CHAPTER XI.
I COULD PUT A CODICIL.
On their journey up from Southampton, George and Arthur parted fromeach other. George went on direct to London, whereas Arthur turnedoff from Basingstoke towards his own home.
"Take my advice now, if you never do again," said Bertram, as theyparted; "make yourself master of your own house, and as soon after aspossible make her the mistress of it."
"That's easily said, old fellow," repeated the other.
"Make the attempt, at any rate. If I am anything of a prophet, itwon't be in vain;" and so they parted.
At Southampton they had learnt that there had been a partial crash inthe government. The prime minister had not absolutely walked forth,followed by all his satellites, as is the case when a successful turnin the wheel gives the outs a full whip-hand over the ins, but it hadbecome necessary to throw overboard a brace or two of Jonahs, so thatthe ship might be lightened to meet a coming storm; and among thoseso thrown over had been our unfortunate friend Sir Henry Harcourt.
And this, as regards him, had hardly been the worst of it. We allknow that bigwigs are never dismissed. When it becomes necessary toget rid of them, they resign. Now resignation is clearly a voluntaryact, and it seemed that Sir Henry, having no wish that way, had notat first performed this act of volition. His own particular friendsin the cabinet, those to whom he had individually attached himself,were gone; but, nevertheless, he made no sign; he was still ready tosupport the government, and as the attorney-general was among thosewho had shaken the dust from their feet and gone out, Sir Henryexpected that he would, as a matter of course, walk into thatgentleman's shoes.
But another learned gentleman was appointed, and then at last SirHenry knew that he must go. He had resigned; but no resignation hadever appeared to have less of volition in it. And how could it beotherwise? Political success was everything to him; and, alas! he hadso played his cards that it was necessary to him that that successshould be immediate. He was not as those are who, in losing power,lose a costly plaything, which they love indeed over well, but theloss of which hurts only their pride. Place to him was everything;and feeling this, he had committed that most grievous of politicalsins--he had endeavoured to hold his place longer than he was wanted.Now, however, he was out. So much, in some sort of way, Bertram hadlearnt before he left Southampton.
His first business in London was to call on Mr. Pritchett.
"Oh, master George! oh, master George!" began that worthy man, assoon as he saw him. His tone had never been so lachrymose, nor hisface so full of woe. "Oh, master George!"
Bertram in his kindest way asked after his uncle.
"Oh, master George! you shouldn't be going to them furrenparts--indeed you shouldn't; and he in such a state."
"Is he worse than when I last saw him, Mr. Pritchett?"
"Gentlemen at his time of life don't get much better, masterGeorge--nor yet at mine. It's half a million of money;half--a--million--of--money! But it's no use talking to you, sir--itnever was."
By degrees Bertram gathered from him that his uncle was much weaker,that he had had a second and a much more severe attack of paralysis,and that according to all the doctors, the old gentleman was not muchlonger for this world. Sir Omicron himself had been there. Miss Bakerhad insisted on it, much in opposition to her uncle's wishes. ButSir Omicron had shaken his head and declared that the fiat had goneforth.
Death had given his order; the heavy burden of the half-million mustbe left behind, and the soul must walk forth, free from all itstoils, to meet such aethereal welcome as it could find.
Mr. Bertram had been told, and had answered, that he supposed asmuch. "A man when he was too old to live must die," he had said,"though all the Sir Omicrons in Europe should cluster round his bed.It was only throwing money away. What, twenty pounds!" And being tooweak to scold, he had turned his face to the wall in sheer vexationof spirit. Death he could encounter like a man; but why should he berobbed in his last moments?
"You'll go down to him, master George," wheezed out poor Pritchett."Though it's too late for any good. It's all arranged now, ofcourse."
Bertram said that he would go down immediately, irrespective ofany such arrangements. And then, remembering of whom that Hadleyhousehold had consisted when he left England in the early winter, heasked as to the two ladies.
