The Bertrams

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER XVI.

  EATON SQUARE.

  Sir Henry Harcourt had walked forth first from that room in whichthe will had been read, and he had walked forth with a threat inhis mouth. But he knew when making it that that threat was an emptybravado. The will was as valid as care and law could make it, and theex-solicitor-general knew very well that it was valid.

  He knew, moreover, that the assistance of no ordinary policeman wouldsuffice to enable him to obtain possession of his wife's person;and he knew also that if he had such possession, it would avail himnothing. He could not pay his debts with her, nor could he make hishome happy with her, nor could he compel her to be in any way ofservice to him. It had all been bravado. But when men are driven intocorners--when they are hemmed in on all sides, so that they have noescape, to what else than bravado can they have recourse? With SirHenry the game was up; and no one knew this better than himself.

  He was walking up and down the platform, with his hat over his brows,and his hands in his trousers-pockets, when Mr. Stickatit came up."We shall have a little rain this afternoon," said Mr. Stickatit,anxious to show that he had dropped the shop, and that having doneso, he was ready for any of the world's ordinary converse.

  Sir Henry scowled at him from under the penthouse lid of his hat, andpassed on in his walk, without answering a word. The thing had gonetoo far with him for affectation. He did not care to make sacrificenow to any of the world's graces. His inner mind was hostile to thatattorney of Bucklersbury, and he could dare to show that it was so.After that, Mr. Stickatit made no further remark to him.

  Yes; he could afford now to be forgetful of the world's graces, forthe world's heaviest cares were pressing very heavily on him. When aman finds himself compelled to wade through miles of mud, in whichhe sinks at every step up to his knees, he becomes forgetful of theblacking on his boots. Whether or no his very skin will hold out, isthen his thought. And so it was now with Sir Henry. Or we may perhapssay that he had advanced a step beyond that. He was pretty wellconvinced now that his skin would not hold out.

  He still owned his fine house in Eaton Square, and still kept hisseat for the Battersea Hamlets. But Baron Brawl, and such like men,no longer came willingly to his call; and his voice was no longermusical to the occupants of the Treasury bench. His reign had beensweet, but it had been very short. Prosperity he had known how toenjoy, but adversity had been too much for him.

  Since the day when he had hesitated to resign his high office, hispopularity had gone down like a leaden plummet in the salt water. Hehad become cross-grained, ill-tempered, and morose. The world hadspoken evil of him regarding his wife; and he had given the worldthe lie in a manner that had been petulant and injudicious. Theworld had rejoined, and Sir Henry had in every sense got the worstof it. Attorneys did not worship him as they had done, nor didvice-chancellors and lords-justices listen to him with such blandattention. No legal luminary in the memory of man had risen soquickly and fallen so suddenly. It had not been given to him topreserve an even mind when adversity came upon him.

  But the worst of his immediate troubles were his debts. He had boldlyresolved to take a high position in London; and he had taken it. Itnow remained that the piper should be paid, and the piper requiredpayment not in the softest language. While that old man was stillliving, or rather still dying, he had had an answer to give to allpipers. But that answer would suffice him no longer. Every clausein that will would be in the "Daily Jupiter" of the day afterto-morrow--the "Daily Jupiter" which had already given a wonderfullycorrect biography of the deceased great man.

  As soon as he reached the London station, he jumped into a cab, andwas quickly whirled to Eaton Square. The house felt dull, and cold,and wretched to him. It was still the London season, and Parliamentwas sitting. After walking up and down his own dining-room for halfan hour, he got into another cab, and was whirled down to the Houseof Commons. But there it seemed as though all the men round himalready knew of his disappointment--as though Mr. Bertram's will hadbeen read in a Committee of the whole House. Men spoke coldly to him,and looked coldly at him; or at any rate, he thought that they didso. Some debate was going on about the Ballot, at which members wererepeating their last year's speeches with new emphasis. Sir Henrytwice attempted to get upon his legs, but the Speaker would not havehis eye caught. Men right and left of him, who were minnows to him insuccess, found opportunities for delivering themselves; but the worldof Parliament did not wish at present to hear anything further fromSir Henry. So he returned to his house in Eaton Square.

  As soon as he found himself again in his own dining-room, he calledfor brandy, and drank off a brimming glass; he drank off one, andthen another. The world and solitude together were too much for him,and he could not bear them without aid. Then, having done this, hethrew himself into his arm-chair, and stared at the fireplace. Howtenfold sorrowful are our sorrows when borne in solitude! Some onehas said that grief is half removed when it is shared. How littlethat some one knew about it! Half removed! When it is duly sharedbetween two loving hearts, does not love fly off with eight-tenths ofit? There is but a small remainder left for the two to bear betweenthem.

