Now, had the major, in boasting of his favours, boasted also of his engagement, no harm perhaps might have come of it. The sweet good-nature of the widow might have overlooked that offence. But he had boasted of the favours and pooh-poohed the engagement! "Hinc illæ lacrymæ." And who shall say that the widow was wrong? And as to the other widow, Mrs. Price, she was tired of Captain M'Gramm. A little fact had transpired about Captain M'Gramm, namely, that he was going home to his wife. And therefore the two ladies, who had conspired together to be civil to the two warriors, now conspired together to be uncivil to them. In England such things are done, as it were, behind the scenes: there these little quarrels are managed in private. But a passage home from India admits of but little privacy; there is no behind the scenes. The two widows were used to this, and quarrelled with their military admirers in public without any compunction.
"Hinc illæ lacrymæ." But the major was not inclined to shed his tears without an effort. He had pooh-poohed the idea of marrying Mrs. Cox; but like many another man in similar circumstances, he was probably willing enough to enter into such an arrangement now that the facility of doing so was taken from him. It is possible that Mrs. Cox, when she turned her pretty shoulder on Major Biffin, may herself have understood this phasis of human nature.
The major was a handsome man, with well-brushed hair, well-trimmed whiskers, a forehead rather low, but very symmetrical, a well-shaped nose, and a small, pursy mouth. The worst of his face was that you could by no means remember it. But he knew himself to be a handsome man, and he could not understand how he could be laid aside for so ugly a lout as this stranger from England. Captain M'Gramm was not a handsome man, and he was aware that he fought his battle under the disadvantage of a wife. But he had impudence enough to compensate him for this double drawback.
During this first dinner, Arthur Wilkinson was not more than coldly civil to Mrs. Price; but Bertram became after a while warmly civil to Mrs. Cox. It is so very nice to be smiled on by the prettiest woman in the room; and it was long since he had seen the smile of any pretty woman! Indeed, for the last eighteen months he had had but little to do with such smiles.
Before dinner was over, Mrs. Cox had explained to Bertram that both she and her friend Mrs. Price were in deep affliction. They had recently lost their husbands—the one, by cholera; that was poor dear Cox, who had been collector of the Honourable Company's taxes at Panjabee. Whereas, Lieutenant Price, of the 71st Native Bengal Infantry, had succumbed to—here Mrs. Cox shook her head, and whispered, and pointed to the champagne-glass which Bertram was in the act of filling for her. Poor Cox had gone just eight months; but Price had taken his last glass within six. And so Bertram knew all about it.
And then there was a great fuss in packing the travellers into the wooden boxes. It seems that they had all made up their own parties by sixes, that being the number of which one box was supposed to be capable. But pretty women are capricious, and neither Mrs. Price nor Mrs. Cox were willing to abide by any such arrangement. When the time came for handing them in, they both objected to the box pointed out to them by Major Biffin—refused to be lifted in by the arms of Captain M'Gramm—got at last into another vacant box with the assistance of our friends—summoned their dingy nurses and babies into the same box (for each was so provided)—and then very prettily made way for Mr. Bertram and Mr. Wilkinson. And so they went across the desert.
Then they all stayed a night at Cairo, and then they went on to Alexandria. And by the time that they were embarked in a boat together, on their way to that gallant first-class steamer, the "Cagliari," they were as intimate as though they had travelled round the world together, and had been as long about it as Captain Cook.
"What will you take with you, Mrs. Cox?" said Bertram, as he stood up in the boat with the baby on one arm, while with the other he handed the lady towards the ship's ladder.
"A good ducking," said Mrs. Cox, with a cheery laugh, as at the moment a dashing wave covered them with its spray. "And I've got it too, with a vengeance. Ha! ha! Take care of the baby, whatever you do; and if she falls over, mind you go after her." And with another little peal of silver ringing laughter, she tripped up the side of the ship, and Bertram, with the baby, followed after her.
"She is such a giddy thing," said Mrs. Price, turning her soft eyes on poor Arthur Wilkinson. "Oh, laws! I know I shall be drowned. Do hold me." And Arthur Wilkinson did hold her, and nearly carried her up into the ship. As he did so, his mind would fly off to Adela Gauntlet; but his arms and legs were not the less at the service of Mrs. Price.
"And now look after the places," said Mrs. Cox; "you haven't a moment to lose. And look here, Mr. Bertram, mind, I won't sit next to Major Biffin. And, for heaven's sake, don't let us be near that fellow M'Gramm." And so Bertram descended into thesalonto place their cards in the places at which they were to sit for dinner. "Two and two; opposite to each other," sang out Mrs. Cox, as he went. There was a sweetness in her voice, a low, mellow cheeriness in her tone, which, combined with her beauty, went far to atone for the nature of what she said; and Bertram not unwillingly obeyed her behests.
"Oh, my blessed baby!" said Mrs. Price, as the nurse handed her the child—which, however, she immediately handed back. "How can I thank you enough, Mr. Wilkinson? What should we have done without you? I wonder whether it's near tiffin. I am so faint."
"Shall I fetch you anything?" said he.
"If you could get me a glass of porter. But I don't think they'll give it you. They are so uncivil!"
Arthur went for the beer; but went in vain. The steward said that lunch would be ready at twelve o'clock.
"They are such brutes!" said Mrs. Price. "Well, I suppose I must wait." And she again turned her eyes upon Arthur, and he again thought of Adela Gauntlet.
And then there was the ordinary confusion of a starting ship. Men and women were hurrying about after their luggage, asking all manner of unreasonable questions. Ladies were complaining of their berths, and servants asking where onhearth they were to sleep. Gentlemen were swearing that they had been shamefully doubled up—that is, made to lie with two or three men in the same cabin; and friends were contriving to get commodious seats for dinner. The officers of the ship were all busy, treating with apparent indifference the thousand questions that were asked them on every side; and all was bustle, confusion, hurry, and noise.
