CONCLUSION.
Methinks it is almost unnecessary to write this last chapter. The
story, as I have had to tell it, is all told. The object has been
made plain--or, if not, can certainly not be made plainer in these
last six or seven pages. The results of weakness and folly--of such
weakness and such folly as is too customary among us--have been
declared. What further fortune fate had in store for those whose
names have been familiar to us, might be guessed by all. But,
nevertheless, custom, and the desire of making an end of the
undertaken work, and in some sort completing it, compel me to this
concluding chapter.
Within six weeks after the death of Sir Henry Harcourt, the vicar of
Hurst Staple was married to Adela Gauntlet. Every critic who weighs
the demerits of these pages--nay, every reader, indulgent or
otherwise, who skims through them, will declare that the gentleman
was not worthy of the lady. I hope so, with all my heart. I do
sincerely trust that they will think so. If not, my labour has been
in vain.
Mr. Arthur Wilkinson was not worthy of the wife with whom a kind
Providence had blessed him--was not worthy of her in the usual
acceptation of the word. He was not a bad man, as men go; but she
was--. I must not trust myself to praise her, or I shall be told, not
altogether truly, that she was of my own creating.
He was not worthy of her. That is, the amount of wealth of character
which he brought into that life partnership was, when counted up,
much less than her contribution. But that she was fully satisfied
with her bargain--that she was so then and so continued--was a part
of her worthiness. If ever she weighed herself against him, the scale
in which he was placed never in her eyes showed itself to be light.
She took him for her lord, and with a leal heart and a loving bosom
she ever recognized him as her head and master, as the pole-star to
which she must turn, compelled by laws of adamant. Worthy or
unworthy, he was all that she expected, all that she desired, bone of
her bone, flesh of her flesh, the father of her bairns, the lord of
her bosom, the staff of her maintenance, the prop of her house.
And what man was ever worthy, perfectly worthy, of a pure, true, and
honest girl? Man's life admits not of such purity and honesty; rarely
of such truth. But one would not choose that such flowers should
remain unplucked because no hands are fit to touch them.
As to the future life of the vicar of Hurst Staple and his wife, it
is surely unnecessary to say much--or perhaps anything. It cannot be
told that they became suddenly rich. No prime minister, won by her
beauty or virtue, placed him upon the bench, or even offered him a
deanery. Vicar of Hurst Staple he is still, and he still pays the old
allowance out of his well-earned income to his mother, who lives with
her daughters at Littlebath. One young lad after another, or
generally two at a time, share the frugal meals at the parsonage; and
our friend is sometimes heard to boast that none of these guests of
his have as yet been plucked. Of the good things of the world, there
is quite enough for her; and we may perhaps say nearly enough for
him. Who, then, shall croak that they are poor?
And now and then they walk along the river to West Putford; for among
their choicest blessings is that of having a good neighbour in the
old rectory. And walking there, how can they but think of old sorrows
and present joys?
"Ah!" she whispered to him one day, as they crept along the reedy
margin in the summer evening, not long after their marriage. "Ah!
dearest, it is better now than it was when you came here once."
"Is it, love?"
"Is it not? But you misbehaved then--you know you did. You would not
trust me then."
"I could not trust myself."
"I should have trusted you in all things, in everything. As I do
now."
And then he cut at the rushes with his walking-stick, as he had done
before; and bethought himself that in those days he had been an ass.
And so we will leave them. May they walk in those quiet paths for
long days yet to come; and may he learn to know that God has given
him an angel to watch at his side!
Of the rosy Miss Todd, there is nothing to be said but this, that she
is still Miss Todd, and still rosy. Whether she be now at Littlebath,
or Baden, or Dieppe, or Harrogate, at New York, Jerusalem, or
Frazer's River, matters but little. Where she was last year, there
she is not now. Where she is now, there she will not be next year.
But she still increases the circle of her dearly-loved friends; and
go where she will, she, at any rate, does more good to others than
others do to her. And so we will make our last bow before her feet.
We have only now to speak of George Bertram and of Lady Harcourt--of
them and of Miss Baker, who need hardly now be considered a personage
apart from her niece. No sooner was the first shock of Sir Henry
Harcourt's death past, than Bertram felt that it was impossible for
him at the present moment to see the widow. It was but a few days
since she had declared her abhorrence of the man to whom her fate was
linked, apparently for life, and who was now gone. And that
declaration had implied also that her heart still belonged to him--to
him, George Bertram--him to whom it had first been given--to him,
rather, who had first made himself master of it almost without gift
on her part. Now, as regarded God's laws, her hand was free again,
and might follow her heart.
But death closes many a long account, and settles many a bitter debt.
She could remember now that she had sinned against her husband, as
well as he against her; that she had sinned the first, and perhaps
the deepest. He would have loved her, if she would have permitted it;
have loved her with a cold, callous, worldly love; but still with
such love as he had to give. But she had married him resolving to
give no love at all, knowing that she could give none; almost
boasting to herself that she had told him that she had none to give.
