CHAPTER III.
A QUIET LITTLE DINNER.
Sir Henry Harcourt was married and took his bride to Paris and Nice;and Sir Lionel Bertram tried to get married, but his bride--brideas he hoped her to have been--ran away by herself to Hadley. In themeantime George Bertram lived alone in his dark dull chambers inLondon.
He would fain have been all alone; but at what was perhaps the worstmoment of his misery, his father came to him. It may be rememberedhow anxiously he had longed to know his father when he firstcommenced that journey to Jerusalem, how soon he became attached tohim, how fascinated he had been by Sir Lionel's manners, how easilyhe forgave the first little traits of un-paternal conduct on hisfather's part, how gradually the truth forced itself upon his mind.But now, at this time, the truth had forced itself on his mind. Heknew his father for what he was.
And his mind was not one which could reject such knowledge, or alterthe nature of it because the man was his father. There are thoseto whom a father's sins, or a husband's sins, or a brother's sinsare no sins at all. And of such one may say, that though we must ofcompulsion find their judgment to be in some sort delinquent, thattheir hearts more than make up for such delinquency. One knows thatthey are wrong, but can hardly wish them to be less so.
But George Bertram was not one of them: he had been in no hurry tocondemn his father; but, having seen his sins, he knew them for sins,and did condemn them. He found that his uncle had been right, andthat Sir Lionel was a man whom he could in no wise respect, and couldhardly love. Money he perceived was his father's desire. He wouldtherefore give him what money he could spare; but he would not givehim his society.
When, therefore, Sir Lionel announced his arrival in town and hisintention to remain there some little time, George Bertram was by nomeans solaced in his misery. In those days he was very miserable. Itwas only now that he knew how thoroughly he loved this woman--nowthat she was so utterly beyond his reach. Weak and wavering as he wasin many things, he was not weak enough to abandon himself altogetherto unavailing sorrow. He knew that work alone could preserve himfrom sinking--hard, constant, unflinching work, that one great curefor all our sorrow, that only means of adapting ourselves to God'sprovidences.
So he set himself to work--not a lazy, listless reading of countedpages; not history at two volumes a week, or science at a treatise aday; but to such true work as he found it in him to do, working withall his mind and all his strength. He had already written and wasknown as a writer; but he had written under impulse, carelessly,without due regard to his words or due thought as to his conclusions.He had written things of which he was already ashamed, and had putforth with the _ex cathedra_ air of an established master ideas whichhad already ceased to be his own. But all that should be altered now.Then he had wanted a quick return for his writing. It had piqued himto think that the names of others, his contemporaries, were bruitedabout the world, but that the world knew nothing of his own. Harcourtwas already a noted man, while he himself had done no more thanattempted and abandoned a profession. Harcourt's early success hadmade him an early author; but he already felt that his authorshipwas unavailing. Harcourt's success had been solid, stable, such asmen delight in; his had as yet resulted only in his all but forcedwithdrawal from the only respectable position which he had achieved.
And now Harcourt's success was again before him. Harcourt had now ashis own that which he had looked to as the goal of all his success,the worldly reward for which he had been willing to work. And yetwhat was Harcourt as compared with him? He knew himself to be ofa higher temperament, of a brighter genius, of greater powers. Hewould not condescend even to compare himself to this man who had sothoroughly distanced him in the world's race.
Thinking, and feeling, and suffering thus, he had begun to workwith all the vehemence of which he was master. He would ask for nospeedy return now. His first object was to deaden the present miseryof his mind; and then, if it might be so, to vindicate his claimto be regarded as one of England's worthy children, letting suchvindication come in its own time.
Such being the state of his mind, his father's arrival did notcontribute much to his comfort. Sir Lionel was rather petulantwhen he was with him; objected to him that he had played his cardsbadly; would talk about Caroline, and, which was almost worse, aboutthe solicitor-general; constantly urged him to make overtures ofreconciliation to his uncle; and wanted one day five pounds, onanother ten pounds, and again on a third fifteen pounds. At thismoment George's fixed income was but two hundred pounds a year, andany other wealth of which he was possessed was the remainder of hisuncle's thousand pounds. When that was gone, he must either live onhis income, small as it was, or write for the booksellers. Such beingthe case, he felt himself obliged to decline when the fifteen poundswas mentioned.