And then they were off. The pistons of the engine moved slowly up and down, the huge cranks revolved, and the waters under the bow rippled and gave way. They were off, and the business of the voyage commenced. The younger people prepared for their flirtations, the mothers unpacked their children's clothes, and the elderly gentlemen lighted their cigars.
"What very queer women they are!" said Arthur, walking the deck with his cousin.
"But very pretty, and very agreeable. I like them both."
"Don't you think them too free and easy?"
"Ah, you must not judge of them by women who have lived in England, who have always had the comfort of well-arranged homes. They have been knocked about, ill used, and forced to bear hardships as men bear them; but still there is about them so much that is charming. They are so frank!"
"Yes, very frank," said Arthur.
"It is well to see the world on all sides," said George. "For myself, I think that we are lucky to have come across them—that is, if Major Biffin does not cut my throat."
"I hope Captain M'Gramm won't cut mine. He looked as though he would."
"Did you ever see such an ass as that Biffin? I don't wonder that she has become sick of him; and then he has behaved so very badly to her. I really do pity her. She has told me all about it."
"And so has Mrs. Price told me all about Captain M'Gramm."
"Has she? Well! It seems that he, Biffin, has taken advantage of her frank, easy manner, and talked of her to every man in the ship. I think she has been quite right to cut him." And so they discussed the two ladies.
And at last Mrs. Price got her porter, and Mrs. Cox got her pale ale. "I do like pale ale," said she; "I suppose it's vulgar, but I can't help that. What amuses me is, that so many ladies drink it who are quite ashamed to say they like it."
"They take it for their health's sake," said Bertram.
"Oh, yes; of course they do. Mrs. Bangster takes her half-pint of brandy every night for her health's sake, no doubt. Would you believe it, Mr. Bertram, the doctor absolutely had to take her out of the saloon one night in the 'Lahore'? Didn't he, Mrs. Price?"
"Indeed he did. I never was so shocked.—Just a little drop more to freshen it." And Mr. Wilkinson gave her another glass of porter.
Before they reached Malta, all the passengers from India had agreed that Mrs. Cox and Bertram would certainly make a match of it, and that Wilkinson was also in danger.
"Did you ever see such flirts?" said Mrs. Bangster to Dr. O'Shaughnessey. "What an escape Biffin has had!"
"She is a deuced pretty woman, Mrs. Bangster; and I'll tell you what: Biffin would give one of his eyes to get her back again if he could."
"Laws, doctor! You don't mean to tell me that he ever meant to marry that thing?"
"I don't know what he meant before; but he would mean it now, if he got the opportunity."
Here Captain M'Gramm joined them. "Well, Mac," said the doctor, "what news with the widow?"
"Widow! they'd all be widows if they could, I believe."
"Indeed, I wouldn't, for one," said Mrs. Bangster. "B. is a deal too well off where he is. Ha! ha! ha!"
"But what about Mrs. Price—eh, Mac?" continued the doctor.
"There she is. You'd better go and ask her yourself. You don't suppose I ever cared about such a woman as that? Only I do say this: if she goes on behaving herself in that way, some one ought to speak to the captain."
But Mrs. Cox and Mrs. Price went on their own way, heeding such menaces not at all; and by the time they had reached Malta, they had told the whole history of their lives to the two gentlemen—and perhaps something more.
At Malta they remained about six hours, and the four dined on shore together. Bertram bought for them Maltese veils and bad cameos; and Wilkinson, misled by such an example, was forced to do the same. These treasures were not hidden under a bushel when they returned to the ship; and Dr. O'Shaughnessey, Mrs. Bangster, the fat judge, and a host of others, were more sure than ever that both the widows were re-engaged.
And Arthur Wilkinson was becoming frightened in his mind. "Upon my word," said he, as he and George were walking the deck at sunrise the next morning, "upon my word, I am getting very tired of this woman, and I really think we are making a show of ourselves."
"Making a show of ourselves! What do you mean?"
"Why, walking with them every day, and always sitting next to them."
"As to sitting next to them, we can't help that. Everybody always sits in the same place, and one must sit next some one; and it wouldn't be kind to leave them to walk alone."
"I think we may overdo it, you know."
"Ah, well," said George, "you have some one else to think about. I have no one, unless it be this widow. She is kind to me, and as to what the world says, I care nothing about it."
On that day Wilkinson was busy with his books, and did not walk with Mrs. Price—a piece of neglect which sat uneasily on that lady's mind. But at ten o'clock, as usual, Bertram was pacing the deck with Mrs. Cox.
"What is the matter with your friend?" said she.
"Oh, nothing. He is home-sick, I suppose."
"I hope he has not quarrelled with Minnie." For the two ladies had come to call each other by their Christian names when they were in company with the gentlemen; and Bertram had once or twice used that of Mrs. Cox, not exactly in speaking to her, but in speaking of her in her presence.
"Oh dear, no," said Bertram.
"Because it is so odd he should not give her his arm as usual. I suppose you will be treating me so as we draw nearer to Southampton?" And she looked up at him with a bewitching smile, and pressed gently on his arm, and then let her eyes fall upon the deck.
My brother, when you see these tricks played upon other men, the gall rises black within your breast, and you loudly condemn wiles which are so womanly, but which are so unworthy of women. But how do you feel when they are played upon yourself? The gall is not so black, the condemnation less loud; your own merit seems to excuse the preference which is shown you; your heart first forgives and then applauds. Is it not so, my brother, with you? So it was, at least, with George Bertram.
"What! treating you with neglect, because we are soon to part?"
"Yes, exactly so; just that; because we are soon to part. That is what makes it so bitter. We have been such good friends, haven't we?"
"And why should we not remain so? Why should we talk of parting? We are both going to England."
"England! Yes, but England is a large place. Come, let us lean on the taffrail, and look at the dolphins. There is that horrid fellow eyeing me, as he always does; Major Biffin, I mean. Is he not exactly like a barber's block? I do so hate him!"
