CAN I ESCAPE?
Had not George Bertram been of all men the most infirm of purpose, he
would have quitted London immediately after that ball--at any rate,
for many months. But he was lamentably infirm of purpose. He said
to himself over and over again, that it behoved him to go. What had
either of them done for him that he should regard them? That had
hitherto been the question within his own breast; but now it was
changed. Had he not greatly injured her? Had she not herself told
him that his want of mercy had caused all her misery? Ought he not,
at any rate, to spare her now? But yet he remained. He must ask her
pardon before he went; he would do that, and then he would go.
His object was to see her without going to Eaton Square. His instinct
told him that Sir Henry no longer wished to see him there, and he
was unwilling to enter the house of any one who did not wish his
presence. For two weeks he failed in his object. He certainly did see
Lady Harcourt, but not in such a way as to allow of conversation; but
at last fortune was propitious,--or the reverse, and he found himself
alone with her.
She was seated quite alone, turning over the engravings which lay in
a portfolio before her, when he came up to her.
"Do not be angry," he said, "if I ask you to listen to me for a few
moments."
She still continued to move the engravings before her, but with a
slower motion than before; and though her eye still rested on the
plates, he might have seen, had he dared to look at her, that her
mind was far away from them. He might have seen also that there was
no flash of anger now in her countenance: her spirit was softer than
on that evening when she had reproached him; for she had remembered
that he also had been deeply injured. But she answered nothing to the
request which he thus made.
"You told me that I was unforgiving," he continued, "I now come to
beg that you will not be unforgiving also; that is, if I have done
anything that has caused you--caused you to be less happy than you
might have been."
"Less happy!" she said; but not with that scorn with which she had
before repeated his words.
"You believe, I hope, that I would wish you to be happy; that I would
do anything in my power to make you so?"
"There can be nothing now in your power, Mr. Bertram." And as she
spoke she involuntarily put an emphasis on the now, which made her
words convey much more than she had intended.
"No," he said. "No. What can such a one as I do? What could I ever
have done? But say that you forgive me, Lady Harcourt."
"Let us both forgive," she whispered, and as she did so, she put out
her hand to him. "Let us both forgive. It is all that we can do for
each other."
"Oh, Caroline, Caroline!" he said, speaking hardly above his breath,
and with his eyes averted, but still holding her hand; or attempting
to hold it, for as he spoke she withdrew it.
"I was unjust to you the other night. It is so hard to be just
when one is so wretched. We have been like two children who have
quarrelled over their plaything, and broken it in pieces while it was
yet new. We cannot put the wheels again together, or made the broken
reed produce sweet sounds."
"No," he said. "No, no, no. No sounds are any longer sweet. There is
no music now."
"But as we have both sinned, Mr. Bertram, so should we both forgive."
"But I--I have nothing to forgive."
"Alas, yes! and mine was the first fault. I knew that you really
loved me, and--"
"Loved you! Oh, Caroline!"
"Hush, Mr. Bertram; not so; do not speak so. I know that you would
not wrong me; I know you would not lead me into trouble--not into
further trouble; into worse misery."
"And I, that might have led you--no; that might have been led to such
happiness! Lady Harcourt, when I think of what I have thrown away--"
"Think of it not at all, Mr. Bertram."
"And you; can you command your thoughts?"
"Sometimes; and by practice I hope always; at any rate, I make an
effort. And now, good-bye. It will be sweet to me to hear that you
have forgiven me. You were very angry, you know, when you parted from
me last at Littlebath."
"If there be anything for me to forgive, I do forgive it with all my
heart; with all my heart."
"And now, God bless you, Mr. Bertram. The thing that would most tend
to make me contented would be to see you married to some one you
could love; a weight would then be off my soul which now weighs on
it very heavily." And so saying, she rose from her seat and left him
standing over the engravings. He had thrown his pearl away; a pearl
richer than all his tribe. There was nothing for him now but to bear
the loss.
There were other sources of unpleasantness between Sir Henry and his
wife besides her inclination for dancing. Sir Henry had now paid one
half-year's interest on the sum of money which had been lent to him
by the old gentleman at Hadley, and had been rather disgusted at
finding that it was taken as a matter of course. He was not at the
present moment by any means over-burdened with money. His constant
devotion to politics interfered considerably with his practice. He
was also perhaps better known as a party lawyer than as a practical
or practising one; and thus, though his present career was very
brilliant, it was not quite so profitable as he had hoped. Most
lawyers when they begin to devote themselves to politics have
secured, if not fortune, at least the means of making it. And, even
at his age, Sir Henry might have been said to have done this had his
aspirations been in any way moderate. But they were not moderate. He
wished to shine with extreme brilliancy; to live up to the character
for wealth which the world gave him; and to give it out as a fact to
be understood by all men that he was to be the heir of the Hadley
Croesus.