"You can let me have it for a couple of months?" said Sir Lionel.
"Not conveniently," said his son.
"I will send it you back immediately on my return to Littlebath,"said the father; "so if you have got it by you, pray oblige me."
"I certainly have got it," said the son--and he handed him thedesired check; "but I think you should remember, sir, how very smallmy income is, and that there is no prospect of its being increased."
"It must be altogether your own fault then," said the colonel,pocketing the money. "I never knew a young man who had a finer handof cards put into his hand--never; if you have played it badly, itis your own fault, altogether your own fault." In truth, Sir Lioneldid really feel that his son had used him badly, and owed himsome amends. Had George but done his duty, he might now have beenthe actual recognized heir of his uncle's wealth, and the actualpossessor of as much as would have been allowed to a dutiful,obedient son. To a man of Sir Lionel's temperament, it was annoyingthat there should be so much wealth so near him, and yet absolutely,and, alas! probably for ever out of his reach.
Sir Lionel had resolved to wait in London for his answer, and therehe received it. Short as was poor Miss Baker's letter, it was quitesufficiently explicit. She had betrayed him to the old gentleman,and after that all hopes of money from that source were over.It might still be possible for him to talk over Miss Baker, butsuch triumph would be but barren. Miss Baker with a transferredallegiance--transferred from the old gentleman to him--would be buta very indifferent helpmate. He learnt, however, from Littlebaththat she was still away, and would probably not return. Then he wentback in fancied security, and found himself the centre of all thoseamatory ovations which Miss Todd and Miss Gauntlet had prepared forhim.
It was about two months after this that George Bertram saw Sir HenryHarcourt for the first time after the marriage. He had heard thatSir Henry was in town, had heard of the blaze of their new house inEaton Square, had seen in the papers how magnificently Lady Harcourthad appeared at court, how well she graced her brilliant home, howfortunate the world esteemed that young lawyer who, having genius,industry, and position of his own, had now taken to himself inmarriage beauty, wealth, and social charms. All this George Bertramheard and read, and hearing it and reading it had kept himself fromthe paths in which such petted children of fortune might probably bemet.
Twice in the course of these two months did Sir Henry call atBertram's chambers; but Bertram was now at home to no one. He livedin a great desert, in which was no living being but himself--in ahuge desert without water and without grass, in which there wasno green thing. He was alone; to one person only had he spoken ofhis misery; once only had he thought of escaping from it. Thatthought had been in vain: that companion was beyond his reach; and,therefore, living there in his London chambers, he had been allalone.
But at last they did meet. Sir Henry, determined not to be beaten inhis attempt to effect a reconciliation, wrote to him, saying that hewould call, and naming an hour. "Caroline and you," he said, "arecousins; there can be no reason why you should be enemies. For hersake, if not for mine, do oblige me in this."
Bertram sat for hours with that note beneath his eyes before he couldbring himself to answer i
t. Could it really be that she desiredto see him again? That she, in her splendour and first glow ofprosperous joy, would wish to encounter him in his dreary, sad,deserted misery? And why could she wish it? and, ah! how could shewish it?
And then he asked himself whether he also would wish to see her. Thathe still loved her, loved her as he never had done while she was yethis own, he had often told himself. That he could never be at resttill he had ceased to make her the first object of his thoughts hehad said as often. That he ought not to see her, he knew full well.The controversy within his own bosom was carried on for two hours,and then he wrote to Sir Henry, saying that he would be at hischambers at the hour named. From that moment the salutary effort wasdiscontinued, the work was put aside, and the good that had been donewas all revoked.
Sir Henry came, true to his appointment. Whatever might behis object, he was energetic in it. He was now a man of manyconcernments; hours were scanty with him, and a day much too short.The calls of clients, and the calls of party, joined to those othercalls which society makes upon men in such brilliant stations, hardlyleft him time for sleeping; but not the less urgent was he in hisresolve to see his beaten rival who would so willingly have left himto his brilliant joy. But was not all this explained long even beforeChristianity was in vogue? "Quos Deus vult perdere, prius dementat."Whom God will confound, those he first maddens.