"But he doesn't hate you, Mrs. Cox."
"Doesn't he? Well then, he may if he likes. But don't let's talk of him. Talk to me about England, Mr. Bertram. Sometimes I do so long to be there—and then sometimes I don't."
"You don't—why not?"
"Do you?"
"No, I do not; I tell you frankly. I'd sooner be here with you to talk to, with you to look at."
"Psha, Mr. Bertram! what nonsense! I can't conceive that any woman can ever be worth looking at on board a ship—much less such a one as I! I know you're dying to get home."
"I might be if I had a home."
"Is your home with that uncle of yours?" She had heard so much of his family; but he had as yet spoken to her no word about Caroline. "I wonder what he would say if he could see you now leaning here and talking to me."
"If he has any knowledge of human nature, he would say that I was a very happy fellow."
"And are you?" As she asked him, she looked up into his face with such an arch smile that he could not find it in his heart to condemn her.
"What will you think of my gallantry if I say no?"
"I hate gallantry; it is all bosh. I wish I were a man, and that I could call you Bertram, and that you would call me Cox."
"I would sooner call you Annie."
"Would you? But that wouldn't be right, would it?" And her hand, which was still within his arm, was pressed upon it with ever so light a pressure.
"I don't know why it should be wrong to call people by their Christian names. Should you be angry if I called you Annie?"
"That might depend— Tell me this, Mr. Bertram: How many other ladies do you call by their Christian names?"
"A dozen or two."
"I'll be bound you do."
"And may I add you to the number?"
"No, Mr. Bertram; certainly not."
"May I not? So intimate as we have become, Ithought—"
"I will not be one of a dozen or two." And as she answered him, she dropped her tone of raillery, and spoke in a low, soft, sweet voice. It sounded so sweet on Bertram's ear.
"But if there be not one—not one other; not one other now—what then, Annie?"
"Not one other now?—Did you say now? Then there has been one."
"Yes; there has been one."
"And she—what of her?"
"It is a tale I cannot tell."
"Not to me? I should not like you the less for telling me. Do tell me." And she pressed her hand again upon his arm. "I have known there was something that made you unhappy."
"Have you?"
"Oh, yes. I have long known that. And I have so wished to be a comfort to you—if I could. I, too, have had great suffering."
"I am sure you have."
"Ah! yes. I did not suffer less because he had been unkind to me." And she put her handkerchief to her eyes, and then brought her hand again upon his arm. "But tell me of her—your one. She is not your one now—is she, Mr. Bertram?"
"No, Annie; not now."
"Is she—?" And she hesitated to ask whether the lady were dead, or married to some one else. It might, after all, only be a lovers' quarrel.
"I drove her from me—and now she is a wife."
"Drove her from you! Alas! alas!" said Mrs. Cox, with the sweetest emphasis of sympathy. But the result of her inquiries was not unsatisfactory to her.
"I don't know why I should have told you this," said he.
"I am so glad you have," she replied.
"But now that I have told you—"
"Well—"
"Now may I call you Annie?"
"You have done so two or three times."
"But may I?"
"If it please you, you may." And the words, though whispered very low, fell clearly upon his ear.
"Dearest Annie!"
"But I did not say you might call me that."
"But you are."
"Am I?"
"Dearest—all but she. Will that make you angry with me?"
"No, not angry; but—"
"But what?"
She looked up at him, pouting with her lip. There was a half-smile on her mouth, and half a tear in her eyes; and her shoulder leant against him, and her heart palpitated. She had never been so beautiful, never so attractive.
"But what—? What would you say, Annie?"
"I would say this.—But I know you will think me very bold."
"I shall not think you too bold if you will say the truth."
"Then I would say this—that if I loved a man, I could love him quite as fondly as she loved you."
"Could you, Annie?"
"I could. But he should not drive me from him, as you say you did her; never—never—never. He might kill me if he would; but if I once had told him that I loved him, I would never leave him afterwards."
"Tell me so, Annie."
"No, Mr. Bertram. We have not known each other long enough." And now she took her hand from his arm, and let it drop by her side.
"Tell me so, dear Annie," he repeated; and he tried to regain her hand.
"There is the luncheon-bell; and since Mr. Wilkinson won't go to Mrs. Price, I must do so."
"Shall I go?" said he.
"Do; I will go down by myself."
"But you love me, Annie?—say that you love me."
"Nonsense. Here is that fellow, Biffin. Do you go for Mrs. Price—leave me to myself."
"Don't go down stairs with him."
"You may be sure I won't—nor with you either this morning. I am half inclined to be angry with you." And so saying, she moved away.
"Ah, me! what have I done!" said Bertram to himself, as he went upon his mission. "But she is a sweet creature; as beautiful as Hebe; and why should I be wretched for ever?"
She had moved towards the companion-ladder, and as she did so, Major Biffin followed her.
"Will you not allow me to give you an arm down stairs?" said he.
"Thank you, Major Biffin. It is rather crowded, and I can go better alone."
"You did not find the stairs in the 'Lahore' too crowded."
"Oh, yes, I did; very often. And the 'Lahore' and the 'Cagliari' are different things."
"Very different it seems. But the sea itself is not so fickle as a woman." And Major Biffin became a picture of injured innocence.
"And the land is not so dry as a man, Major Biffin; that is, some men. Ha! ha! ha! Good-morning, Major Biffin." And so saying, she went down by herself.
On the next day, Arthur still preferred his book to walking with Mrs. Price; and that lady was once again seen with her arm in that of Captain M'Gramm's. This made a considerable consternation in the ship; and in the afternoon there was a slight quarrel between the two ladies.
"And so, Minnie, you are going to take up with that fellow again?"
"No; I am not. But I don't choose to be left altogether to myself."
"I never would have anything to say to a married man that drops his wife as he does."
"I don't care two straws for him, or his wife. But I don't want to make myself conspicuous by a quarrel."
