The Bertrams Part 41

But there was nothing tender in his eye, no tender tone softened the words which fell from his mouth.

"What!" he said, and in spite of his promise, his voice had never before sounded so stern,--"what! show that letter to another man; show that letter to Mr. Harcourt! Is that true, Caroline?"

A child asks pardon from his mother because he is scolded. He wishes to avert her wrath in order that he may escape punishment. So also may a servant of his master, or an inferior of his superior. But when one equal asks pardon of another, it is because he acknowledges and regrets the injury he has done. Such acknowledgment, such regret will seldom be produced by a stern face and a harsh voice. Caroline, as she looked at him and listened to him, did not go down on her knees--not even mentally. Instead of doing so, she remembered her dignity, and wretched as she was at heart, she continued to seat herself without betraying her misery.

"Is that true, Caroline? I will believe the charge against you from no other lips than your own."

"Yes, George; it is true. I did show your letter to Mr. Harcourt." So stern had he been in his bearing that she could not condescend even to a word of apology.

He had hitherto remained standing; but on hearing this he flung himself into a chair and buried his face in his hands. Even then she might have been softened, and he might have relented, and all might have been well!

"I was very unhappy, George," she said; "that letter had made me very unhappy, and I hardly knew where to turn for relief."

"What!" he said, jumping up and flashing before her in a storm of pa.s.sion to which his former sternness had been as nothing--"what!

my letter made you so unhappy that you were obliged to go to Mr.

Harcourt for relief! You appealed for sympathy from me to him! from me who am--no, who was, your affianced husband! Had you no idea of the sort of bond that existed between you and me? Did you not know that there were matters in which you could not look for sympathy to such as him without being false, nay, almost worse than false? Have you ever thought what it is to be the one loved object of a man's heart, and to have accepted that love?" She had been on the point of interrupting him, but the softness of these last words interrupted her for a moment.

"Such a letter as that! Do you remember that letter, Caroline?"

"Yes, I remember it; remember it too well; I would not keep it. I would not feel that such words from you were ever by me."

"You mean that it was harsh?"

"It was cruel."

"Harsh or cruel, or what you will--I shall not now stop to defend it--it was one which from the very nature of it should have been sacred between us. It was written to you as to one to whom I had a right to write as my future wife."

"No one could have a right to write such a letter as that."

"In it, I particularly begged that Mr. Harcourt might not be made an arbiter between us. I made a special request that to him, at least, you would not talk of what causes of trouble there might be between us; and yet you selected him as your confidant, read it with him, poured over with him the words which had come hot from my heart, discussed with him my love--my--my--my-- Bah! I cannot endure it; had not you yourself told me so, I could not have believed it."

"George!--"

"Good G.o.d! that you should take my letters and read them over with him! Why, Caroline, it admits but of one solution; there is but one reading to the riddle; ask all the world."

"We sent for him as your friend."

"Yes, and seem to have soon used him as your own. I have no friend to whom I allow the privilege of going between me and my own heart's love. Yes, you were my own heart's love. I have to get over that complaint now as best I may."

"I may consider then that all is over between us."

"Yes; there. You have back your hand. It is again your own to dispose of to whom you will. Let you have what confidences you will, they will no longer imply falsehood to me."

"Then, sir, if such be the case, I think you may cease to scold me with such violence."

"I have long felt that I ought to give you this release; for I have known that you have not thoroughly loved me."

Miss Waddington was too proud, too conscious of the necessity to maintain her pride at the present moment to contradict this. But, nevertheless, in her heart she felt that she did love him, that she would fain not give him up, that, in spite of his anger, his bitter railing anger, she would keep him close to her if she only could do so. But now that he spoke of giving her up, she could not speak pa.s.sionately of her love--she who had never yet shown any pa.s.sion in her speech to him.

"It has grown on me from day to day; and I have been like a child in clinging to a hope when I should have known that there was no hope. I should have known it when you deferred our marriage for three years."

"Two years, George."

"Had it been two years, we should now have been married. I should have known it when I learned that you and he were in such close intimacy in London. But now--I know it now. Now at least it is all over."

"I can only be sorry that you have so long had so much trouble in the matter."

"Trouble--trouble! But I will not make a fool of myself. I believe at any rate that you understand me."

"Oh! perfectly, Mr. Bertram."

But she did not understand him; nor perhaps was it very likely that she should understand him. What he had meant her to understand was this: that in giving her up he was sacrificing only himself, and not her; that he did so in the conviction that she did not care for him; and that he did so on this account, strong as his own love still was, in spite of all her offences. This was what he intended her to understand;--but she did not understand the half of it.

