truth, however, the teaching of Sir Lionel and

Harcourt had not been altogether without effect: at this present

moment, having just paid to Mr. Neversaye Die his first yearly

contribution, he was well-nigh penniless; and, after all, if a rich

uncle have money to bestow, why should he not bestow it on a nephew?

Money, at any rate, was not in itself deleterious. So much George was

already prepared to allow.

He therefore called on his uncle in the City. "Ha! George--what;

you're back, are you? Well, come and dine at Hadley to-morrow. I must

be at the Bank before three. Good-bye, my boy."

This was all his uncle said to him at their first meeting. Then he

saw Mr. Pritchett for a moment.

"Oh, Mr. George, I am glad to see you back, sir; very glad indeed,

sir. I hear you have been to very foreign parts. I hope you have

always found the money right, Mr. George?"

Mr. George, shaking hands with him, warmly assured him that the money

had always been quite right--as long as it lasted.

"A little does not go a long way, I'm sure, in those very foreign

parts," said Mr. Pritchett, oracularly. "But, Mr. George, why didn't

you write, eh, Mr. George?"

"You don't mean to say that my uncle expected to hear from me?"

"He asked very often whether I had any tidings. Ah! Mr. George, you

don't know an old man's ways yet. It would have been better for you

to have been led by me. And so you have seen Mr. Lionel--Sir Lionel,

I should say now. I hope Sir Lionel is quite well."

George told him that he had found his father in excellent health, and

was going away, when Mr. Pritchett asked another question, or rather

made another observation. "And so you saw Miss Waddington, did you,

Mr. George?"

Bertram felt that there was that in his countenance which might again

betray him; but he managed to turn away his face as he said, "Yes, I

did meet her, quite by chance, at Jerusalem."

"At Jerusalem!" said Mr. Pritchett, with such a look of surprise,

with such an awe-struck tone, as might have suited some acquaintance

of Æneas's, on hearing that gentleman tell how he had travelled

beyond the Styx. Mr. Pritchett was rather fat and wheezy, and the

effort made him sigh gently for the next two minutes.

Bertram had put on his hat and was going, when Mr. Pritchett,

recovering himself, asked yet a further question. "And what did you

think of Miss Waddington, sir?"

"Think of her!" said George.

"A very beautiful young lady; isn't she? and clever, too. I knew

her father well, Mr. George--very well. Isn't she a very handsome

young lady? Ah, well! she hasn't money enough, Mr. George; that's

the fact; that's the fact. But"--and Mr. Pritchett whispered as he

continued--"the old gentleman might make it more, Mr. George."

Mr. Pritchett had a somewhat melancholy way of speaking of

everything. It was more in his tone than in his words. And this tone,

which was all but sepulchral, was perhaps owing rather to a short

neck and an asthmatic tendency than to any real sorrow or natural

lowness of spirits.

Those who saw Mr. Pritchett often probably remembered this, and

counted on it; but with George there was always a graveyard touch

about these little interviews. He could not, therefore, but have some

melancholy presentiment when he heard Miss Waddington spoken of in

such a tone.

On the following day he went down to Hadley, and, as was customary

there, found that he was to spend the evening _tête-à-tête_ with his

uncle. Nothing seemed changed since he had left it: his uncle came in

just before dinner, and poked the fire exactly as he had done on the

last visit George had paid him after a long absence. "Come, John,

we're three minutes late! why don't we have dinner?" He asked no

question--at least, not at first--either about Sir Lionel or about

Jerusalem, and seemed resolute to give the traveller none of that

_éclat_, to pay to his adventures none of that deferential awe which

had been so well expressed by Mr. Pritchett in two words.

But Mr. Bertram, though he always began so coldly, did usually

improve after a few hours. His tone would gradually become less

cynical and harsh; his words would come out more freely; and he would

appear somewhat less anxious to wound the _amour propre_ of his

companion.

"Are you much wiser for your travels, George?" he said at last, when

John had taken away the dinner, and they were left alone with a

bottle of port wine between them. This, too, was asked in a very

cynical tone, but still there was some improvement in the very fact

of his deigning to allude to the journey.

"Yes, I think I am rather wiser."

"Well, I'm glad of that. As you have lost a year in your profession,

it is well that you should have gained something. Has your accession

of wisdom been very extensive?"

"Somewhat short of Solomon's, sir; but probably quite as much as I

should have picked up had I remained in London."

"That is very probable. I suppose you have not the slightest idea how

much it cost you. Indeed, that would be a very vulgar way of looking

at it."

"Thanks to your unexpected kindness, I have not been driven to any

very close economy."

"Ah! that was Pritchett's doing. He seemed afraid that the land would

not flow with milk and honey unless your pocket was fairly provided.

But of course it's your own affair, George. It is money borrowed;

that's all."

George did not quite understand what this meant, and remained silent;

but at one moment it was almost on his tongue to say that it ought at

least to be admitted that the borrower had not been very pressing in

his application.

"And I suppose you have come back empty?" continued his uncle.

George then explained exactly how he stood with regard to money,

saying how he had put himself into the hands of Mr. Neversaye Die,

how he had taken chambers in the Middle Temple, and how a volume of

Blackstone was already lying open in his dingy sitting-room.

"Very well, very well. I have no objection whatever. You will perhaps

make nothing at the bar, and certainly never the half what you would

have done with Messrs. Dry and Stickatit. But that's your affair. The

bar is thoroughly respectable. By-the-by, is your father satisfied

with it as a profession?" This was the first allusion that Mr.

Bertram had made to his brother.

"Perfectly so," said George.

"Because of course you were bound to consult him." If this was

intended for irony, it was so well masked that George was not able to

be sure of it.

"I did consult him, sir," said George, turning red in accordance with

that inveterate and stupid habit of his.

"That was right. And did you consult him about another thing? did you

ask him what you were to live on till such time as you could earn

your own bread?"

In answer to this, George was obliged to own that he did not. "There

was no necessity," said he, "for he knows that I have my fellowship."

"Oh! ah! yes; and that of course relieves him of any further cause

for anxiety in the matter. I forgot that."

"Uncle George, you are always very hard on my father; much too hard."

"Am I?"

"I think you are. As regards his duty to me, if I do not complain,

you need not."

"Oh! that is it, is it? I did think that up to this, his remissness

in doing his duty as a father had fallen rather on my shoulders than

on yours. But I suppose I have been mistaken; eh?"

"At any rate, if you have to complain, your complaint should be made

to him, not to me."

"But you see I have not time to run across the world to Jerusalem;

and were I to do so, the chances are ten to one I should not catch

him. If you will ask Pritchett too, you will find that your father is

not the best correspondent in the world. Perhaps he has sent back by

you some answer to Pritchett's half-yearly letters?"

"He has sent nothing by me."

"I'll warrant he has not. But come, George, own the truth. Did he

borrow money from you when he saw you? If he did not, he showed a

very low opinion of your finances and my liberality."

George might have declared, without any absolute falseness, that his

father had borrowed no money of him. But he had not patience at the

present moment to distinguish between what would be false and what

not false in defending his father's character. He could not but

feel that his father had behaved very shabbily to him, and that Sir

Lionel's conduct could not be defended in detail. But he also felt

that his uncle was quite unjustifiable in wounding him by such

attacks. It was not to him that Mr. Bertram should have complained of

Sir Lionel's remissness in money matters. He resolved that he would

not sit by and hear his father so spoken of; and, therefore, utterly

disregardful of what might be the terribly ill effects of his uncle's

anger, he thus spoke out in a tone not of the meekest:--

"I will neither defend my father, Mr. Bertram; nor will I sit still

and hear him so spoken of. How far you may have just ground of

complaint against him, I do not know, nor will I inquire. He is my

father, and that should protect his name in my presence."

"Hoity, toity!"

"I will ask you to hear me if you please, sir. I have received very

many good offices from you, for which I heartily thank you. I am

aware that I owe to you all my education and support up to this time.

This debt I fear I can never pay."

"And therefore, like some other people, you are inclined to resent

it."

"No, by heaven! I would resent nothing said by you to myself; but I

will not sit by and hear my father ill spoken of. I will not--no; not

for all the money which you could give or leave me. It seems to me

that what I spend of your money is added up as a debt against my

father--"

"Pray don't imagine, my boy, that that is any burden to him."

"It is a burden to me, and I will endure it no longer. While at

school, I knew nothing of these things, and not much while I was at

college. Now I do know something, and feel something. If you please,

sir, I will renounce any further assistance from you whatever; and

beg, in return, that you will say nothing further to me as to any

quarrel there may be between you and Sir Lionel."

"Quarrel!" said his uncle, getting up and standing with his back to

the fire. "He has not spirit enough to quarrel with me."

"Well, I have," said George, who was now walking about the room; and

from the fire in his eyes, it certainly appeared that he spoke the

truth in this respect.

"I know the bitterness of your spirit against your brother,"

continued George; "but your feelings should teach you not to show it

before his son."

Mr. Bertram was still standing with his hands in his pockets, leaning

against the mantel-piece, with his coat-tails over his arms. He said

nothing further at once, but continued to fix his eyes on his nephew,

who was now walking backwards and forwards from one end of the room

to the other with great vehemence. "I think," at last said George,

"that it will be better that I should go back to town. Good-night,

sir."

"You are an ass," said his uncle.

"Very likely," said George. "But asses will kick sometimes."

"And bray too," said his uncle.

There was a certain spirit about them both which made it difficult

for either altogether to get the better of the other.

"That I may bray no more in your hearing, I will wish you

good-night." And again he held out his hand to the old man.

His uncle took hold of his hand, but he did not go through the

process of shaking it, nor did he at once let it go again. He held it

there for a time, looking stedfastly into his nephew's face, and then

he dropped it. "You had better sit down and drink your wine," he said

at last.

"I had rather return to town," said George, stoutly.

"And I had rather you stayed here," said his uncle, in a tone of

voice that for him was good-humoured. "Come, you need not be in a

pet, like a child. Stay where you are now, and if you don't like to

come again, why you can stay away."

As this was said in the manner of a request, George did again sit

down. "It will be foolish to make a fuss about it," said he to

himself; "and what he says is true. I need not come again, and I will

not." So he sat down and again sipped his wine.

"So you saw Caroline at Jerusalem?" said the old man, after a pause

of about twenty minutes.

"Yes, I met her with Miss Baker. But who told you?"

"Who told me? Why, Miss Baker, of course. They were both here for a

week after their return."

"Here in this house?"

"Why shouldn't they be here in this house? Miss Baker is usually here

three or four times every year."

"Is she?" said George, quite startled by the information. Why on

earth had Miss Baker not told him of this?

"And what did you think of Caroline?" asked Mr. Bertram.

"Think of her?" said George.

"Perhaps you did not think anything about her at all. If so, I shall

be delighted to punish her vanity by telling her so. She had thought

a great deal about you; or, at any rate, she talked as though she

had."

This surprised George a great deal, and almost made him forgive his

uncle the inquiry he had received. "Oh, yes, I did think of her,"

said he. "I thought of her a little at least."

"Oh, a little!"

"Well, I mean as much as one does generally think of people one

meets--perhaps rather more than of others. She is very handsome and

clever, and what I saw of her I liked."

"She is a favourite of mine--very much so. Only that you are too

young, and have not as yet a shilling to depend on, she might have

done for a wife for you."

And so saying, he drew the candles to him, took up his newspaper, and

was very soon fast asleep.

George said nothing further that night to his uncle about Caroline,

but he sat longing that the old man might again broach the subject.

He was almost angry with himself for not having told his uncle

the whole truth; but then he reflected that Caroline had not yet

acknowledged that she felt anything like affection for him; and he

said to himself, over and over again, that he was sure she would not

marry him without loving him for all the rich uncles in Christendom;

and yet it was a singular coincidence that he and his uncle should

have thought of the same marriage.

The next morning he was again more surprised. On coming down to the

breakfast-parlour, he found his uncle there before him, walking up

and down the room with his hands behind his back. As soon as George

had entered, his uncle stopped his walk, and bade him shut the door.

"George," said he, "perhaps you are not very often right, either in

what you do or what you say; but last night you were right."

"Sir!"

"Yes, last night you were right. Whatever may have been your father's

conduct, you were right to defend it; and, bad as it has been, I was

wrong to speak of it as it deserved before you. I will not do so

again."

"Thank you, sir," said George, his eyes almost full of tears.

"That is what I suppose the people in the army call an ample apology.

Perhaps, however, it may be made a little more ample."

"Sir, sir," said George, not quite understanding him; "pray do not

say anything more."

"No, I won't, for I have got nothing more to say; only this:

Pritchett wants to see you. Be with him at three o'clock to-day."

At three o'clock Bertram was with Pritchett, and learned from that

gentleman, in the most frozen tone of which he was capable, and with

sundry little, good-humoured, asthmatic chuckles, that he had been

desired to make arrangements for paying to Mr. George regularly an

income of two hundred a year, to be paid in the way of annuity till

Mr. Bertram's death, and to be represented by an adequate sum in the

funds whenever that much-to-be-lamented event should take place.

"To be sure, sir," said Pritchett, "two hundred a year is nothing for

you, Mr. George; but--"

But two hundred a year was a great deal to George. That morning he

had been very much puzzled to think how he was to keep himself going

till he might be able to open the small end of the law's golden eggs.

CHAPTER XIII.

LITTLEBATH.

I abhor a mystery. I would fain, were it possible, have my tale run

through from its little prologue to the customary marriage in its

last chapter, with all the smoothness incidental to ordinary life. I

have no ambition to surprise my reader. Castles with unknown passages

are not compatible with my homely muse. I would as lief have to do

with a giant in my book--a real giant, such as Goliath--as with a

murdering monk with a scowling eye. The age for such delights is, I

think, gone. We may say historically of Mrs. Radcliffe's time that

there were mysterious sorrows in those days. They are now as much out

of date as are the giants.

I would wish that a serene gratification might flow from my pages,

unsullied by a single start. Now I am aware that there is that in

the last chapter which appears to offend against the spirit of calm

recital which I profess. People will begin to think that they are to

be kept in the dark as to who is who; that it is intended that their

interest in the novel shall depend partly on a guess. I would wish to

have no guessing, and therefore I at once proceed to tell all about

it.

Miss Caroline Waddington was the granddaughter of old Mr. George

Bertram; and was, therefore, speaking with absolute technical

propriety, the first-cousin once removed of her lover, young Mr.

George Bertram--a degree of relationship which happily admits of love

and matrimony.

Old Mr. Bertram has once or twice been alluded to as a bachelor; and

most of those who were best acquainted with him had no doubt of his

being so. To you, my reader, is permitted the great privilege of

knowing that he was married very early in life. He, doubtless, had

his reasons for keeping this matter a secret at the time, and the

very early death of his wife saved him from the necessity of much

talking about it afterwards. His wife had died in giving birth to a

daughter, but the child had survived. There was then living a sister

of Mrs. Bertram's, who had been married some few years to a Mr.

Baker, and the infant was received into this family, of which our

friend Miss Baker was a child. Miss Baker was therefore a niece,

by marriage, of Mr. Bertram. In this family, Caroline Bertram was

educated, and she and Mary Baker were brought up together as sisters.

During this time Mr. Bertram did his duty by his daughter as regards

money, as far as his means then went, and was known in that family to

be her father; but elsewhere he was not so known. The Bakers lived

in France, and the fact of his having any such domestic tie was not

suspected among his acquaintance in England.

In the course of time his daughter married one Mr. Waddington, hardly

with the full consent of the Bakers, for Mr. Waddington's means were

small--but not decidedly in opposition to it; nor had the marriage

been opposed by Mr. Bertram. He of course was asked to assist in

supplying money for the young couple. This he refused to give; but

he offered to Mr. Waddington occupation by which an income could

be earned. Mr. Waddington wisely acceded to his views, and, had he

lived, would doubtless have lived to become a rich man. He died,

however, within four years of his marriage, and it so fell out that

his wife did not survive him above a year or two.

Of this marriage, Caroline Waddington, our heroine, was the sole

offspring. Mr. Waddington's commercial enterprises had not caused

him to live in London, though he had been required to be there

frequently. Mr. Bertram had, therefore, seen more of him than of his

own daughter. The infant had been born in the house of the Bakers,

and there she was brought up. As an orphan of four years old, she had

come under the care of Mary Baker, and under her care she remained.

Miss Baker was therefore not in truth her aunt. What was their exact

relationship I leave as a calculation to those conversant with the

mysteries of genealogy. I believe myself that she was almost as

nearly connected with her lover.

When Mr. Waddington and his daughter were both dead, Mr. Bertram felt

himself to be altogether relieved from family ties. He was not yet

an old man, being then about fifty-five; but he was a very rich man.

