The Bertrams

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER XIV.

  MR. BERTRAM'S DEATH.

  Sir Henry Harcourt had certainly played his hand badly, consideringthe number of trumps that he had held, and that he had turned upan honour in becoming solicitor-general. He was not now in a happycondition. He was living alone in his fine house in Eaton Square; hewas out of office; he was looked on with an evil eye by his formerfriends, in that he had endeavoured to stick to office too long; hewas deeply in debt, and his once golden hopes with reference to Mr.Bertram were becoming fainter and fainter every day. Nor was thisall. Not only did he himself fear that he should get but little ofthe Hadley money, but his creditors had begun to have the same fears.They had heard that he was not to be the heir, and were importunateaccordingly. It might be easy to stave them off till Mr. Bertramshould be under the ground; but then--what then? His professionalincome might still be large, though not increasing as it should havedone. And what lawyer can work well if his mind be encumbered by deeptroubles of his own?

  He had told George Bertram that he would go down to Hadley and claimhis wife if he did not receive a favourable message from his wife'sgrandfather; and he now determined to take some such step. He felthimself driven to do something; to bring about some arrangement; tomake some use of the few remaining grains of sand which were stillto run through the glass that was measuring out the lees of life forthat old man.

  So thinking, but not quite resolved as to what he would do when hereached the house, he started for Hadley. He knew that George wasstill there, that his wife was there, and that Mr. Bertram was there;and he trusted that he should not fail at any rate in seeing them.He was not by nature a timid man, and had certainly not become so byeducation; but, nevertheless, his heart did not beat quite equablywithin his bosom when he knocked at the rich man's door.

  Of course he was well known to the servant. At first he asked afterMr. Bertram, and was told that he was much the same--going very fast;the maid did not think that Sir Henry could see him. The poor girl,knowing that the gentleman before her was not a welcome visitor,stood in the doorway, as though to guard the ladies who were in thedrawing-room.

  "Who is here now?" said Sir Henry. "Who is staying here?"

  "Mr. George," said the girl, thinking that she would be safest inmentioning his name, "and Miss Baker, sir."

  "Lady Harcourt is here, I suppose?"

  "Yes, sir; her ladyship is in the drawing-room," and she shook in hershoes before him as she made the announcement.

  For a moment Sir Henry was inclined to force his way by the tremblingyoung woman, and appear before the ladies. But then, what would heget by it? Angry as he was with all the Hadley people, he was stillable to ask himself that question. Supposing that he were there,standing before his wife; supposing even that he were able to bringher to his feet by a glance, how much richer would that make him?What bills would that pay? He had loved his wife once with a sortof love; but that day was gone. When she had been at such pains toexpress her contempt for him, all tenderness had deserted him. Itmight be wise to make use of her--not to molest her, as long as hergrandfather lived. When the old miser should have gone, it would betime for him to have his revenge. In the meantime, he could gainnothing by provoking her. So he told the servant that he wished tosee Mr. George Bertram.

  As it happened, George and Lady Harcourt were together, and MissBaker was keeping watch with the sick man upstairs. The drawing-roomwas close to the hall, and Caroline's eager ear caught the tones ofher husband's voice.

  "It is Sir Henry," she said, becoming suddenly pale, and rising toher feet, as though prepared to retreat to some protection. Bertram'sduller ear could not hear him, but he also rose from his chair. "Areyou sure it is he?"

  "I heard his voice plainly," said Caroline, in a tremulous whisper."Do not leave me, George. Whatever happens, do not leave me." Theycalled each other now by their Christian names, as cousins shoulddo; and their intercourse with each other had never been other thancousinly since that parting in Eaton Square.

  And then the door was opened, and the maid-servant, in the glummestof voices, announced that Sir Henry wanted to see Mr. George.

  "Show him into the dining-room," said George; and then following thegirl after a minute's interval, he found himself once more in thepresence of his old friend.

  Sir Henry was even darker looking, and his brow still more forbiddingthan at that last interview at George's chambers. He was worn andcare-marked, and appeared to be ten years older than was really thecase. He did not wait till George should address him, but began atonce:--

  "Bertram," said he, with a voice intended to be stern, "there are twopersons here I want to see, your uncle and my wife."

