CHAPTER XII.
GEORGE BERTRAM DECIDES IN FAVOUR OF THE BAR.
George Bertram did not return directly to England. Since he hadbeen in Turkey, he had made arrangement by letter with his friendHarcourt to meet him in the Tyrol, and to travel home with himthrough Switzerland. It was about the middle of June when he leftConstantinople, and Harcourt was to be at Innspruck on the 5thAugust. George might therefore well have remained a week or twolonger with his father had either of them so wished; but neither ofthem did wish it. The living at Constantinople was dear, and George'sfunds would not stand much more of it; and Sir Lionel, free and easyas he was, still felt his son's presence as some impediment--perhapsin the way of his business, perhaps in that of his pleasures.
From Constantinople Bertram went up across the Balkan to the Danube,and thence through Bucharest into Transylvania, travelling, as inthose days was necessary, somewhat by permission of the Russianauthorities. He then again struck the Danube at Pesth; remained somelittle time there; again a week or so at Vienna; from thence hevisited Saltzburg, and exactly on the appointed day shook hands withhis friend in the hall of the old "Golden Sun" at Innspruck.
At first, on leaving his father, George was very glad to be once morealone. Men delighted him not; nor women either at that moment--seeingthat his thoughts were running on Caroline Waddington, and that herpresence was not to be had. But by the time that he found himself inthe Tyrol, he was delighted once more to have a companion. He hadof course picked up Englishmen, and been picked up by them at everytown he had passed; one always does; some ladies also he had casuallyencountered--but he had met with no second Caroline. While wanderingabout the mountains of Transylvania, he had been quite contented tobe alone: at Pesth he had not ceased to congratulate himself on hissolitude, though sometimes he found the day a little too long forhis purpose in doing so; at Vienna he was glad enough to find an oldOxonian; though, even while enjoying the treat, he would occasionallysay to himself that, after all, society was only a bore. But by thetime he had done the Saltzburg country, he was heartily sick ofhimself, somewhat sick also of thinking of his love, and fully ableto re-echo all that Harcourt had to say in praise of some very fineold wine which that fastidious gentleman caused to be produced forthem from the cellars of the "Golden Sun."
Innspruck is a beautiful little town. Perhaps no town in Europe canboast a site more exquisitely picturesque. Edinburgh would be equalto it, if it had a river instead of a railroad running through itsvalley and under its Castle-hill. But we sojourned too long in theHoly Land to permit of our dwelling even for half a chapter inthe Tyrol. George, however, and his friend remained there for afortnight. They went over the Brenner and looked down into Italy;made an excursion to those singular golden-tinted mountains, theDolomites, among which live a race of men who speak neither Germannor Italian, nor other language known among the hundred dialectsof Europe, but a patois left to them from the ancient Latins; theywandered through the valleys of the Inn and its tributaries andwondered at the odd way of living which still prevails in theirpicturesque castellated mansions.
For awhile Bertram thought that Harcourt was the best companion inthe world. He was as agreeable and easy tempered as his father; andwas at the same time an educated man, which his father certainly wasnot. Harcourt, though he put his happiness in material things perhapsquite as much as did Sir Lionel, required that his material thingsshould be of a high flavour. He was a reading man, addicted, in acertain cynical, carping sort of way, even to poetry, was a criticalmost by profession, loved pictures, professed to love scenery,certainly loved to watch and scrutinize the different classes of hisbrother-men. He was gifted pre-eminently with a lawyer's mind, but itwas not a lawyer's mind of a vulgar quality. He, too, loved riches,and looked on success in the world as a man's chief, nay, perhapshis only aim; but for him it was necessary that success should bepolished. Sir Lionel wanted money that he might swallow it andconsume it, as a shark does its prey; but, like sharks in general,he had always been hungry,--had never had his bellyful of money.Harcourt's desire for money was of a different class. It would notsuit him to be in debt to any one. A good balance at his banker's wasa thing dear to his soul. He aimed at perfect respectability, andalso at perfect independence.