It was of course considered that he would provide liberally for his

grandchild. But when asked to do so by Miss Baker, he had replied

that she was provided for; that he had enabled the child's father

to leave behind him four thousand pounds, which for a girl was a

provision sufficiently liberal; that he would not give rise to false

hopes that she would be his heiress; but that if his niece, Mary

Baker, would take the charge of her, he would allow an income for the

purpose. This he had done with sufficient liberality.

All that is mysterious has now, I believe, been unravelled, and we

may go back to our story. Of Mr. Pritchett, we should perhaps say a

word. He had been habituated in his sundry money dealings to look

on Miss Baker as his patron's niece, and had always called her as

such. Indeed, the connection had been so far back that he usually

styled her Miss Mary. But he did not know, nor--though he was very

suspicious on the matter--did he quite suspect what was the truth as

to Miss Waddington. She was niece to his patron's niece; he knew no

more than that, excepting, of course, that she was the daughter of

Mr. Waddington, and that she was mistress in her own right of four

thousand pounds.

Mr. Pritchett was very anxious about his patron's wealth. Here was

Mr. Bertram turned seventy years of age--Mr. Pritchett himself was

sixty-six--and no one knew who was to be his heir. As far as he, Mr.

Pritchett, was aware, he had no heir. Mr. George would naturally be

so--so thought Mr. Pritchett; and the old man's apparent anxiety

respecting his nephew, the habit which he had now given himself for

years of paying the cost of that nephew's education, and the income

which he now allowed him, all led to such a conclusion. But then the

uncle liked so well to lead, and Mr. George was so unwilling to be

led! Had Waddington lived, he would have been the heir, doubtless.

Miss Waddington might still be so, or even Miss Baker. Mr. Bertram,

in his way, was certainly very fond of Miss Baker. It was thus that

Mr. Pritchett speculated from day to day. George, however, was always

regarded by him as the favourite in the race.

And now at last we may return to our story.

Having seen his uncle, George's next business was to see his

lady-love. His was a disposition which would not allow him to remain

quiet while his hopes were so doubtful and his heart so racked. Had

he been travelling with Miss Baker ever since, and living in daily

intercourse with Caroline, it is probable enough that he might by

this time have been half tired of her. But his love had had no such

safety-valve, and was now, therefore, bubbling and boiling within his

heart in a manner very subversive of legal accuracy and injurious to

legal studies.

It was absolutely necessary, he said to himself, that he should know

on what ground he stood; absolutely necessary, also, that he should

be able to talk to some one on the subject. So he wrote to Miss

Baker, saying that he intended to do himself the pleasure of renewing

his acquaintance with her at Littlebath, and he determined to see

Arthur Wilkinson on his way. These were the days in which Wilkinson

was taking pupils at Oxford, the days in which he used to think so

much of Adela Gauntlet.

The meeting of the two friends was sufficiently joyous; for such love

sorrows as those which oppressed Bertram when sitting in the chambers

of Mr. Neversaye Die rarely oppress a young man in moments which

would otherwise be jovial. And Arthur had at this time gotten over

one misery, and not yet fallen into another. He had obtained the

fellowship which he had hardly expected, and was commencing the life

of a don, with all a don's comforts around him.

"Well, upon my word, I envy you, Arthur; I do, indeed," said Bertram,

looking round his cousin's room at Balliol as they sat down to pass

an evening quietly together. "This was what I always looked forward

to, as you did also; you have obtained it, I have forsworn it."

"Your envy cannot be very envious," said Wilkinson, laughing, "as all

my bliss is still within your own reach. You have still your rooms at

Oriel if you choose to go into them." For Bertram had been elected to

a fellowship at that college.

"All! that's easily said; but somehow it couldn't be. I don't know

why it is, Arthur; but I have panted to have the privileges of an

ordained priest, and yet it is not to be so. I have looked forward to

ordination as the highest ambition of a man, but yet I shall never be

ordained."

"Why not, George?"

"It is not my destiny."

"On such a subject, do not talk such nonsense."

"Well, at any rate it will not be my lot. I do not mind telling you,

Arthur, but there is no one else to whom I could own how weak I am.

There have been moments since I have been away in which I have sworn

to devote myself to this work, so sworn when every object around

me was gifted with some solemn tie which should have made my oath

sacred; and yet--"

"Well--and yet? as yet everything is in your own power."

"No, Arthur, no, it is not so; I am now one of the myrmidons of

that most special of special pleaders, Mr. Neversaye Die. I have

given myself over to the glories of a horse-hair wig; 'whereas'

and 'heretofore' must now be my gospel; it is my doom to propagate

falsehood instead of truth. The struggle is severe at first; there is

a little revulsion of feeling; but I shall do it very well after a

time; as easily, I have no doubt, as Harcourt does."

"It is Harcourt who has led you to this."

"Perhaps so, partly; but no--I wrong myself in that. It has not been

Harcourt. I have been talked over; I have weakly allowed myself to be

talked out of my own resolve, but it has not been done by Harcourt. I

must tell you all: it is for that that I came here."

And then he told the history of his love; that history which to men

of twenty-four and girls of twenty is of such vital importance. A

young man when first he loves, and first knows that his love is

frequent in the thoughts of the woman he has chosen, feels himself

to be separated from all humanity by an amber-tinted cloud--to be

enveloped in a mystery of which common mortals know nothing. He

shakes his mane as he walks on with rapid step, and regards himself

almost as a god.

"And did she object to your taking orders?" asked Wilkinson.

"Object! no, I am nothing to her; nothing on earth. She would not

have objected to my being a shoemaker; but she said that she would

advise me to think of the one trade as soon as the other."

"I cannot say that I think she showed either good feeling or good

taste," said Wilkinson, stiffly.

"Ah! my dear fellow, you do not know her. There was no bad taste in

it, as she said it. I would defy her to say anything in bad taste.

But, Arthur, that does not matter. I have told her that I should go

to the bar; and, as a man of honour, I must keep my word to her."

His cousin had not much inclination to lecture him. Wilkinson himself

was now a clergyman; but he had become so mainly because he had

failed in obtaining the power of following any other profession. He

would have gone to the bar had he been able; and felt himself by no

means called to rebuke Bertram for doing what he would fain have done

himself.

"But she has not accepted you, you say. Why should she be so

unwilling that you should take orders? Her anxiety on your behalf

tells a strong tale in your own favour."

"Ah! you say that because you do not understand her. She was able

to give me advice without giving the least shadow of encouragement.

Indeed, when she did advise me, I had not even told her that I loved

her. But the fact is, I cannot bear this state any longer. I will

know the worst at any rate. I wish you could see her, Arthur; you

would not wonder that I should be uneasy."

And so he went on with a lover's customary eloquence till a late hour

in the night. Wilkinson was all patience; but about one o'clock he

began to yawn, and then they went to bed. Early on the following

morning, Bertram started for Littlebath.

The Littlebath world lives mostly in lodgings, and Miss Baker and

Caroline lived there as the world mostly does. There are three sets

of persons who resort to Littlebath: there is the heavy fast, and the

lighter fast set; there is also the pious set. Of the two fast sets

neither is scandalously fast. The pace is never very awful. Of the

heavies, it may be said that the gentlemen generally wear their coats

padded, are frequently seen standing idle about the parades and

terraces, that they always keep a horse, and trot about the roads a

good deal when the hounds go out. The ladies are addicted to whist

and false hair, but pursue their pleasures with a discreet economy.

Of the lighter fast set, assembly balls are the ruling passion; but

even in these there is no wild extravagance. The gentlemen of this

division keep usually two horses, on the sale of one of which their

mind is much bent. They drink plentifully of cherry-brandy on hunting

days; but, as a rule, they do not often misbehave themselves. They

are very careful not to be caught in marriage, and talk about women

much as a crafty knowing salmon might be presumed to talk about

anglers. The ladies are given to dancing, of course, and are none

of them nearly so old as you might perhaps be led to imagine. They

greatly eschew card-playing; but, nevertheless, now and again one of

them may be seen to lapse from her sphere and fall into that below,

if we may justly say that the votaries of whist are below the

worshippers of Terpsichore. Of the pious set much needs not be

said, as their light has never been hid under a bushel. In spite of

hunt-clubs and assembly-rooms, they are the predominant power. They

live on the fat of the land. They are a strong, unctuous, moral,

uncharitable people. The men never cease making money for themselves,

nor the women making slippers for their clergymen.

But though the residents at Littlebath are thus separated as a

rule into three classes, the classes do not always keep themselves

accurately to their divisions. There will be some who own a double

allegiance. One set will tread upon another. There will be those who

can hardly be placed in either. Miss Baker was among this latter

number: on principle, she was an admirer of the great divine on the

domestic comfort of whose toes so many fair fingers had employed

themselves; but, nevertheless, she was not averse to a rubber in its

mildest forms. Caroline did not play whist, but she occasionally gave

way to the allurement prevalent among the younger female world of

Littlebath.

Miss Baker lived in lodgings, and Bertram therefore went to an hotel.

Had she been mistress of the largest house in Littlebath, he would

hardly have ventured to propose himself as a guest. The "Plough,"

however, is a good inn, and he deposited himself there. The hunting

season at Littlebath had commenced, and Bertram soon found that had

he so wished he could with but little trouble have provided himself

with a stud in the coffee-room of his hotel.

He had intended to call on Miss Baker on the evening of his arrival;

but he had not actually told her that he would do so: and though he

walked down to the terrace in which she lived, his courage failed him

when he got there, and he would not go in. "It may be that evening

calls are not the thing at Littlebath," he said to himself; and so he

walked back to his hotel.

And on the following day he did not go before two o'clock. The

consequence was, that poor Miss Baker and her niece were kept at home

in a state of miserable suspense. To them his visit was quite as

important as to himself; and by one of them, the elder namely, it was

regarded with an anxiety quite as nervous.

When he did call, he was received with all the hospitality due to an

old friend. "Why had he not come to tea the night before? Tea had

been kept for him till eleven o'clock. Why, at any rate, had he not

come to breakfast? He had been much nicer in Jerusalem," Miss Baker

said.

Bertram answered hardly with the spirit which had marked all that he

had said in that far-away land. "He had been afraid to disturb them

so late; and had been unwilling to intrude so early." Miss Waddington

looked up at him from the collar she was working, and began to ask

herself whether she really did like him so much.

"Of course you will dine with us," said Miss Baker. George said he

would, but assured her that he had not intended to give so much

trouble. Could this be the same man, thought Caroline, who had

snubbed Mr. M'Gabbery, and had stood by laughing when she slipped

into the water?

All manner of questions were then asked and answered respecting their

different journeys. Constantinople was described on one side, and

the Tyrol; and on the other the perils of the ride to Jaffa, the

discomforts of the Austrian boat to Alexandria, and the manners

of the ladies from India with whom Miss Baker and her niece had

travelled in their passage from Egypt to Marseilles. Then they said

something about uncle George--not that Miss Baker so called him--and

Bertram said that he had learnt that Miss Baker had been staying at

Hadley.

"Yes," said she; "when I am in town, I have always money matters

to arrange with Mr. Bertram, or rather to have arranged by Mr.

Pritchett; and I usually stay a day or two at Hadley. On this

occasion I was there a week."

George could not but think that up to the period of their meeting at

Jerusalem, Miss Baker had been instructed to be silent about Hadley,

but that she was now permitted to speak out openly.

And so they sat and talked for an hour. Caroline had given her

aunt strict injunctions not to go out of the room, so as to leave

them together during Bertram's first visit. "Of course it would be

palpable that you did so for a purpose," said Caroline.

"And why not?" said Miss Baker, innocently.

"Never mind, aunt; but pray do not. I don't wish it." Miss Baker of

course obeyed, as she always did. And so George sat there, talking

about anything or nothing, rather lack-a-daisically, till he got up

to take his leave.

"You have not a horse here, I suppose?" said Miss Baker.

"No; but why do you ask? I can get one in ten minutes, no doubt."

"Because Caroline will be so glad to have some one to ride with her."

"Nothing will induce aunt Mary to mount a steed since the day she was

lifted out of her saddle at Jaffa," said Caroline.

"Oh, that journey, Mr. Bertram! but I am a stronger woman than I ever

thought I was to have lived through it."

It was soon arranged that George should go back to his inn and hire a

horse, and that he and Caroline should then ride together. In another

hour or so they were cantering up the face of Ridgebury Hill.

But the ride produced very little. Caroline here required her

attention, and George did not find it practicable to remain close

enough to his love, or long enough close to her, to say what he had

to say with that emphasis which he felt that the subject demanded.

There were some little tender allusions to feats of horsemanship done

in Syria, some mention of the Mount of Olives, of Miss Todd's picnic,

and the pool of Siloam, which might, if properly handled, have led

to much; but they did lead to nothing: and when George helped Miss

Waddington to dismount at Miss Baker's door, that young lady had

almost come to the conclusion that he had thought better of his love,

and that it would be well that she should think better of hers.

In accordance with our professed attempt at plain speaking, it may

be as well explained here that Miss Baker, with the view of sounding

her uncle's views and wishes, had observed to him that George had

appeared to her to admire Caroline very much. Had the old man

remarked, as he might so probably have done, that they were two

fools, and would probably become two beggars, Miss Baker would have

known that the match would be displeasing to him. But he had not done

so. "Ah!" he said; "did he? It is singular they should have met." Now

Miss Baker in her wisdom had taken this as a strong hint that the

match would not be displeasing to him.

Miss Baker had clearly been on George's side from the beginning.

Perhaps, had she shown a little opposition, Caroline's ardour might

have been heightened. As it was, she had professed to doubt. She had

nothing to say against George; much might doubtless be said in his

favour, but--. In fact, Miss Waddington would have been glad to know

what were the intentions of Mr. George Bertram senior.

"I really wish he had stayed away," she said to her aunt as they were

getting ready for dinner.

"Nonsense, Caroline; why should he have stayed away? Why should you

expect him to stay away? Had he stayed away, you would have been the

first to grumble. Don't be missish, my dear."

"Missish! Upon my word, aunt Mary, you are becoming severe. What I

mean is, that I don't think he cares so very much for me; and on

the whole, I am not--not _quite_ sure, whether--well, I won't say

anything more; only it does seem to me that you are much more in love

with him than I am."

Bertram came to dinner; and so also did one of the Littlebath

curates, a very energetic young man, but who had not yet achieved

above one or two pairs of worked slippers and a kettle-holder.

Greater things, however, were no doubt in store for him if he would

remain true to his mission. Aunt Mary had intended to ask no one; but

Caroline had declared that it was out of the question to expect that

Mr. Bertram should drink his wine by himself.

The whole evening was dull enough, and the work of disenchantment on

Caroline's part was nearly accomplished; but Bertram, a few minutes

before he went away, as the curate was expatiating to Miss Baker on

the excellence of his rector's last sermon, found an occasion to say

one word.

"Miss Waddington, if I call to-morrow, early after breakfast, will

you see me?" Miss Waddington looked as though there were nothing

in the proposition to ruffle her serenity, and said that she would.

George's words had been tame enough, but there had been something in

the fire of his eye that at last reminded her of Jerusalem.

On the next morning, punctually at ten, his knock was heard at the

door. Caroline had at first persisted that her aunt should not absent

herself; but even Miss Baker would not obey such an injunction as

this.

"How do you expect that the poor young man is to behave?" she had

said. "I do not much care how he behaves," Caroline had replied. But,

nevertheless, she did care.

She was therefore sitting alone when Bertram entered the room. He

walked up to her and took her hand, and as he did so he seemed to be

altogether a different man from that of yesterday. There was purpose

enough in his countenance now, and a purpose, apparently, which he

had an intention of pursuing with some energy.

"Miss Waddington," he said, still holding her hand; "Caroline! Or am

I to apologize for calling you so? or is the privilege to be my own?"

and then, still holding her hand, he stood as though expectant of an

answer that should settle the affair at once.

"Our connection through your uncle entitles you to the privilege,"

said Caroline, smiling, and using a woman's wiles to get out of the

difficulty.

"I will take no privilege from you on such a basis. What I have to

ask of you must be given on my own account, or on my own refused.

Caroline, since we parted in that room in Jerusalem, I have thought

seriously of little else than of you. You could not answer me then;

you gave me no answer; you did not know your own heart, you said. You

must know it now. Absence has taught me much, and it must have taught

you something."

"And what has it taught you?" said she, with her eyes fixed on the

ground.

"That the world has but one thing desirable for me, and that I should

not take a man's part unless I endeavoured to obtain it. I am here to

ask for it. And now, what has absence taught you?"

"Oh, so many things! I cannot repeat my lesson in one word, as you

do."

"Come, Caroline, I look at least for sincerity from you. You are too

good, too gracious to indulge a girlish vanity at the cost of a man's

suspense."

Missish and girlish! Miss Waddington felt that it behoved her to look

to her character. These were words which had not usually been applied

to her.

"Indeed, Mr. Bertram, I should think myself unpardonable to keep you

in suspense."