"I'm sure Wilkinson will be annoyed," said Mrs. Cox.
"He's a muff," said Mrs. Price. "And, if I am not mistaken, I know some one else who is another."
"Who do you mean, Mrs. Price?"
"I mean Mr. Bertram, Mrs. Cox."
"Oh, I dare say he is a muff; that's because he's attentive to me instead of leaving me to myself, as somebody does to somebody else. I understand all about that, my dear."
"You understand a great deal, I have no doubt," said Mrs. Price. "I always heard as much."
"It seems to me you understand nothing, or you wouldn't be walking about with Captain M'Gramm," said Mrs. Cox. And then they parted, before blood was absolutely drawn between them.
At dinner that day they were not very comfortable together. Mrs. Price accepted Mr. Wilkinson's ordinary courtesies in a stately way, thanking him for filling her glass and looking after her plate, in a tone and with a look which made it plain to all that things were not progressing well between them. George and his Annie did get on somewhat better; but even they were not quite at their ease. Mrs. Cox had said, before luncheon, that she had not known Mr. Bertram long enough to declare her love for him. But the hours between luncheon and dinner might have been a sufficient prolongation of the period of their acquaintance. George, however, had not repeated the question; and had, indeed, not been alone with her for five minutes during the afternoon.
That evening, Wilkinson again warned his friend that he might be going too far with Mrs. Cox; that he might say that which he could neither fulfil nor retract. For Wilkinson clearly conceived it to be impossible that Bertram should really intend to marry this widow.
"And why should I not marry her?" said George.
"She would not suit you, nor make you happy."
"What right have I to think that any woman will suit me? or what chance is there that any woman will make me happy? Is it not all leather and prunella? She is pretty and clever, soft and feminine. Where shall I find a nicer toy to play with? You forget, Arthur, that I have had my day-dreams, and been roused from them somewhat roughly. With you, the pleasure is still to come."
After this they turned in and went to bed.
Early in their journeyings together, Mrs. Cox had learned from George that he was possessed of an eccentric old uncle; and not long afterwards, she had learned from Arthur that this uncle was very rich, that he was also childless, and that he was supposed to be very fond of his nephew. Putting all these things together, knowing that Bertram had no profession, and thinking that therefore he must be a rich man, she had considered herself to be acting with becoming prudence in dropping Major Biffin for his sake.
But on the day after the love scene recorded in the last chapter, a strange change came over the spirit of her dream. "I am a very poor man," Bertram had said to her, after making some allusion to what had taken place.
"If that were all, that would make no difference with me," said Mrs. Cox, magnanimously.
"If that were all, Annie! What does that mean?"
"If I really loved a man, I should not care about his being poor. But your poverty is what I should call riches, I take it."
"No, indeed. My poverty is absolute poverty. My own present income is about two hundred a year."
"Oh, I don't understand the least about money myself. I never did. I was such a child when I was married to Cox. But I thought, Mr. Bertram, your uncle was very rich."
"So he is; as rich as a gold-mine. But we are not very good friends—at any rate, not such friends as to make it probable that he will leave me a farthing. He has a granddaughter of his own."
This, and a little more of the same kind, taught Mrs. Cox that it behoved her to be cautious. That Major Biffin had a snug little income over and above that derived from his profession was a fact that had been very well ascertained. That he was very dry, as dry as a barber's block, might be true. That George Bertram was an amusing fellow, and made love in much better style than the major, certainly was true. But little as she might know about money, Mrs. Cox did know this—that when poverty comes in at the door, love flies out at the window; that eating and drinking are stern necessities; that love in a cottage is supposed to be, what she would call, bosh; and that her own old home used to be very unpleasant when Cox was in debt, and those eastern Jewish harpies would come down upon him with his overdue bills. Considering all this, Mrs. Cox thought it might be well not to ratify her engagement with Mr. Bertram till after they should reach Southampton. What if Biffin—the respectable Biffin—should again come forward!
And so they went on for a few days longer. Bertram, when they were together, called her Annie, and once again asked her whether she loved him. "Whether I do, or whether I do not, I shall give you no answer now," she had said, half laughing. "We have both been very foolish already, and it is time that we should begin to have our senses. Isn't it?" But still she sat next him at dinner, and still she walked with him. Once, indeed, he found her saying a word to Major Biffin, as that gentleman stood opposite to her chair upon the deck. But as soon as the major's back was turned, she said to Bertram, "I think the barber's block wants to be new curled, doesn't it? I declare the barber's man has forgotten to comb out it's whiskers." So that Bertram had no ground for jealousy of the major.
Somewhere about this time, Mrs. Price deserted them at dinner. She was going to sit, she said, with Mrs. Bangster, and Dr. Shaughnessey, and the judge. Mrs. Bangster had made a promise to old Mr. Price in England to look after her; and, therefore, she thought it better to go back to Mrs. Bangster before they reached Southampton. They were now past Gibraltar. So on that day, Mrs. Price's usual chair at dinner was vacant, and Wilkinson, looking down the tables, saw that room had been made for her next to Dr. Shaughnessey. And on her other side, sat Captain M'Gramm, in despite of Mrs. Bangster's motherly care and of his own wife at home. On the following morning, Mrs. Price and Captain M'Gramm were walking the deck together just as they had been used to do on the other side of Suez.
And so things went on till the day before their arrival at Southampton. Mrs. Cox still kept her seat next to Bertram, and opposite to Wilkinson, though no other lady remained to countenance her. She and Bertram still walked the deck arm in arm; but their whisperings were not so low as they had been, nor were their words so soft, nor, indeed, was the temper of the lady so sweet. What if she should have thrown away all the advantages of the voyage! What if she had fallen between two stools! She began to think that it would be better to close with one or with the other—with the one despite his poverty, or with the other despite his head.