"Miss Baker is there, of course?"
"Oh, yes, Miss Baker is there. She doesn't go to any furren parts,master George."
"And--and--"
"Yes, she's in the house, too--poor creature--poor creature!"
"Then how am I to go there?" said George, speaking rather to himselfthan to Mr. Pritchett.
"What! you wouldn't stay away from him now because of that? You oughtto go to him, master George, though there were ten Lady Harcourtsthere--or twenty." This was said in a tone that was not only serious,but full of melancholy. Mr. Pritchett had probably never joked in hislife, and had certainly never been less inclined to do so than now,when his patron was dying, and all his patron's money was to go intoother and into unknown hands.
Some other information Bertram received from his most faithful ally.Sir Henry had been three times to Hadley, but he had only oncesucceeded in seeing Mr. Bertram, and then the interview had beenshort, and, as Mr. Pritchett surmised, not very satisfactory. Hislast visit had been since that paid by Sir Omicron, and on thatoccasion the sick man had sent out to say that he could not seestrangers. All this Mr. Pritchett had learnt from Miss Baker. SirHenry had not seen his wife since that day--now nearly twelve monthssince--on which she had separated herself from him. He had made aformal application to her to return to him, but nothing had comeof it; and Mr. Pritchett took upon himself to surmise again, thatSir Henry was too anxious about the old gentleman's money to takeany steps that could be considered severe, until--. And then Mr.Pritchett wheezed so grievously that what he said was not audible.
George immediately wrote to Miss Baker, announcing his return,and expressing his wish to see his uncle. He did not mention LadyHarcourt's name; but he suggested that perhaps it would be better,under existing circumstances, that he should not remain at Hadley. Hehoped, however, that his uncle would not refuse to see him, and thathis coming to the house for an hour or so might not be felt to be aninconvenience. By return of post he got an answer from Miss Baker,in which she assured him that his uncle was most anxious for hispresence, and had appeared to be more cheerful, since he had heard ofhis nephew's return, than he had been for the last two months. As forstaying at Hadley, George could do as he liked, Miss Baker said. Butit was but a sad household, and perhaps it would be more comfortablefor him to go backwards and forwards by the railway.
This correspondence caused a delay of two days, and on one of themBertram received a visit which he certainly did not expect. He wassitting in his chamber alone, and was sad enough, thinking now ofMrs. Cox and his near escape, then of Adela and his cousin's possiblehappiness, and then of Caroline and the shipwreck of her hopes, whenthe door opened, and Sir Henry Harcourt was standing before him.
"How d'ye do, Bertram?" said the late solicitor-general, putting outhis hand. The attitude and the words were those of friendship, buthis countenance was anything but friendly. A great change had comeover him. His look of youth had deserted him, and he might have beentaken for a care-worn, middle-aged man. He was thin, and haggard,and wan; and there was a stern, harsh frown upon his brow, as thoughhe would wish to fight if he only dared. This was the successfulman--fortune's pet, who had married the heiress of the millionaire,and risen to the top of his profession with unexampled rapidity.
"How are you, Harcourt?" said Bertram, taking the proffered hand. "Ihad no idea that you had heard of my return."
"Oh, yes; I heard of it. I supposed you'd be back quick enough whenyou knew that the old man was dying."
"I am glad, at any rate, to be here in time to see him," said George,disdaining to defend himself against the innuendo.
"When are you going down?"
&n
bsp; "To-morrow, I suppose. But I expect to have a line from Miss Baker inthe morning."
Sir Henry, who had not sat down, began walking up and down the room,while Bertram stood with his back to the fire watching him. Thelawyer's brow became blacker and blacker, and as he rattled hishalf-crowns in his trousers-pockets, and kept his eyes fixed upon thefloor, Bertram began to feel that the interview did not promise to beone of a very friendly character.
"I was sorry to hear, Harcourt, that you are among the lot that haveleft the Government," said Bertram, hardly knowing what else to say.