For awhile, therefore, Harcourt's teaching was a great improvementon Sir Lionel's, and was felt to be so. He preached a love of goodthings; but the good things were to be corollaries only to good work.Sir Lionel's summum bonum would have been an unexpected pocketful ofmoney, three months of idleness in which to spend it, and pleasantcompanions for the time, who should be at any rate as well providedin pocket as himself. Harcourt would have required something more.The world's respect and esteem were as necessary to him as theworld's pleasures.
But nevertheless, after a time, Harcourt's morality offended Bertram,as Bertram's transcendentalism offended Harcourt. They admired thesame view, but they could not look at it through the same colouredglass.
"And so on the whole you liked your governor?" said Harcourt to himone day as they were walking across a mountain range from one valleyto another.
"Yes, indeed."
"One is apt to be prejudiced in one's father's favour, of course,"said Harcourt. "That is to say, when one hasn't seen him for twentyyears or so. A more common, constant knowledge, perhaps, puts theprejudice the other way."
"Sir Lionel is undoubtedly a very pleasant man; no one, I fancy,could help liking his society."
"I understand it all as well as though you had written a book abouthim. You have none of that great art, Bertram, which teaches a man touse his speech to conceal his thoughts."
"Why should I wish to conceal my thoughts from you?"
"I know exactly what you mean about your father: he is no martinetin society, even with his son. He assumes to himself no mysteriousunintelligible dignity. He has none of the military Grimgruffenuffabout him. He takes things easily, and allows other people to do thesame."
"Exactly."
"But this was not exactly what you wanted. If he had treated you asthough a father and son were necessarily of a different order ofbeings, had he been a little less familiar, a little colder, perhapsa thought more stern and forbidding in his parental way of pushingthe bottle to you, you would have liked him better?"
"No, not have liked him better; I might perhaps have thought it morenatural."
"Just so; you went to look for a papa with a boy's feelings, and thepapa, who had not been looking for you at all, took you for a man asyou are when he found you."
"I am sure of this at any rate, that he was delighted to see me."
"I am sure he was, and proud of you when he did see you. I neversupposed but that the gallant colonel had some feelings in hisbowels. Have you made any arrangements with him about money?"
"No--none."
"Said not a word about so mundane a subject?"
"I don't say that; it is only natural that we should have saidsomething. But as to income, he fights his battle, and I fight mine."
"He should now have a large income from his profession."
"And large expenses. I suppose there is no dearer place in Europethan Constantinople."
"All places are dear to an Englishman exactly in comparison as heknows, or does not know, the ways of the place. A Turk, I have nodoubt, could live there in a very genteel sort of manner on what youwould consider a moderate pittance."
"I suppose he could."
"And Sir Lionel by this time should be a Turk in Turkey, a Greek inGreece, or a Persian in Bagdad."
"Perhaps he is. But I was not. I know I shall be very fairly clearedout by the time I get to London; and yet I had expected to have threehundred pounds untouched there."
"Such expectations always fall to the ground--always. Every quarterI allow myself exactly what I shall want, and then I double it foremergencies."
"You are a lucky fellow to have the power to do so."
"Yes, but then I put my quarterly wants at a _very_ low figure; afigure that would
be quite unsuitable--quite unintelligible to thenephew of a Croesus."
"The nephew of a Croesus will have to put his quarterly wants atsomething about fifty pounds, as far as I can see."
"My dear fellow, when I observe that water bubbles up from a certainspot every winter and every spring, and occasionally in the warmweather too, I never think that it has run altogether dry because itmay for a while cease to bubble up under the blazing sun of August.Nature, of whose laws I know so much, tells me that the water willcome again."
"Yes, water will run in its natural course. But when you have beensupplied by an artificial pipe, and have cut that off, it is probablethat you may run short."
"In such case I would say, that having a due regard to prudence, Iwould not cut off that very convenient artificial pipe."