And now it was the evening of the last day. They had sighted the coast of Devonshire, and the following morning would see them within the Southampton waters. Ladies had packed their luggage; subscriptions had been made for the band; the captain's health had been drunk at the last dinner; and the mail boxes were being piled between the decks.
"Well, it is nearly over," said Mrs. Cox, as she came upon deck after dinner, warmly cloaked. "How cold we all are!"
"Yes; it is nearly over," answered Bertram. "What an odd life of itself one of these voyages is! How intimate people are who will never see each other again!"
"Yes; that is the way, I suppose. Oh, Mr. Bertram!"
"Well, what would you have?"
"Ah, me! I hardly know. Fate has ever been against me, and I know that it will be so to the last."
"Is it not cold?" said Bertram, buttoning up a greatcoat as he spoke.
"Very cold! very cold!" said Mrs. Cox. "But there is something much colder than the weather—very much colder."
"You are severe, Mrs. Cox."
"Yes. It is Mrs. Cox here. It was Annie when we were off Gibraltar. That comes of being near home. But I knew that it would be so. I hate the very idea of home." And she put her handkerchief to her eyes.
She had had her chance as far as Bertram was concerned, and had let it pass from her. He did not renew his protestations; but in lieu of doing so, lit a cigar, and walked away into the fore-part of the vessel. "After all, Arthur is right," said he to himself; "marriage is too serious a thing to be arranged in a voyage from Alexandria to Southampton."
But luckily for Mrs. Cox, everybody did not think as he did. He had gone from her ruthlessly, cruelly, falsely, with steps which sounded as though there were triumph in his escape, and left her seated alone near the skylights. But she was not long alone. As she looked after him along the deck, the head of Major Biffin appeared to her, emerging from the saloon stairs. She said nothing to herself now about barber's blocks or uncurled whiskers.
"Well, Mrs. Cox," said the major, accosting her.
"Well, Major Biffin;" and the major thought that he saw in her eye some glimpse of the smile as of old.
"We are very near home now, Mrs. Cox," said the major.
"Very near indeed," said Mrs. Cox. And then there was a slight pause, during which Major Biffin took an opportunity of sitting down not very far from his companion.
"I hope you have enjoyed your voyage," said he.
"Which voyage?" she asked.
"Oh! your voyage home from Alexandria—your voyage since you made the acquaintance of Mr.—what's his name, the parson's cousin?"
"Mr. What's-his-name, as you call him, is nothing to me, I can assure you, Major Biffin. His real name, however, is Bertram. He has been very civil when some other people were not inclined to be so, that is all."
"Is that all? The people here do say—"
"Then I tell you what, Major Biffin, I do not care one straw what the people say—not one straw. You know whose fault it has been if I have been thrown with this stranger. Nobody knows it as well. And mind this, Major Biffin, I shall always do as I like in such matters without reference to you or to any one else. I am my own mistress."
"And do you mean to remain so?"
"Ask no questions, and then you'll be told no stories."
"That's civil."
"If you don't like it, you had better go, for there's more to follow of the same sort."
"You are very sharp to-night."
"Not a bit sharper than I shall be to-morrow."
"One is afraid even to speak to you now."
"Then one had better hold one's tongue."
Mrs. Cox was receiving her suitor rather sharply; but she probably knew his disposition. He did not answer her immediately, but sat biting the top of his cane. "I'll tell you what it is, Mrs. Cox," he said at last, "I don't like this kind of thing."
"Don't you, Mr. Biffin? And what kind of thing do you like?"
"I like you."
"Psha! Tell me something new, if you must tell me anything."
"Come, Annie; do be serious for a moment. There isn't much time left now, and I've come to you in order that I may get a plain answer."
"If you want a plain answer, you'd better ask a plain question. I don't know what you mean."
"Will you have me? That's a plain question, or the deuce is in it."
"And what should I do with you?"
"Why, be Mrs. Biffin, of course."
"Ha! ha! ha! And it has come to that, has it? What was it you said to Dr. O'Shaughnessey when we were off Point de Galle?"
"Well, what did I say?"
"I know what you said well enough. And so do you, too. If I served you right, I should never speak to you again."
"A man doesn't like to be humbugged, you know, before a whole shipful of people," said the major, defending himself.
"And a woman likes it just as little, Major Biffin; please to remember that."
"Well; I'm sure you've been down upon me long enough."
"Not a bit longer than you deserved. You told O'Shaughnessey, that it was all very well to amuse yourself, going home. I hope you like your amusement now. I have liked mine very well, I can assure you."
"I don't think so bad of you as to believe you care for that fellow."
"There are worse fellows than he is, Major Biffin. But there, I have had my revenge; and now if you have anything to say, I'll give you an answer."
"I've only to say, Annie, that I love you better than any woman in the world."
"I may believe as much of that as I like."
"You may believe it all. Come, there's my hand."
"Well, I suppose I must forgive you. There's mine. Will that please you?"
Major Biffin was the happiest man in the world, and Mrs. Cox went to her berth that night not altogether dissatisfied. Before she did so, she had the major's offer in writing in her pocket; and had shown it to Mrs. Price, with whom she was now altogether reconciled.
"I only wish, Minnie, that there was no Mrs. M'Gramm," said she.
"He wouldn't be the man for me at all, my dear; so don't let that fret you."
"There's as good fish in the sea as ever were caught yet; eh, Minnie?"
"Of course there are. Though of course you think there never was such a fish as Biffin."
"He'll do well enough for me, Minnie; and when you catch a bigger, and a better, I won't begrudge him you."
That night Mrs. Cox took her evening modicum of creature-comforts sitting next to her lover, the major; and our two friends were left alone by themselves. The news had soon spread about the ship, and to those ladies who spoke to her on the subject, Mrs. Cox made no secret of the fact. Men in this world catch their fish by various devices; and it is necessary that these schemes should be much studied before a man can call himself a fisherman. It is the same with women; and Mrs. Cox was an Izaak Walton among her own sex. Had she not tied her fly with skill, and thrown her line with a steady hand, she would not have had her trout in her basket. There was a certain amount of honour due to her for her skill, and she was not ashamed to accept it.