"D---- the Government! But I didn't come here to talk about theGovernment. That old man down there will be gone in less than aweek's time. Do you know that?"
"I hear that in all probability he has not long to live."
"Not a week. I have it from Sir Omicron himself. Now I think you willadmit, Bertram, that I have been very badly used."
"Upon my word, my dear fellow, I know nothing about it."
"Nonsense!"
"But it isn't nonsense. I tell you that I know nothing about it. Isuppose you are alluding to my uncle's money; and I tell you that Iknow nothing--and care nothing."
"Psha! I hate to hear a man talk in that way. I hate such humbug."
"Harcourt, my dear fellow--"
"It is humbug. I am not in a humour now to stand picking my words. Ihave been infernally badly used--badly used on every side."
"By me, among others?"
Sir Henry, in his present moody mind, would have delighted to say,"Yes," by him, Bertram, worse, perhaps, than by any other. But it didnot suit him at the present moment to come to an open rupture withthe man whom he had been in such a hurry to visit.
"I treated that old man with the most unbounded confidence when Imarried his granddaughter--"
"But how does that concern me? She was not my granddaughter. I, atleast, had nothing to do with it. Excuse me, Harcourt, if I say thatI, of all men, am the last to whom you should address yourself onsuch a subject."
"I think differently. You are his nearest relative--next to her; nextto her, mind--"
"Well! What matter is it whether I am near or distant? Lady Harcourtis staying with him. Did it suit her to do so, she could fight yourbattle, or her own battle, or any battle that she pleases."
"Yours, for instance?"
"No, Sir Henry. That she could not do. From doing that she is utterlydebarred. But I tell you once for all that I have no battle. Youshall know more--if the knowledge will do you any good. Not very longsince my uncle offered to settle on me half his fortune if I wouldoblige him in one particular. But I could not do the thing he wanted;and when we parted, I had his positive assurance that he wouldleave me nothing. That was the last time I saw him." And as Bertramremembered what that request was to which he had refused to accede,his brow also grew black.
"Tell me honestly, then, if you can be honest in the matter, who isto have his money?"
"I can be very honest, for I know nothing. My belief is that neitheryou nor I will have a shilling of it."
"Well, then; I'll tell you what. Of course you know that LadyHarcourt is down there?"
"Yes; I know that she is at Hadley."
"I'll not submit to be treated in this way. I have been a deucedsight too quiet, because I have not chosen to disturb him in hisillness. Now I will have an answer from him. I will know what hemeans to do; and if I do not know by to-morrow night, I will go down,and will, at any rate, bring my wife away with me. I wish you to tellhim that I want to know what his intentions are. I have a right todemand as much."
"Be that as it may, you have no right to demand anything through me."
"I have ruined myself--or nearly so, for that woman."
"I wonder, Harcourt, that you do not see that I am not the man youshould select to speak to on such a subject."
"You are the man, because you are her cousin. I went to enormousexpense to give her a splendid home, knowing, of course, that hiswealth would entitle her to it. I bought a house for her, andfurnished it as though she were a duchess--"
"Good heavens, Harcourt! Is this anything to me? Did I bid you buythe house? If you had not given her a chair to sit on, should I havecomplained? I tell you fairly, I will have nothing to do with it."
"Then it will be the worse for her--that's all."
"May God help her! She must bear her lot, as must I mine, and youyours."
"And you refuse to take my message to your uncle?"
"Certainly. Whether I shall see him or not I do not yet know. If Ido, I certainly shall not speak to him about money unless he begins.Nor shall I speak about you, unless he shall seem to wish it. If heasks about you, I will tell him that you have been with me."