"Then answer me," said he. He had by this time let go her hand, and

was standing at a little distance from her, on the hearth-rug. Never

had lady been wooed in a sterner manner; but Caroline almost felt

that she liked him the better for it. He had simpered and said his

little nothings so like an ordinary gentleman during their ride, that

his present brusqueness was quite a relief to her.

But still she did not answer him at once. She essayed to stick her

needle into her work, and pricked her finger in lieu of it.

"Come, Caroline; am I wrong in supposing that now at least you must

know your own feelings? Or shall I tell you again how dearly, how

truly I love you?"

"No!--no!--no!"

"Answer me, then. In honest, plain, Christian sincerity, answer me;

as a true woman should answer a true man. Do you love me?"

For a moment there was no answer.

"Well, I will not ask again. I will not torment you."

"Oh, Mr. Bertram! What am I to say? What would you have me say? Do

not be so stern with me."

"Stern!"

"Well, are you not stern?" And coming up close to him, she looked

into his face.

"Caroline," said he, "will you be my wife?"

"I will." It was a motion of the lips rather than a spoken word; but,

nevertheless, he heard it. Fool that he was not to have heard it

before in the beating of her heart; not to have seen it in the tear

in her eye; not to have felt it in the warmth of her hand.

On that afternoon Miss Waddington's ride was much more energetic,

and on that evening Miss Baker did not think it necessary to catch a

curate to drink wine with George Bertram. He was made quite at home,

and given to understand that he had better leave the dining-room when

the ladies did so.

There was much talked over that evening and the next day: the upshot

of which was, that no marriage could take place till next summer;

that perhaps it might be expedient to postpone it till the summer

twelvemonths. To this George put, or would have put, an absolute

veto; but Miss Baker only shook her head, and smilingly said that

she thought it must be so. Nothing was to be done before Christmas;

but as Miss Baker was to be at Hadley very early in January, she

undertook to inform Mr. Bertram, and gave strong hopes that he would

be prevailed on to favour the marriage.

"It can make no difference to my purpose whether he does or no," said

George, very independently.

CHAPTER XIV.

WAYS AND MEANS.

On the following day Bertram returned to town. Now that he was a

successful lover, and about to take upon himself at some future time

the responsible duties of a married man, he became very energetic

in the chambers of Mr. Die. He could hardly spare a day during the

winter for running down to Littlebath, and whenever he did do so, he

took Coke upon Lyttleton down with him. Nor did he work in vain. He

never had worked in vain. Facility of acquiring the special knowledge

which he sought had ever been one of his gifts. Mr. Die was already

beginning to prophesy great things; and his friend Harcourt, who

occasionally wanted his society, declared that he overdid his

labours.

Down at Littlebath they did not quite approve of all this industry.

Caroline naturally thought that more of her lover's hours should be

devoted to her; and Miss Baker, who looked on Mr. Bertram's money as

certainly destined either for Caroline or George, considered that he

was wasting his time with his fusty books. She had not dared to say

much to George on this subject, and he had not taken very well the

little that she did say. She could not tell him that Caroline was Mr.

Bertram's granddaughter, but she did remind him that he himself was

Mr. Bertram's nephew, and hinted that though a profession might be

very eligible for a young man of such brilliant prospects, it could

hardly be necessary for him absolutely to make a slave of himself. To

this George had answered, somewhat curtly, that he had no reason to

expect anything further from his uncle; and that as he looked forward

to maintain himself and his wife by his successful exertions as a

barrister, it was absolutely necessary that he should at present work

very hard. "I have lost a whole year," he said to Miss Baker; "and

nothing but very sharp work can atone for that."

He never once saw his uncle after his first visit to Littlebath

till the next year was far advanced. He felt no desire to see him,

and certainly no wish to be the bearer of tidings as to his own

engagement. Miss Baker had undertaken to do this, and might do so if

she so pleased. As far as he was concerned, he had no idea of asking

permission to marry from any one.

"Why should I ask him," he had once said to Miss Baker. "I shall

marry just the same, whether he permits it or whether he does not."

This was grievous to the ladies at Littlebath. Very little had been

said about money between George and Miss Baker up to this time;

nothing had been said between George and Caroline; but the two ladies

knew that there could be no marriage till there was an adequate

income. The income of the gentleman when stripped of his fellowship

would be two hundred pounds a year; that of the lady was about the

same. Now Caroline Waddington had no intention whatever of marrying

on four hundred pounds a year; and it must be more than three years

at the very least before all this profound study would result in

golden fees.

Now that the matter was so far settled--settled as Bertram considered

it--he did tell Harcourt of his love. "Harcourt," said he, one day.

"I have a piece of news which perhaps I ought to tell you. I am

engaged to be married."

"Are you?" said Harcourt, rather too coolly to satisfy his friend's

expectation.

"I am not joking."

"Who ever accused you of joking since you took to the law and Mr.

Die? I did not give you credit for a joke; not even for so bad a one

as that would be. Shall I congratulate or condole with you?"

"Either or neither. Perhaps you had better wait till you see the

lady."

"And when is it to be?"

"Well; in this coming summer, I suppose. That is my wish, at least."

"And your wish of course will be law. I presume then that I may be

justified in surmising that the lady has some considerable fortune?"

"No, indeed, she has not. Something she has got; about as much,

perhaps, as myself. We shall have bread to eat."

"And occasionally cheese," said Harcourt, who could not understand

that any rising man could marry early, unless in doing so he acquired

money.

"And occasionally cheese," repeated Bertram. "This is a state of

things that would not suit your book, I know."

"Not exactly," said Harcourt. "But men have very different ideas

about women. I could do, and have done, and am doing with a small

income myself; but a wife is in some respects like a horse. If a

gentleman does keep a horse, it should be well groomed."

"You could not endure a woman who was not always got up in satin and

velvet?"

"Not satin and velvet exactly. I do not require a curiously-mounted

saddle for my horse. But I don't think I should have much enjoyment

with a cheap wife. I like cold mutton and candle-ends myself very

well, but I do not love feminine economies. Family washing-bills kept

at the lowest, a maid-of-all-work with an allowance in lieu of beer,

and a dark morning gown for household work, would not, if I know

myself, add fuel to the ardour of my conjugal affection. I love women

dearly; I like them to be near me; but then I like them to be nice.

When a woman is nasty, she is very nasty."

Bertram said in his heart that Harcourt was a beast, an animal

without a soul, a creature capable of no other joys than those of a

material nature; but he kept this opinion at the present moment to

himself. Not, however, that he was averse to express himself openly

before his friend. He often gave Harcourt to understand that he

suspected him of being deficient in the article of a soul; and

Harcourt would take the reproach with perfect good-humour, remarking,

perhaps, that he might probably find it possible to get on decently

without one.

"Is the lady's name a secret?" he asked.

"No; not to you, at least. I believe it is generally considered

advisable that these sort of things should not be talked about quite

openly till the consummation of them is nigh at hand. I have no wish

for any mystery in the matter. Her name is Caroline Waddington."

"What! a daughter of Sir Augustus?"

"No; nothing to Sir Augustus, that I have heard."

"She must, then, be one of the General's family?"

"Not that either. Her only relative, that I know, is a Miss Baker."

"Miss Baker!" said Harcourt; and the tone of his voice was not

encouraging.

"Yes, Miss Baker," said Bertram; and the tone of his voice was hardly

conciliatory.

"Oh--ah--yes. I don't exactly think I know her. Miss Baker!"

"It would be odd if you did, for she lives at Littlebath, and hardly

ever comes to town. When she does, she stays down at Hadley with my

uncle."

"Oh--h! That's a horse of another colour. I beg your pardon entirely,

my dear fellow. Why did you not tell me at first that this is a match

of your uncle's making?"

"My uncle's making! It is not a match of my uncle's making."

"Well, well; one that he approves. I hardly gave you credit for so

much prudence. That will be as good as having everything settled

exactly as you could wish it."

"You are giving me a great deal too much credit," said Bertram,

laughing. "My uncle knows nothing about my marriage, and I have not

the slightest idea of consulting him. I should think it mean to do

so, considering everything."

"Mean to consult the only relative you have who can do anything for

you?"

"Yes. He has told me over and over again that I have no claim on him;

and, therefore, I will make none."

Bertram had said to himself frequently that he cared nothing for

this man's judgment in such matters; but, nevertheless, after what

had passed, he did desire that Harcourt should see Caroline. He

was aware, judging rather from Harcourt's tone than from his words,

that that keen-sighted friend of his had but a low opinion of Miss

Waddington; that he thought that she was some ordinary, intriguing

girl, who had been baiting a hook for a husband, after the manner

which scandal states to be so common among the Littlebathians; and

Bertram longed, therefore, to surprise his eyes and astound his

intellect with a view of her charms and a near knowledge of her

attributes. Nothing should be said of her beauty, and the blaze of it

should fall upon him altogether unprepared.

George was right in his feelings in this respect. Harcourt had formed

a very false idea of Miss Waddington;--had led himself to imagine

that she was second-rate and unattractive. In the first place, he had

his own ideas about Littlebath, and conceived that it was not the

place in which the highest beauty of England should be looked for;

and in the next place, he knew George Bertram, and regarded him as a

man peculiarly liable to such dangers as these.

"You must come down with me to Littlebath. When will you give me a

day?"

Harcourt demurred, as he did not wish to be called on imperiously to

praise a woman of whom he knew he should disapprove, and endeavoured

to excuse himself from the journey. But Bertram persisted, and at

last it was settled that he would go down.

This did not happen till towards the end of winter. Miss Baker had,

as she promised, seen Mr. Bertram in the meantime, and the answer

returned from the Hadley oracle had, like most oracle-answers, been

neither favourable nor unfavourable. Mr. Bertram had expressed no

great anger at the tale of love that was told him; but neither had

he expressed any gratification. "Well," he had said, "it is odd that

they should have come together; very odd. He is a clever young man,

and I dare say may do well." Miss Baker had then ventured, but in a

very modest way, to ask him his opinion as to the sufficiency of the

young people's income. "They must judge of that themselves," he had

said, rather sharply. "But I suppose they have no idea of marrying as

yet. They mean to wait, don't they, till he begins his profession?"

To this Miss Baker had made no answer, and nothing further had been

said at that meeting.

Early in March, Miss Baker had again seen the great man. She had then

ventured to explain to him that George was working very hard.

"Ah! you have his word for that, I suppose," said the uncle; "but if

so, believe me he will get on at such work as that quicker without a

wife than he will with one."

But at this interview Miss Baker did ask him plainly, as had been

agreed beforehand between her and her niece that she should do,

whether he would on their marriage make any increase to his

granddaughter's fortune.

"She has a liberal, ladylike provision," said he.

"But they will not have enough to live on," said Miss Baker.

"They will have a third more, Mary, than I had when I married your

aunt. And yet I saved money on my income."

"But remember how they have been brought up, sir."

"If they will be fine ladies and gentlemen, they must take the

penalties of being so. Fine ladies and gentlemen cannot marry at

a moment's notice, as do ploughboys and milkmaids. If they cannot

live on a limited income, they must wait." He did, however, on this

occasion go so far as to say, that if they would wait for another

twelvemonth, and that if he were then living, he would add two

thousand pounds to Caroline's fortune. As to George, he had done as

much as he intended to do--certainly for the present. "George likes

his own way," said the old man, "and as far as I am concerned, he

shall have it. It will be well for him to make his own career in the

world; he will be happier so than in spending my money."

On this occasion Miss Baker was permitted to tell Caroline all the

circumstances of her parentage and grandparentage. The same story

might now be told to George. But they were both to be cautioned

that their relative's displeasure would be incurred by any useless

repetition of it. "And, Mary," said he, "do not let them mislead

themselves. Do not let them marry with the idea that by so doing they

will inherit between them my money. I wish them both to understand

that my views are altogether different."

Miss Baker, when she returned to Littlebath, could not think that she

had been successful in her mission; and Caroline immediately declared

that any idea of a marriage for that year, or even for the next, must

now be altogether out of the question. She was very much startled at

hearing that Mr. Bertram was her mother's father, but did not pretend

to any suddenly intense affection for him. "If that be so," said she,

coldly, "if George and I are his only near connections, and if he

does not disapprove of our marriage, he ought to give us an income on

which we can live." It is astonishing how different are the views of

grandfathers and grandchildren on such matters!

Unfortunately there was no unanimity of opinion on this matter,

either between the lovers themselves or between them and their aunt.

George was of opinion that they should marry immediately on their

present income, and trust to Providence and his exertions for a

future increase. For one year he would have the income of his

fellowship; in two years and a half he would be called; and in the

meantime, he could make something by the Magazines. If Caroline was

not afraid, he was not.

But Caroline was very much afraid. It had by no means formed part of

the project of her life to live in London as a married woman on four

hundred pounds a year. "She knew," she said to Miss Baker, "what

effect that would have on her husband's affections." She seemed,

indeed, to share some of Harcourt's opinions on the subject, and to

have a dislike to feminine economies, or at least to the use of them

under the surveillance of a man's eye. As far as she could see, the

marriage must be postponed indefinitely--at any rate, till after

George should have been called to the bar.

Miss Baker's voice was for a middle course. She suggested that they

should wait for Mr. Bertram's two thousand pounds and then marry.

They would then have an income increased to some extent. They

would also show a deference to the old man's views, which would

undoubtedly--so Miss Baker thought--have ultimate results of a most

beneficial nature. "After all," as she remarked more than once to her

niece, "who else is there?"

But the young people were quite as obstinate as the old man. George

would make no concession whatever to his uncle. He was ready to marry

on love and a small income, and he expected Caroline to show an equal

warmth. Caroline would by no means alter her views, or risk the

misery of an ill-provided nursery. It had been the one great resolve

of her life, that she would not be a poor man's wife. "She was ready

to wait," she said. "If she could trust and wait, surely George might

do so. A man, with all the world around him, encountered neither the

misery nor the risk in waiting that fell to a girl's lot."

The disputes incidental to these different opinions did not ever take

place between George and Caroline. He, from a feeling of chivalry,

abstained from discussing money matters with her; and she, from a

feeling of prudence, was equally silent with him. Poor Miss Baker was

the medium for it all. George of course would press with a lover's

ardour for an early day; and Caroline would of course say that an

immediate marriage was, she found, impracticable. And then each would

refer the other to Miss Baker.

Things went on in this way till the middle of May. Sometimes George

was almost angry, and wrote letters that were somewhat savage;

sometimes Caroline would be haughty, and then she too could write

letters which would tell her mind in good plain set terms. But they

were not near enough, or sufficiently often with each other, to

quarrel.

So matters went on till May; and then, on one fine May-day, Harcourt

and George together took their places in the train for Littlebath.

"I wonder what you'll think of her?" said George. "Of course you'll

tell the truth?"

"Oh, of course," said Harcourt, with his mind duly made up to praise

her.

"You haven't the pluck to find fault with her," said George; "you

would be afraid not to call her handsome, even if you thought her as

ugly as Hecate."

"Exactly," said Harcourt; "and therefore these little experimentary

trips are never of any use."

CHAPTER XV.

MR. HARCOURT'S VISIT TO LITTLEBATH.

During the whole of the winter and spring, George's attention to

his work had been unremitting. Mr. Die was always prophesying still

greater things, and still greater. Once a fortnight, on every other

Saturday, Bertram had gone down to Littlebath, but he had always

returned to London by the first train on Monday morning, and was

always up to his elbows in law, even on that morning, before eleven.

During the whole of this time, he had not once seen his uncle,

although Miss Baker had softly endeavoured to talk him into visiting

Hadley. "I never go there without being asked," he had said. "It is

quite understood between us."

He had made but one excursion out of London, except those to

Littlebath, and that had been to Hurst Staple. Mr. Wilkinson had died

very suddenly, as has been told, about the end of the winter, and

Bertram had of course not been able to see him. Arthur Wilkinson had

then been quickly put into the living, and as soon as he had taken

up his residence in the parsonage, Bertram had gone down. This visit

had been made before the last walk to West Putford; but even then the

young barrister had found the young vicar in rather a plaintive mood.

Wilkinson, however, had said nothing of his love, and George was too

much occupied with talking of his own heart to think much of his

cousin's.

Miss Gauntlet--I hope the reader has not altogether forgotten Adela

Gauntlet--had also an aunt living at Littlebath, Miss Penelope

Gauntlet; and it so happened, that very shortly after that memorable

walk and the little scene that took place in the West Putford

drawing-room, Adela visited her aunt. Bertram, who had known her well

when they were children together, had not yet seen her there; indeed,

her arrival had taken place since his last visit; but there she was,

staying with Miss Penelope Gauntlet, when he and Harcourt went down

to Littlebath together.