  "I make no objection to your seeing either, if they are willing tosee you."

  "Yes; but that won't do for me. My duty compels me to look after themboth, and I mean to do so before I leave Hadley."

  "I will send your name to them at once," said George; "but it mustdepend on them whether they will see you." And so saying, he rang thebell, and sent a message up to his uncle.

  Nothing was said till the girl returned. Sir Henry paced the roombackward and forward, and George stood leaning with his back againstthe chimney-piece. "Mr. Bertram says that he'll see Sir Henry, ifhe'll step up stairs," said the girl.

  "Very well. Am I to go up now?"

  "If you please, sir."

  Bertram followed Sir Henry to the door, to show him the room; but thelatter turned round on the stairs, and said that he would prefer tohave no one present at the interview.

  "I will only open the door for you," said the other. This he did, andwas preparing to return, when his uncle called him. "Do not go away,George," said he. "Sir Henry will want you to show him down again."And so they stood together at the bedside.

  "Well, Sir Henry, this is kind of you," said he, putting his thin,bony hand out upon the coverlid, by way of making an attempt at anEnglishman's usual greeting.

  Sir Henry took it gently in his, and found it cold and clammy. "It isnearly all over now, Sir Henry," said the old man.

  "I hope not," said the visitor, with the tone usual on suchoccasions. "You may rally yet, Mr. Bertram."

  "Rally!" And there was something in the old man's voice that faintlyrecalled the bitter railing sound of other days. "No; I don't supposeI shall ever rally much more."

  "Well; we can only hope for the best. That's what I do, I can assureyou."

  "That is true. We do hope for the best--all of us. I can still dothat, if I do nothing else."

  "Of course," said Sir Henry. And then he stood still for a while,meditating how best he might make use of his present opportunity.What could he say to secure some fraction of the hundreds ofthousands which belonged to the dying man? That he had a right to atleast a moiety of them his inmost bosom told him; but how should henow plead his rights? Perhaps after all it would have been as wellfor him to have remained in London.

  "Mr. Bertram," at last he said, "I hope you won't think it unbecomingin me if I say one word about business in your present state?"

  "No--no--no," said the old man. "I can't do much, as you see; butI'll endeavour to listen."

  "You can't be surprised that I should be anxious about my wife."

  "Umph!" said Mr. Bertram. "You haven't treated her very well, itseems."

  "Who says so?"

  "A woman wouldn't leave a fine house in London, to shut herself upwith a sick old man here, if she were well treated. I don't want anyone to tell me that."

  "I can hardly explain all this to you now, sir; particularly--"

  "Particularly as I am dying. No, you cannot. George, give me a glassof that stuff. I am very weak, Sir Henry, and can't say much more toyou."

  "May I ask you this one question, sir? Have you provided for yourgranddaughter?"

  "Provided for her!" and the old man made a sadly futile attempt toutter the words with that ominous shriek which a few years sincewould have been sure to frighten any man who would have asked such aquestion. "What sor
t of man can he be, George, to come to me now withsuch a question?" And so saying, he pulled the clothes over him asthough resolved to hold no further conversation.

  "He is very weak," said George. "I think you had better leave him."

  A hellish expression came across the lawyer's face. "Yes," he said tohimself; "go away, that I may leave you here to reap the harvest byyourself. Go away, and know myself to be a beggar." He had marriedthis man's grandchild, and yet he was to be driven from his bedsidelike a stranger.

  "Tell him to go," said Mr. Bertram. "He will know it all in a day ortwo."

  "You hear what he says," whispered George.

  "I do hear," muttered the other, "and I will remember."

  "He hardly thinks I would alter my will now, does he? Perhaps he haspen and ink in his pocket, ready to do it."

  "I have only spoken in anxiety about my wife," said Sir Henry; "and Ithought you would remember that she was your child's daughter."

  "I do remember it. George, why doesn't he leave me?"

  "Harcourt, it will be better that you should go," said Bertram; "youcan have no idea how weak my uncle is;" and he gently opened thedoor.

  "Good-bye, Mr. Bertram. I had not intended to disturb you." And sosaying, Sir Henry slunk away.