"And I may now go?" said she, rising from her chair. The blush of shame was over, and mild as her words sounded, she again looked the Juno. "And I may now go?"

"Now go! yes; I suppose so. That is, I may go. That is what you mean.

Well, I suppose I had better go." Not a moment since he was towering with pa.s.sion, and his voice, if not loud, had been masterful, determined, and imperious. Now it was low and gentle enough. Even now, could she have been tender to him, he would have relented. But she could not be tender. It was her profession to be a Juno. Though she knew that when he was gone from her her heart would be breaking, she would not bring herself down to use a woman's softness. She could not say that she had been wrong, wrong because distracted by her misery, wrong because he was away from her, wrong because disturbed in her spirits by the depth of the love she felt for him; she could not confess this, and then, taking his hand, promise him that if he would remain close to her she would not so sin again. Ah! if she could have done this, in one moment her head would have been on his shoulder and his arm round her waist; and in twenty minutes more Miss Baker would have been informed, sitting as she now was up in her bedroom, that the wedding-day had been fixed.

But very different news Miss Baker had to hear. Had things turned out so, Miss Waddington would have been a woman and not a G.o.ddess. No; great as was the coming penalty, she could not do that. She had been railed at and scolded as never G.o.ddess was scolded before. Whatever she threw away, it behoved her to maintain her dignity. She would not bend to a storm that had come bl.u.s.tering over her so uncourteously.

Bertram had now risen to go. "It would be useless for me to trouble your aunt," he said. "Tell her from me that I would not have gone without seeing her had I not wished to spare her pain. Good-bye, Caroline, and may G.o.d bless you;" and, so saying, he put out his hand to her.

"Good-bye, Mr. Bertram." She would have said something more, but she feared to trust herself with any word that might have any sound of tenderness. She took his hand, however, and returned the pressure which he gave it.

She looked into his eyes, and saw that they were full of tears; but still she did not speak. Oh, Caroline Waddington, Caroline Waddington! if it had but been given thee to know, even then, how much of womanhood there was in thy bosom, of warm womanhood, how little of G.o.ddess-ship, of cold G.o.ddess-ship, it might still have been well with thee! But thou didst not know. Thou hadst gotten there at any rate thy Juno's pedestal; and having that, needs was that thou shouldst stand on it.

"G.o.d bless you, Caroline; good-bye," he repeated again, and turned to the door.

"I wish to ask you one question before you go," she said, as his hand was on the handle of the lock; and she spoke in a voice that was almost G.o.ddess-like; that hardly betrayed, but yet that did betray, the human effort. Bertram paused, and again turned to her.

"In your accusation against me just now--"

"I made no accusation, Caroline."

"You not only made it, Mr. Bertram, but I pleaded guilty to it. But in making it you mentioned Mr. Harcourt's name. While you were absent in Paris, I did talk with that gentleman on our private affairs, yours and mine. I hope I am believed to have done so because I regarded Mr. Harcourt as your friend?"

Bertram did not understand her, and he showed that he did not by his look.

"It is difficult for me to explain myself"--and now she blushed slightly--very slightly. "What I mean is this; I wish to be acquitted by you of having had recourse to Mr. Harcourt on my own account--from any partiality of my own." She almost rose in height as she stood there before him, uttering these words in all her cold but beautiful dignity. Whatever her sins might have been, he should not accuse her of having dallied with another while her word and her troth had been his. She had been wrong. She could not deny that he had justice on his side--stern, harsh, bare justice--when he came there to her and flung back her love and promises into her teeth. He had the right to do so, and she would not complain. But he should not leave her till he had acquitted her of the vile, missish crime of flirting with another because he was absent. Seeing that he still hardly understood her, she made her speech yet plainer.

"At the risk of being told again that I am unfeminine, I must explain myself. Do you charge me with having allowed Mr. Harcourt to speak to me as a lover?"

"No; I make no such charge. Now, I have no right to make any charge on such a matter."

"No; should Mr. Harcourt be my lover now, that is my affair and his, not yours. But had he been so then-- You owe it to me to say whether among other sins, that sin also is charged against me?"

"I have charged and do charge nothing against you, but this--that you have ceased to love me. And that charge will be made nowhere but in my own breast. I am not a jealous man, as I think you might know.

What I have said to you here to-day has not come of suspicion. I have thought no ill against you, and believed no ill against you beyond that which you have yourself acknowledged. I find that you have ceased to love me, and finding that, I am indifferent to whom your love may be given." And so saying, he opened the door and went out; nor did he ever again see Miss Waddington at Littlebath.