The Bertrams (14 page)

But in truth George was somewhat afflicted by a
tête monté,
in this matter. I say afflicted, because, having imagination and ideality to lead
him to high views, he had not a sufficient counterbalance in his firmness of character. If his father was too mundane, he was too transcendental. As for instance, he approved at the present moment, in theory, of the life of a parish clergyman; but could he have commenced the life tomorrow, he would at once have shrunk from its drudgery.

They did not understand each other; perceiving which, Sir Lionel gave up the subject. He was determined not to make himself disagreeable to his son. He, at any rate, intended to make him no allowance, to give him no fortune, and was aware, therefore, that he had no right to interfere otherwise than as his advice might be asked. Nor indeed had he any wish to do so, if he could only instil into the young man's mind a few—not precepts; precepts are harsh and disagreeable—a few comfortable friendly hints as to the tremendous importance of the game which might be played with Mr. George Bertram, senior. If he could only do this pleasantly, and without offence to his son, he would attempt nothing further.

He turned the conversation, and they talked agreeably on other matters—of Oxford, of the Wilkinsons, of Harcourt, and by degrees also a little of uncle George.

"What sort of a house does my brother keep at Hadley—eh, George? Dull enough it used to be."

"Well; it is dull. Not that he is dull himself; I can always talk to my uncle when he will talk to me."

"Sees no company, I suppose?"

"Not much."

"Never goes into society?"

"He dines out in London sometimes; and sometimes gives dinners too."

"What! at taverns?"

"Yes; at Blackwall, or Greenwich, or some of those places. I have been at his dinners, and he never spares anything."

"He doesn't feel his years, then? He's not infirm? no rheumatism or anything of that sort—strong on his legs, eh?"

"As strong as you are, sir."

"He's ten years my senior, you know."

"Yes, I know he is. He's not nearly so young a man as you are; but I really think he is as strong. He's a wonderful man for his years, certainly."

"I'm delighted to hear it," said Sir Lionel. A keen judge of character, however, scrutinizing the colonel's face closely, would not then have read much warm delight therein depicted.

"You rather like him on the whole, then—eh, George?"

"Well; I really think I do. I am sure I ought to like him. But——"

"Well, George; speak out. You and I need have no secrets."

"Secrets, no; I've no secret. My uncle has a way of saying too much himself about what he does for one."

"Sends in the bill too often—eh, George?"

"If it is to be a bill, let him say so. I for one shall not blame him. There is no reason he should give me anything. But situated as I have been at Oxford, it would have
been almost absurd in me to refuse his allowance——"

"Quite absurd."

"When he knew I was coming out to you, he made Pritchett—you know Pritchett?"

"And his handwriting—very well indeed."

"He made Pritchett put three hundred pounds to my credit; that was over and above my allowance. Well, I did almost make up my mind to return that; as it is, I have not touched it, and I think I shall repay it."

"For heaven's sake do no such thing. It would be an offence which he would never forgive." Sir Lionel did say so much with something of parental energy in his tone and manner.

"Yes, sir; but to be told of it!"

"But he does not ask you to pay it him back again?"

"If he asks you;—is not that the same thing? But you hardly understand me, or him either."

"I think I understand him, George. I wonder whether they could give us a cup of coffee here?"

"Of course they can;" and George rang the bell.

"Perhaps so; but as far as my experience goes, wherever Englishmen frequent, there the coffee is spoilt. Englishmen, as far as I can see, have a partiality for chicory, but none at all for coffee."

"What I mean, sir, is this. Connected as I and my uncle are together, seeing that he has all my life——" Here George paused a moment, for what he was about to say might have seemed to imply a censure on his father.

"Paid your school-bills, and all that sort of thing," filled in Sir Lionel.

"Yes; as he has always done that, it seemed so natural that I should take what he gave me."

"Quite natural. You could have done nothing else."

"And now he speaks of it as though—as though—of course I am under an obligation to him—a very deep obligation, I understand that, and should not fret at it. But he thinks of it as though I had been to blame in spending his money. When I see him next, he'll say something of the same sort about that three hundred pounds. All I can do is to remind him that I did not ask for it, and tell him that he may have it back again."