"One may pay too dear, Harcourt, even for one's water."
"As far as I am able to judge, you have had yours without paying forit at all; and if you lose it, it will only be by your own obstinacy.I would I had such an uncle to deal with."
"I would you had; as for me, I tell you fairly, I do not mean to dealwith him at all."
"I would I had; I should know then that everything was open to me.Now I have everything to do for myself. I do not despair, however. Asfor you, the ball is at your foot."
They talked very freely with each other as to their future hopes andfuture destinies. Harcourt seemed to take it as a settled matter thatBertram should enter himself at the bar, and Bertram did not anylonger contradict him. Since he had learnt Miss Waddington's ideason the subject, he expressed no further desire to go into the church,and had, in fact, nothing serious to say in favour of any of thoseother professions of which he had sometimes been accustomed to speak.There was nothing but the bar left for him; and therefore whenHarcourt at last asked him the question plainly, he said that hesupposed that such would be his fate.
But on one subject Bertram did not speak openly to his friend. Hesaid not a word to him about Caroline. Harcourt was in many respectsan excellent friend; but he had hardly that softness of heart, orthat softness of expression which tempts one man to make another aconfidant in an affair of love. If Harcourt had any such affairshimself, he said nothing of them to Bertram, and at the present timeBertram said nothing on the subject to him. He kept that care deep inhis own bosom. He had as yet neither spoken a word nor written a wordconcerning it to any one; and even when his friend had once casuallyasked him whether he had met much in the way of beauty in Jerusalem,he had felt himself to wince as though the subject were too painfulto be spoken of.
They reached London about the middle of October, and Harcourtdeclared that he must immediately put himself again into harness."Ten weeks of idleness," said he, "is more than a man can well affordwho has to look to himself for everything; and I have now givenmyself eleven."
"And what are you going to do?"
"Do! work all day and read all night. Take notice of all the dullestcases I can come across, and read the most ponderous volumes thathave been written on the delightful subject of law. A suckingbarrister who means to earn his bread has something to do--as youwill soon know."
Bertram soon learnt--now for the first time, for Harcourt himselfhad said nothing on the subject--that his friend's name was alreadyfavourably known, and that he had begun that career to which he sosteadily looked forward. His ice was already broken: he had beenemployed as junior counsel in the great case of Pike _v_ Perch; andhad distinguished himself not a little by his success in turningwhite into black.
"Then you had decidedly the worst of it?" said Bertram to him, whenthe matter was talked over between them.
"Oh, decidedly; but, nevertheless, we pulled through. My opinion allalong was that none of the Pikes had a leg to stand upon. There werethree of them. But I won't bore you with the case. You'll hear moreof it some day, for it will be on again before the lords-justices inthe spring."
"You were Pike's counsel?"
"One of them--the junior. I had most of the fag and none of thehonour. That's of course."
"And you think that Perch ought to have succeeded?"
"Well, talking to you, I really think he ought; but I would not admitthat to any one else. Sir Ricketty Giggs led for us, and I know hethought so too at first; though he got so carried away by his owneloquence at last that I believe he changed his mind."
"Well, if I'd thought that, I wouldn't have held the brief for allthe Pikes that ever swam."
"If a man's case be weak, then, he is to have no advocate? That'syour idea of justice."
"If it be so weak that no one can be got to think it right, of coursehe should have no advocate."
"And how are you to know till you have taken the matter up and siftedit? But what you propose is Quixotic in every way. It will not holdwater for a moment. You know as well as I do that no barrister wouldkeep a wig on his head who pretended to such a code of morals in hisprofession. Such a doctrine is a doctrine of puritanism--or purism,which is worse. All this moonshine was very well for you when youtalked of being a clergyman, or an author, or a painter. One allowsoutsiders any amount of nonsense in their criticism, as a matterof course. But it won't do now, Bertram. If you mean to put yourshoulders to the wheel in the only profession which, to my mind,is worthy of an educated man's energies, you must get rid of thosecobwebs."