There was, perhaps, a certain wisdom in this, a wisdom of a dashing
chancy nature. Fortune favours the brave; and the world certainly
gives the most credit to those who are able to give an unlimited
credit to themselves. But there was certainly risk in the life he
led. The giving of elegant little dinners two or three times a week
in London is an expensive amusement--and so he began to be very
anxious about the old gentleman.
But what was he to do that he might get near those money-bags? There
was the game. What best sportsman's dodge might he use so as to get
it into his bag? Perhaps to do nothing, to use no sportsman's dodge
would have been the best. But then it is so hard to do nothing when
so much might be gained by doing something very well.
Sir Henry, duly instructed as to the weaknesses customary to old men,
thought his wife would be his best weapon--his surest dodge. If she
could be got to be attentive and affectionate to her grandfather, to
visit him, and flatter him, and hover about him, much might be done.
So thought Sir Henry. But do what he might, Lady Harcourt would not
assist him. It was not part of her bargain that she should toady an
old man who had never shown any special regard for her.
"I think you ought to go down to Hadley," Sir Henry said to her one
morning.
"What, to stay there?" said Caroline.
"Yes; for a fortnight or so. Parliament will be up now in three
weeks, and I shall go to Scotland for a few days. Could not you make
it out with the old gentleman till you go to the Grimsdale's?"
"I would much rather remain at home, Sir Henry."
"Ah, yes; that is just like you. And I would much rather that you
went."
"If you wish to shut the house up, I shall not object to go to
Littlebath."
"Very probably not. But I should object to you going
there--exceedingly object to it. Of all places, it is the most
vulgar! the most--"
"You forget that I have dear friends living there."
"Dear friends! Yes; Miss Todd, I suppose. I think we may as well
leave Miss Todd alone. At the present moment, I am particularly
anxious that you should be attentive to your grandfather."
"But I have never been in the habit of staying at Hadley."
"Then the sooner you get into the habit the better."
"I cannot think why you should wish me to trouble an old man who
would not have the slightest pleasure in seeing me."
"That is all nonsense. If you behaved well to him, he would have
pleasure. Do you ever write to him?"
"Never."
"Write to him to-day then, and ask whether he would be glad to have
you."
Caroline did not answer her husband immediately, but went on
buttering her toast, and sipping her tea. She had never yet disobeyed
any positive order that he had given, and she was now thinking
whether she could obey this order; or, if not, how she would explain
to him that she could not do so.
"Well!" said he; "why do you not answer me? Will you write to him
to-day?"
"I had much rather not."
"Does that mean that you won't?"
"I fear, Sir Henry, that it must mean it. I have not been on terms
with my grandfather which would admit of my doing so."
"Nonsense!" said her lord and master.
"You are not very civil to me this morning."
"How can a man be civil when he hears such trash as that? You know
how I am situated--how great the stake is; and you will do nothing to
help me win it." To this she made no answer. Of what use would it be
for her to answer? She also had thrown away her pearl, and taken in
exchange this piece of brass. There was nothing for her, too, but to
bear her misery.
"Upon my word, you take it all very coolly," he continued; "you seem
to think that houses, and furniture, and carriages, and horses are to
grow up all round you without any effort on your own part. Does it
ever strike you that these things cost money?"
"I will give them all up to-morrow if you wish it."
"That you know is nonsense."
"It was your doing to surround me with these things, and your
reproach is not just. Nay, it is not manly."
"A woman's idea of manliness is very extended. You expect to get
everything, and to do nothing. You talk of justice! Do you not know
that when I married you, I looked to your uncle's fortune?"
"Certainly not: had I known it, I should have told you how vain I
believed any such hope to be."
"Then, why on earth--?" But he refrained from finishing his question.
Even he could not bring himself to tell her that he had married her
with no other view. He merely slammed the door behind him as he left
the room. Yes; she had certainly thrown her pearl away. What a life
was this to which she had doomed herself! what treatment was this for
that Caroline Waddington, who had determined to win the world and
wear it! She had given herself to a brute, who had taken her only
because she might perhaps be the heiress of a rich old man.
And then she thought of that lost pearl. How could she do other than
think of it? She thought of what her life would have been had she
bravely committed herself to his hands, fearing nothing, trusting
everything. She remembered his energy during those happy days in
which he had looked forward to an early marriage. She remembered his
tenderness of manner, the natural gallantry of his heart, the loving
look of his bold eye; and then she thought of her husband.
Yes, she thought of him long and wildly. And as she did so, the
indifference with which she had regarded him grew into hatred. She
shuddered as her imagination made that frightful contrast between the
picture which her eyes would have so loved to look on if it were only
lawful, and that other picture to look on which was her legal doom.