Caroline and Adela had for years been friends. Not bosom friends,

perhaps; that is, they did not correspond three times a week, each

sending to the other on each occasion three sheets of note paper

crossed over on every page from top to bottom. Caroline had certainly

no such bosom friend, and perhaps neither had Adela; but they were

friends enough to call each other by their Christian names, to lend

each other music and patterns, and perhaps to write when they had

anything special to say. There had been a sort of quasi-connection

between Miss Baker and the elder Miss Gauntlet--a connection of a

very faint local character--in years gone by. Miss Baker, by reason

of her Bertram relations, had been at Hurst Staple, and Miss Gauntlet

had been at West Putford at the same time. They had thus become

acquainted, and the acquaintance there had led to a Littlebath

friendship. Friendships in Littlebath are not of a very fervid

description.

Miss Waddington had now been engaged for six months, and hitherto

she had made no confidante. She knew no resident at Littlebath whom

she would willingly trust with her heart's secret: her aunt, and her

aunt's cognizance of the matter were quite another thing. No one

could be more affectionate than aunt Mary, no one more trustworthy,

no one more thoroughly devoted to another than she was to her niece.

But then she was not only old, but old-fashioned. She was prudent,

and Caroline also was prudent; but their prudence was a different

kind. There was no dash, no ambition about aunt Mary's prudence.

She was rather humdrum, Caroline thought; and, which was worse,

though she liked George Bertram, she did not seem to understand his

character at all in the same light as that in which Caroline regarded

it.

From these circumstances it came to pass that Adela had not been a

week at Littlebath before she was made acquainted with the grand

secret. She also had a secret of her own; but she did not tell that

in return. Secrets such as Caroline's are made to be told; but those

other secrets, those which burn up the heart instead of watering it

as with a dew from heaven, those secrets for the most part are not

made to be told.

"And yet, Adela, I suppose it will never happen." This had been said

on the morning of that Saturday which was to bring down not only

Bertram, but Harcourt. Caroline knew well that the London friend,

the man of the world, was being brought to inspect her, and was by

no means afraid of undergoing the inspection. She was not timid by

nature; and though, as has been already said, she was hardly yet

conscious of her powers of attracting, she was never ashamed of

herself.

"And why not? I think that is nonsense, Caroline. If you really

thought that, you would not receive him as you will do, nor his

friend neither."

"I do think it; that is to say, I think it very probable. I cannot

explain to you, Adela, all the turns of my mind, or of my heart. I

would not for worlds of gold marry a man I did not love."

"And do not you love Mr. Bertram?"

"Yes, I do; at times very, very much; but I fear the time may come

when I may love him less. You will not understand me; but the fact

is, I should love him better if he were less worthy of my love--if he

were more worldly."

"No, I do not understand that," said Adela, thinking of her love, and

the worldly prudence of him who should have been her lover.

"That is it--you do not understand me; and yet it is not selfishness

on my part. I would marry a man in the hope of making him happy."

"Certainly," said Adela; "no girl should marry unless she have

reasonable hope that she can do that."

"He would wish me to go to him now, at once; when we have no

sufficient income to support us."

"Four hundred a year!" said Adela, reproachfully.

"What would four hundred a year do in London? Were I to consent, in

a year or two he would be sick of me. He would be a wretched man,

unless, indeed, his law-courts and his club kept him from being

wretched;--his home would not do so."

Adela silently compared the matter with her own affairs: her ideas

were so absolutely different. "If he could have contented himself to

live upon potatoes," she had once thought to herself, "I could have

contented myself to live on the parings." She said nothing of this

however to Caroline. Their dispositions she knew were different.

After all, it may be that Miss Waddington had a truer knowledge of

human nature.

"No, I shall not consent; I will not consent to be the cause of his

misery and poverty; and then he will be angry with me, and we shall

quarrel. He can be very stern, Adela; very."

"He is impetuous; but however angry he may be, he forgives

immediately. He never bears malice," said Adela, remembering her

early dealings with the boy-friend of her girlhood.

"He can be very stern now. I know it will come to our quarrelling;

and when he finds that he cannot have his own way, that I cannot

yield to him, his proud heart will revolt from me; I know it will."

Adela could only say that were she in her friend's place she would

not think so much about income; but her gentle speech, the eloquence

of which had an inward, rather than an outward tendency, had no

effect on Caroline. If Bertram could not persuade her, it certainly

was not probable that Adela Gauntlet should do so.

Messrs. Harcourt and Bertram reached Littlebath quite safely.

Harcourt was to dine with the ladies in Montpellier Crescent--it was

in Montpellier Crescent that Miss Baker lived--and as some sort of

party was necessary for his honour, the curate was again invited, as

were also the two Miss Gauntlets.

"You'll go on first, I suppose?" said Harcourt, when they had secured

their rooms at the "Plough," and were preparing to dress. Bertram

was well known at the "Plough" now, and there was not a boots

or chambermaid about the house who did not know why he came to

Littlebath.

"Oh, no," said Bertram, "I'll wait for you."

"I didn't know; I thought there might be some lovers' privileges to

be exercised, for which the eyes of the world might be inconvenient."

"They shall be postponed on your behalf, my dear fellow." And so the

two went off together.

They found Miss Baker in her drawing-room, and with her Adela and

aunt Penelope.

"And where is Caroline?" said George, when the introductions had been

duly performed. He had to make a little effort to say this in a voice

that should signify that he was at home there, but which should not

savour too much of the lover. On the whole, he succeeded pretty well.

"Why, to tell the truth," said Miss Baker, laughing, "she is doing

duty at this moment as head butler in the dining-room. If you feel

any vocation that way, you may go and help her."

"Well, I am a fairish good hand at drawing a cork," said Bertram, as

he left the room.

"So the lovers' privileges are all arranged for," thought Harcourt to

himself.

When Bertram entered the dining-room, the butler's duties seemed to

be complete; at any rate, Miss Waddington was not engaged in their

performance. She was leaning on the mantel-piece, and was apparently

engaged in contemplating a bouquet of flowers which Bertram had

contrived to send to the house since his arrival at Littlebath. It

was no wonder that the boots should know all about it.

Let us agree to say nothing about the lovers' privileges. Caroline

Waddington was not a girl to be very liberal of such favours, and on

the occasion in question she was not more liberal than usual.

"Is Mr. Harcourt here?" said she.

"Yes, of course he is. He is upstairs."

"And I am to go up to be looked at. How vain you men are of your

playthings! Not that you have anything in this respect of which you

ought to be vain."

"But a great deal of which I ought to be, and am, very proud. I am

proud of you, Caroline; proud at this moment that my friend should

see how beautiful is the girl that loves me."

"Tush!" said Caroline, putting the back of her nosegay up to his

mouth. "What delightful nonsense you can talk. But come, your London

friend won't much appreciate my excellence if I keep him waiting for

his dinner." And so they went upstairs.

But Caroline, though she laughed at her lover for showing her off,

had not failed to make the best of herself. She was sufficiently

anxious that Bertram should be proud of her, should have cause to be

proud of her; and she seemed to be aware that if she could satisfy

Mr. Harcourt's fastidious judgment, she might probably hope to pass

as approved of among his other friends. She determined, therefore, to

look her best as she walked into the drawing-room; and she did look

her best.

"Mr. Harcourt, my niece, Miss Waddington," said Miss Baker. Harcourt,

as he rose and bowed, was lost in wonder.

Bertram fell immediately into conversation with Miss Penelope

Gauntlet, but even while listening to her enthusiasm as to Arthur

Wilkinson's luck in getting the living of Hurst Staple, and her

praise of Lord Stapledean, he contrived to keep an eye on his friend

Harcourt. "Yes, indeed, quite fortunate; wasn't it?" But as he thus

spoke, his very soul within him was rejoicing at his own triumph.

He had said nothing about Caroline personally; he had refrained his

tongue, and now he had his reward.

We have said that Harcourt was lost in wonder, and such was literally

the case. He had taught himself to believe that Caroline Waddington

was some tall, sharp-nosed dowdy; with bright eyes, probably, and

even teeth; with a simpering, would-be-witty smile, and full of

little quick answers such as might suit well for the assembly-rooms

at Littlebath. When he heard that she was engaged in seeing that the

sherry-bottles were duly decantered, the standard of her value did

not at all rise in his estimation. Candle-ends and cold mutton would

doubtless be her forte, an economical washing-bill her strong point.

So was he thinking, much distressed in mind--for, to do him justice,

he was as anxious on behalf of Bertram as it was in his nature to be

anxious for any one--when a Juno entered the room. She did not swim

in, or fly in, or glide in, but walked in, as women should walk if

they properly understood their parts. She walked in as though she

were mistress of her own soul, and afraid to meet no pair of eyes

which any human being could bend upon her. He had intended in his

good-nature to patronise her; but that other question instantly

occurred to him--would she patronise him? Bertram he had known

long and intimately, and held him therefore somewhat cheap in many

respects, as we are all accustomed to hold our dearest friends. But

now, at once he rose in his estimation a hundred per cent. What might

not be expected of a man whom such a woman would acknowledge that she

loved?

A Juno had entered the room; for her beauty, as we have said before,

was that rather of the queen of the gods. George immediately

acknowledged to himself that he had never before seen her look so

grandly beautiful. Her charms have been related, and that relation

shall not be repeated; but when first seen by Harcourt, their power

was more thoroughly acknowledged by him, much more thoroughly than

they had been by her lover when he had first met her. Then, however,

she had been sitting at dinner between her aunt and Mr. M'Gabbery,

quite unconscious that any one was arriving whose existence could be

of importance to her.

There was no time for conversation then. The surprise arising from

her entrance had, on Harcourt's part, hardly subsided, when the

servant announced dinner, and he was called on to give his arm to

Miss Baker.

"I hope you approve your friend's choice," said that lady, smiling.

"Miss Waddington is certainly the most lovely girl I ever beheld,"

replied he, with enthusiasm.

The Rev. Mr. Meek handed down Miss Penelope Gauntlet, and Bertram

followed with the two girls, happy and high-spirited. He first

tendered his arm to Adela, who positively refused it; then to

Caroline, who was equally determined. Then, putting a hand behind the

waist of each of them, he pushed them through the door before him.

There are certainly some privileges which an accepted lover may take

in a house, and no one but an accepted lover.

George took his seat at the bottom of the table, as though he were

quite at home; and Harcourt, happy sinner! found himself seated

between Adela and Caroline. He was not good enough for such bliss.

But had his virtues been ever so shining, how could they have availed

him? Neither of his neighbours had a portion of a heart left to call

her own.

But he was able to perceive that Caroline was not only beautiful. She

talked to him almost exclusively, for she had capriciously seated

herself away from her lover, and next to her aunt. "Adela," she had

whispered, going downstairs, "I shall look to you to talk to George

all the evening, for I mean to make a new conquest."

Bertram was delighted. It was hardly in him to be jealous, even had

there been a shadow of cause. As it was, his love was doing exactly

that which he wished her to do. She was vindicating his choice to the

man whose judgment on the matter was most vitally essential to him.

When the ladies left the dining-room, both Bertram and Harcourt

heartily wished that Miss Baker had not been so scrupulously

hospitable. They hardly knew what to do with Mr. Meek. Mr. Meek

remarked that Miss Baker was a very nice person, that Miss Waddington

was a charming person, that Miss Penelope Gauntlet was a very nice

person indeed, and that Miss Adela was a very sweet person; and

then it seemed that all conversation was at end. "Eh! what! none

especially; that is to say, the Middle Temple." Such had been

Harcourt's reply to Mr. Meek's inquiry as to what London congregation

he frequented; and then the three gentlemen seemed to be much

occupied with their wine and biscuits. This invitation to Mr. Meek

had certainly been a mistake on Miss Baker's part.

But the misery did not last long. Of the first occasion on which Mr.

Meek's glass was seen to be well empty, George took advantage. "If

you don't take any more wine, Mr. Meek, we may as well go upstairs;

eh, Harcourt?" and he looked suppliantly at his friend.

"Oh, I never take any more wine, you know. I'm an anchorite on such

occasions as these." And so they went into the drawing-room, long

before Miss Baker had her coffee ready for them.

"You see a good deal of Arthur now, I suppose?" said Bertram,

addressing Adela.

"Yes; that is, not a very great deal. He has been busy since he took

up the parish. But I see Mary frequently."

"Do you think Arthur likes it? He seemed to me to be hardly so much

gratified as I should have thought he would have been. The living is

a good one, and the marquis was certainly good-natured about it."

"Oh, yes, he was," said Adela.

"It will be a long time, I know, before I earn five hundred pounds a

year. Do you know, he never wrote about it as though he thought he'd

been lucky in getting it."

"Didn't he?"

"Never; and I thought he was melancholy and out of spirits when I

saw him the other day. He ought to marry; that's the fact. A young

clergyman with a living should always get a wife."

"You are like the fox that lost its tail," said Adela, trying hard to

show that she joined in the conversation without an effort.

"Ah! but the case is very different. There can be no doubt that

Arthur ought to lose his tail. His position in the world is one which

especially requires him to lose it."

"He has his mother and sisters, you know."

"Oh, mother and sisters! Mother and sisters are all very well, or not

very well, as the case may be; but the vicar of a parish should be a

married man. If you can't get a wife for him down there in Hampshire,

I shall have him up to London, and look one out for him there. Pray

take the matter in hand when you go home, Miss Gauntlet."

Adela smiled, and did not blush; nor did she say that she quite

agreed with him that the vicar of a parish should be a married man.

"Well, I shan't ask any questions," said Bertram, as soon as he and

Harcourt were in the street, "or allow you to offer any opinion;

because, as we have both agreed, you have not pluck enough to give it

impartially." Bertram as he said this could hardly preserve himself

from a slight tone of triumph.

"She is simply the most most lovely woman that my eyes ever beheld,"

said Harcourt.

"Tush! can't you make it a little more out of the common way than

that? But, Harcourt, without joke, you need not trouble yourself. I

did want you to see her; but I don't care twopence as to your liking

her. I shall think much more of your wife liking her--if you ever

have a wife."

"Bertram, upon my word, I never was less in a mood to joke."

"That is saying very little, for you are always in a mood to

joke." Bertram understood it all; saw clearly what impression Miss

Waddington had made, and for the moment was supremely happy.

"How ever you had the courage to propose yourself and your two

hundred pounds a year to such a woman as that!"

"Ha! ha! ha! Why, Harcourt, you are not at all like yourself. If you

admire her so much, I shall beg you not to come to Littlebath any

more."

"Perhaps I had better not. But, Bertram, I beg to congratulate you

most heartily. There is this against your future happiness--"

"What?"

"Why, you will never be known as Mr. George Bertram; but always as

Mrs. George Bertram's husband. With such a bride-elect as that, you

cannot expect to stand on your own bottom. If you can count on being

lord-chancellor, or secretary of state, you may do so; otherwise,

you'll always be known as an appendage."

"Oh, I'll put up with that misery."

This visit of inspection had been very successful, and George went

to bed in the highest spirits. In the highest spirits also he walked

to church with Harcourt, and there met the two ladies. There was

something especially rapturous in the touch of his fingers as he

shook hands with Caroline when the service was over; and Miss Baker

declared that he looked almost handsome when he went home with them

to lunch.

But that afternoon his bliss was destined to receive something of a

check. It was imperative that Harcourt should be in town early on the

Monday morning, and therefore it had been settled that they should

return by the latest train that Sunday evening. They would just be

able to dine with Miss Baker, and do this afterwards. Harcourt had,

of course, been anxious to be allowed to return alone; but Bertram

had declined to appear to be too much in love to leave his mistress,

and had persisted that he would accompany him.

This having been so decided, he had been invited to a little

conference at Miss Baker's, to be holden upstairs in her private

little sitting-room before dinner. He had had one or two chats with

Miss Baker in that same room before now, and therefore did not

think so much of the invitation; but on this occasion he also found

Caroline there. He felt at once that he was to be encountered with

opposition.

Miss Baker opened the battle. "George," said she, "Caroline has made

me promise to speak to you before you go up to town. Won't you sit

down?"

"Upon my word," said he, seating himself on a sofa next to Caroline;

"I hardly know what to say to it. You look so formal both of you. If

I am to be condemned, my lord, I hope you'll give me a long day."

"That's just it," said Miss Baker; "it must be a long day, I'm

afraid, George."

"What do you mean?"

"Why this; we think the marriage must be put off till after you have

been called. You are both young, you know."

"Nonsense!" said George, rather too imperiously for a lover.

"Nay, but George, it is not nonsense," said Caroline, in her sweetest

voice, almost imploringly. "Don't be impetuous; don't be angry with

us. It is for your sake we say so."

"For my sake!"

"Yes, for your sake; for your sake;" and she put his hand inside her

arm, and almost pressed it to her bosom. "For your sake, certainly,

George; you of whom we are so much bound to think."

"Then for my own sake I disdain any such solicitude. I know the

world, at any rate, as well as either of you--"

"Ah! I am not sure of that," said Caroline.