"Upon my word, Harcourt, when you hit on a subject you like, youreloquence is wonderful. Sir Ricketty Giggs himself could hardly saymore to defend his sins of forty years' endurance."
Harcourt had spoken in earnest. Such milk-and-water, unpracticalscruples were disgusting to his very soul. In thinking of them tohimself, he would call them unmanly. What! was such a fellow asBertram, a boy just fresh from college, to animadvert upon andcondemn the practice of the whole bar of England? He had, too, aconviction, clearly fixed in his own mind, though he could hardlyexplain the grounds of it in words, that in the long run the cause ofjustice would be better served by the present practice of allowingwrong and right to fight on equal terms; by giving to wrong the sameprivilege that is given to right; by giving to wrong even a widerprivilege, seeing that, being in itself necessarily weak, it needsthe more protection. He would declare that you were trampling on thefallen if you told him that wrong could be entitled to no privilege,no protection whatever--to no protection, till it was admitted byitself, admitted by all, to be wrong.
Bertram had now to establish himself in London; and he was also, ashe thought, under the necessity of seeing two persons, his uncle andMiss Waddington. He could not settle himself well to work before hehad done both. One preliminary business he did settle for himself, inorder that his uncle, when he saw him, might know that his choice forthe bar was made up and past recalling. He selected that great andenduring Chancery barrister, Mr. Neversaye Die, as the Gamaliel atwhose feet he would sit; as the fountain from whence he would drawthe coming waters of his own eloquence; as the instructor of hislegal infancy and guide of his legal youth. Harcourt was at theCommon Law bar, and therefore he recommended the other branch of theprofession to his friend. "The Common Law," said he, "may have themost dash about it; but Chancery has the substance." George, afterthinking over the matter for some days, gave it as his opinion thatChancery barristers were rogues of a dye somewhat less black than theothers, and that he would select to be a rogue of that colour. Thematter was therefore so settled.
His first step, then, was to see his uncle. He told himself--and ashe thought, truly--that his doing so was a duty, disagreeable in allrespects, to be attended with no pecuniary results, but necessaryto be performed. In truth, however, the teaching of Sir Lionel andHarcourt had not been altogether without effect: at this presentmoment, having just paid to Mr. Neversaye Die his first yearlycontribution, he was well-nigh penniless; and, after all, if a richuncle have money to bestow, why should he not bestow it on a nephew?Money, at any rate, was not in itself deleterious. So much George wasalready prepared to allow.
He therefore called on his uncle in the City. "Ha! George--wh
at;you're back, are you? Well, come and dine at Hadley to-morrow. I mustbe at the Bank before three. Good-bye, my boy."
This was all his uncle said to him at their first meeting. Then hesaw Mr. Pritchett for a moment.
"Oh, Mr. George, I am glad to see you back, sir; very glad indeed,sir. I hear you have been to very foreign parts. I hope you havealways found the money right, Mr. George?"
Mr. George, shaking hands with him, warmly assured him that the moneyhad always been quite right--as long as it lasted.
"A little does not go a long way, I'm sure, in those very foreignparts," said Mr. Pritchett, oracularly. "But, Mr. George, why didn'tyou write, eh, Mr. George?"
"You don't mean to say that my uncle expected to hear from me?"
"He asked very often whether I had any tidings. Ah! Mr. George, youdon't know an old man's ways yet. It would have been better for youto have been led by me. And so you have seen Mr. Lionel--Sir Lionel,I should say now. I hope Sir Lionel is quite well."
George told him that he had found his father in excellent health, andwas going away, when Mr. Pritchett asked another question, or rathermade another observation. "And so you saw Miss Waddington, did you,Mr. George?"
Bertram felt that there was that in his countenance which might againbetray him; but he managed to turn away his face as he said, "Yes, Idid meet her, quite by chance, at Jerusalem."