Her brow grew wildly black as she thought of his caresses, his love,
which were more hateful to her even than his coarse ill-humour. She
thought of all this; and, as she did so, she asked herself that
question which comes first to the mind of all creatures when in
misery: Is there no means of release; no way of escape? was her bark
utterly ruined, and for ever?
That marriage without love is a perilous step for any woman who has a
heart within her bosom. For those who have none--or only so much as
may be necessary for the ordinary blood-circulating department--such
an arrangement may be convenient enough. Caroline Waddington
had once flattered herself that that heart of hers was merely a
blood-circulating instrument. But she had discovered her mistake, and
learned the truth before it was too late. She had known what it was
to love--and yet she had married Henry Harcourt! Seldom, indeed, will
punishment be so lame of foot as to fail in catching such a criminal
as she had been.
Punishment--bitter, cruel, remorseless punishment--had caught her
now, and held her tight within its grasp. He, too, had said that he
was wretched. But what could his wretchedness be to hers? He was
not married to a creature that he hated: he was not bound in a foul
Mezentian embrace to a being against whom all his human gorge rose
in violent disgust. Oh! if she could only be alone, as he was alone!
If it could be granted to her to think of her love, to think of him
in solitude and silence--in a solitude which no beast with a front
of brass and feet of clay had a right to break, both by night and
day! Ah! if her wretchedness might only be as his wretchedness! How
blessed would she not think herself!
And then she again asked herself whether there might not be some
escape. That women had separated themselves from their husbands,
she well knew. That pleas of ill-usage, of neglect, of harshness
of temper, had been put forward and accepted by the world, to the
partial enfranchisement of the unhappy wife, she had often heard. But
she had also heard that in such cases cruelty must be proved. A hasty
word, a cross look, a black brow would not suffice. Nor could she
plead that she hated the man, that she had never loved him, that she
had married him in wounded pique, because her lover--he whom she did
love--had thrown her off. There was no ground, none as yet, on which
she could claim her freedom. She had sold herself as a slave, and
she must abide her slavery. She had given herself to this beast with
the face of brass and the feet of clay, and she must endure the cold
misery of his den. Separation--solitude--silence! He--that he whom
her heart worshipped--he might enjoy such things; but for her--there
was no such relief within her reach.
She had gone up into her room when Sir Henry left her, in order that
no one might see her wretchedness, and there she remained for hours.
"No!" at last she said aloud, lifting her head from the pillow on
which her face had been all but hid, and standing erect in the room;
"no! I will not bear it. I will not endure it. He cannot make me."
And with quick steps she walked across and along the room, stretching
forth her arms as though seeking aid from some one; ay, and as though
she were prepared to fight the battle herself if no one would come to
aid her.
At this moment there was a knock at her chamber-door, and her maid
came in.
"Mr. Bertram is in the drawing-room, my lady."
"Mr. Bertram! Which Mr. Bertram?"
"Mr. Bertram, my lady; the gentleman that comes here. Sir Henry's
friend."
"Oh, very well. Why did John say that I was at home?"
"Oh, my lady, I can't say that. Only he told me to tell your ladyship
that Mr. Bertram was in the drawing-room."
Lady Harcourt paused for a moment. Then she said, "I will be down
directly;" and the Abigail retired. During that moment she had
decided that, as he was there, she would meet him yet once again.
It has been said that Bertram was unwilling to go to Sir Henry's
house. As long as he had thought of remaining in town he was so. But
now he had resolved to fly, and had resolved also that before he did
so he would call in the ordinary way and say one last farewell. John,
the servant, admitted him at once; though he had on that same morning
sent bootless away a score of other suppliants for the honour of
being admitted to Lady Harcourt's presence.
Bertram was standing with his back to the door, looking into a small
conservatory that opened from the drawing-room, when the mistress
of the house entered. She walked straight up to him, after having
carefully closed the door, and just touching his hand, she said, "Mr.
Bertram, why are you here? You should be thousands and thousands of
miles away if that were possible. Why are you here?"
"Lady Harcourt, I will divide myself from you by any distance you may
demand. But may I not come to you to tell you that I am going?"
"To tell me that you are going!"
"Yes. I shall not trouble you much longer. I have become sure of
this: that to remain near you and not to love you, to remain near
you and not to say that I love you is impossible. And therefore I
am going." And he held out his hand, which she had as yet hardly
taken--had barely touched.
He was going; but she was to remain. He would escape; but her prison
bars could not be broken. Ah, that she could have gone with him! How
little now would wealth have weighed with her; or high worldly hopes,
or dreams of ambition! To have gone with him anywhere--honestly to
have gone with him--trusting to honest love and a true heart. Ah! how
much joy is there in this mortal, moribund world if one will but open
one's arms to take it!