After some further discussion, Harcourt left him. George Bertramfound it difficult to understand what motive could have brought himthere. But drowning men catch at straws. Sir Henry was painfullyalive to the consideration, that if anything was to be done about therich man's money, if any useful step could be taken, it must be doneat once; the step must be taken now. In another week, perhaps inanother day, Mr. Bertram would be beyond the power of will-making.No bargain could then be driven in which it should be stipulatedthat after his death his grandchild should be left unmolested--for aconsideration. The bargain, if made at all, must be made now--now atonce.
It will be thought that Sir Henry would have played his game betterby remaining quiet; that his chance of being remembered in thatwill would be greater if he did not now make himself disagreeable.Probably so. But men running hither and thither in distress do notwell calculate their chances. They are too nervous, too excitedto play their game with judgment. Sir Henry Harcourt had nowgreat trouble on his shoulders: he was in debt, was pressed formoney on every side, had brought his professional bark into greatdisasters--nearly to utter shipwreck--and was known to have beenabandoned by his wife. The world was not smiling on him. His greathope, his once strong hope, was now buried in those Hadley coffers;and it was not surprising that he did not take the safest way in hisendeavours to reach those treasures which he so coveted.
On the following morning, George received Miss Baker's letter, andvery shortly afterwards he started for Hadley. Of course he could notbut remember that Lady Harcourt was staying there; that she wouldnaturally be attending upon her grandfather, and that it was all butimpossible that he should not see her. How were they to meet now?When last they had been together, he had held her in his arms, hadkissed her forehead, had heard the assurance of her undying love. Howwere they to meet now?
George was informed by the servant who came to the door that hisuncle was very ill. "Weaker to-day," the girl said, "than ever he hadbeen." "Where was Miss Baker?" George asked. The girl said that MissBaker was in the dining-room. He did not dare to ask any furtherquestion. "And her ladyship is with her grandfather," the girl added;upon hearing which George walked with quicker steps to the parlourdoor.
Miss Baker met him as though there had been no breach in their formerintimacy. With her, for the moment, Lady Harcourt and her troubleswere forgotten, and she thought only of the dying man upstairs.
"I am so glad you have come!" she said. "He does not say much aboutit. You remember he never did talk about such things. But I knowthat he will be delighted to see you. Sometimes he has said that hethought you had been in Egypt quite long enough."
"Is he so very ill, then?"
"Indeed he is; very ill. You'll be shocked when you see him: you'llfind him so much altered. He knows that it cannot last long, and heis quite reconciled."
"Will you send up to let him know that I am here?"
"Yes, now--immediately. Caroline is with him;" and then Miss Bakerleft the room.
Caroline is with him! It was so singular to hear her mentioned as oneof the same family with himself; to have to meet her as one sharingthe same interests with him, bound by the same bonds, anxious torelieve the same suffering. She had said that they ought to be as faras the poles asunder; and yet fortune, unkind fortune, would br
ingthem together! As he was thinking of this, the door opened gently,and she was in the room with him.
She, too, was greatly altered. Not that her beauty had faded, or thatthe lines of her face were changed; but her gait and manners weremore composed; her dress was so much more simple, that, though notless lovely, she certainly looked older than when he had last seenher. She was thinner too, and, in the light-gray silk which she wore,seemed to be taller, and to be paler too.
She walked up to him, and putting out her hand, said some word or twowhich he did not hear; and he uttered something which was quite asmuch lost on her, and so their greeting was over. Thus passed theirfirst interview, of which he had thought so much in looking forwardto it for the last few hours, that his mind had been estranged fromhis uncle.
"Does he know I am here?"
"Yes. You are to go up to him. You know the room?"
"The same he always had?"
"Oh, yes; the same." And then, creeping on tiptoe, as men do in suchhouses, to the infinite annoyance of the invalids whom they wish tospare, he went upstairs, and stood by his uncle's bed.
Miss Baker was on the other side, and the sick man's face was turnedtowards her. "You had better come round here, George," said she. "Itwould trouble Mr. Bertram to move."