"Good-night, Mrs. Cox," Bertram said to her that evening, with a good-humoured tone; "I hear that I am to congratulate you."
"Good-night," said she, giving him her hand. "And I'll say good-bye, too, for we shall all be in such a flurry to-morrow morning. I'm sure you think I've done the right thing—don't you? And, mind this, I shall hope to see you some day." And so saying, she gave him a kindly grasp, and they parted. "Done right!" said Bertram; "yes, I suppose she has; right enough at least as far as I am concerned. After all, what husband is so convenient as a barber's block?"
On the following morning they steamed up the Southampton river, and at nine o'clock they were alongside the quay. All manner of people had come on board in boats, and the breakfast was eaten in great confusion. But few of the ladies were to be seen. They had tea and rolls in their own cabins, and did not appear till the last moment. Among these were Mrs. Cox and Mrs. Price.
These ladies during their journey home had certainly not been woe-begone, either in personal appearance or in manner. And who would have the heart to wish that they should be so? They had been dressed as young ladies on board ship usually do dress, so that their widowhood had been forgotten; and, but for their babies, their wifehood might have been forgotten also.
But now they were to be met by family friends—by friends who were thinking of nothing but their bereavements. Old Mr. Price came to meet them on board, and Mrs. Cox's uncle; old gentlemen with faces prepared for sadness, and young ladies with sympathetic handkerchiefs. How signally surprised the sad old gentlemen and the sympathetic young ladies must have been!
Not a whit! Just as our friends were about to leave the ship that morning, with all their luggage collected round them, they were startled by the apparition of two sombre female figures, buried in most sombre tokens of affliction. Under the deep crape of their heavy black bonnets were to be seen that chiefest sign of heavy female woe—a widow's cap. What signal of sorrow that grief holds out, ever moves so much as this? Their eyes were red with weeping, as could be seen when, for a moment, their deep bordered handkerchiefs were allowed to fall from their faces. Their eyes were red with weeping, and the agonizing grief of domestic bereavement sat chiselled on every feature. If you stood near enough, your heart would melt at the sound of their sobs.
Alas! that forms so light, that creatures so young, should need to be shrouded in such vestments! They were all crape, that dull, weeping, widow's crape, from the deck up to their shoulders. There they stood, monuments of death, living tombs, whose only sign of life was in their tears. There they stood, till they might fall, vanquished by the pangs of memory, into the arms of their respective relations.
They were Mrs. Cox and Mrs. Price. Bertram and Wilkinson, as they passed them, lifted their hats and bowed, and the two ladies observing them, returned their salutation with the coldest propriety.
On their journey up from Southampton, George and Arthur parted from each other. George went on direct to London, whereas Arthur turned off from Basingstoke towards his own home.
"Take my advice now, if you never do again," said Bertram, as they parted; "make yourself master of your own house, and as soon after as possible 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, it won't be in vain;" and so they parted.
At Southampton they had learnt that there had been a partial crash in the government. The prime minister had not absolutely walked forth, followed by all his satellites, as is the case when a successful turn in the wheel gives the outs a full whip-hand over the ins, but it had become necessary to throw overboard a brace or two of Jonahs, so that the ship might be lightened to meet a coming storm; and among those so thrown over had been our unfortunate friend Sir Henry Harcourt.
And this, as regards him, had hardly been the worst of it. We all know that bigwigs are never dismissed. When it becomes necessary to get rid of them, they resign. Now resignation is clearly a voluntary act, and it seemed that Sir Henry, having no wish that way, had not at first performed this act of volition. His own particular friends in the cabinet, those to whom he had individually attached himself, were gone; but, nevertheless, he made no sign; he was still ready to support the government, and as the attorney-general was among those who had shaken the dust from their feet and gone out, Sir Henry expected that he would, as a matter of course, walk into that gentleman's shoes.
But another learned gentleman was appointed, and then at last Sir Henry knew that he must go. He had resigned; but no resignation had ever appeared to have less of volition in it. And how could it be otherwise? Political success was everything to him; and, alas! he had so played his cards that it was necessary to him that that success should be immediate. He was not as those are who, in losing power, lose a costly plaything, which they love indeed over well, but the loss of which hurts only their pride. Place to him was everything; and feeling this, he had committed that most grievous of political sins—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 had learnt 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, as soon as he saw him. His tone had never been so lachrymose, nor his face 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 furren parts—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, master George—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—it never 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 much longer for this world. Sir Omicron himself had been there. Miss Baker had insisted on it, much in opposition to her uncle's wishes. But Sir Omicron had shaken his head and declared that the fiat had gone forth.
Death had given his order; the heavy burden of the half-million must be left behind, and the soul must walk forth, free from all its toils, to meet such æthereal welcome as it could find.
Mr. Bertram had been told, and had answered, that he supposed as much. "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 too weak to scold, he had turned his face to the wall in sheer vexation of spirit. Death he could encounter like a man; but why should he be robbed 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, of course."
Bertram said that he would go down immediately, irrespective of any such arrangements. And then, remembering of whom that Hadley household had consisted when he left England in the early winter, he asked 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 himself than to Mr. Pritchett.