"And I know well, that our joint income should be ample for the next

four or five years. You will have to give up your horse--"

"I should think nothing of that, George; nothing."

"And that is all. How many thousand married couples are there, do you

suppose, in London, who are now living on less than what our income

will be?"

"Many thousands, doubtless. But very few, probably not one, so living

happily, when the husband has been brought up in such a manner as has

been Master George Bertram."

"Caroline, my belief is, that you know nothing about it. Some of your

would-be-grand friends here in Littlebath have been frightening you

on the score of income."

"I have no friend in Littlebath to whom I would condescend to speak

on such a matter, except aunt Mary." Caroline's tone as she said this

showed some slight offence; but not more than she had a right to

show.

"And what do you say, aunt Mary?"

"Well, I really agree with Caroline; I really do."

"Ah, she has talked you over." This was true.

"And what is the date, Miss Waddington, that you are now kind enough

to name for our wedding-day?" asked George, in a tone half of

anger and half of banter. To Caroline's ear, the anger seemed to

predominate.

"The day after you shall have been called to the bar, Mr. Bertram.

That is, if the press of two such great events together will not be

too much for you."

"Of course you know that that is putting it off for nearly three

years?"

"For more than two, I believe, certainly."

"And you can talk quite coolly about such a delay as that?"

"Not quite coolly, George; but, at any rate, with a fixed purpose."

"And am not I then to have a fixed purpose also?"

"Certainly, dearest, you can. You can say, if you are cruel enough,

that it shall be postponed for two years again, after that. Or you

can say, if you will do so, that under such circumstances you will

not marry me at all. We have each got what you lawyers call a veto.

Now, George, I put my veto upon poverty for you, and discomfort, and

an untidy house, and the perils of a complaining, fretful wife. If

I can ever assist you to be happy, and prosperous, and elate before

the world, I will try my best to do so; but I will not come to you

like a clog round your neck, to impede all your efforts in your

first struggle at rising. If I can wait, George, surely you can? An

unfulfilled engagement can be no impediment to a man, whatever it may

be to a girl."

It may have been perceived by this time that Miss Waddington was not

a person easy to be talked over. On this occasion, Bertram failed

altogether in moving her. Even though at one moment aunt Mary had

almost yielded to him, Caroline remained steady as a rock. None of

his eloquence--and he was very eloquent on the occasion--changed

her at all. She became soft in her tone, and affectionate, almost

caressing in her manner; but nothing would induce her to go from her

point. Bertram got on a very high horse, and spoke of the engagement

as being thus practically broken off. She did not become angry, or

declare that she took him at his word; but with a low voice she said

that she was aware that her determination gave him an option in the

matter. He would certainly be justified in so resolving; nay, might

do so without the slightest stain upon his faith. She herself would

not violate the truth by saying that such a decision would give her

pleasure; that it would--would-- Here for the first time she became

rather agitated, and before she could finish, George was at her feet,

swearing that he could not, would not live without her; that she knew

that he could not, and would not do so.

And so the little conference ended. George had certainly gained

nothing. Caroline had gained this, that she had made known her

resolution, and had, nevertheless, not lost her lover. To all the

expressions of her determination not to marry till George should be

a barrister, aunt Mary had added a little clause--that such decision

might at any moment be changed by some new act of liberality on the

part of uncle Bertram. In aunt Mary's mind, the rich uncle, the rich

grandfather, was still the god that was to come down upon the stage

and relieve them from their great difficulty.

As George returned to town with his friend, his love was not quite so

triumphant as it had been that morning on his road to church.

END OF VOL. I.

* * * * *

THE BERTRAMS.

A Novel.

by

ANTHONY TROLLOPE

Author of "Barchester Towers," "Doctor Thorne," etc.

In Three Volumes

VOL. II.

Second Editon

London:

Chapman & Hall, 193 Piccadilly.

1859.

[The right of Translation is reserved.]

London: Printed by W. Clowes and Sons, Stamford Street.

CONTENTS OF VOL. II.

I. THE NEW MEMBER FOR THE BATTERSEA HAMLETS.

II. RETROSPECTIVE.--FIRST YEAR.

III. RETROSPECTIVE.--SECOND YEAR.

IV. RICHMOND.

V. JUNO.

VI. SIR LIONEL IN TROUBLE.

VII. MISS TODD'S CARD-PARTY.

VIII. THREE LETTERS.

IX. BIDDING HIGH.

X. DOES HE KNOW IT YET?

XI. HURST STAPLE.

XII. THE WOUNDED DOE.

XIII. THE SOLICITOR-GENERAL IN LOVE.

XIV. MRS. LEAKE OF RISSBURY.

XV. MARRIAGE-BELLS.

THE BERTRAMS.

CHAPTER I.

THE NEW MEMBER FOR THE BATTERSEA HAMLETS.

I must now ask my readers to pass over two years with me. It is a

terrible gap in a story; but in these days the unities are not much

considered, and a hiatus which would formerly have been regarded as a

fault utterly fatal is now no more than a slight impropriety.

But something must be told of the occurrences of these two years.

In the first place, no marriage had taken place--that is, among our

personages; nor had their ranks been thinned by any death. In our

retrospective view we will give the _pas_ to Mr. Harcourt, for he had

taken the greatest stride in winning that world's success, which is

the goal of all our ambition. He had gone on and prospered greatly;

and nowadays all men at the bar said all manner of good things of

him. He was already in Parliament as the honourable member for the

Battersea Hamlets, and was not only there, but listened to when

it suited him to speak. But when he did speak, he spoke only as a

lawyer. He never allowed himself to be enticed away from his own

profession by the meretricious allurements of general politics.

On points of law reform, he had an energetic opinion; on matters

connected with justice, he had ideas which were very much his own--or

which at least were stated in language which was so; being a denizen

of the common law, he was loud against the delays and cost of

Chancery, and was supposed to have supplied the legal details of a

very telling tale which was written about this time with the object

of upsetting the lord-chancellor as then constituted.

But though he worked as a member only in legal matters, of course he

was always ready to support his party with his vote in all matters.

His party! here had been his great difficulty on first entering the

House of Commons. What should be his party?

He had worked hard as a lawyer. In so doing no party had been

necessary to him. Honest hard work--honest, that is, as regarded the

work itself, if not always so as regarded the object. Honest hard

work, and some cunning in the method of his eloquence, had at first

sufficed him. He was not called upon to have, or at any rate to

state, any marked political tenets. But no man can rise to great note

as a lawyer without a party. Opulence without note would by no means

have sufficed with Mr. Harcourt.

When, therefore, he found it expedient in the course of his

profession to go into Parliament, and with this object presented

himself to the inhabitants of the Battersea Hamlets, it was necessary

that he should adopt a party. At that time the political watchword

of the day was the repeal of the corn laws. Now the electors of the

Battersea Hamlets required especially to know whether Mr. Harcourt

was or was not for free trade in corn.

To tell the truth, he did not care two straws about corn. He cared

only for law--for that and what was to be got by it. It was necessary

that he should assume some care for corn--learn a good deal about

it, perhaps, so as to be able, if called on, to talk on the subject

by the hour at a stretch; but it was not a matter on which he was

personally solicitous a fortnight or so before he began his canvass.

The Conservatives were at that time in, and were declared foes

to free trade in corn. They were committed to the maintenance

of a duty on imported wheat--if any men were ever politically

committed to anything. Indeed, it had latterly been their great

shibboleth--latterly; that is, since their other greater shibboleths

had been cut from under their feet.

At that time men had not learnt thoroughly by experience, as now they

have, that no reform, no innovation--experience almost justifies

us in saying no revolution--stinks so foully in the nostrils of an

English Tory politician as to be absolutely irreconcilable to him.

When taken in the refreshing waters of office any such pill can

be swallowed. This is now a fact recognized in politics; and it

is a great point gained in favour of that party that their power

of deglutition should be so recognized. Let the people want what

they will, Jew senators, cheap corn, vote by ballot, no property

qualification, or anything else, the Tories will carry it for them

if the Whigs cannot. A poor Whig premier has none but the Liberals

to back him; but a reforming Tory will be backed by all the

world--except those few whom his own dishonesty will personally have

disgusted.

But at that time--some twelve or fifteen years since--all this was

not a part of the political A B C; and Harcourt had much doubt in

his own mind as to the party which ought to be blessed with his

adherence. Lord chancellorships and lord chief-justiceships, though

not enjoyed till middle life, or, indeed, till the evening of a

lawyer's days, must, in fact, be won or lost in the heyday of his

career. One false step in his political novitiate may cost him

everything. A man when known as a recognized Whig may fight battle

after battle with mercenary electors, sit yawning year after year

till twelve o'clock, ready to attack on every point the tactics of

his honourable and learned friend on the Treasury seats, and yet see

junior after junior rise to the bench before him--and all because at

starting he decided wrongly as to his party.

If Harcourt had predilections, they were with the Whigs; but he was

not weak enough to let any predilection be a burden to his interests.

Where was the best opening for him? The Tories--I still prefer the

name, as being without definite meaning; the direct falsehood implied

in the title of Conservative amounts almost to a libel--the Tories

were in; but from the fact of being in, were always liable to be

turned out. Then, too, they were of course provided with attorneys

and solicitors-general, lords-advocate and legal hangers-on of every

sort. The coming chances might be better with the Whigs.

Under these circumstances, he went to his old friend Mr. Die, Mr.

Neversaye Die, the rich, quiet, hard-working, old chancery barrister,

to whose fostering care he had some time since recommended his friend

Bertram. Every one has some quiet, old, family, confidential friend;

a man given to silence, but of undoubted knowledge of the world,

whose experience is vast, and who, though he has not risen in the

world himself, is always the man to help others to do so. Every one

has such a friend as this, and Mr. Neversaye Die was Harcourt's

friend. Mr. Die himself was supposed to be a Tory, quite of the old

school, a Lord Eldon Tory; but Harcourt knew that this would in no

way bias his judgment. The mind of a barrister who has been for fifty

years practising in court will never be biassed by his predilections.

Mr. Die soon understood the whole matter. His young friend Harcourt

was going into Parliament with the special object of becoming a

solicitor-general as soon as possible. He could so become by means

only of two moving powers. He must be solicitor-general either to

the Whigs or to the Tories. To which he should be so was a question

mainly indifferent to Mr. Harcourt himself, and also to Mr. Die in

framing his advice.

Mr. Die himself of course regarded corn-law repeal as an invention

of the devil. He had lived long enough to have regarded Catholic

emancipation and parliamentary reform in the same light. Could you

have opened his mind, you would probably have found there a settled

conviction that the world was slowly coming to an end, that end being

brought about by such devilish works as these. But you would also

have found a conviction that the Three per Cents. would last his

time, and that his fear for the future might with safety be thrown

forward, so as to appertain to the fourth or fifth, or, perhaps,

even to the tenth or twelfth coming generation. Mr. Die was not,

therefore, personally wretched under his own political creed.

"I should be inclined to support the government if I were going into

Parliament as a young man," said Mr. Die.

"There are nine seniors of mine in the House who now do so." By

seniors, Mr. Harcourt alluded to his seniors at the bar.

"Yes; but they like young blood nowadays. I think it's the safest."

"I shall never carry the Battersea Hamlets unless I pledge myself on

this corn-law question."

"Well," said Mr. Die--"well; a seat is certainly a great thing, and

not to be had at any moment. I think I should be inclined to yield to

the electors."

"And commit myself to the repeal of the corn laws?"

"Commit yourself!" said Mr. Die, with a gentle smile. "A public man

has to commit himself to many things nowadays. But my opinion is,

that--that you may hold the popular opinion about free trade, and be

not a whit the less useful to Sir Robert on that account."

Mr. Harcourt was still a young man, and was, therefore, excusable in

not seeing to the depth of Mr. Die's wisdom. He certainly did not see

to the depth of it; but he had come to his oracle with faith, and

wisely resolved to be guided by wisdom so much superior to his own.

"Never bind yourself wantonly to an expiring policy," said Mr. Die.

"The man who does so has surely to unbind himself; and, to say the

least of it, that always takes time."

So Mr. Harcourt presented himself to the electors of the Battersea

Hamlets as a man very anxious in their behalf in all things, but

anxious in their behalf above all things for free trade in corn. "Is

it credible, that now, in this year of grace 184--,--" and so on.

Such were the eloquent words which he addressed to the electors on

this subject, and so taken were they by his enthusiasm that they

returned him by a large majority.

Mr. Dod, therefore, in his remarkably useful little parliamentary

compendium, put down Mr. Harcourt as a liberal: this he had an

opportunity of doing immediately after Mr. Harcourt's election: in

his next edition, however, he added, "but supports the general policy

of Sir Robert Peel's government."

Mr. Harcourt had altogether managed this little affair so well that,

despite his youth, despite also those nine political seniors of his,

men began to talk of him as one who might shortly hope to fill high

places. He made himself very useful in the House, and did so in a

quiet, business-like, unexciting manner, very pleasant to the leading

politician of the Treasury bench.

And then there came the Irish famine, and all the bindings of all

the Tories were scattered to the winds like feathers. The Irishman's

potato-pot ceased to be full, and at once the great territorial

magnates of England were convinced that they had clung to the horns

of a false altar. They were convinced; or at least had to acknowledge

such conviction. The prime minister held short little debates with

his underlings--with dukes and marquises, with earls and viscounts;

held short debates with them, but allowed to no underling--to no

duke, and to no viscount--to have any longer an opinion of his own.

The altar had been a false altar: it was enough for them that they

were so told. With great wisdom the majority of them considered that

this _was_ enough; and so the bill for the repeal of the corn laws

was brought before the House, and the world knew that it would be

carried.

And now there was a great opportunity for Mr. Harcourt. He could

support the prime minister and merit all manner of legal generalships

without any self-unbinding. Alas! such comfort as this can only

belong to the young among politicians! Up to this period he had

meddled only with law questions. Now was the time for him to come

out with that great liberal speech, which should merit the eternal

gratitude of the Tory leader. Just at the time at which we recommence

our tale he did come out with a very great liberal speech, in which,

as an independent member, he vehemently eulogized the daring policy

of that great man who, as he said, was brave enough, and wise enough,

and good enough to save his country at the expense of his party.

Whether there were not men who could have saved their country without

betraying their friends--who would have done so had not Sir Robert

been ready with his apostacy; who in fact did so by forcing Sir

Robert to his apostacy--as to that, Mr. Harcourt then said nothing.

What might not be expected from the hands of a man so eulogized? of a

man who was thus able to keep the votes of the Tories and carry the

measures of the Liberals? of a man of whom it might now be predicated

that his political power would end only with his political life? We

should be going on too fast were we to declare in how few months

after this triumph that great political chieftain was driven from the

Treasury bench.

Mr. Harcourt's name was now mentioned in all clubs and all

dining-rooms. He was an acute and successful lawyer, an eloquent

debater, and a young man. The world was at his feet, and Mr. Die was

very proud of him. Mr. Die was proud of him, and proud also of his

own advice. He said nothing about it even to Harcourt himself, for

to Mr. Die had been given the gift of reticence; but his old eye

twinkled as his wisdom was confessed by the youth at his feet. "In

politics one should always look forward," he said, as he held up to

the light the glass of old port which he was about to sip; "in real

life it is better to look back,--if one has anything to look back

at." Mr. Die had something to look back at. He had sixty thousand

pounds in the funds.

And now we must say a word of Mr. Harcourt, with reference to the

other persons of our story. He was still very intimate with Bertram,

but he hardly regarded him in the same light as he had done two

years before. Bertram had not hitherto justified the expectation of

his friends. This must be explained more at length in the next two

chapters; but the effect on Harcourt had been that he no longer

looked up with reverence to his friend's undoubted talents. He had

a lower opinion of him than formerly. Indeed, he himself had risen

so quickly that he had left Bertram immeasurably below him, and the

difference in their pursuits naturally brought them together less

frequently than heretofore.

But if Harcourt was less concerned than he had been with George

Bertram junior, he was much more concerned than he had been with

George Bertram senior. He had in former days known nothing of the old

merchant; now he was, within certain bounds, almost intimate with

him; occasionally dined down at Hadley, and frequently consulted him

on money matters of deep import.

With Miss Baker, also, and Caroline Waddington, Mr. Harcourt was

intimate. Between him and Miss Baker there existed a warm friendship,

and with Caroline, even, he was on such terms that she often spoke

to him as to the deep troubles of her love and engagement. For these

were deep troubles, as will be seen also in the coming chapters.

George Bertram had been told by Miss Baker that Caroline was the

granddaughter of old Mr. Bertram, and George in his confidence with

his friend had told him the secret. Indeed, there had been hardly any

alternative, for George had been driven to consult his friend more

than once as to this delay in his marriage; and who can ever consult

a friend with advantage on any subject without telling him all the

circumstances?