"She means that I can't stir," said the old man, whose voice wasstill sharp, though no longer loud. "I can't turn round that way.Come here." And so George walked round the bed.
He literally would not have known his uncle, so completely changedwas the face. It was not only that it was haggard, thin, unshorn,and gray with coming death; but the very position of the featureshad altered. His cheeks had fallen away; his nose was contracted;his mouth, which he could hardly close, was on one side. Miss Bakertold George afterwards that the left side was altogether motionless.George certainly would not have known his uncle--not at the firstglance. But yet there was a spark left in those eyes, of the oldfire; such a spark as had never gleamed upon him from any other humanhead. That look of sharpness, which nothing could quench, was stillthere. It was not the love of lucre which was to be read in thoseeyes, so much as the possessor's power of acquiring it. It was asthough they said, "Look well to all you have; put lock and bar toyour stores; set dragons to watch your choice gardens; fix whatman-traps you will for your own protection. In spite of everything, Iwill have it all! When I go forth to rob, no one can stay me!" So hadhe looked upon men through all his long life, and so now did he lookupon his nephew and his niece as they stood by to comfort him in hisextremity.
"I am sorry to see you in this state," said George, putting his handon to that of his uncle's, which was resting on the bed.
"Thank'ee, George, thank'ee. When men get to be as old as I am, theyhave nothing for it but to die. So you've been to Egypt, have you?What do you think about Egypt?"
"It is not a country I should like to live in, sir."
"Nor I to die in, from all that I hear of it. Well, you're just intime to be in at the last gasp--that's all, my boy."
"I hope it has not come to that yet, sir."
"Ah, but it has. How long a time did that man give me, Mary--he thatgot the twenty pounds? They gave a fellow twenty pounds to come andtell me that I was dying! as if I didn't know that without him."
"We thought it right to get the best advice we could, George," saidpoor Miss Baker.
"Nonsense!" said the old man, almost in his olden voice. "You'll findby-and-by that twenty pounds are not so easy to come by. George, asyou are here, I might as well tell you about my money."
George begged him not to trouble himself about such a matter atpresent; but this was by no means the way in which to propitiate hisuncle.
"And if I don't talk of it now, when am I to do it? Go away,Mary--and look here--come up again in about twenty minutes. What Ihave got to say won't take me long." And so Miss Baker left the room.
"George," said his uncle, "I wonder whether you really care aboutmoney? sometimes I have almost thought that you don't."
"I don't think I do very much, sir."
"Then you must be a great fool."
"I have often thought I am, lately."
"A very great fool. People preach against it, and talk against it,and write against it, and tell lies against it; but don't you seethat everybody is fighting for it? The parsons all abuse it; but didyou ever know one who wouldn't go to law for his tithes? Did you everhear of a bishop who didn't take his dues?"
"I am quite fond enough of it, sir, to take all that I can earn."
"That does not seem to be much, George. You haven't played your cardswell--have you, my boy?"
"No, uncle; not very well. I might have done better."
"No man is respected without money--no man. A poor man is alwaysthrust to the wall--always. Now you will be a poor man, I fear, allyour life."
"Then I must put up with the wall, sir."
"But why were you so harsh with me when I wanted you to marry her? Doyou see now what you have done? Look at her, and what she might havebeen. Look at yourself, and what you might have been. Had you donethat, you might have been my heir in everything."
"Well, sir, I have made my bed, and I must lie upon it. I have causeenough for regret--though, to tell the truth, it is not about yourmoney."
"Ah, I knew you would be stiff to the last," said Mr. Bertram, angrythat he could not move his nephew to express some sorrow about thehalf-million.
"Am I stiff, sir? Indeed, I do not mean it."
"No, it's your nature. But we will not quarrel at the last; will we,George?"
"I hope not, sir. I am not aware that we have ever quarrelled. Youonce asked me to do a thing which, had I done it, would have made mea happy man--"
"And a rich man also."