"What! you wouldn't stay away from him now because of that? You ought to go to him, master George, though there were ten Lady Harcourts there—or twenty." This was said in a tone that was not only serious, but full of melancholy. Mr. Pritchett had probably never joked in his life, 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 into other 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 once succeeded in seeing Mr. Bertram, and then the interview had been short, and, as Mr. Pritchett surmised, not very satisfactory. His last visit had been since that paid by Sir Omicron, and on that occasion the sick man had sent out to say that he could not see strangers. All this Mr. Pritchett had learnt from Miss Baker. Sir Henry had not seen his wife since that day—now nearly twelve months since—on which she had separated herself from him. He had made a formal application to her to return to him, but nothing had come of it; and Mr. Pritchett took upon himself to surmise again, that Sir Henry was too anxious about the old gentleman's money to take any 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 Lady Harcourt's name; but he suggested that perhaps it would be better, under existing circumstances, that he should not remain at Hadley. He hoped, however, that his uncle would not refuse to see him, and that his coming to the house for an hour or so might not be felt to be an inconvenience. By return of post he got an answer from Miss Baker, in which she assured him that his uncle was most anxious for his presence, and had appeared to be more cheerful, since he had heard of his nephew's return, than he had been for the last two months. As for staying at Hadley, George could do as he liked, Miss Baker said. But it was but a sad household, and perhaps it would be more comfortable for him to go backwards and forwards by the railway.
This correspondence caused a delay of two days, and on one of them Bertram received a visit which he certainly did not expect. He was sitting in his chamber alone, and was sad enough, thinking now of Mrs. Cox and his near escape, then of Adela and his cousin's possible happiness, and then of Caroline and the shipwreck of her hopes, when the door opened, and Sir Henry Harcourt was standing before him.
"How d'ye do, Bertram?" said the late solicitor-general, putting out his hand. The attitude and the words were those of friendship, but his countenance was anything but friendly. A great change had come over him. His look of youth had deserted him, and he might have been taken 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 though he would wish to fight if he only dared. This was the successful man—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. "I had no idea that you had heard of my return."
"Oh, yes; I heard of it. I supposed you'd be back quick enough when you 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?"
"To-morrow, I suppose. But I expect to have a line from Miss Baker in the 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. The lawyer's brow became blacker and blacker, and as he rattled his half-crowns in his trousers-pockets, and kept his eyes fixed upon the floor, Bertram began to feel that the interview did not promise to be one of a very friendly character.
"I was sorry to hear, Harcourt, that you are among the lot that have left the Government," said Bertram, hardly knowing what else to say.
"D—— the Government! But I didn't come here to talk about the Government. That old man down there will be gone in less than a week'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 will admit, 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. I suppose you are alluding to my uncle's money; and I tell you that I know 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. I have 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 did not suit him at the present moment to come to an open rupture with the man whom he had been in such a hurry to visit.
"I treated that old man with the most unbounded confidence when I married hisgranddaughter—"
"But how does that concern me? She was not my granddaughter. I, at least, had nothing to do with it. Excuse me, Harcourt, if I say that I, of all men, am the last to whom you should address yourself on such a subject."
"I think differently. You are his nearest relative—next to her; next to her,mind—"
"Well! What matter is it whether I am near or distant? Lady Harcourt is staying with him. Did it suit her to do so, she could fight your battle, 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 utterly debarred. But I tell you once for all that I have no battle. You shall know more—if the knowledge will do you any good. Not very long since my uncle offered to settle on me half his fortune if I would oblige him in one particular. But I could not do the thing he wanted; and when we parted, I had his positive assurance that he would leave me nothing. That was the last time I saw him." And as Bertram remembered 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 is to have his money?"
"I can be very honest, for I know nothing. My belief is that neither you nor I will have a shilling of it."
"Well, then; I'll tell you what. Of course you know that Lady Harcourt 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 deuced sight too quiet, because I have not chosen to disturb him in his illness. Now I will have an answer from him. I will know what he means 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 tell him that I want to know what his intentions are. I have a right to demand 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 you should select to speak to on such a subject."
"You are the man, because you are her cousin. I went to enormous expense to give her a splendid home, knowing, of course, that his wealth would entitle her to it. I bought a house for her, and furnished it as though she were aduchess—"
"Good heavens, Harcourt! Is this anything to me? Did I bid you buy the house? If you had not given her a chair to sit on, should I have complained? 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 you yours."
"And you refuse to take my message to your uncle?"
"Certainly. Whether I shall see him or not I do not yet know. If I do, 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 he asks about you, I will tell him that you have been with me."
After some further discussion, Harcourt left him. George Bertram found it difficult to understand what motive could have brought him there. But drowning men catch at straws. Sir Henry was painfully alive to the consideration, that if anything was to be done about the rich man's money, if any useful step could be taken, it must be done at once; the step must be taken now. In another week, perhaps in another day, Mr. Bertram would be beyond the power of will-making. No bargain could then be driven in which it should be stipulated that after his death his grandchild should be left unmolested—for a consideration. The bargain, if made at all, must be made now—now at once.
It will be thought that Sir Henry would have played his game better by remaining quiet; that his chance of being remembered in that will would be greater if he did not now make himself disagreeable. Probably so. But men running hither and thither in distress do not well calculate their chances. They are too nervous, too excited to play their game with judgment. Sir Henry Harcourt had now great trouble on his shoulders: he was in debt, was pressed for money on every side, had brought his professional bark into great disasters—nearly to utter shipwreck—and was known to have been abandoned by his wife. The world was not smiling on him. His great hope, 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 his endeavours to reach those treasures which he so coveted.
On the following morning, George received Miss Baker's letter, and very shortly afterwards he started for Hadley. Of course he could not but remember that Lady Harcourt was staying there; that she would naturally be attending upon her grandfather, and that it was all but impossible 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, had kissed her forehead, had heard the assurance of her undying love. How were they to meet now?
George was informed by the servant who came to the door that his uncle was very ill. "Weaker to-day," the girl said, "than ever he had been." "Where was Miss Baker?" George asked. The girl said that Miss Baker was in the dining-room. He did not dare to ask any further question. "And her ladyship is with her grandfather," the girl added; upon hearing which George walked with quicker steps to the parlour door.
Miss Baker met him as though there had been no breach in their former intimacy. With her, for the moment, Lady Harcourt and her troubles were forgotten, and she thought only of the dying man upstairs.