It was after this that Harcourt and Miss Baker became so intimate.

The ladies at Littlebath had many troubles, and during those troubles

the famous young barrister was very civil to them. In the latter of

those two years that are now gone, circumstances had brought them up

to London for a couple of months in the spring; and then they saw

much of Mr. Harcourt, but nothing of George Bertram, though George

was still the affianced husband of Miss Waddington.

CHAPTER II.

RETROSPECTIVE.--FIRST YEAR.

George Bertram had returned to town that Sunday after the conference

in Miss Baker's little room not in the very best of moods. He had

talked glibly enough on his way back, because it had been necessary

for him to hide his chagrin; but he had done so in a cynical tone,

which had given Harcourt to understand that something was wrong. For

some ten days after that there had been no intercourse between him

and Littlebath; and then he had written a letter to Caroline, full

of argument, full also of tenderness, in which he essayed to move

her from her high resolve. He had certainly written strongly, if not

well. "He was working," he said, "nearly as hard as a man could work,

in order to insure success for her. Nothing he was aware but the idea

that he was already justified in looking on her as his wife would

have induced him to labour so strictly; and for this he was grateful

to her. She had given him this great and necessary incitement; and

he therefore thanked God that he had on his shoulders the burden,

as well as in his heart the blessing, of such an engagement. But

the strain would be too great for him if the burden were to remain

present to him daily, while the blessing was to be postponed for so

long a time. He had already felt his spirits numbed and his energy

weakened. It seemed to him in all his daily work that his great hope

had been robbed from him. His dreams told him that he was to be

happy, but his waking moments brought him back to disappointment.

He knew that he could not endure it, that he could not remain there

at his post, diligent as he fain would be, if his reward were to be

postponed for so long. As being under a holy engagement to you,"

he wrote, perhaps almost too solemnly, "I have given up that sort

of life to which my natural disposition might have led me. Do not

suppose that I say this with regret. I rejoice to have done so,

rejoice to be so doing; but it is for you that I do it. Should I not

look to you for my reward? Granting that there may be risk, shall not

I share it? Supposing that there may be suffering, shall not I endure

it? And if a man with his best efforts may protect a woman from

suffering, I will protect you." So he had written, and had ended by

imploring her to let them be married that autumn.

By return of post he got three lines from her, calling him her

dearest, dearest George, and requesting that he would allow her a

week to answer his letter at length. It could not be answered without

deep thought. This gratified him much, and he wrote another note to

her, begging her on no account to hurry herself; that he would wait

for her reply with the utmost patience; but again imploring her to be

merciful. It was, however, apparent in the tone of his note, apparent

at least to Caroline, that he judged the eloquence of his letter to

be unanswerable, and that he was already counting on her surrender.

This lessened the effect of it on Caroline's heart;--for when first

received it had had a strong effect.

On that first morning, when she read it in her bedroom before she

went down to breakfast, it certainly had a strong effect on her. She

made up her mind that she would say nothing about it to her aunt,

at any rate on that day. Her aunt would have advised her to yield

at once, and she would have preferred some counsellor of a sterner

sort. So she put the letter in her pocket, went down tranquilly

to breakfast, and after breakfast wrote the note which we have

mentioned.

All that day she thought about it to herself, and all the next day.

On the evening of the second day she had all but brought herself to

give in. Then came George's note, and the fancied tone of triumph

hardened her heart once more. On the evening of that day she was firm

to her principles. She had acted hitherto, and would continue to act,

according to the course she had laid down for herself.

On the fourth day she was sitting in the drawing-room alone--for her

aunt had gone out of Littlebath for the day--when Adela Gauntlet

came to call on her. Adela she knew would counsel her to yield, and

therefore she would certainly not have gone to Adela for advice. But

she was sad at heart; and sitting there with the letter among her

threads and needles before her, she gradually found it impossible not

to talk of it--to talk of it, and at last to hand it over to be read.

There could be no doubt at all as to the nature of Adela's advice;

but Caroline had had no conception of the impetuosity of matured

conviction on the subject, of the impassioned eloquence with which

that advice would be given. She had been far from thinking that Adela

had any such power of passion.

"Well," said she, as Adela slowly folded the sheet and put it back

into its envelope; "well; what answer shall I make to it?"

"Can you doubt, Caroline?" said Adela, and Miss Gauntlet's eyes shone

as Caroline had never before seen them shine.

"Indeed, I do doubt; doubt very much. Not that I ought to doubt. What

I knew to be wise a week ago, I know also to be wise now. But one is

so weak, and it is so hard to refuse those whom we love."

"Hard, indeed!" said Adela. "To my thinking, a woman would have a

stone instead of a heart who could refuse such a request as that from

a man to whom she has confessed her love."

"But because you love a man, would you wish to make a beggar of him?"

"We are too much afraid of what we call beggary," said Adela.

"Beggary, Caroline, with four hundred pounds a year! You had no right

to accept a man if you intended to decline to live with him on such

an income as that. He should make no request; it should come from him

as a demand."

"A demand. No; his time for demands has not yet come."

"But it has come if you are true to your word. You should have

thought of all this, and no doubt did think of it, before you

accepted him. You have no right now to make him wretched."

"And, therefore, I will not make him poor."

"Poor, poor! How fearfully afraid we are of poverty! Is there nothing

worse than poverty, what you call poverty--poverty that cannot have

its gowns starched above once a week?" Caroline stared at her, but

Adela went on. "Broken hearts are not half so bad as that; nor

daily tears and disappointed hopes, nor dry, dull, dead, listless

despondency without one drop of water to refresh it! All that is as

nothing to a well-grounded apprehension as to one's larder! Never

marry till you are sure that will be full, let the heart be ever so

empty."

"Adela!"

"For others there may be excuse," she continued, thinking then, as

always, of that scene at West Putford, and defending to herself him

whom to herself she so often accused; "but for you there can be none.

If you drive him from you now, whatever evil may befall him will lie

like a weight of lead upon your heart. If you refuse him now, he is

not the man to take it quietly and wait."

"I can live without him."

"Yes; it is your pride to say so; and I believe you could live

without him. But I think too well of you to believe that you could

live happily without him; nor will he be happy without you. You will

both be proud, and stony-hearted, and wretched--stony-hearted at

least in appearance; not fortunate enough to become so in reality."

"Why, Adela, one would think that you yourself were the victim of

some passion nipped in its bud by a cruel prudence."

"And so I am." As she said this she rose from her seat as though she

intended, standing there before her companion, to go on with her

impassioned warning. But the effect was too much for her; and falling

down on her knees, with her face buried in her hands, she rested them

on the sofa, and gave way to sobs and tears.

Caroline was of course much shocked, and did what she could to

relieve her; but Adela merely begged that she might be left to

herself one minute. "One minute," she said, plaintively, in a voice

so different from that she had used just now; "one minute and I shall

be well again. I have been very foolish, but never say anything about

it; never, never, not to any one; promise me, promise me, Caroline.

Dear Caroline, you do promise me? No one knows it; no one must know

it."

Caroline did promise; but with a natural curiosity she wanted to know

the whole story. Adela, however, would tell her nothing, would say no

more about herself. In the agony of her strong feeling she had once

pointed to herself as a beacon; but even she herself could not endure

to do this again. She would say nothing further about that; but in

a more plaintive and softer tone she did not cease to implore her

friend not to throw away from her the rich heart which was still

within her grasp.

A scene such as this could not but have an effect on Caroline; but

it did not ultimately have that which Adela had wished. It was Miss

Waddington's doctrine that she should not under any circumstances of

life permit herself to be carried away by passion. Why then should

she allow Adela's passion to convince her? What were the facts? Of

Adela's own case she knew nothing. It might be that she had been

cruelly treated. Her friends, her lover, or even she herself might

have been in fault. But it would surely be the extreme of folly

for her, Caroline Waddington, to allow herself to be actuated by

the example of one who had not even shown her of what that example

consisted.

The upshot of it all was, that at the end of the week she wrote to

George, declaring that, grieved as she was to grieve him, she felt

herself obliged to adhere to her former resolution. She also wrote

strongly, and perhaps with more force of logic than her lover

had done. "I trust the time will come," she said, "when you will

acknowledge that I have been right. But of this I am quite sure, that

were I now to yield to you, the time would come very quickly when you

would acknowledge me to have been wrong; and that you should then

think me to have been wrong would kill me. I am not, I know, fitted,

either by disposition or education, to be a poor man's wife. I say

this with no pride; though if you choose to take it for pride, I

cannot help myself. Nor are you fitted to be the husband of a poor

wife. Your love and enthusiasm now make you look on want as a slight

evil; but have you ever tried want? Since you left school, have you

not had everything that money could buy you? Have you ever been

called on to deny yourself any reasonable wish? Never, I believe. Nor

have I. What right have we then to suppose that we can do that for

each other which we have never yet done for ourselves?

"You talk of the misery of waiting. Is it not because you have as yet

known no misery? Have not all men to wait who look for success in

life?--to work, and wait, and bide their time? Your present work is,

I know, too hard. In whatever you do, you have too much enthusiasm.

Do not kill yourself by work. For my sake, if I may still plead

my own sake, do not do so. You say you have given up that sort of

life to which your disposition would have led you. I do not believe

your disposition to be bad, and I should be grieved to think that

you debar yourself from pleasures that are not bad because you

are engaged to me." There was that in the eagerness of Bertram's

protestations on this point which could not but be flattering to any

girl; but Caroline, when she thought of it, did not wish to be so

flattered. She required less passion in her lover and more judgment.

She wanted him to be more awake to the fact that the true meaning

of their engagement was this, that they two should join themselves

together in their world's battle, in order that together each might

fight that battle more successfully than either of them could do

apart.

"I write this with great grief," she continued, "as I know that what

I write will grieve you. But I write it under a conviction that I am

doing my duty by you. I am ready, however, to acknowledge that such a

delay may not be in consonance with your intentions when you proposed

to me. That neither of us have deceived the other wilfully I am quite

sure; but it may be that we have misunderstood each other. If so,

dear George, let all this be as though it had never been. I do not

say this on my own behalf. If you so wish it, I am ready to hold

myself as yours, and to wait. Ready, I have said! That is a cold

word, and you may supply any other that your heart wishes. But if

this waiting be contrary to your wishes, be what you are not willing

to endure, then consider the matter as altogether in your own hands.

I certainly have no right to bind you to my will; all that I ask in

such case is, that your decision shall not be delayed."

Such was Miss Waddington's letter; a portion of it, at least, for not

above the half has been given here. Its effect upon Bertram had not

been exhilarating. In his heart he called her cold and heartless, and

at first resolved to take her at her word and break off from her.

He would willingly have done so as far as she was concerned; but he

could not bring himself to do it on his own part. He could not endure

to part with her, though he would willingly have punished her by

telling her that she had forfeited her claim to him. As it was, he

did nothing. For three weeks he neither answered the letter nor went

near her, nor gave her any token that he was thinking about her.

Then came a note from Miss Baker, asking him to come to Littlebath.

It was good-humoured, playful, almost witty; too much so for Miss

Baker's unassisted epistle-craft, and he at once saw that Caroline

had dictated it. Her heart at any rate was light. He answered it

by one equally good-humoured and playful, and perhaps more witty,

addressed of course to Miss Baker, in which he excused himself at

present in consequence of the multiplicity of his town engagements.

It was June, and he could not get away without making himself guilty

of all manner of perjuries; but in August he would certainly take

Littlebath on his way to Scotland.

He had intended that every light word should be a dagger in

Caroline's bosom; but there was not a pin's prick in the whole of

it. Sullen grief on his part would have hurt her. And it would have

hurt her had he taken her at her word and annulled their engagement;

for she had begun to find that she loved him more than she had

thought possible. She had talked in her prudence, and written in her

prudence, of giving him up; but when the time came in which she might

expect a letter from him, saying that so it should be, her heart did

tremble at the postman's knock; she did feel that she had something

to fear. But his joyous, clever, laughing answer to her aunt was all

that she could wish. Though she loved him, she could wait; though she

loved him, she did not wish him to be sad when he was away from her.

She had reason and measure in her love; but it was love, as she began

to find--almost to her own astonishment.

George had alluded not untruly to his own engagements. On the day

after he received Caroline's letter he shut up Coke upon Lyttleton

for that term, and shook the dust off his feet on the threshold of

Mr. Die's chambers. Why should he work? why sit there filling his

brain with cobwebs, pouring over old fusty rules couched in obscure

language, and useful only for assisting mankind to cheat each other?

He had had an object; but that was gone. He had wished to prove to

one heart, to one soul, that, young as he was, poor as he was, she

need not fear to trust herself to his guardianship. Despite his musty

toils, she did fear. Therefore, he would have no more of them. No

more of them at any rate then, while the sun was shining so brightly.

So he went down to Richmond with Twisleton and Madden, and Hopgood

and Fortescue. Heaven knows what they did when they got back to town

that night--or, rather, perhaps heaven's enemy. And why not? Caroline

did not care whether or no he amused himself as other men do. For her

sake he had kept himself from these things. As she was indifferent,

why need he care? He cared no longer. There was no more law that

term; no more eulogy from gratified Mr. Die; but of jovial days

at Richmond or elsewhere there were plenty; plenty also of jovial

Bacchanalian nights in London. Miss Waddington had been very prudent;

but there might perhaps have been a prudence yet more desirable.

He did go down to Littlebath on his way to Scotland, and remained

there three days. He made up his mind as he journeyed down to

say nothing about their late correspondence to Caroline till she

should first speak of it; and as she had come to an exactly similar

resolution on her part, and as both adhered to their intentions, it

so fell out that nothing in the matter was said by either of them.

Caroline was quite satisfied; but not so Bertram. He again said

to himself that she was cold and passionless; as cold as she is

beautiful, he declared as he walked home to the "Plough." How

very many young gentlemen have made the same soliloquy when their

mistresses have not been so liberal as they would have had them!

The lovers passed the three days together at Littlebath with apparent

satisfaction. They rode together, and walked together, and on one

evening danced together; nay, they talked together, and Miss Baker

thought that everything was smooth. But Bertram, as he went off to

Scotland, said to himself that she was very, very cold, and began to

question with himself whether she did really love him.

"Do write to me, and tell me what sport you have," Caroline had said

when he went away. What a subject for a woman to choose for her

lover's letters! She never said, "Write, write often; and always

when you write, swear that you love me." "Oh, yes, I'll write," said

Bertram, laughing. "I'll give you a succinct account of every brace."

"And send some of them too," said Miss Baker. "Certainly," said

George; and so he did.

He was joined with Harcourt and one or two others in this trip to

Scotland, and it was then that he told his friend how much he was

disturbed by Miss Waddington's obstinacy; and how he doubted, not

as to her heart being his, but as to her having a heart to belong

to any one. In answer to this, Harcourt gave him pretty nearly the

same counsel as she had done. "Wait, my dear fellow, with a little

patience; you'll have lots of time before you for married troubles.

What's the use of a man having half-a-score of children round him

just when he is beginning to enjoy life? It is that that Miss

Waddington thinks about; though, of course, she can't tell you so."

And then, also--that is to say, on some occasion a little subsequent

to the conversation above alluded to--Bertram also told his friend

what he knew of Miss Waddington's birth.

"Whew-w-w," whistled Harcourt; "is that the case? Well, now I am

surprised."

"It is, indeed."

"And he has agreed to the marriage?"

"He knows of it, and has not disagreed. Indeed, he made some peddling

little offer about money."

"But what has he said to you about it?"

"Nothing, not a word. I have only seen him once since Christmas, and

then I did not speak of it; nor did he."

Harcourt asked fifty other questions on the matter, all eagerly, as

though he considered this newly-learned fact to be of the greatest

importance: all of which Bertram answered, till at last he was tired

of talking of his uncle.

"I cannot see that it makes any difference," said he, "whose

granddaughter she is."

"But it does make the greatest difference. I own that I am surprised

now that Miss Waddington should wish to delay the marriage. I thought

I understood her feelings and conduct on the matter, and must say

that I regarded them as admirable. But I cannot quite understand her

now. It certainly seems to me that with such a guarantee as that she

needs be afraid of nothing. Whichever of you he selected, it would

come to the same thing."

"Harcourt, if she would marry me to-morrow because by doing so she

would make sure of my uncle's money, by heaven, I would not take her!

If she will not take me for myself, and what I can do for her, she

may let me alone." Thus majestically spoke Bertram, sitting with his

friend on the side of a Scottish mountain, with a flask of brandy and

a case of sandwiches between them.

"Then," said Harcourt, "you are an ass;" and as he spoke he finished

the flask.