Nothing could exceed the bland friendship, the winning manners, andthe frank courtesy of Sir Henry. He said but little about what waspast; but that little went to show that he had been blessed with thehand of Caroline Waddington only because Bertram had rejected thatblessing as not worthy his acceptance. Great man as he was, he almosthumbled himself before Bertram's talent. He spoke of their mutualconnection at Hadley as though they two were his heirs of right, andas though their rights were equal; and then he ended by begging thatthey might still be friends.
"Our careers must be widely different," said Bertram, somewhattouched by his tone; "yours will be in the light; mine must be in thedark."
"Most men who do any good live in the dark for some period of theirlives," said Harcourt. "I, too, have had my dark days, and doubtlessshall have them again; but neither with you nor with me will theyendure long."
Bertram thought that Harcourt knew nothing about it, and sneered whenthe successful man talked of his dark days. What darkness had hismental eyesight ever known? We are all apt to think when our days aredark that there is no darkness so dark as our own.
"I know what your feelings are," continued Sir Henry; "and I hopeyou will forgive me if I speak openly. You have resolved not to meetCaroline. My object is to make you put aside that resolve. It ismy object and hers also. It is out of the question that you shouldcontinue to avoid the world. Your walk in life will be that ofa literary man: but nowadays literary men become senators andstatesmen. They have high rank, are well paid, and hold their ownboldly against men of meaner capacities. This is the career that weboth foresee for you; and in that career we both hope to be yourfriends."
So spoke the great advocate with suasive eloquence--with eloquencedangerously suasive as regarded his own happiness. But in truth thisman knew not what love meant--not that love which those two wretchedlovers understood so well. That his own wife was cold to him, cold asice--that he well knew. That Bertram had flung her from him becauseshe had been cold to him--that he believed. That he himself couldlive without any passionate love--that he acknowledged. His wife wasgraceful and very beautiful--all the world confessed that. And thusSir Henry was contented. Those honeymoon days had indeed been ratherdreary. Once or twice before that labour was over he had been almosttempted to tell her that he had paid too high for the privilege ofpressing such an icicle to his bosom. But he had restrained himself;and now in the blaze of the London season, passing his morningsin courts of law and his evenings in the House of Parliament, heflattered himself that he was a happy man.
"Come and dine with us in a quiet way the day after to-morrow," saidSir Henry, "and then the ice will be broken." George Bertram saidthat he would; and from that moment his studies were at an end.
This occurred on the Monday. The invitation was for the followingWednesday. Sir Henry explained that from some special cause he wouldbe relieved from parliamentary attendance, at any rate till teno'clock; that at the quiet dinner there would be no other guestsexcept Mr. and Mrs. Stistick, and Baron Brawl, whose wife and familywere not yet in town.
"You'll like the baron," said Harcourt; "he's loud and arrogant, nodoubt; but he's not loud and arrogant about nothing, as some men are.Stistick is a bore. Of course you know him. He's member for Peterloo,and goes with us on condition that somebody listens to him about oncea week. But the baron will put him down."
"And Mrs. Stistick?" said George.
"I never heard of her till yesterday, and Caroline has gone to callon her to-day. It's rather a bore for her, for they live somewherehalf-way to Harrow, I believe. Half-past seven. Good-bye, old fellow.I ought to have been before Baron Brawl at Westminster twenty minutessince." And so the solicitor-general, rushing out from the Temple,threw himself into a cab; and as the wheels rattled along the Strand,he made himself acquainted with the contents of his brief.
Why should Caroline have expressed a wish to see him? That was thethought that chiefly rested in Bertram's mind when Sir Henry lefthim. Why should it be an object to her to force a meeting between herand him? Would it not be better for them both that they should be faras the poles asunder?
"Well," he said to himself, "if it be no difficulty to her, neithershall it be a difficulty to me. She is strong-minded, and I will beso no less. I will go and meet her. It is but the first plunge thatgives the shock."
And thus he closed his work, and sat moodily thinking. He was angrywith her in that she could endure to see him; but, alas! half-pleasedalso that she should wish to do so. He had no thought, no mostdistant thought, that she could ever now be more to him than the wifeof an acquaintance whom he did not love too well. But yet there wasin his heart some fragment of half-satisfied vanity at hearing thatshe did look forward to see him once again.
And how shall we speak of such a wish on her part? "Caroline," herhusband had said to her at breakfast, "it will be all nonsensefor you and George Bertram to keep up any kind of quarrel. I hatenonsense of that sort."