"At Jerusalem!" said Mr. Pritchett, with such a look of surprise,with such an awe-struck tone, as might have suited some acquaintanceof Aeneas's, on hearing that gentleman tell how he had travelledbeyond the Styx. Mr. Pritchett was rather fat and wheezy, and theeffort made him sigh gently for the next two minutes.
Bertram had put on his hat and was going, when Mr. Pritchett,recovering himself, asked yet a further question. "And what did youthink of Miss Waddington, sir?"
"Think of her!" said George.
"A very beautiful young lady; isn't she? and clever, too. I knewher father well, Mr. George--very well. Isn't she a very handsomeyoung lady? Ah, well! she hasn't money enough, Mr. George; that'sthe fact; that's the fact. But"--and Mr. Pritchett whispered as hecontinued--"the old gentleman might make it more, Mr. George."
Mr. Pritchett had a somewhat melancholy way of speaking ofeverything. It was more in his tone than in his words. And this tone,which was all but sepulchral, was perhaps owing rather to a shortneck and an asthmatic tendency than to any real sorrow or naturallowness of spirits.
Those who saw Mr. Pritchett often probably remembered this, andcounted on it; but with George there was always a graveyard touchabout these little interviews. He could not, therefore, but have somemelancholy presentiment when he heard Miss Waddington spoken of insuch a tone.
On the following day he went down to Hadley, and, as was customarythere, found that he was to spend the evening _tete-a-tete_ with hisuncle. Nothing seemed changed since he had left it: his uncle came injust before dinner, and poked the fire exactly as he had done on thelast visit George had paid him after a long absence. "Come, John,we're three minutes late! why don't we have dinner?" He asked noquestion--at least, not at first--either about Sir Lionel or aboutJerusalem, and seemed resolute to give the traveller none of that_eclat_, to pay to his adventures none of that deferential awe whichhad been so well expressed by Mr. Pritchett in two words.
But Mr. Bertram, though he always began so coldly, did usuallyimprove after a few hours. His tone would gradually become lesscynical and harsh; his words would come out more freely; and he wouldappear somewhat less anxious to wound the _amour propre_ of hiscompanion.
"Are you much wiser for your travels, George?" he said at last, whenJohn had taken away the dinner, and they were left alone with abottle of port wine between them. This, too, was asked in a verycynical tone, but still there was some improvement in the very factof his deigning to allude to the journey.
"Yes, I think I am rather wiser."
"Well, I'm glad of that. As you have lost a year in your profession,it is well that you should have gained something. Has your accessionof wisdom been very extensive?"
"Somewhat short of Solomon's, sir; but probably quite as much as Ishould have picked up had I remained in London."
"That is very probable. I suppose you have not the slightest idea howmuch it cost you. Indeed, that would be a very vulgar way of lookingat it."
"Thanks to your unexpected kindness, I have not been driven to anyvery close economy."
"Ah! that was Pritchett's doing. He seemed afraid that the land wouldnot flow with milk and honey unless your pocket was fairly provided.But of course it's your own affair, George. It is money borrowed;that's all."
George did not quite understand what this meant, and remained silent;but at one moment it was almost on his tongue to say that it ought atleast to be admitted that the borrower had not been very pressing inhis application.
"And I suppose you have come back empty?" continued his uncle.
George then explained exactly how he stood with regard to money,saying how he had put himself into the hands of Mr. Neversaye Die,how he had taken chambers in the Middle Temple, and how a volume ofBlackstone was already lying open in his dingy sitting-room.
"Very well, very well. I have no objection whatever. You will perhapsmake nothing at the bar, and certainly never the half what you wouldhave done with Messrs. Dry and Stickatit. But that's your affair. Thebar is thoroughly respectable. By-the-by, is your father satisfiedwith it as a profession?" This was the first allusion that Mr.Bertram had made to his brother.
"Perfectly so," said George.
"Because of course you were bound to consult him." If this wasintended for irony, it was so well masked that George was not able tobe sure of it.