Bertram kept his word, and told his lady-love all particulars as to

the game he killed; some particulars also he gave her as to scenery,

as to his friends, and as to Scotch people. He wrote nice, chatty,

amusing letters, such as most people love to get from their friends;

but he said little or nothing about love. Once or twice he ventured

to tell her of some pretty girl that he met, of some adventure with a

laird's daughter; nay, insinuated laughingly that he had not escaped

from it quite heart-whole. Caroline answered his letter in the same

tone; told him, with excellent comedy, of the leading facts of life

in Littlebath; recommended him by all means to go back after the

laird's daughter; described the joy of her heart at unexpectedly

meeting Mr. M'Gabbery in the pump-room, and her subsequent

disappointment at hearing that there was now a Mrs. M'Gabbery. He had

married that Miss Jones, of whom the parental Potts had so strongly

disapproved. All this was very nice, very amusing, and very friendly.

But Bertram, as a lover, knew that he was not satisfied.

When he had done with the grouse and the laird's daughter he went

to Oxford, but he did not then go again to Littlebath. He went to

Oxford, and from thence to Arthur Wilkinson's parsonage. Here he

saw much of Adela; and consoled himself by talking with her about

Caroline. To her he did not conceal his great anger. While he was

still writing good-humoured, witty letters to his betrothed, he was

saying of her to Adela Gauntlet things harsh--harsher perhaps in that

they were true.

"I had devoted myself to her," he said. "I was working for her as a

galley-slave works, and was contented to do it. I would have borne

anything, risked anything, endured anything, if she would have borne

it with me. All that I have should have gone to shield her from

discomfort. I love her still, Miss Gauntlet; it is perhaps my misery

that I love her. But I can never love her now as I should have done

had she come to me then."

"How can I work now?" he said again. "I shall be called to the bar

of course; there is no difficulty in that; and may perhaps earn what

will make us decently respectable. But the spirit, the high spirit is

gone. She is better pleased that it should be so. She is intolerant

of enthusiasm. Is it not a pity, Miss Gauntlet, that we should be so

different?"

What could Adela say to him? Every word that he uttered was to her

a truth--a weary, melancholy truth; a repetition of that truth

which was devouring her own heart. She sympathized with him fully,

cordially, ardently. She said no word absolutely in dispraise of

Caroline; but she admitted, and at last admitted so often, that,

according to her thinking, Caroline was wrong.

"Wrong!" Bertram would shout. "Can there be a doubt? Can any one with

a heart doubt?" Adela said, "No; no one with a heart could doubt."

"She has no heart," said Bertram. "She is lovely, clever,

fascinating, elegant. She has everything a woman should have except a

heart--except a heart." And then, as he turned away his face, Adela

could see that he brushed his hand across his eyes.

What could she do but weep too? And is it not known to all

men--certainly it is to all women--how dangerous are such tears?

Thus during his stay at Hurst Staple, Bertram was frequently at West

Putford. But he observed that Adela was not often at his cousin's

vicarage, and that Arthur was very seldom at West Putford. The

families, it was clear, were on as good terms as ever. Adela and

Mary and Sophia would be together, and old Mr. Gauntlet would dine

at Hurst Staple, and Arthur would talk about the old rector freely

enough. But Bertram rarely saw Adela unless he went to the rectory,

and though he dined there with the Wilkinson girls three or four

times, Arthur only dined there once.

"Have you and Arthur quarrelled?" said he to Adela one day, laughing

as he spoke.

"Oh, no," said she; but she could not keep down her rebellious colour

as she answered him, and Bertram at once took the hint. To her he

said nothing further on that matter.

"And why don't you marry, Arthur?" he asked the next morning.

And Arthur also blushed, not thinking then of Adela Gauntlet, but of

that pledge which he had given to Lord Stapledean--a pledge of which

he had repented every day since he had given it.

And here it may be explained, that as Arthur Wilkinson had repented

of that pledge, and had felt more strongly from day to day that it

had put him in a false and unworthy position, so did his mother from

day to day feel with less force the compunction which she had at

first expressed as to receiving her son's income. This had become

less and less, and now, perhaps, it could no longer boast of an

existence. The arrangement seemed to her to be so essentially a

good one, her children were provided for in so convenient and so

comfortable a manner, it was so natural that she should regard

herself as the mistress of that house, that perhaps no blame is due

to her in that this compunction ceased. No blame is now heaped upon

her, and the fact is merely stated. She had already learned to regard

herself as the legal owner of that ecclesiastical income; and seeing

that her son deducted a stipend of one hundred and fifty pounds for

merely doing the duty--a curate would have only had the half of that

sum, as she sometimes said to herself--and seeing also that he had

his fellowship, she had no scruple in making him pay fairly for

whatever extra accommodation he received at home--exactly as she

would have done had poor dear old Mr. Wilkinson not been out of the

way. Considering all these comfortable circumstances, poor dear

old Mr. Wilkinson was perhaps not regretted quite so much as might

otherwise have been the case.

Mrs. Wilkinson was in the habit of saying many things from day to day

in praise of that good Lord Stapledean, who had so generously thought

of her and her widowhood. When she did so Arthur would look grim

and say nothing, and his mother would know that he was displeased.

"Surely he cannot begrudge us the income," she had once said to her

eldest daughter. "Oh, no; I am sure he does not," said Mary; "but,

somehow, he is not so happy about things as he used to be." "Then he

must be a very ungrateful boy," said the mother. Indeed, what more

could a young full-fledged vicar want than to have a comfortable

house under his mother's apron-string?

"And why don't you marry?" Bertram had asked his cousin. It was odd

that Arthur should not marry, seeing that Adela Gauntlet lived so

near him, and that Adela was so very, very beautiful.

Up to that day, Bertram had heard nothing of the circumstances under

which the living had been given. Then did Wilkinson tell him the

story, and ended by saying--"You now see that my marriage is quite

out of the question."

Then Bertram began to think that he understood why Adela also

remained unmarried, and he began to ask himself whether all the world

were as cold-hearted as his Caroline. Could it be that Adela also

had refused to venture till her future husband should have a good,

comfortable, disposable income of his own? But, if so, she would not

have sympathized so warmly with him; and if so, what reason could

there be why she and Arthur should not meet each other? Could it then

be that Arthur Wilkinson was such a coward?

He said nothing on the matter to either of them, for neither of them

had confided to him their sorrows--if they had sorrows. He had no

wish to penetrate their secrets. What he had said, and what he had

learnt, he had said and learnt by accident. He himself had not their

gift of reticence, so he talked of his love occasionally to Arthur,

and he talked of it very often to Adela.

And the upshot of his talking to Adela was always this: "Why, oh

why, was not his Caroline more like to her?" Caroline was doubtless

the more beautiful, doubtless the more clever, doubtless the more

fascinating. But what are beauty and talent and fascination without a

heart? He was quite sure that Adela's heart was warm.

He went to Littlebath no more that year. It was well perhaps that he

did not. Well or ill as the case may be. Had he done so, he would,

in his then state of mind, most assuredly have broken with Miss

Waddington. In lieu, however, of accepting Miss Baker's invitation

for Christmas, he went to Hadley and spent two or three days there,

uncomfortable himself, and making the old man uncomfortable also.

Up to this time he had been completely idle--at any rate, as far

as the law was concerned--since the day of his great break down on

the receipt of Miss Waddington's letter. He still kept his Temple

chambers, and when the day came round in October, he made another

annual payment to Mr. Die. On that occasion Mr. Die had spoken rather

seriously to him; but up to that time his period of idleness had

mainly been the period of the long vacation, and Mr. Die was willing

to suppose that this continued payment was a sign that he intended to

settle again to work.

"Will it be impertinent to ask," his uncle at Hadley had said to

him--"will it be impertinent to ask what you and Caroline intend to

do?" At this time Mr. Bertram was aware that his nephew knew in what

relationship they all stood to each other.

"No impertinence at all, sir. But, unfortunately, we have no

intentions in common. We are engaged to be married, and I want to

keep my engagement."

"And she wants to break hers. Well, I cannot but say that she is the

wiser of the two."

"I don't know that her wisdom goes quite so far as that. She is

content to abide the evil day; only she would postpone it."

"That is to say, she has some prudence. Are you aware that I have

proposed to make a considerable addition to her fortune--to hers,

mind--on condition that she would postpone her marriage till next

summer?"

"I did hear something about some sum of money--that you had spoken to

Miss Baker about it, I believe; but I quite forget the particulars."

"You are very indifferent as to money matters, Mr. Barrister."

"I am indifferent as to the money matters of other people, sir. I had

no intention of marrying Miss Waddington for her money before I knew

that she was your granddaughter; nor have I now that I do know it."

"For her money! If you marry her for more money than her own fortune,

and perhaps a couple of thousands added to it, you are likely to be

mistaken."

"I shall never make any mistake of that kind. As far as I am

concerned, you are quite welcome, for me, to keep your two thousand

pounds."

"That's kind of you."

"I would marry her to-morrow without it. I am not at all sure that I

will marry her next year with it. If you exercise any authority over

her as her grandfather, I wish you would tell her so, as coming from

me."

"Upon my word you carry it high as a lover."

"Not too high, I hope, as a man."

"Well, George, remember this once for all"--and now the old man

spoke in a much more serious voice--"I will not interfere at all as

her grandfather. Nor will I have it known that I am such. Do you

understand that?"

"I understand, sir, that it is not your wish that it should be

generally talked of."

"And I trust that wish has been, and will be complied with by you."

This last speech was not put in the form of a question; but George

understood that it was intended to elicit from him a promise for the

future and an assurance as to the past.

"I have mentioned the circumstance to one intimate friend with whom I

was all but obliged to discuss the matter--"

"Obliged to discuss my private concerns, sir!"

"With one friend, sir; with two, indeed; I think--indeed, I fear I

have mentioned it to three."

"Oh! to three! obliged to discuss your own most private concerns as

well as mine with three intimate friends! You are lucky, sir, to have

so many intimate friends. As my concerns have been made known to them

as well as your own, may I ask who they are?"

George then gave up the three names. They were those of Mr. Harcourt,

the Rev. Arthur Wilkinson, and Miss Adela Gauntlet. His uncle was

very angry. Had he utterly denied the fact of his ever having

mentioned the matter to any one, and had it been afterwards

discovered that such denial was false, Mr. Bertram would not have

been by much so angry. The offence and the lie together, but joined

with the fear and deference to which the lie would have testified,

would be nothing so black as the offence without the lie, and without

the fear, and without the deference.

His uncle was very angry, but on that day he said nothing further

on the matter; neither on the next day did he; but on the third day,

just as George was about to leave Hadley, he said, in his usual

bantering tone, "Don't have any more intimate friends, George, as far

as my private matters are concerned."

"No, sir, I will not," said George.

It was in consequence of what Mr. Bertram had then learnt that he

became acquainted with Mr. Harcourt. As Mr. Harcourt had heard this

about his grandchild, he thought it better to see that learned

gentleman. He did see him; and, as has been before stated, they

became intimate with each other.

And so ended the first of these two years.

CHAPTER III.

RETROSPECTIVE.--SECOND YEAR.

The next year passed almost more uncomfortably for George Bertram and

for the ladies at Littlebath than had the latter months of the last

year. Its occurrences can, I hope, be stated less in detail, so that

we may get on without too great delay to the incidents of the period

which is to be awhile for us the present existing time.

This year was Harcourt's great year. In January and February and

March he did great things in Chancery. In April he came into

Parliament. In May and June and July, he sat on committees. In

August he stuck to his work till London was no longer endurable. In

the latter part of autumn there was an extraordinary session, during

which he worked like a horse. He studied the corn-law question as

well as sundry legal reforms all the Christmas week, and in the

following spring he came out with his great speech on behalf of Sir

Robert Peel. But, nevertheless, he found time to devote to the cares

and troubles of Miss Baker and Miss Waddington.

In the spring Bertram paid one or two visits to Littlebath; but it

may be doubted whether he made himself altogether agreeable there. He

stated broadly that he was doing little or nothing at his profession:

he was, he said, engaged on other matters; the great excitement to

work, under which he had commenced, had been withdrawn from him;

and under these circumstances he was not inclined to devote himself

exclusively to studies which certainly were not to his taste. He

did not condescend again to ask Caroline to revoke her sentence; he

pressed now for no marriage; but he made it quite apparent that all

the changes in himself for the worse--and there had been changes for

the worse--were owing to her obstinacy.

He was now living a life of dissipation. I do not intend that it

should be understood that he utterly gave himself up to pleasures

disgraceful in themselves, that he altogether abandoned the reins,

and allowed himself to live such a life as is passed by some young

men in London. His tastes and appetites were too high for this. He

did not sink into a slough of despond. He did not become filthy and

vicious, callous and bestial; but he departed very widely astray from

those rules which governed him during his first six months in London.

All this was well known at Littlebath; nor did Bertram at all

endeavour to conceal the truth. Indeed, it may be said of him, that

he never concealed anything. In this especial case he took a pride in

letting Caroline know the full extent of the evil she had done.

It was a question with them whether he had not now given up the bar

as a profession altogether. He did not say that he had done so, and

it was certainly his intention to keep his terms, and to be called;

but he had now no longer a legal Gamaliel. Some time in the April

of this year, Mr. Die had written to him a very kind little note,

begging him to call one special morning at the chambers in Stone

Buildings, if not very inconvenient to him. Bertram did call, and Mr.

Die, with many professions of regard and regret, honestly returned to

him his money paid for that year's tutelage. "It had been," he said,

"a pleasure and a pride to him to have Mr. Bertram in his chambers;

and would still be so to have him there again. But he could not take

a gentleman's money under a false pretence; as it seemed to be no

longer Mr. Bertram's intention to attend there, he must beg to refund

it." And he did refund it accordingly. This also was made known to

the ladies at Littlebath.

He was engaged, he had said, on other matters. This also was true.

During the first six months of his anger, he had been content to be

idle; but idleness did not suit him, so he sat himself down and wrote

a book. He published this book without his name, but he told them at

Littlebath of his authorship; and some one also told of it at Oxford.

The book--or bookling, for it consisted but of one small demy-octavo

volume--was not such as delighted his friends either at Littlebath or

at Oxford, or even at those two Hampshire parsonages. At Littlebath

it made Miss Baker's hair stand on end, and at Oxford it gave rise

to a suggestion in some orthodox quarters that Mr. Bertram should be

requested to resign his fellowship.

It has been told how, sitting on the Mount of Olives, he had been

ready to devote himself to the service of the church to which he

belonged. Could his mind have been known at that time, how proud

might one have been of him! His mind was not then known; but now,

after a lapse of two years, he made it as it were public, and Oriel

was by no means proud of him.

The name of his little book was a very awful name. It was called the

"Romance of Scripture." He began in his first chapter with an earnest

remonstrance against that condemnation which he knew the injustice of

the world would pronounce against him. There was nothing in his book,

he said, to warrant any man in accusing him of unbelief. Let those

who were so inclined to accuse him read and judge. He had called

things by their true names, and that doubtless by some would be

imputed to him as a sin. But it would be found that he had gone no

further in impugning the truth of Scripture than many other writers

before him, some of whom had since been rewarded for their writings

by high promotion in the church. The bishops' bench was the reward

for orthodoxy; but there had been a taste for liberal deans. He had

gone no further, he said, than many deans.

It was acknowledged, he went on to say, that all Scripture statements

could not now be taken as true to the letter; particularly not as

true to the letter as now adopted by Englishmen. It seemed to him

that the generality of his countrymen were of opinion that the

inspired writers had themselves written in English. It was forgotten

that they were Orientals, who wrote in the language natural to them,

with the customary grandiloquence of orientalism, with the poetic

exaggeration which, in the East, was the breath of life. It was

forgotten also that they wrote in ignorance of those natural truths

which men had now acquired by experience and induction, and not by

revelation. Their truth was the truth of heaven, not the truth of

earth. No man thought that the sun in those days did rise and set,

moving round the earth, because a prolongation of the day had been

described by the sun standing still upon Gibeon. And then he took the

book of Job, and measured that by the light of his own candle--and so

on.

The book was undoubtedly clever, and men read it. Women also read it,

and began to talk, some of them at least, of the blindness of their

mothers who had not had wit to see that these old chronicles were

very much as other old chronicles. "The Romance of Scripture" was

to be seen frequently in booksellers' advertisements, and Mr. Mudie

told how he always had two thousand copies of it on his shelves.

So our friend did something in the world; but what he did do was

unfortunately not applauded by his friends.

Harcourt very plainly told him that a man who scribbled never did any

good at the bar. The two trades, he said, were not compatible.

"No," said George, "I believe not. An author must be nothing if he do

not love truth; a barrister must be nothing if he do." Harcourt was

no whit annoyed by the repartee, but having given his warning, went

his way to his work.

It was very well known that the "Romance of Scripture" was Bertram's

work, and there was a comfortable row about it at Oxford. The row

was all private, of course--as was necessary, the book having been

published without the author's name. But much was said, and many

letters were written. Bertram, in writing to the friend at Oriel who

took up the cudgels in his defence, made three statements. First,

that no one at Oxford had a right to suppose that he was the author.