"There is no quarrel between us," she replied.
"There ought to be none; and I shall get him to come here."
The colour of her face became slightly heightened as she answered:"If you wish it, Sir Henry, and he wishes it also, I shall notobject."
"I do wish it, certainly. I think it absolutely necessary as regardsmy position with your grandfather."
"Do just as you think best," said his wife. 'Twas thus that LadyHarcourt had expressed her desire to see George Bertram at her house.Had he known the truth, that fragment of half-satisfied vanity wouldhave been but small.
In those early days of her marriage, Lady Harcourt bore her triumphsvery placidly. She showed no great elation at the change that hadcome over her life. Her aunt from Hadley was frequently with her, andwondered to find her so little altered, or rather, in some respects,so much altered; for she was more considerate in her manner, moresparing of her speech, much less inclined to domineer now, asLady Harcourt, than in former days she had ever been as CarolineWaddington. She went constantly into society, and was always muchconsidered; but her triumphs were mainly of that quiet nature whichone sometimes sees to be achieved with so little effort by beautifulwomen. It seemed but necessary that she should sit still, andsometimes smile, and the world was ready to throw itself at her feet.Nay, the smile was but too often omitted, and yet the world wasthere.
At home, though more employed, she was hardly more energetic. Herhusband told her that he wished his house to be noted for thepleasantness of his dinner-parties, and, therefore, she studied thesubject as a good child would study a lesson. She taught herself whatthe material of a dinner should be, she satisfied herself that hercook was good,
she looked to the brilliancy of her appointments, anddid her best to make the house shine brightly. The house did shine,and on the whole Sir Henry was contented. It was true that his wifedid not talk much; but what little she did say was said with a sweetmanner and with perfect grace. She was always dressed with care, wasalways beautiful, was always ladylike. Had not Sir Henry reason to becontented? As for talking, he could do that himself.
And now that she was told that George Bertram was to come to herhouse, she did not show much more excitement at the tidings than atthe promised advent of Mr. Baron Brawl. She took the matter with suchindifference that Sir Henry, at least, had no cause for jealousy. Butthen she was indifferent about everything. Nothing seemed to wakeher either to joy or sorrow. Sir Henry, perhaps, was contented; butlovely, ladylike, attractive as she was, he sometimes did feel almostcurious to know whether it were possible to rouse this doll of his toany sense of life or animation. He had thought, nay, almost wished,that the name of her old lover would have moved her, that the idea ofseeing him would have disturbed her. But, no; one name was the sameto her as another. She had been told to go and call on Mrs. Stistick,and she had gone. She was told to receive Mr. Bertram, and she wasquite ready to do so. Angels from heaven, or spirits from below,could Sir Henry have summoned such to his table, would have beenreceived by her with equal equanimity. This was dutiful on her part,and naturally satisfactory to a husband inclined to be somewhatexigeant. But even duty may pall on an exigeant husband, and a manmay be brought to wish that his wife would cross him.
But on this occasion Sir Henry had no such pleasure. "I saw Bertramthis morning," he said, when he went home for five minutes beforetaking his seat in the House for the night. "He's to be here onWednesday."
"Oh, very well. There will be six, then." She said no more. Itwas clear that the dinner, and that only, was on her mind. He hadtold her to be careful about his dinners, and therefore could notcomplain. But, nevertheless, he was almost vexed. Don't let anywife think that she will satisfy her husband by perfect obedience.Overmuch virtue in one's neighbours is never satisfactory to ussinners.
But there were moments in which Lady Harcourt could think of herpresent life, when no eye was by to watch her--no master there towonder at her perfections. Moments! nay, but there were hours, andhours, and hours. There were crowds of hours; slow, dull, lingeringhours, in which she had no choice but to think of it. A woman maysee to her husband's dinners and her own toilet, and yet have toomuch time for thinking. It would almost have been a comfort to LadyHarcourt if Sir Henry could have had a dinner-party every day.
How should she bear herself; what should she say; how should she lookwhen George Bertram came there as a guest to her house? How could hebe so cruel, so heartless, so inhuman as to come there? Her path wasdifficult enough for her poor weary feet. He must know that--should,at any rate, have known it. How could he be so cruel as to add thisgreat stumbling-block to her other perils?