  "You know what his will is, of course," said Sir Henry, when theywere again in the dining-room.

  "I have not the slightest idea on the subject," said the other; "notthe remotest conception. He never speaks to me about it."

  "Well; and now for Lady Harcourt. Where shall I find her?"

  To this question George gave no answer; nor was he able to giveany. Caroline was no longer in the drawing-room. Sir Henry insistedthat he would see her, and declared his intention of staying in thehouse till he did so. But Miss Baker at last persuaded him that allhis efforts would be useless. Nothing but force would induce LadyHarcourt to meet him.

  "Then force shall be used," said Sir Henry.

  "At any rate not now," said George.

  "What, sir! do you set yourself up as her protector? Is she baseenough to allow you to interfere between her and her husband?"

  "I am her protector at the present moment, Sir Henry. What passedbetween us long since has been now forgotten. But we are stillcousins; and while she wants protection, I shall give it to her."

  "Oh, you will; will you?"

  "Certainly. I look upon her as though she were my sister. She has noother brother."

  "That's very kind of you, and very complaisant of her. But what ifI say that I don't choose that she should have any such brother?Perhaps you think that as I am only her husband, I ought not to haveany voice in the matter?"

  "I do not suppose that you can care for her much, after the word youonce used to her."

  "And what the devil is it to you what word I used to her? That's thetack you go on, is it? Now, I'll tell you fairly what I shall do.I will wait till the breath is out of that old man's body, andthen I shall take my wife out of this house--by force, if force benecessary." And so saying, Sir Henry turned to the front door, andtook his departure, without making any further adieu.

  "What dreadful trouble we shall have!" whimpered Miss Baker, almostin tears.

  Things went on at Hadley for three days longer without any change,except that Mr. Bertram became weaker, and less inclined to speak. Onthe third morning, he did say a few words:--"George, I begin to thinkI have done wrong about you; but I fear it is too late."

  His nephew declared that he was sure that things would turn out well,muttering any platitude which might quiet the dying man.

  "But it is too late, isn't it?"

  "For any change in your will, sir? Yes, it is too late. Do not thinkof it."

  "Ah, yes; it would be very troublesome--very troublesome. Oh, me! Ithas nearly come now, George; very nearly."

  It had very nearly come. He did not again speak intelligibly to anyof them. In his last hours he suffered considerably, and his ownthoughts seemed to irritate him. But when he did mutter a few words,they seemed to refer to trivial matters--little plagues which dyingmen feel as keenly as those who are full of life. To the last hepreferred George either to his niece or to his granddaughter; andwas always best pleased when his nephew was by him. Once or twice hementioned Mr. Pritchett's name; but he showed his dissent when theyproposed to send for his man of business.

  On the afternoon of that day, he breathed his last in the presence ofhis three relatives. His nearest relative, indeed, was not there; nordid they dare to send for him. He had latterly expressed so stronga disgust at the very name of Sir Lionel, that they had ceased bycommon consent to mention Bertram's father. He seemed to be awarethat his last moments were approaching, for he would every now andthen raise his withered hand from off the bed, as though to give themwarning. And so he died, and the eyes of the rich man were closed.

  He died full of years, and perhaps in one, and that the most usualacceptation of the word, full of honour. He owed no man a shilling,had been true to all his engagements, had been kind to his relativeswith a rough kindness: he had loved honesty and industry, and hadhated falsehood and fraud: to him the herd, born only to consume thefruits, had ever been odious; that he could be generous, his conductin his nephew's earliest years had plainly shown: he had carried,too, in his bosom a heart not altogether hardened against his kind,for he had loved his nephew, and, to a certain extent, his niecealso, and his granddaughter.

  But in spite of all this, he had been a bad man. He had opened hisheart to that which should never find admittance to the heart of man.The iron of his wealth had entered into his very soul. He had madehalf a million of money, and that half-million had been his god--hisonly god--and, indeed, men have but one god. The true worship of theone loved shrine prevents all other worship. The records of his moneyhad been his deity. There, in his solitude at Hadley, he had satand counted them as they grew, mortgages and bonds, deeds and scrip,shares in this and shares in that, thousands in these funds andtens of thousands in those. To the last, he had gone on buying andselling, buying in the cheap market and selling in the dear; andeverything had gone well with him.