  But there was no loving heart here. All alone he had to endure thecrushing weight of his misfortunes. How often has a man said, whenevil times have come upon him, that he could have borne it allwithout complaint, but for his wife and children? The truth, however,has been that, but for them, he could not have borne it at all.Why does any man suffer with patience "the slings and arrows ofoutrageous fortune," or put up with "the whips and scorns of time,"but that he does so for others, not for himself? It is not that weshould all be ready, each to make his own quietus with a bare bodkin;but that we should run from wretchedness when it comes in our path.Who fights for himself alone? Who would not be a coward, if none buthimself saw the battle--if none others were concerned in it?

  With Sir Henry, there was none other to see the battle, none to takeconcern in it. If solitude be bad in times of misery, what shall wesay of unoccupied solitude? of solitude, too, without employment forthe man who has been used to labour?

  Such was the case with him. His whole mind was out of tune. There wasnothing now that he could do; no work to which he could turn himself.He sat there gazing at the empty fireplace till the moments becameunendurably long to him. At last his chief suffering arose, not fromhis shattered hopes and lost fortunes, but from the leaden weight ofthe existing hour.

  What could he do to shake this off? How could he conquer thedepression that was upon him? He reached his hand to the paper thatwas lying near him, and tried to read; but his mind would not answerto the call. He could not think of the right honourable gentleman'sspeech, or of the very able leading article in which it wasdiscussed. Though the words were before his eyes, he still washarping back on the injustice of that will, or the iniquity of hiswife; on the imperturbable serenity of George Bertram, or the false,fleeting friends who had fawned on him in his prosperity, and nowthrew him over, as a Jonah, with so little remorse.

  He dropped the paper on the ground, and then again the feeling ofsolitude and of motionless time oppressed him with a weight as oftons of lead. He jumped from his chair, and paced up and down theroom; but the room was too confined. He took his hat, and pressing iton his brow, walked out into the open air. It was a beautiful springevening in May, and the twilight still lingered, though the hour waslate. He paced three times round the square, regardless of the noiseof carriages and the lights which flashed forth from the revelries ofhis neighbours. He went on and on, not thinking how he would stem thecurrent that was running against him so strongly; hardly trying tothink; but thinking that it would be well for him if he could makethe endeavour. Alas! he could not make it!

  And then again he returned to the house, and once more sat himselfdown in the same arm-chair. Was it come to this, that the world washopeless for him? One would have said not. He was in debt, it istrue; had fallen somewhat from a high position; had lost the dearesttreasure which a man can have; n
ot only the treasure, but the powerof obtaining such treasure; for the possession of a loving wifewas no longer a possibility to him. But still he had much; hisacknowledged capacity for law pleadings, his right to take high placeamong law pleaders, the trick of earning money in that fashion oflife; all these were still his. He had his gown and wig, and forensicbrow-beating, brazen scowl; nay, he still had his seat in Parliament.Why should he have despaired?

  But he did despair--as men do when they have none to whom theycan turn trustingly in their miseries. This man had had friendsby hundreds; good, serviceable, parliamentary, dinner-eating,dinner-giving friends; fine, pleasant friends, as such friends go. Hehad such friends by hundreds; but he had failed to prepare for stormytimes a leash or so of true hearts on which, in stress of weather, hecould throw himself with undoubting confidence. One such friend hemay have had once; but he now was among his bitterest enemies. Thehorizon round him was all black, and he did despair.

  How many a man lives and dies without giving any sign whether he bean arrant coward, or a true-hearted, brave hero! One would have saidof this man, a year since, that he was brave enough. He would standup before a bench of judges, with the bar of England round him, andshout forth, with brazen trumpet, things that were true, or thingsthat were not true; striking down a foe here to the right, andslaughtering another there to the left, in a manner which, for soyoung a man, filled beholders with admiration. He could talk by thehour among the Commons of England, and no touch of modesty would everencumber his speech. He could make himself great, by making otherslittle, with a glance. But, for all that, he was a coward. Misfortunehad come upon him, and he was conquered at once.

  Misfortune had come upon him, and he found it unendurable--yes,utterly unendurable. The grit and substance of the man within werenot sufficient to bear the load which fate had put upon them. As doesa deal-table in similar case, they were crushed down, collapsed, andfell in. The stuff there was not good mahogany, or sufficient hardwood, but an unseasoned, soft, porous, deal-board, utterly unfit tosustain such pressure. An unblushing, wordy barrister may be veryfull of brass and words, and yet be no better than an unseasonedporous deal-board, even though he have a seat in Parliament.