The Wednesday came, and at half-past seven she was in herdrawing-room as beautiful and as dignified as ever. She had apeculiar place of her own in the corner of a peculiar sofa, and thereshe lived. It was her goddess' shrine, and her worshippers came anddid reverence before her. None came and sat beside her. Hers was notthat gentle fascination which entices men, and women too, to a nearproximity. Her bow was very gracious, and said much; but "noli metangere" was part of its eloquence. And so Baron Brawl found, when onentering her drawing-room he told her that the fame of her charms hadreached his ears, and that he was delighted to have an opportunity ofmaking her acquaintance.
Mr. and Mrs. Stistick were the next comers. Mrs. Stistick sat herselfdown on an opposite sofa, and seemed to think that she did her dutyto society by sitting there. And so she did. Only permit her so tosit, and there was no further labour in entertaining Mrs. Stistick.She was a large, heavy woman, with a square forehead and a squarechin, and she had brought up seven children most successfully. Now,in these days of her husband's parliamentary prosperity, she wascarried about to dinners; and in her way she enjoyed them. She wasnot too shy to eat, and had no wish whatever either to be talked toor to talk. To sit easily on a sofa and listen to the buzz of voiceswas life and society to her. Perhaps in those long hours she wasmeditating on her children's frocks or her husband's linen. But theynever seemed to be long to her.
Mr. Stistick was standing on the rug before the fire, preparing forhis first onslaught on Baron Brawl, when the servant announced Mr.Bertram.
"Ah! Bertram, I'm delighted to see you," said Sir Henry;--"doublyso, as dinner is ready. Judge, you know my friend Bertram, by name,at any rate?" and some sort of half-introduction was performed."He who moved all Oxford from its propriety?" said the baron. ButBertram neither saw him nor heard him. Neither his eyes nor his earswere at his command.
As he took his host's proffered hand, he glanced his eyes for amoment round the room. There she sat, and he had to speak to her asbest he might. At his last interview with her he had spoken freelyenough, and it all rushed now upon his mind. Then how little he hadmade of her, how lightly he had esteemed her! Now, as she sat therebefore him his spirit acknowledged her as a goddess, and he allbut feared to address her. His face, he knew, was hot and red; hismanner, he felt, was awkward. He was not master of himself, and whensuch is the case with a man, the fact always betrays itself.
But he did speak to her. "How do you do, Lady Harcourt?" he said, andhe put his hand out, and he felt the ends of her fingers once morewithin his own.
And she spoke too, probably. But pretty women can say almost as muchas is necessary on such occasions as this without opening their lips.Whether she spoke, or whether she did not, it was the same to him.He certainly did not hear her. But her fingers did touch his hand,her eyes did rest upon his face; and then, in that moment of time,he thought of Jerusalem, of the Mount of Olives, of those ridesat Littlebath, and of that last meeting, when all, all had beenshattered to pieces.
"There are five hundred and fifty-five thousand male children betweenthe ages of nine and twelve," said Mr. Stistick, pursuing somewondrous line of argument, as Bertram turned himself towards thefire.
"What a fine national family!" said the baron. "And how ashamed Ifeel when I bethink myself that only one of them is mine!"
"Dinner is served," said the butler.
"Mrs. Stistick, will you allow me?" said Sir Henry. And then in halfa minute Bertram found himself walking down to dinner with the memberof Parliament. "And we have school accommodation for just one hundredand fourteen," continued that gentleman on the stairs. "Now, will youtell me what becomes of the other four hundred and forty-one?"
Bertram was not at that moment in a condition to give him anyinformation on the subject.
"I can tell you about the one," said the baron, as Sir Henry beganhis grace.
"An odd thousand is nothing," said Mr. Stistick, pausing for a secondtill the grace was over.
The judge and Mr. Stistick sat at Lady Harcourt's right and left, sothat Bertram was not called upon to say much to her during dinner.The judge talked incessantly, and so did the member of Parliament,and so also did the solicitor-general. A party of six is always atalking party. Men and women are not formed into pairs, and do nottherefore become dumb. Each person's voice makes another personemulous, and the difficulty felt is not as to what one shall say, buthow one shall get it in. Ten, and twelve, and fourteen are the silentnumbers.