  Everything had gone well with him! Such was the City report of oldMr. Bertram. But let the reader say how much, or rather how little,had gone well. Faustus-like, he had sold himself to a goldenMephistopheles, and his Margaret had turned to stone within hisembrace.

  How many of us make Faust's bargain! The bodily attendance of thedevil may be mythical; but in the spirit he is always with us. Andhow rarely have we the power to break the contract! The Londonmerchant had so sold himself. He had given himself body and soul to adevil. The devil had promised him wealth, and had kept his word. Andnow the end had come, though the day of his happiness had not yetarrived.

  But the end had not come. All this was but the beginning. If wemay believe that a future life is to be fitted to the desires andappetites as they are engendered here, what shall we think of thefuture of a man whose desire has been simply for riches, whoseappetite has been for heaps of money? How miserably is such a poorwretch cheated! How he gropes about, making his bargain with blindeyes; thinking that he sees beyond his neighbours! Who is so green,so soft, so foolishly the victim of the sorriest sharper as thisman? Weigh out all his past, and what has it been? Weigh out hisfuture--if you can--and think what it must be. Poor, dull Faustus!What! thou hast lost everything among the thimble-riggers? Poor,dull, stupid wretch!

  Mr. Bertram had not been a good man, nor had he been a wise man. Buthe had been highly respectable, and his memory is embalmed in tons ofmarble and heaps of monumental urns. Epitaphs, believed to be true,testify to his worth; and deeds, which are sometimes as false asepitaphs, do the same. He is a man of whom the world has agreed tosay good things; to whom fame, that rich City fame, which speaks witha cornet-a-piston made of gold, instead of a brazen trumpet, has beenvery kind.--But, nevertheless, he was not a good man. As regards him,it will only remain for us to declare what was his will, and thatshall be done in the next chapter.


  It was settled that he should be buried on the sixth day after hisdeath, and that his will should be read after his funeral. George hadnow to manage everything, and to decide who should be summoned to thereading. There were two whom he felt bound to call thither, though tothem the reading he knew would be a bitter grief. There was, in thefirst place, his father, Sir Lionel, whose calls for money had not oflate decreased in urgency. It would be seemly that he should come;but the opening of the will would not be a pleasant hour for him.Then there would be Sir Henry. He also was, of course, summoned,painful as it was to his wife to have to leave the house at such atime. Nor, indeed, did he wait to be invited; for he had written tosay that he should be there before he received George Bertram's note.Mr. Pritchett also was sent for, and the old man's attorney.

  And then, when these arrangements had been made, the thoughts ofthe living reverted from the dead to themselves. How should thosethree persons who now occupied that house so lovingly provide forthemselves? and where should they fix their residence? George'sbrotherly love for his cousin was very well in theory: it was well tosay that the past had been forgotten; but there are things for whichno memory can lose its hold. He and Caroline had loved each otherwith other love than that of a brother and a sister; and each knewthat they two might not dwell under the same roof. It was necessaryto talk over these matters, and in doing so it was very hard not totouch on forbidden subjects.

  Caroline had made up her mind to live again with her aunt--had madeup her mind to do so, providing that her husband's power was notsufficient to prevent it. Miss Baker would often tell her that thelaw would compel her to return to her lord; that she would be forcedto be again the mistress of the house in Eaton Square, and again liveas the prosperous wife of the prosperous politician. To this Carolinehad answered but little; but that little had been in a manner thathad thoroughly frightened Miss Baker. Nothing, Lady Harcourt hadsaid, nothing should induce her to do so.

  "But if you cannot help yourself, Caroline?"

  "I will help myself. I will find a way to prevent, at any rate,that--" So much she had said, but nothing further: and so much MissBaker had repeated to George Bertram, fearing the worst.

  It was not till the day before the funeral that Caroline spoke to hercousin on the subject.

  "George," she said to him, "shall we be able to live here?--to keepon this house?"

  "You and Miss Baker, you mean?"