The man's blood was, in some sort, on her head, and she felt that the
burden was very heavy. All this Bertram understood, more thoroughly,
perhaps, than she did; and for many weeks he abstained altogether
from going to Hadley. He met Miss Baker repeatedly in London, and
learned from her how Lady Harcourt bore herself. How she bore herself
outwardly, that is. The inward bearing of such a woman in such a
condition it was hardly given to Miss Baker to read. She was well in
health, Miss Baker said, but pale and silent, stricken, and for hours
motionless. "Very silent," Miss Baker would say. "She will sit for a
whole morning without speaking a word; thinking--thinking--thinking."
Yes; she had something of which, to think. It was no wonder that she
should sit silent.
And then after a while he went down to Hadley, and saw her.
"Caroline, my cousin," he said to her.
"George, George." And then she turned her face from him, and sobbed
violently. They were the first tears she had shed since the news had
reached her.
She did feel, in very deed, that the man's blood was on her head. But
for her, would he not be sitting among the proud ones of the land?
Had she permitted him to walk his own course by himself, would this
utter destruction have come upon him? Or, having sworn to cherish him
as his wife, had she softened her heart towards him, would this deed
have been done? No; fifty times a day she would ask herself the
question; and as often would she answer it by the same words. The
man's blood was upon her head.
For many a long day Bertram said nothing to her of her actual state
of existence. He spoke neither of her past life as a wife nor her
present life as a widow. The name of that man, whom living they had
both despised and hated, was never mentioned between them during all
these months.
And yet he was frequently with her. He was with her aunt, rather, and
thus she became used to have him sitting in the room beside her. When
in her presence, he would talk of their money-matters, of the old man
and his will, in which, luckily, the name of Sir Henry Harcourt was
not mentioned; and at last they brought themselves to better
subjects, higher hopes--hopes that might yet be high, and solace that
was trustworthy, in spite of all that was come and gone.
And she would talk to him of himself; of himself as divided from her
in all things, except in cousinhood. And, at her instigation, he
again put himself to work in the dusky purlieus of Chancery Lane. Mr.
Die had now retired, and drank his port and counted his per cents. in
the blessed quiet of his evening days; but a Gamaliel was not
wanting, and George sat himself down once more in the porch. We may
be sure that he did not sit altogether in vain.
And then Adela--Mrs. Wilkinson we should now call her--visited the
two ladies in their silent retirement at Hadley. What words were
uttered between her and Lady Harcourt were heard by no other human
ear; but they were not uttered without effect. She who had been so
stricken could dare again to walk to church, and bear the eyes of the
little world around her. She would again walk forth and feel the sun,
and know that the fields were green, and that the flowers were sweet,
and that praises were to be sung to God.--For His mercy endureth for
ever.
It was five years after that night in Eaton Square when George
Bertram again asked her--her who had once been Caroline
Waddington--to be his wife. But, sweet ladies, sweetest, fairest
maidens, there were no soft, honey words of love then spoken; no
happy, eager vows, which a novelist may repeat, hoping to move the
soft sympathy of your bosoms. It was a cold, sad, dreary matter that
offer of his; her melancholy, silent acquiescence, and that marriage
in Hadley church, at which none were present but Adela and Arthur,
and Miss Baker.
It was Adela who arranged it, and the result has shown that she was
right. They now live together very quietly, very soberly, but yet
happily. They have not Adela's blessings. No baby lies in Caroline's
arms, no noisy boy climbs on the arm of George Bertram's chair. Their
house is childless, and very, very quiet; but they are not unhappy.
Reader, can you call to mind what was the plan of life which Caroline
Waddington had formed in the boldness of her young heart? Can you
remember the aspirations of George Bertram, as he sat upon the Mount
of Olives, watching the stones of the temple over against him?
* * * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Volume I, Chapter IV, paragraph 10. The word "guess" might
confuse the reader in the sentence: My donna primissima will
be another guess sort of lady altogether. This is an archaic
use of "guess" as an adjective meaning "kind of" as in the
following example from _Frazer's Magazine_, 1834: Every one
knows what guess-sort of wiseacre France gave birth to with
that algebraical gentleman.
Volume III, Chapter XVI, paragraph 3. The reader might be
confused to learn that the "Hadley doctor" is now from Barnet:
George stood with his back to the empty dining-room fireplace:
on one side stood Mr. Pritchett, and on the other the BARNET
doctor. Trollope was often inconsistent with names of persons
and places.
Specific changes in wording of the text are listed below.
Volume I, Chapter I, paragraph 5. The word "at" was duplicated
in the original ("at at"). One occurrence was deleted to make
the sentence read: They can hew wood probably; or, AT any rate,
draw water.
Volume I, Chapter IV, paragraph 4. The name "Putfield" was
changed to "Putford" in the sentence: 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.
Volume I, Chapter VI, paragraph 71. The word "vicegerent" was
changed to "viceregent" in the sentence: 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.
Volume I, Chapter XV, paragraph 76. The word "you" was changed
to "your" in the sentence: There is this against YOUR future
happiness--
Volume II, Chapter III, paragraph 38. The word "confidence"
was added to the sentence: 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.
Volume II, Chapter X, paragraph 27. The word "him" was deleted
from the sentence: I do not think he would have [HIM] come down
here had he heard it--not yet, at least.
Volume III, Chapter XVI, paragraph 17. The word "them" was
deleted from the sentence which in the original was: But he did
despair--as men do when they have none to whom they can turn
THEM trustingly in their miseries.