"I did consult him, sir," said George, turning red in accordance withthat inveterate and stupid habit of his.
"That was right. And did you consult him about another thing? did youask him what you were to live on till such time as you could earnyour own bread?"
In answer to this, George was obliged to own that he did not. "Therewas no necessity," said he, "for he knows that I have my fellowship."
"Oh! ah! yes; and that of course relieves him of any further causefor anxiety in the matter. I forgot that."
"Uncle George, you are always very hard on my father; much too hard."
"Am I?"
"I think you are. As regards his duty to me, if I do not complain,you need not."
"Oh! that is it, is it? I did think that up to this, his remissnessin doing his duty as a father had fallen rather on my shoulders thanon yours. But I suppose I have been mistaken; eh?"
"At any rate, if you have to complain, your complaint should be madeto him, not to me."
"But you see I have not time to run across the world to Jerusalem;and were I to do so, the chances are ten to one I should not catchhim. If you will ask Pritchett too, you will find that your father isnot the best correspondent in the world. Perhaps he has sent back byyou some answer to Pritchett's half-yearly letters?"
"He has sent nothing by me."
"I'll warrant he has not. But come, George, own the truth. Did heborrow money from you when he saw you? If he did not, he showed avery low opinion of your finances and my liberality."
George might have declared, without any absolute falseness, that hisfather had borrowed no money of him. But he had not patience at thepresent moment to distinguish between what would be false and whatnot false in defending his father's character. He could not butfeel that his father had behaved very shabbily to him, and that SirLionel's conduct could not be defended in detail. But he also feltthat his uncle was quite unjustifiable in wounding him by suchattacks. It was not to him that Mr. Bertram should have complained ofSir Lionel's remissness in money matters. He resolved that he wouldnot sit by and hear his father so spoken of; and, therefore, utterlydisregardful of what might be the terribly ill effects of his uncle'sanger, he thus spoke out in a tone not of the meekest:--
"I will neither defend my father, Mr. Bertram; nor will I sit stilla
nd hear him so spoken of. How far you may have just ground ofcomplaint against him, I do not know, nor will I inquire. He is myfather, and that should protect his name in my presence."
"Hoity, toity!"
"I will ask you to hear me if you please, sir. I have received verymany good offices from you, for which I heartily thank you. I amaware that I owe to you all my education and support up to this time.This debt I fear I can never pay."
"And therefore, like some other people, you are inclined to resentit."
"No, by heaven! I would resent nothing said by you to myself; but Iwill not sit by and hear my father ill spoken of. I will not--no; notfor all the money which you could give or leave me. It seems to methat what I spend of your money is added up as a debt against myfather--"
"Pray don't imagine, my boy, that that is any burden to him."
"It is a burden to me, and I will endure it no longer. While atschool, I knew nothing of these things, and not much while I was atcollege. Now I do know something, and feel something. If you please,sir, I will renounce any further assistance from you whatever; andbeg, in return, that you will say nothing further to me as to anyquarrel there may be between you and Sir Lionel."
"Quarrel!" said his uncle, getting up and standing with his back tothe fire. "He has not spirit enough to quarrel with me."
"Well, I have," said George, who was now walking about the room; andfrom the fire in his eyes, it certainly appeared that he spoke thetruth in this respect.
"I know the bitterness of your spirit against your brother,"continued George; "but your feelings should teach you not to show itbefore his son."
Mr. Bertram was still standing with his hands in his pockets, leaningagainst the mantel-piece, with his coat-tails over his arms. He saidnothing further at once, but continued to fix his eyes on his nephew,who was now walking backwards and forwards from one end of the roomto the other with great vehemence. "I think," at last said George,"that it will be better that I should go back to town. Good-night,sir."
"You are an ass," said his uncle.
"Very likely," said George. "But asses will kick sometimes."
"And bray too," said his uncle.
There was a certain spirit about them both which made it difficultfor either altogether to get the better of the other.
"That I may bray no more in your hearing, I will wish yougood-night." And again he held out his hand to the old man.