  "Yes; aunt and I. We should be as quiet here as anywhere,--and I amused to these people now."

  "It must depend on the will. The house was his own property; but,doubtless, Miss Baker could rent it."

  "We should have money enough for that, I suppose."

  "I should hope so. But we none of us know anything yet. All yourown money--the income, at least, coming from it--is in Sir Henry'shands."

  "I will never condescend to ask for that," she said. And then therewas a pause in their conversation.

  "George," she continued, after a minute or two, "you will not let mefall into his hands?"

  He could not help remembering that his own mad anger had alreadythrown her into the hands which she now dreaded so terribly. Oh, ifthose two last years might but pass away as a dream, and leave himfree to clasp her to his bosom as his own! But the errors of pastyears will not turn themselves to dreams. There is no more solidstuff in this material world than they are. They never melt away, orvanish into thin air.

  "Not if it can be avoided," he replied.

  "Ah! but it can be avoided; can it not? Say that you know it can. Donot make me despair. It cannot be that he has a right to imprisonme."

  "I hardly know what he has a right to do. But he is a stern man, andwill not easily be set aside."

  "But you will not desert me?"

  "No; I will not desert you. But--"

  "But what?"

  "For your sake, Caroline, we must regard what people will say. Ournames have been mixed together; but not as cousins."

  "I know, I know. But, George, you do not suppose I intended youshould live here? I was not thinking of that. I know that that maynot be."

  "For myself, I shall keep my chambers in London. I shall just be ableto starve on there; and then I shall make one more attempt at thebar."

  "And I know you will succeed. You are made for success at last; Ihave always felt that."

  "A man must live somehow. He must have some pursuit; and that is morewithin my reach than any other: otherwise I am not very anxious forsuccess. What is the use of it all? Of what use will it be to menow?"

  "Oh, George!"

  "Well, is it not true?"

  "Do not tell me that I have made shipwreck of all your fortune!"

  "No; I do not say that you have done it. It was I that drove the barkupon the rocks; I myself. But the timbers on that account are not theless shattered."

  "You should strive to throw off that feeling. You have so much beforeyou in the world."

  "I have striven. I have thought that I could love other women. I havetold others that I did love them; but my words were false, and theyand I knew that they were false. I have endeavoured to think of otherthings--of money, ambition, politics; but I can care for none ofthem. If ever a man cut his own throat, I have done so."

  She could not answer him at once, because she was now sobbing, andthe tears were streaming from her eyes. "And what have I done?" shesaid at last. "If your happiness is shattered, what must mine be? Isometimes think that I cannot live and bear it. With him," she added,after another pause, "I will not live and bear it. If it comes tothat, I will die, George;" and rising from her chair, she walkedacross the room, and took him sharply by the arm. "George," she said,"you will protect me from that; I say that you will save me fromthat."

  "Protect you!" said he, repeating her words, and hardly daring tolook into her face. How could he protect her? how save her from thelord she had chosen for herself? It might be easy enough for him tocomfort her now with promises; but he could not find it in his heartto hold out promises which he could not fulfil. If, after the readingof the will, Sir Henry Harcourt should insist on taking his wife backwith him, how could he protect her--he, of all men in the world?

  "You will not give me up to him!" she said, wildly. "If you do, myblood will lie upon your head. George! George! say that you will saveme from that! To whom can I look now but to you?"

  "I do not think he will force you away with him."

  "But if he does? Will you stand by and see me so used?"

  "Certainly not; but, Caroline--"

  "Well."

  "It will be better that I should not be driven to interfere. Theworld will forget that I am your cousin, but will remember that I wasonce to have been your husband."

  "The world! I am past caring for the world. It is nothing to me nowif all London knows how it is with me. I have loved, and thrown awaymy love, and tied myself to a brute. I have loved, and do love; butmy love can only be a sorrow to me. I do not fear the world; but Godand my conscience I do fear. Once, for one moment, George, I thoughtthat I would fear nothing. Once, for one moment, I was still willingto be yours; but I remembered what you would think of me if I shouldso fall, and I repented my baseness. May God preserve me from suchsin! But, for the world--why should you or I fear the world?"

  "It is for you that I fear it. It would grieve me to hear men speaklightly of your name."

