The Bertrams

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER XVII.

  CONCLUSION.

  Methinks it is almost unnecessary to write this last chapter. Thestory, as I have had to tell it, is all told. The object has beenmade plain--or, if not, can certainly not be made plainer in theselast six or seven pages. The results of weakness and folly--of suchweakness and such folly as is too customary among us--have beendeclared. What further fortune fate had in store for those whosenames have been familiar to us, might be guessed by all. But,nevertheless, custom, and the desire of making an end of theundertaken work, and in some sort completing it, compel me to thisconcluding chapter.

  Within six weeks after the death of Sir Henry Harcourt, the vicar ofHurst Staple was married to Adela Gauntlet. Every critic who weighsthe demerits of these pages--nay, every reader, indulgent orotherwise, who skims through them, will declare that the gentlemanwas not worthy of the lady. I hope so, with all my heart. I dosincerely trust that they will think so. If not, my labour has beenin vain.

  Mr. Arthur Wilkinson was not worthy of the wife with whom a kindProvidence had blessed him--was not worthy of her in the usualacceptation of the word. He was not a bad man, as men go; but shewas--. I must not trust myself to praise her, or I shall be told, notaltogether truly, that she was of my own creating.

  He was not worthy of her. That is, the amount of wealth of characterwhich he brought into that life partnership was, when counted up,much less than her contribution. But that she was fully satisfiedwith her bargain--that she was so then and so continued--was a partof her worthiness. If ever she weighed herself against him, the scalein 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 bosomshe ever recognized him as her head and master, as the pole-star towhich she must turn, compelled by laws of adamant. Worthy orunworthy, he was all that she expected, all that she desired, bone ofher bone, flesh of her flesh, the father of her bairns, the lord ofher bosom, the staff of her maintenance, the prop of her house.

  And what man was ever worthy, perfectly worthy, of a pure, true, andhonest girl? Man's life admits not of such purity and honesty; rarelyof such truth. But one would not choose that such flowers shouldremain unplucked because no hands are fit to touch them.

  As to the future life of the vicar of Hurst Staple and his wife, itis surely unnecessary to say much--or perhaps anything. It cannot betold that they became suddenly rich. No prime minister, won by herbeauty or virtue, placed him upon the bench, or even offered him adeanery. Vicar of Hurst Staple he is still, and he still pays the oldallowance out of his well-earned income to his mother, who lives withher daughters at Littlebath. One young lad after another, orgenerally two at a time, share the frugal meals at the parsonage; andour friend is sometimes heard to boast that none of these guests ofhis have as yet been plucked. Of the good things of the world, thereis quite enough for her; and we may perhaps say nearly enough forhim. Who, then, shall croak that they are poor?

  And now and then they walk along the river to West Putford; for amongtheir choicest blessings is that of having a good neighbour in theold rectory. And walking there, how can they but think of old sorrowsand present joys?

  "Ah!" she whispered to him one day, as they crept along the reedymargin 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 nottrust me then."

  "I could not trust myself."

  "I should have trusted you in all things, in everything. As I donow."

  And then he cut at the rushes with his walking-stick, as he had donebefore; 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 forlong days yet to come; and may he learn to know that God has givenhim an angel to watch at his side!

  Of the rosy Miss Todd, there is nothing to be said but this, that sheis still Miss Todd, and still rosy. Whether she be now at Littlebath,or Baden, or Dieppe, or Harrogate, at New York, Jerusalem, orFrazer's River, matters but little. Where she was last year, thereshe 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; andgo where she will, she, at any rate, does more good to others thanothers 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--ofthem and of Miss Baker, who need hardly now be considered a personageapart from her niece. No sooner was the first shock of Sir HenryHarcourt's death past, than Bertram felt that it was impossible forhim at the present moment to see the widow. It was but a few dayssince she had declared her abhorrence of the man to whom her fate waslinked, apparently for life, and who was now gone. And thatdeclaration had implied also that her heart still belonged to him--tohim, George Bertram--him to whom it had first been given--to him,rather, who had first made himself master of it almost without gifton 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, aswell as he against her; that she had sinned the first, and perhapsthe deepest. He would have loved her, if she would have permitted it;have loved her with a cold, callous, worldly love; but still withsuch love as he had to give. But she had married him resolving togive no love at all, knowing that she could give none; almostboasting 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 theburden was very heavy. All this Bertram understood, more thoroughly,perhaps, than she did; and for many weeks he abstained altogetherfrom going to Hadley. He met Miss Baker repeatedly in London, andlearned from her how Lady Harcourt bore herself. How she bore herselfoutwardly, that is. The inward bearing of such a woman in such acondition it was hardly given to Miss Baker to read. She was well inhealth, Miss Baker said, but pale and silent, stricken, and for hoursmotionless. "Very silent," Miss Baker would say. "She will sit for awhole morning without speaking a word; thinking--thinking--thinking."Yes; she had something of which, to think. It was no wonder that sheshould 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 sobbedviolently. They were the first tears she had shed since the news hadreached her.

  She did feel, in very deed, that the man's blood was on her head. Butfor 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 thisutter destruction have come upon him? Or, having sworn to cherish himas his wife, had she softened her heart towards him, would this deedhave been done? No; fifty times a day she would ask herself thequestion; and as often would she answer it by the same words. Theman's blood was upon her head.

  For many a long day Bertram said nothing to her of her actual stateof existence. He spoke neither of her past life as a wife nor herpresent life as a widow. The name of that man, whom living they hadboth despised and hated, was never mentioned between them during allthese months.

  And yet he was frequently with her. He was with her aunt, rather, andthus she became used to have him sitting in the room beside her. Whenin her presence, he would talk of their money-matters, of the old manand his will, in which, luckily, the name of Sir Henry Harcourt wasnot mentioned; and at last they brought themselves to bettersubjects, higher hopes--hopes that might yet be high, and solace thatwas trustworthy, in spite of all that was come and gone.

  And she would talk to him of himself; of himself as divided from herin all things, except in cousinhood. And, at her instigation, heagain 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. inthe blessed quiet of his evening days; but a Gamaliel was notwantin
g, and George sat himself down once more in the porch. We maybe sure that he did not sit altogether in vain.

  And then Adela--Mrs. Wilkinson we should now call her--visited thetwo ladies in their silent retirement at Hadley. What words wereuttered between her and Lady Harcourt were heard by no other humanear; but they were not uttered without effect. She who had been sostricken could dare again to walk to church, and bear the eyes of thelittle 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 forever.

  It was five years after that night in Eaton Square when GeorgeBertram again asked her--her who had once been CarolineWaddington--to be his wife. But, sweet ladies, sweetest, fairestmaidens, there were no soft, honey words of love then spoken; nohappy, eager vows, which a novelist may repeat, hoping to move thesoft sympathy of your bosoms. It was a cold, sad, dreary matter thatoffer of his; her melancholy, silent acquiescence, and that marriagein 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 wasright. They now live together very quietly, very soberly, but yethappily. They have not Adela's blessings. No baby lies in Caroline'sarms, no noisy boy climbs on the arm of George Bertram's chair. Theirhouse is childless, and very, very quiet; but they are not unhappy.

  Reader, can you call to mind what was the plan of life which CarolineWaddington had formed in the boldness of her young heart? Can youremember the aspirations of George Bertram, as he sat upon the Mountof 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.