Ah! young ladies, sweet young ladies, dear embryo mothers of our
England as it will be, think not overmuch of your lovers' incomes. He
that is true and honest will not have to beg his bread--neither his
nor yours. The true and honest do not beg their bread, though it may
be that for awhile they eat it without much butter. But what then? If
a wholesome loaf on your tables, and a strong arm round your waists,
and a warm heart to lean on cannot make you happy, you are not the
girls for whom I take you.
Caroline's bread was buttered, certainly; but the butter had been
mixed with gall, and she could not bring herself to swallow it. And
now he had come to tell her that he was going; he whose loaf, and
arm, and heart she might have shared. What would the world say of her
if she were to share his flight?
"Good-bye," she said, as she took his proffered hand.
"And is that all?"
"What would you have, Mr. Bertram?"
"What would I have? Ah, me! I would have that which is
utterly--utterly--utterly beyond my reach."
"Yes, utterly--utterly," she repeated. And as she said so, she
thought again, what would the world say of her if she were to share
his flight?
"I suppose that now, for the last time, I may speak truly--as a man
should speak. Lady Harcourt, I have never ceased to love you, never
for one moment; never since that day when we walked together among
those strange tombs. My love for you has been the dream of my life."
"But, why--why--why?--" She could not speak further, for her voice
was choked with tears.
"I know what you would say. Why was I so stern to you!"
"Why did you go away? Why did you not come to us?"
"Because you distrusted me; not as your lover, but as a man. But I
did not come here to blame you, Caroline."
"Nor to be blamed."
"No, nor to be blamed. What good can come of reproaches? We now know
each other's faults, if we never did before. And we know also each
other's truth--" He paused a moment, and then added, "For, Caroline,
your heart has been true."
She sat herself down upon a chair, and wept, with her face hidden
within her hands. Yes, her heart had been true enough; if only her
words, her deeds, her mind could have been true also.
He came up to her, and lightly put his hand upon her shoulder.
His touch was very light, but yet she felt that there was love in
it--illicit, dishonest love. There was treason in it to her lord's
rights. Her lord! Yes, he was her lord, and it was treason. But it
was very sweet that touch; it was as though a thrill of love passed
across her and embraced her whole body. Treason to such a creature as
that! a brute with a face of brass and feet of clay, who had got hold
of her with a false idea that by her aid he could turn his base brass
into gold as base! Could there be treason to such a one as he? Ah!
what would the world say of her were she to share that flight?
"Caroline," he murmured in her ear. "Caroline; dearest Caroline!"
Thus he murmured soft words into her ear, while his hand still
rested gently on her shoulder--oh, so gently! And still she answered
nothing, but the gurgling of her sobs was audible to him enough.
"Caroline," he repeated; "dearest, dearest Caroline." And then he was
on his knees beside her; and the hand which had touched her shoulder
was now pressed upon her arm.
"Caroline, speak to me--say one word. I will go if you bid me. Yes,
even alone. I will go alone if you have the heart to say so. Speak,
Caroline."
"What would you have me say?" and she looked at him through her
tears, so haggard, so wild, so changed, that he was almost frightened
at her countenance. "What would you have me say? what would you have
me do?"
"I will be your slave if you will let me," said he.
"No, George--you mean that I might be your slave--for awhile, till
you thought me too base even for that."
"Ah! you little know me."
"I should but little know you if I thought you could esteem me
in that guise. There; God's mercy has not deserted me. It is
over now. Go, George--go--go; thou, only love of my heart; my
darling; mine that might have been; mine that never can be
now--never--never--never. Go, George. It is over now. I have been
base, and vile, and cowardly--unworthy of your dear memory. But it
shall not be so again. You shall not blush that you have loved me."
"But, ah! that I have lost your love."
"You shall not blush that you have loved me, nor will I blush that
I, too, have loved you. Go, George; and remember this, the farther,
the longer, the more entirely we are apart, the better, the safer it
will be. There; there. Go now. I can bear it now; dearest, dearest
George."
He took her outstretched hands in his, and stood for awhile gazing
into her face. Then, with the strong motion of his arms, he drew her
close to his breast, pressed her to his heart, and imprinted one warm
kiss upon her brow. Then he left her, and got to the drawing-room
door with his fleetest step.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said John, who met him exactly on the
landing; "but I think my lady rang."
"Lady Bertram did not ring. She is not well, and you had better not
disturb her," said Bertram, trying to look as though he were no whit
disconcerted.
"Oh, very well, sir; then I'll go down again;" and so saying John
followed George Bertram into the hall, and opened the door for him
very politely.