  "Let them say what they please; the wretched are always trodden on.Let them say what they please. I deserved it all when I stood beforethe altar with that man; when I forbade my feet to run, or my mouthto speak, though I knew that I hated him, and owned it to my heart.What shall I do, George, to rid me of that sin?"

  She had risen and taken hold of his arm when first she asked him toprotect her, and she was still standing beside the chair on whichhe sat. He now rose also, and said a few gentle words, such as hethought might soothe her.

  "Yes," she continued, as though she did not heed him, "I said tomyself almost twenty times during that last night that I hated him inmy v
ery soul, that I was bound in honour even yet to leave him--inhonour, and in truth, and in justice. But my pride forbade it--mypride and my anger against you."

  "It is useless to think of it now, dear."

  "Ah, yes! quite useless. Would that I had done it then--then, at thelast moment. They asked me whether I would love that man. I whisperedinwardly to myself that I loathed him; but my tongue said 'Yes,' outloud. Can such a lie as that, told in God's holy temple, sworn beforehis own altar--can such perjury as that ever be forgiven me?

  "But I shall sin worse still if I go back to him," she continued,after a while. "I have no right, George, to ask anything from yourkindness as a cousin; but for your love's sake, your old love, whichyou cannot forget, I do ask you to save me from this. But it is thisrather that I ask, that you will save me from the need of savingmyself."

  That evening George sat up late alone, preparing for the morrow'swork, and trying to realize the position in which he found himself.Mr. Pritchett, had he been there, would have whispered into hisears, again and again, those ominous and all-important words, "Halfa million of money, Mr. George; half a million of money!" And,indeed, though Mr. Pritchett was not there, the remembrance of thoseoverflowing coffers did force themselves upon his mind. Who can saythat he, if placed as Bertram then was, would not think of them?

  He did think of them--not over deeply, nor with much sadness. He knewthat they were not to be his; neither the whole of them, nor any partof them. So much his uncle had told him with sufficient plainness. Heknew also that they might all have been his: and then he thought ofthat interview in which Mr. Bertram had endeavoured to beg from him apromise to do that for which his own heart so strongly yearned. Yes;he might have had the bride, and the money too. He might have beensitting at that moment with the wife of his bosom, laying out ingorgeous plans the splendour of their future life. It would be vainto say that there was no disappointment at his heart.

  But yet there was within his breast a feeling of gratifiedindependence which sufficed to support him. At least he might boastthat he had not sold himself; not aloud, but with that inwardboasting which is so common with most of us. There was a spiritwithin him endowed with a greater wealth than any which Mr. Pritchettmight be able to enumerate; and an inward love, the loss of whichcould hardly have been atoned for even by the possession of her whomhe had lost. Nor was this the passion which men call self-love. Itwas rather a vigorous knowledge of his own worth as a man; a strongwill, which taught him that no price was sufficient to buy his assentthat black should be reckoned white, or white be reckoned black.

  His uncle, he knew, had misunderstood him. In rejecting the old man'soffers, he had expressed his contempt for riches--for riches, thatis, as any counterbalance to independence. Mr. Bertram had taken whathe said for more than it was worth; and had supposed that his nephew,afflicted with some singular lunacy, disliked money for its own sake.George had never cared to disabuse his uncle's mind. Let him act ashe will, he had said to himself, it is not for me to dictate to him,either on the one side or the other. And so the error had gone on.

  To-morrow morning the will would be read, and George would have tolisten to the reading of it. He knew well enough that the worldlooked on him as his uncle's probable heir, and that he should haveto bear Mr. Pritchett's hardly expressed pity, Sir Henry's malignantpleasure, and Sir Lionel's loud disgust. All this was nearly as badto him as the remembrance of what he had lost; but by degrees hescrewed his courage up to the necessary point of endurance.

  "What is Pritchett to me, with his kind, but burdensome solicitude?what Sir Henry's mad anger? How can they affect my soul? or what evenis my father? Let him rave. I care not to have compassion on myself;why should his grief assail me--grief which is so vile, so base, sounworthy of compassion?"

  And thus schooling himself for the morrow, he betook himself to bed.