  He rose from his chair, and again took a glass of brandy. Howimpossible it is to describe the workings of a mind in such a stateof misery as that he then endured! What--what! was there no releasefor him? no way, spite of this black fit, to some sort of rest--tocomposure of the most ordinary kind? Was there nothing that he coulddo which would produce for him, if not gratification, then at leastquiescence? To the generality of men of his age, there are resourcesin misfortune. Men go to billiard-tables, or to cards, or theyseek relief in woman's society, from the smiles of beauty, or alaughter-moving tongue. But Sir Henry, very early in life, had thrownthose things from him. He had discarded pleasure, and wedded himselfto hard work at a very early age. If, at the same time, he had weddedhimself to honesty also, and had not discarded his heart, it mighthave been well with him.

  He again sat down, and then he remained all but motionless for sometwenty minutes. It had now become dark, but he would have no lightslit. The room was very gloomy with its red embossed paper and darkruby curtains. As his eye glanced round during the last few momentsof the dusk, he remembered how he had inquired of his Caroline howmany festive guests might sit at their ease in that room, and eat thedainties which he, with liberal hand, would put before them. Wherewas his Caroline now? where were his guests? what anxiety now hadhe that they should have room enough? what cared he now for theirdainties?

  It was not to be borne. He clasped his hand to his brow, and risingfrom his chair, he went upstairs to his dressing-room. For whatpurpose, he had not even asked himself. Of bed, and rest, andsleep he had had no thought. When there, he again sat down, andmechanically dressed himself--dressed himself as though he weregoing out to some gay evening-party--was even more than ordinarilyparticular about his toilet. One white handkerchief he threw asideas spoiled in the tying. He looked specially to his boots, and withscrupulous care brushed the specks of dust from the sleeve of hiscoat. It was a blessing, at any rate, to have something to do. He didthis, and then--

  When he commenced his work, he had, perhaps, some remote intention ofgoing somewhere. If so, he had quickly changed his mind, for, havingfinished his dressing, he again sat himself down in an arm-chair.The gas in his dressing-room had been lighted, and here he was ableto look around him and see what resources he had to his hand. Oneresource he did see.

  Ah, me! Yes, he saw it, and his mind approved--such amount of mindas he had then left to him. But he waited patiently awhile--withgreater patience than he had hitherto exhibited that day. He waitedpatiently, sitting in his chair for some hour or so; nay, it may havebeen for two hours, for the house was still, and the servants werein bed. Then, rising from his chair, he turned the lock of hisdressing-room door. It was a futile precaution, if it meant anything,for the room had another door, which opened to his wife's chamber,and the access on that side was free and open.

  Early on the following morning, George Bertram went up to town,and was driven directly from the station to his dull, dingy, dirtychambers in the Temple. His chambers were not as those of practisinglawyers. He kept no desk there, and no servant peculiar to himself.It had suited him to have some resting-place for his foot, that hecould call his home; and when he was there, he was waited upon by theold woman who called herself the laundress--probably from the fact ofher never washing herself or anything else.

  When he reached this sweet home on the morning in question, he wastold by the old woman that a very express messenger had been therethat morning, and that, failing to find him, the express messengerhad gone down to Hadley. They had, therefore, passed each other uponthe road. The express messenger had left no message, but the womanhad learned that he had come from Eaton Square.

  "And he left no letter?"

  "No, sir; no letter. He had no letter; but he was very eager aboutit. It was something of importance sure--ly."

  It might have been natural that, under such circumstances, Georgeshould go off to Eaton Square; but it struck him as very probablethat Sir Henry might desire to have some communication with him, butthat he, when he should know what that communication was, would in nodegree reciprocate that desire. The less that he had to say to SirHenry Harcourt at present, perhaps, the better. So he made up hismind that he would not go to Eaton Square.

  After he had been in his rooms for about half an hour, he waspreparing to leave them, and had risen with that object, when heheard a knock at his door, and quickly following the knock, the youngattorney who had read the will was in his room.

  "You have heard the news, Mr. Bertram?" said he.

  "No, indeed! What news? I have just come up."

  "Sir Henry Harcourt has destroyed himself. He shot himself in his ownhouse yesterday, late at night, after the servants had gone to bed!"

  George Bertram fell back, speechless, on to the sofa behind him, andstared almost unconsciously at the lawyer.

  "It is too true, sir. That will of Mr. Bertram's was too much forhim. His reason must have failed him, and now he is no more." Andso was made clear what were the tidings with which that expressmessenger had been laden.

  There was little or nothing more to be said on the matter betweenGeorge Bertram and Mr. Stickatit. The latter declared that the facthad been communicated to him on authority which admitted of no doubt;and the other, when he did believe, was but little inclined to sharehis speculations on it with the lawyer.

  Nor was there much for Bertram to do--not at once. The story hadalready gone down to Hadley--had already been told there to her towhom it most belonged; and Bertram felt that it was not at presenthis province to say kind things to her, or seek to soften theviolence of the shock. No, not at present.