"And I fairly tell you now, that I would I had done as you would havehad me. That is not being stiff, sir."
"It is too late now, George."
"Oh, yes, it is too late now; indeed it is."
"Not but that I could put a codicil."
"Ah, sir, you can put no codicil that can do me a service. No codicilcan make her a free woman. There are sorrows, sir, which no codicilcan cure."
"Psha!" said his uncle, trying in his anger to turn himself on hisbed, but failing utterly. "Psha! Then you may live a pauper."
George remained standing at the bedside; but he knew not what to do,or what answer to make to this ebullition of anger.
"I have nothing further to say," continued his uncle.
"But we shall part in friendship, shall we not?" said George. "I haveso much to thank you for, that I cannot bear that you should be angrywith me now."
"You are an ass--a fool!"
"You should look on that as my misfortune, sir." And then he paused amoment. "I will leave you now, shall I?"
"Yes, and send Mary up."
"But I may come down again to-morrow?"
"What! haven't they a bed for you in the house?"
Bertram hummed and hawed, and said he did not know. But theconference ended in his promising to stay there. So he went up totown, and returned again bringing down his carpet bag, and preparingto remain till all should be over.
That was a strange household which was now collected together in thehouse at Hadley. The old man was lying upstairs, daily expectinghis death; and he was attended, as it was seemly that he should be,by his nearest relatives. His brother's presence he would not haveadmitted; but his grandchild was there, and his nephew, and her whomhe had always regarded as his niece. Nothing could be more fittingthan this. But not the less did Caroline and George feel that it wasnot fitting that they should be together.
And yet the absolute awkwardness of the meeting was soon over. Theysoon found themselves able to sit in the same room, conversing on theone subject of interest which the circumstances of the moment gave,without any allusion to past times. They spoke only of the dyingman, and asked each other questions only about him. Though they werefrequently alone together while Miss Baker was with Mr. Bertram,they never repeated the
maddening folly of that last scene in EatonSquare.
"She has got over it now," said Bertram to himself; and he thoughtthat he rejoiced that it was so. But yet it made his heart sad.
It has passed away like a dream, thought Lady Harcourt; and now hewill be happy again. And she, too, strove to comfort herself inthinking so; but the comfort was very cold.
And now George was constantly with his uncle. For the first twodays nothing further was said about money. Mr. Bertram seemed to becontent that matters should rest as they were then settled, and hisnephew certainly had no intention of recurring to the subject onhis own behalf. The old man, however, had become much kinder in hismanner to him--kinder to him than to any one else in the house; andexacted from him various little promises of things to be done--oflast wishes to be fulfilled.
"Perhaps it is better as it is, George," he said, as Bertram wassitting by his bedside late one night.
"I am sure it is, sir," said George, not at all, however, knowingwhat was the state of things which his uncle described as beingbetter.
"All men can't be made alike," continued the uncle.
"No, uncle; there must be rich men, and there must be poor men."
"And you prefer the latter."
Now George had never said this; and the assertion coming from hisuncle at such a moment, when he could not contradict it, was ratherhard on him. He had tried to prove to Mr. Bertram, not so much then,as in their former intercourse, that he would in no way subjecthis feelings to the money-bags of any man; that he would make nosacrifice of his aspirations for the sake of wealth; that he wouldnot, in fact, sell himself for gold. But he had never said, orintended to say, that money was indifferent to him. Much as his uncleunderstood, he had failed to understand his nephew's mind. But Georgecould not explain it to him now;--so he merely smiled, and let theassertion pass.
"Well; be it so," said Mr. Bertram. "But you will see, at any rate,that I have trusted you. Why father and son should be so much unlike,God only can understand." And from that time he said little ornothing more about his will.
But Sir Omicron had been wrong. Mr. Bertram overlived the week, andoverlived the fortnight. We must now leave him and his relatives inthe house of sickness, and return to Arthur Wilkinson.
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