Every now and again Harcourt endeavoured to make Bertram join in theconversation; and Bertram did make some faint attempts. He essayed toanswer some of Mr. Stistick's very difficult inquiries, and was evenroused to parry some raillery from the judge. But he was not himself;and Caroline, who could not but watch him narrowly as she sat therein her silent beauty, saw that he was not so. She arraigned him inher mind for want of courage; but had he been happy, and noisy, andlight of heart, she would probably have arraigned him for some deepersin.
"As long as the matter is left in the hands of the parents, nothingon earth will be done," said Mr.
Stistick.
"That's what I have always said to Lady Brawl," said the judge.
"And it's what I have said to Lord John; and what I intend to say tohim again. Lord John is all very well--"
"Thank you, Stistick. I am glad, at any rate, to get as much as thatfrom you," said the solicitor.
"Lord John is all very well," continued the member, not altogetherliking the interruption; "but there is only one man in the countrywho thoroughly understands the subject, and who is able--"
"And I don't see the slightest probability of finding a second," saidthe judge.
"And who is able to make himself heard."
"What do you say, Lady Harcourt," asked the baron, "as to themanagement of a school with--how many millions of them, Mr.Stistick?"
"Five hundred and fifty-five thousand male children--"
"Suppose we say boys," said the judge.
"Boys?" asked Mr. Stistick, not quite understanding him, but ratherdisconcerted by the familiarity of the word.
"Well, I suppose they must be boys;--at least the most of them."
"They are all from nine to twelve, I say," continued Mr. Stistick,completely bewildered.
"Oh, that alters the question," said the judge.
"Not at all," said Mr. Stistick. "There is accommodation for only--"
"Well, we'll ask Lady Harcourt. What do you say, Lady Harcourt?"
Lady Harcourt felt herself by no means inclined to enter into thejoke on either side; so she said, with her gravest smile, "I'm sureMr. Stistick understands very well what he's talking about."
"What do you say, ma'am?" said the judge, turning round to the ladyon his left.
"Mr. Stistick is always right on such matters," said the lady.
"See what it is to have a character. It absolutely enables one toupset the laws of human nature. But still I do say, Mr. Solicitor,that the majority of them were probably boys."
"Boys!" exclaimed the member of Parliament. "Boys! I don't think youcan have understood a word that we have been saying."
"I don't think I have," said the baron.
"There are five hundred and fifty-five thousand male childrenbetween--"
"Oh--h--h! male children! Ah--h--h! Now I see the difference; I begyour pardon, Mr. Stistick, but I really was very stupid. And you meanto explain all this to Lord John in the present session?"
"But, Stistick, who is the one man?" said Sir Henry.
"The one man is Lord Boanerges. He, I believe, is the only man livingwho really understands the social wants of this kingdom."
"And everything else also," sneered the baron. The baron alwayssneered at cleverness that was external to his own profession,especially when exhibited by one who, like the noble lord named,should have confined his efforts to that profession.
"So Boanerges is to take in hand these male children? And veryfitting, too; he was made to be a schoolmaster."
"He is the first man of the age; don't you think so, Sir Henry?"
"He was, certainly, when he was on the woolsack," said Sir Henry."That is the normal position always assumed by the first man of hisage in this country."
"Though some of them when there do hide their lights under a bushel,"said the judge.
"He is the first law reformer that perhaps ever lived," said Mr.Stistick, enthusiastically.
"And I hope will be the last in my time," said his enemy.
"I hope he will live to complete his work," said the politician.
"Then Methuselah will be a child to him, and Jared and Lamech littlebabies," said the judge.
"In such case he has got his work before him, certainly," said Mr.Solicitor.
And so the battle was kept up between them, and George Bertram andLady Harcourt sat by and listened; or more probably, perhaps, sat byand did not listen.
But when her ladyship and Mrs. Stistick had retreated--Oh, myreaders, fancy what that next hour must have been to CarolineHarcourt!--How Gothic, how barbarous are we still in our habits,in that we devote our wives to such wretchedness as that! O, lady,has it ever been your lot to sit out such hour as that with someMrs. Stistick, who would neither talk, nor read, nor sleep; in whosecompany you could neither talk, nor read, nor yet sleep? And if suchhas been your lot, have you not asked yourself why in this civilizedcountry, in this civilized century, you should be doomed to such asenseless, sleepless purgatory?--But when they were gone, and whenthe judge, radiant with fun and happiness, hastened to fill hisclaret beaker, then Bertram by degrees thawed, and began to feel thatafter all the world was perhaps not yet dead around him.