"I am so glad you have come!" she said. "He does not say much about it. You remember he never did talk about such things. But I know that he will be delighted to see you. Sometimes he has said that he thought 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'll find him so much altered. He knows that it cannot last long, and he is quite reconciled."
"Will you send up to let him know that I am here?"
"Yes, now—immediately. Caroline is with him;" and then Miss Baker left the room.
Caroline is with him! It was so singular to hear her mentioned as one of the same family with himself; to have to meet her as one sharing the same interests with him, bound by the same bonds, anxious to relieve the same suffering. She had said that they ought to be as far as the poles asunder; and yet fortune, unkind fortune, would bring them 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 that the lines of her face were changed; but her gait and manners were more composed; her dress was so much more simple, that, though not less lovely, she certainly looked older than when he had last seen her. 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 two which he did not hear; and he uttered something which was quite as much lost on her, and so their greeting was over. Thus passed their first interview, of which he had thought so much in looking forward to it for the last few hours, that his mind had been estranged from his 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 such houses, to the infinite annoyance of the invalids whom they wish to spare, he went upstairs, and stood by his uncle's bed.
Miss Baker was on the other side, and the sick man's face was turned towards her. "You had better come round here, George," said she. "It would trouble Mr. Bertram to move."
"She means that I can't stir," said the old man, whose voice was still 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 changed was the face. It was not only that it was haggard, thin, unshorn, and gray with coming death; but the very position of the features had altered. His cheeks had fallen away; his nose was contracted; his mouth, which he could hardly close, was on one side. Miss Baker told George afterwards that the left side was altogether motionless. George certainly would not have known his uncle—not at the first glance. But yet there was a spark left in those eyes, of the old fire; such a spark as had never gleamed upon him from any other human head. That look of sharpness, which nothing could quench, was still there. It was not the love of lucre which was to be read in those eyes, so much as the possessor's power of acquiring it. It was as though they said, "Look well to all you have; put lock and bar to your stores; set dragons to watch your choice gardens; fix what man-traps you will for your own protection. In spite of everything, I will have it all! When I go forth to rob, no one can stay me!" So had he looked upon men through all his long life, and so now did he look upon his nephew and his niece as they stood by to comfort him in his extremity.
"I am sorry to see you in this state," said George, putting his hand on 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, they have 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 in time 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 that got the twenty pounds? They gave a fellow twenty pounds to come and tell 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," said poor Miss Baker.
"Nonsense!" said the old man, almost in his olden voice. "You'll find by-and-by that twenty pounds are not so easy to come by. George, as you are here, I might as well tell you about my money."
George begged him not to trouble himself about such a matter at present; but this was by no means the way in which to propitiate his uncle.
"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 I have 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 about money? 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 see that everybody is fighting for it? The parsons all abuse it; but did you ever know one who wouldn't go to law for his tithes? Did you ever hear 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 cards well—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 always thrust to the wall—always. Now you will be a poor man, I fear, all your 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? Do you see now what you have done? Look at her, and what she might have been. Look at yourself, and what you might have been. Had you done that, you might have been my heir in everything."
"Well, sir, I have made my bed, and I must lie upon it. I have cause enough for regret—though, to tell the truth, it is not about your money."
"Ah, I knew you would be stiff to the last," said Mr. Bertram, angry that he could not move his nephew to express some sorrow about the half-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. You once asked me to do a thing which, had I done it, would have made me a happyman—"
"And a rich man also."
"And I fairly tell you now, that I would I had done as you would have had 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 codicil can make her a free woman. There are sorrows, sir, which no codicil can cure."
"Psha!" said his uncle, trying in his anger to turn himself on his bed, 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 have so much to thank you for, that I cannot bear that you should be angry with me now."
"You are an ass—a fool!"
"You should look on that as my misfortune, sir." And then he paused a moment. "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 the conference ended in his promising to stay there. So he went up to town, and returned again bringing down his carpet bag, and preparing to remain till all should be over.
That was a strange household which was now collected together in the house at Hadley. The old man was lying upstairs, daily expecting his death; and he was attended, as it was seemly that he should be, by his nearest relatives. His brother's presence he would not have admitted; but his grandchild was there, and his nephew, and her whom he had always regarded as his niece. Nothing could be more fitting than this. But not the less did Caroline and George feel that it was not fitting that they should be together.
And yet the absolute awkwardness of the meeting was soon over. They soon found themselves able to sit in the same room, conversing on the one subject of interest which the circumstances of the moment gave, without any allusion to past times. They spoke only of the dying man, and asked each other questions only about him. Though they were frequently alone together while Miss Baker was with Mr. Bertram, they never repeated the maddening folly of that last scene in Eaton Square.
"She has got over it now," said Bertram to himself; and he thought that 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 he will be happy again. And she, too, strove to comfort herself in thinking so; but the comfort was very cold.
And now George was constantly with his uncle. For the first two days nothing further was said about money. Mr. Bertram seemed to be content that matters should rest as they were then settled, and his nephew certainly had no intention of recurring to the subject on his own behalf. The old man, however, had become much kinder in his manner to him—kinder to him than to any one else in the house; and exacted from him various little promises of things to be done—of last wishes to be fulfilled.
"Perhaps it is better as it is, George," he said, as Bertram was sitting by his bedside late one night.
"I am sure it is, sir," said George, not at all, however, knowing what was the state of things which his uncle described as being better.
"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 his uncle at such a moment, when he could not contradict it, was rather hard 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 subject his feelings to the money-bags of any man; that he would make no sacrifice of his aspirations for the sake of wealth; that he would not, in fact, sell himself for gold. But he had never said, or intended to say, that money was indifferent to him. Much as his uncle understood, he had failed to understand his nephew's mind. But George could not explain it to him now;—so he merely smiled, and let the assertion 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 or nothing more about his will.
But Sir Omicron had been wrong. Mr. Bertram overlived the week, and overlived the fortnight. We must now leave him and his relatives in the house of sickness, and return to Arthur Wilkinson.