Second, that he was the author, and that no one at Oxford had a right

to find fault with what he had written. Thirdly, that it was quite a

matter of indifference to him who did find fault. To this, however,

he added, that he was ready to resign his fellowship to-morrow if the

Common-room at Oriel wished to get rid of him.

So the matter rested--for awhile. Those who at this time knew Bertram

best were confident enough that his belief was shaken, in spite of

the remonstrance so loudly put forth in his first pages. He had

intended to be honest in his remonstrance; but it is not every man

who exactly knows what he does believe. Every man! Is there, one may

almost ask, any man who has such knowledge? We all believe in the

resurrection of the body; we say so at least, but what do we believe

by it?

Men may be firm believers and yet doubt some Bible statements--doubt

the letter of such statements. But men who are firm believers will

not be those to put forth their doubts with all their eloquence. Such

men, if they devote their time to Scripture history, will not be

arrested by the sun's standing on Gibeon. If they speak out at all,

they will speak out rather as to all they do believe than as to the

little that they doubt. It was soon known to Bertram's world that

those who regarded him as a freethinker did him no great injustice.

This and other things made them very unhappy at Littlebath. The very

fact of George having written such a book nearly scared Miss Baker

out of her wits. She, according to her own lights, would have placed

freethinkers in the same category with murderers, regicides, and

horrid mysterious sinners who commit crimes too dreadful for women to

think of. She would not believe that Bertram was one of these; but

it was fearful to think that any one should so call him. Caroline,

perhaps, would not so much have minded this flaw in her future

husband's faith if it had not been proof of his unsteadiness, of his

unfitness for the world's battle. She remembered what he had said to

her two years since on the Mount of Olives; and then thought of what

he was saying now. Everything with him was impulse and enthusiasm.

All judgment was wanting. How should such as he get on in the world?

And had she indissolubly linked her lot to that of one who was so

incapable of success? No; indissolubly she had not so linked it; not

as yet.

One night she opened her mind to her aunt, and spoke very seriously

of her position. "I hardly know what I ought to do," she said. "I

know how much I owe him; I know how much he has a right to expect

from me. And I would pay him all I owe; I would do my duty by him

even at the sacrifice of myself if I could plainly see what my duty

is."

"But, Caroline, do you wish to give him up?"

"No, not if I could keep him; keep him as he was. My high hopes are

done with; my ambition is over; I no longer look for much. But I

would fain know that he still loves me before I marry him. I would

wish to be sure that he means to live with me. In his present mood,

how can I know aught of him? how be sure of anything?"

Her aunt, after remaining for some half-hour in consideration, at

last and with reluctance gave her advice.

"It all but breaks my heart to say so; but, Caroline, I think I would

abandon it: I think I would ask him to release me from my promise."

It may well be imagined that Miss Waddington was not herself when she

declared that her high hopes were done with, that her ambition was

over. She was not herself. Anxiety, sorrow, and doubt--doubt as to

the man whom she had pledged herself to love, whom she did love--had

made her ill, and she was not herself. She had become thin and pale,

and was looking old and wan. She sat silent for awhile, leaning with

her head on her hand, and made no answer to her aunt's suggestion.

"I really would, Caroline; indeed, I would. I know you are not happy

as you are."

"Happy!"

"You are looking wretchedly ill, too. I know all this is wearing you.

Take my advice, Caroline, and write to him."

"There are two reasons against it, aunt; two strong reasons."

"What reasons, love?"

"In the first place, I love him." Aunt Mary sighed. She had no other

answer but a sigh to give to this. "And in the next place, I have no

right to ask anything of him."

"Why not, Caroline?"

"He made his request to me, and I refused it. Had I consented to

marry him last year, all this would have been different. I intended

to do right, and even now I do not think that I was wrong. But I

cannot impute fault to him. He does all this in order that I may

impute it, and that then he may have his revenge."

Nothing more was said on the matter at that time, and things went on

for awhile again in the same unsatisfactory state.

Early in the summer, Miss Waddington and her aunt went up for a few

weeks to London. It had been Miss Baker's habit to spend some days at

Hadley about this time of the year. She suggested to Caroline, that

instead of her doing so, they should both go for a week or so to

London. She thought that the change would be good for her niece, and

she thought also, though of this she said nothing, that Caroline

would see something of her lover. If he were not to be given up, it

would be well--so Miss Baker thought--that this marriage should be

delayed no longer. Bertram was determined to prove that marriage was

necessary to tame him; he had proved it--at any rate to Miss Baker's

satisfaction. There would now be money enough to live on, as uncle

Bertram's two thousand pounds had been promised for this summer. On

this little scheme Miss Baker went to work.

Caroline made no opposition to the London plan. She said nothing

about George in connection with it; but her heart was somewhat

softened, and she wished to see him.

Miss Baker therefore wrote up for rooms. She would naturally,

one would say, have written to George, but there were now little

jealousies and commencements of hot blood even between them. George,

though still Caroline's engaged lover, was known to have some bitter

feelings, and was believed perhaps by Miss Baker to be more bitter

than he really was. So the lodgings were taken without any reference

to him. When they reached town they found that he was abroad.

Then Miss Waddington was really angry. They had no right, it is

true, to be annoyed in that he was not there to meet them. They

had not given him the opportunity. But it did appear to them that,

circumstanced as they were, considering the acknowledged engagement

between them, he was wrong to leave the country without letting

them have a word to say whither he was going or for how long. It

was nearly a fortnight since he had written to Caroline, and, for

anything they knew, it might be months before she again heard from

him.

It was then that they sent for Harcourt, and at this period that they

became so intimate with him. Bertram had told him of this foreign

trip, but only a day or two before he had taken his departure. It was

just at this time that there had been the noise about the "Romance

of Scripture." Bertram had defended himself in one or two newspapers,

had written his defiant letter to his friend at Oxford, and then

started to meet his father at Paris. He was going no further, and

might be back in a week. This however must be uncertain, as his

return would depend on that of Sir Lionel. Sir Lionel intended to

come to London with him.

Mr. Harcourt was very attentive to them--in spite of his being at

that time so useful a public man. He was very attentive to both,

being almost as civil to the elder lady as he was to the younger,

which, for an Englishman, showed very good breeding. By degrees they

both began to regard him with confidence--with sufficient confidence

to talk to him of Bertram; with sufficient confidence even to tell

him of all their fears. By degrees Caroline would talk to him alone,

and when once she permitted herself to do so, she concealed nothing.

Harcourt said not a word against his friend. That friend himself

might perhaps have thought that his friend, speaking of him behind

his back, might have spoken more warmly in his praise. But it was

hard at present to say much that should be true in Bertram's praise.

He was not living in a wise or prudent manner; not preparing himself

in any way to live as a man should live by the sweat of his brow.

Harcourt could not say much in his favour. That Bertram was clever,

honest, true, and high-spirited, that Miss Waddington knew; that Miss

Baker knew: what they wanted to learn was, that he was making prudent

use of these high qualities. Harcourt could not say that he was doing

so.

"That he will fall on his legs at last," said Harcourt once when

he was alone with Caroline, "I do not doubt; with his talent, and

his high, honest love of virtue, it is all but impossible that he

should throw himself away. But the present moment is of such vital

importance! It is so hard to make up for the loss even of twelve

months!"

"I am sure it is," said Caroline; "but I would not care for that so

much if I thought--"

"Thought what, Miss Waddington?"

"That his disposition was not altered. He was so frank, so candid,

so--so--so affectionate."

"It is the manner of men to change in that respect. They become,

perhaps, not less affectionate, but less demonstrative."

To this Miss Waddington answered nothing. It might probably be so. It

was singular enough that she, with her ideas, should be complaining

to a perfect stranger of an uncaressing, unloving manner in her

lover; she who had professed to herself that she lived so little for

love! Had George been even kneeling at her knee, her heart would have

been stern enough. It was only by feeling a woman's wrong that she

found herself endowed with a woman's privilege.

"I do not think that Bertram's heart is changed," continued Harcourt;

"he is doubtless very angry that his requests to you last summer were

not complied with."

"But how could we have married then, Mr. Harcourt? Think what our

income would have been; and he as yet without any profession!"

"I am not blaming you. I am not taking his part against you. I only

say that he is very angry."

"But does he bear malice, Mr. Harcourt?"

"No, he does not bear malice; men may be angry without bearing

malice. He thinks that you have shown a want of confidence in him,

and are still showing it."

"And has he not justified that want of confidence?"

To this Harcourt answered nothing, but he smiled slightly.

"Well, has he not? What could I have done? What ought I to have done?

Tell me, Mr. Harcourt. It distresses me beyond measure that you

should think I have been to blame."

"I do not think so; far from it, Miss Waddington. Bertram is my dear

friend, and I know his fine qualities; but I cannot but own that he

justified you in that temporary want of confidence which you now

express."

Mr. Harcourt, though a member of Parliament and a learned pundit,

was nevertheless a very young man. He was an unmarried man also,

and a man not yet engaged to be married. It may be surmised that

George Bertram would not have been pleased had he known the sort

of conversations that were held between his dear friend and his

betrothed bride. And yet Caroline at this period loved him better

than ever she had done.

A week or ten days after this three letters arrived from Bertram,

one for Caroline, one for Miss Baker, and one for Harcourt. Caroline

and her aunt had lingered in London, both doubtless in the hope that

Bertram would return. There can be little doubt now that had he

returned, and had he been anxious for the marriage, Miss Waddington

would have consented. She was becoming ill at ease, dissatisfied,

what the world calls heart-broken. Now that she was tried, she found

herself not to be so strong in her own resolves. She was not sick

from love alone; her position was altogether wretched--though she was

engaged, and persisted in adhering to her engagement, she felt and

often expressed to her aunt a presentiment that she and Bertram would

never be married.

They waited for awhile in the hope that he might return; but instead

of himself, there came three letters. Harcourt, it seemed, had

written to him, and hence arose these epistles. That to Miss Baker

was very civil and friendly. Had that come alone it would have

created no complaint. He explained to her that had he expected her

visit to London, he would have endeavoured to meet her; that he

could not now return, as he had promised to remain awhile with his

father. Sir Lionel had been unwell, and the waters of Vichy had

been recommended. He was going to Vichy with Sir Lionel, and would

not be in London till August. His plans after that were altogether

unsettled, but he would not be long in London before he came to

Littlebath. Such was his letter to Miss Baker.

To Harcourt he wrote very shortly. He was obliged to him for the

interest he took in the welfare of Miss Waddington, and for his

attention to Miss Baker. That was nearly all he said. There was not

an angry word in the letter; but, nevertheless, his friend was able

to deduce from it, short as it was, that Bertram was angry.

But on the head of his betrothed he poured out the vial of his wrath.

He had never before scolded her, had never written in an angry tone.

Now in very truth he did so. An angry letter, especially if the

writer be well loved, is so much fiercer than any angry speech, so

much more unendurable! There the words remain, scorching, not to be

explained away, not to be atoned for by a kiss, not to be softened

down by the word of love that may follow so quickly upon spoken

anger. Heaven defend me from angry letters! They should never be

written, unless to schoolboys and men at college; and not often to

them if they be any way tender hearted. This at least should be a

rule through the letter-writing world: that no angry letter be posted

till four-and-twenty hours shall have elapsed since it was written.

We all know how absurd is that other rule, that of saying the

alphabet when you are angry. Trash! Sit down and write your letter;

write it with all the venom in your power; spit out your spleen at

the fullest; 'twill do you good; you think you have been injured; say

all that you can say with all your poisoned eloquence, and gratify

yourself by reading it while your temper is still hot. Then put it

in your desk; and, as a matter of course, burn it before breakfast

the following morning. Believe me that you will then have a double

gratification.

A pleasant letter I hold to be the pleasantest thing that this world

has to give. It should be good-humoured; witty it may be, but with a

gentle diluted wit. Concocted brilliancy will spoil it altogether.

Not long, so that it be tedious in the reading; nor brief, so that

the delight suffice not to make itself felt. It should be written

specially for the reader, and should apply altogether to him, and not

altogether to any other. It should never flatter. Flattery is always

odious. But underneath the visible stream of pungent water there may

be the slightest under-current of eulogy, so that it be not seen, but

only understood. Censure it may contain freely, but censure which

in arraigning the conduct implies no doubt as to the intellect. It

should be legibly written, so that it may be read with comfort; but

no more than that. Caligraphy betokens caution, and if it be not

light in hand it is nothing. That it be fairly grammatical and not

ill spelt the writer owes to his schoolmaster; but this should come

of habit, not of care. Then let its page be soiled by no business;

one touch of utility will destroy it all.

If you ask for examples, let it be as unlike Walpole as may be. If

you can so write it that Lord Byron might have written it, you will

not be very far from high excellence.

But, above all things, see that it be good-humoured.

Bertram's letter to the lady that he loved was by no means one of

this sort. In the first place, it was not good-humoured; it was very

far from being so. Had it been so, it would utterly have belied his

feelings. Harcourt had so written to him as to make him quite clearly

understand that all his sins and--which was much more to him--all

his loves had been fully discussed between his friend and Miss

Waddington--between his Caroline and another man. To the pride of

his heart nothing could be more revolting. It was as though his

dearest possession had been ransacked in his absence, and rifled and

squandered by the very guardian to whom he had left the key. There

had been sore misgivings, sore differences between him and Caroline;

but, nevertheless, she had had all his heart. Now, in his absence,

she had selected his worldly friend Harcourt, and discussed that

possession and its flaws with him! There was that in all this of

which he could not write with good-humour. Nevertheless, had he kept

his letter to the second morning, it may probably be said that he

would have hesitated to send it.

"My dearest Caroline," it began. Now I put it to all lovers whether,

when they wish to please, they ever write in such manner to their

sweethearts. Is it not always, "My own love?" "Dearest love?" "My own

sweet pet?" But that use of the Christian name, which is so delicious

in the speaking during the first days of intimacy, does it not always

betoken something stern at the beginning of a lover's letter? Ah, it

may betoken something very stern! "My dearest Jane, I am sorry to say

it, but I could not approve of the way in which you danced with Major

Simkins last night." "My dearest Lucy, I was at Kensington-garden

gate yesterday at four, and remained absolutely till five. You really

ought--." Is not that always the angry lover's tone?

I fear that I must give Bertram's letter entire to make the matter

sufficiently clear.

My dearest Caroline,

I learn from Mr. Harcourt that you and Miss Baker are

in town, and I am of course sorry to miss you. Would it

not have been better that I should have heard this from

yourself?

Mr. Harcourt tells me that you are dissatisfied; and I

understand from his letter that you have explained your

dissatisfaction very fully to him. It might have been

better, I think, that the explanation should have been

made to me; or had you chosen to complain, you might have

done so to your aunt, or to your grandfather. I cannot

think that you were at liberty to complain of me to

Mr. Harcourt. My wish is, that you have no further

conversation with him on our joint concerns. It is not

seemly; and, if feminine, is at any rate not ladylike.

I am driven to defend myself. What is it of which

you complain, or have a right to complain? We became

engaged more than twelve months since, certainly with no

understanding that the matter was to stand over for three

years. My understanding was that we were to be married as

soon as it might reasonably be arranged. You then took on

yourself to order this delay, and kindly offered to give

me up as an alternative. I could not force you to marry

me; but I loved you too well, and trusted too much in

your love to be able to think that that giving up was

necessary. Perhaps I was wrong.

But the period of this wretched interval is at my own

disposal. Had you married me, my time would have been

yours. It would have been just that you should know how

it was spent. Each would then have known so much of the

other. But you have chosen that this should not be; and,

therefore, I deny your right now to make inquiry. If I

have departed from any hopes you had formed, you have no

one to blame but yourself.

You have said that I neglect you. I am ready to marry you

to-morrow; I have been ready to do so any day since our

engagement. You yourself know how much more than ready

I have been. I do not profess to be a very painstaking

lover; nay, if you will, the life would bore me, even if

in our case the mawkishness of the delay did not do more

than bore. At any rate, I will not go through it. I loved,

and do love you truly. I told you of it truly when I first

knew it myself, and urged my suit till I had a definite

answer. You accepted me, and now there needs be nothing

further till we are married.

But I insist on this, that I will not have my affairs

discussed by you with persons to whom you are a stranger.

You will see my letter to your aunt. I have told her that

I will visit her at Littlebath as soon as I have returned

to England.

Yours ever affectionately,

G. B.

This letter was a terrible blow to Caroline. It seemed to her to

be almost incredible that she, she, Caroline Waddington, should be

forced to receive such a letter as that under any circumstances and

from any gentleman. Unseemly, unfeminine, unladylike! These were the

epithets her lover used in addressing her. She was told that it bored

him to play the lover; that his misconduct was her fault; and then

she was accused of mawkishness! He was imperative, too, in laying his