"Well, Mr. Stistick," said the baron; "if Sir Henry will allow us,we'll drink Lord Boanerges."
"With all my heart," said Mr. Stistick. "He is a man of whom it maybe said--"
"That no man knew better on which side his bread was buttered."
"He is buttering the bread of millions upon millions," said Mr.Stistick.
"Or doing better still," said Bertram; "enabling them to butter theirown. Lord Boanerges is probably the only public man of this day whowill be greater in a hundred years than he is now."
"Let us at any rate hope," said the baron, "that he will at that timebe less truculent."
"I can't agree with you, Bertram," said Sir Henry. "I consider we arefertile in statesmen. Do you think that Peel will be forgotten ina hundred years?" This was said with the usual candour of a modernturncoat. For Sir Henry had now deserted Peel.
"Almost, I should hope, by that time," said Bertram. "He will have asort of a niche in history, no doubt; as has Mr. Perceval, who did somuch to assist us in the war; and Lord Castlereagh, who carried theUnion. They also were heaven-sent ministers, whom Acheron has not asyet altogether swallowed up."
"And Boanerges, you think, will escape Libitina?"
"If the spirit of the age will allow immortality to any man of thesedays, I think he will. But I doubt whether public opinion, as nowexisting, will admit of hero-worship."
"Public opinion is the best safeguard for a great man's great name,"said Mr. Stistick, with intense reliance on the civilization of hisown era.
"Quite true, sir; quite true," said the baron,--"for the space oftwenty-four hours."
Then followed a calm, and then coffee. After that, thesolicitor-general, looking at his watch, marched off impetuous to theHouse. "Judge," he said, "I know you will excuse me; for you, too,have been a slave in your time: but you will go up to Lady Harcourt;Bertram, you will not be forgiven if you do not go upstairs."
Bertram did go upstairs, that he might not appear to be unmanly, ashe said to himself, in slinking out of the house. He did go upstairs,for one quarter of an hour.
But the baron did not. For him, it may be presumed, his club hadcharms. Mr. Stistick, however, did do so; he had to hand Mrs.Stistick down from that elysium which she had so exquisitely graced.He did hand her down; and then for five minutes George Bertram foundhimself once more alone with Caroline Waddington.
"Good-night, Lady Harcourt," he said, again essaying to take herhand. This and his other customary greeting was all that he had yetspoken to her.
"Good-night, Mr. Bertram." At last her voice faltered, at last hereye fell to the ground, at last her hand trembled. Had she stood firmthrough this trial all might have been well; but though she couldbear herself right manfully before stranger eyes, she could not alonesupport his gaze; one touch of tenderness, one sign of weakness wasenough--and that touch was there, that sign she gave.
"We are cousins still, are we not?" said he.
"Yes, we are cousins--I suppose so."
"And as cousins we need not hate each other?"
"Hate each other!" and she shuddered as she spoke; "oh, no, I hopethere is no hatred!"
He stood there silent for a moment, looking, not at her, but at thecostly ornaments which stood at the foot of the huge pier-glass overthe fireplace. Why did he not go now? why did he stand there silentand thoughtful? why--why was he so cruel to her?
"I hope you are happy, Lady Harcourt," at last he
said.
There was almost a savage sternness in her face as she made an effortto suppress her feelings. "Thank you--yes," she said; and then sheadded, "I never was a believer in much happiness."
And yet he did not go. "We have met now," he said, after anotherpause.
"Yes, we have met now;" and she even attempted to smile as sheanswered him.
"And we need not be strangers?" Then there was again a pause; forat first she had no answer ready. "Is it needful that we should bestrangers?" he asked.
"I suppose not; no; not if Sir Henry wishes it otherwise."
And then he put out his hand, and wishing her good-night a secondtime, he went.
For the next hour, Lady Harcourt sat there looking at the smoulderingfire. "Quos Deus vult perdere, prius dementat." Not in such language,but with some such thought, did she pass judgment on the wretchedfolly of her husband.