His uncle took hold of his hand, but he did not go through theprocess of shaking it, nor did he at once let it go again. He held itthere for a time, looking stedfastly into his nephew's face, and thenhe dropped it. "You had better sit down and drink your wine," he saidat last.
"I had rather return to town," said George, stoutly.
"And I had rather you stayed here," said his uncle, in a tone ofvoice that for him was good-humoured. "Come, you need not be in apet, like a child. Stay where you are now, and if you don't like tocome again, why you can stay away."
As this was said in the manner of a request, George did again sitdown. "It will be foolish to make a fuss about it," said he tohimself; "and what he says is true. I need not come again, and I willnot." So he sat down and again sipped his wine.
"So you saw Caroline at Jerusalem?" said the old man, after a pauseof about twenty minutes.
"Yes, I met her with Miss Baker. But who told you?"
"Who told me? Why, Miss Baker, of course. They were both here for aweek after their return."
"Here in this house?"
"Why shouldn't they be here in this house? Miss Baker is usually herethree or four times every year."
"Is she?" said George, quite startled by the information. Why onearth had Miss Baker not told him of this?
"And what did you think of Caroline?" asked Mr. Bertram.
"Think of her?" said George.
"Perhaps you did not think anything about her at all. If so, I shallbe delighted to punish her vanity by telling her so. She had thoughta great deal about you; or, at any rate, she talked as though shehad."
This surprised George a great deal, and almost made him forgive hisuncle the inquiry he had received. "Oh, yes, I did think of her,"said he. "I thought of her a little at least."
"Oh, a little!"
"Well, I mean as much as one does generally think of people onemeets--perhaps rather more than of others. She is very handsome andclever, and what I saw of her I liked."
"She is a favourite of mine--very much so. Only that you are tooyoung, and have not as yet a shilling to depend on, she might havedone for a wife for you."
And so saying, he drew the candles to him, took up his newspaper, andwas very soon fast asleep.
George said nothing further that night to his uncle about Caroline,but he sat longing that the old man might again broach the subject.He was almost angry with himself for not having told his unclethe whole truth; but then he reflected that Caroline had not yetacknowledged that she felt anything like affection for him; and hesaid to himself, over and over again, that he was sure she would notmarry him without loving him for all the rich uncles in Christendom;and yet it was a singular coincidence that he and his uncle shouldhave thought of the same marriage.
The next morning he was again more surprised. On coming down to thebreakfast-parlour, he found his uncle there before him, walking upand down the room with his hands behind his back. As soon as Georgehad entered, his uncle stopped his walk, and bade him shut the door.
"George," said he, "perhaps you are not very often right, either inwhat you do or what you say; but last night you were right."
"Sir!"
"Yes, last night you were right. Whatever may have been your father'sconduct, you were right to defend it; and, bad as it has been, I waswrong to speak of it as it deserved before you. I will not do soagain."
"Thank you, sir," said George, his eyes almost full of tears.
"That is what I suppose the people in the army call an ample apology.Perhaps, however, it may be made a little more ample."
"Sir, sir," said George, not quite understanding him; "pray do notsay anything more."
"No, I won't, for I have got nothing more to say; only this:Pritchett wants to see you. Be with him at three o'clock to-day."
At three o'clock Bertram was with Pritchett, and learned from thatgentleman, in the most frozen tone of which he was capable, and withsundry little, good-humoured, asthmatic chuckles, that he had beendesired to make arrangements for paying to Mr. George regularly anincome of two hundred a year, to be paid in the way of annuity tillMr. Bertram's death, and to be represented by an adequate sum in thefunds whenever that much-to-be-lamented event should take place.
"To be sure, sir," said Pritchett, "two hundred a year is nothing foryou, Mr. George; but--"
But two hundred a year was a great deal to George. That morning hehad been very much puzzled to think how he was to keep himself goingtill he might be able to open the small end of the law's golden eggs.