"Do nothing of the kind, George," said Sir Lionel, who regarded as little less than lunacy on his son's part this declared intention to refund money to a rich man. "I know very well what you mean. It is disagreeable to be reminded of money that you have spent."

"But I haven't spent it."

"Well, of money that you have received. But what can you do? It is not your fault. As you truly say, it would be absurd and ungrateful too if you were to decline to take such trifles from your own uncle, especially seeing what he has done for you. It is his manner, and that was always disagreeable, especially in money matters." And so having given to his son the best advice he had to offer, Sir Lionel sipped his coffee. "Very bad—very bad, indeed; it always is at these English places.
If I could have my own way, I would always keep out of English haunts." In this respect Sir Lionel had had his own way during the greater portion of his life.

Before they parted for the evening, George communicated to his father the great fact of Miss Todd's picnic as settled for the next day; and Sir Lionel expressed himself as willing to make one of the party if Miss Todd could be induced to extend to him the light of her countenance. On this head young Bertram, though his own acquaintance had certainly been short, thought that he might take on himself to answer. People soon get intimate with each other at such places as Jerusalem. When you have been up the Great Pyramid with a lady, the chances are you know more about her than you would do from a year's acquaintance fostered by a dozen London parties; and a journey up the Nile with a man may be considered quite equal to three years spent together at the same college,—that is, if the fellow-travellers be young. After a certain age, men never become really intimate, let their relations with each other be ever so close.

"There will be a Miss Baker there, sir, who says she knows you; and a Miss Waddington, a very fine girl, who at any rate knows my name."

"What! Caroline Waddington?"

"Yes, Caroline Waddington."

"She is a ward of your uncle."

"So Miss Baker tells me; but I never heard my uncle mention them. Indeed, he never mentions anything."

"It will be very desirable that you should know Miss Waddington. There is no saying what your uncle may do with his money. “Yes, I'll go to the picnic; only I hope the place is not distant.” So that matter was settled.

CHAPTER IX

MISS
TODD
'
S
PICNIC

T
HAT
matter of obtaining permission for Sir Lionel to join the picnic was not found difficult of arrangement. Good-looking, pleasant-mannered Sir Lionels, who bear the Queen's commission, and have pleasant military ways with them, are welcome enough at such parties as these, even though they be sixty years of age. When George mentioned the matter to Miss Todd, that lady declared herself delighted. She had heard, she said, of the distinguished arrival at the hotel, but she had been almost afraid to ask such a man as Sir Lionel to join their foolish little party. Then Miss Baker, who in this affair bore the next authority to Miss Todd, declared that she had intended to ask him, taking upon herself the freedom of an old acquaintance; and so that matter was arranged.

The party was not to be a large one. There was Miss Todd, the compounder of it, a maiden lady, fat, fair, and perhaps almost forty; a jolly jovial lady, intent on seeing the world, and indifferent to many of its prejudices and formal restraints. "If she threw herself in Sir Lionel's way, people would of course say that she wanted
to marry him; but she did not care a straw what people said; if she found Sir Lionel agreeable, she would throw herself in his way;" So she told Miss Baker—with perhaps more courage than the occasion required.

Then there was Mrs. and Miss Jones. Miss Jones was the young lady who lost her parasol on the Mount of Offence, and so recklessly charged the Arab children of Siloam with the theft. Mr. Jones was also in Jerusalem, but could not be persuaded to attend at Miss Todd's behest. He was steadily engaged in antiquarian researches, being minded to bring out to the world some startling new theory as to certain points in Bible chronology and topography. He always went about the city with a trowel and a big set of tablets; and certain among the more enthusiastic of the visitors to Jerusalem had put him down as an infidel.

There were also Mr. and Mrs. Hunter—a bridegroom and bride, now on their wedding trip; a somewhat fashionable couple, who were both got up with considerable attention as to oriental costume. Mrs. Hunter seemed to think a good deal about her trousers, and Mr. Hunter's mind was equally taken up with the fact that he had ceased to wear any. They had a knowing way of putting on their turbans, and carried their sashes gracefully; those, however, who had seen Mr. Hunter roll himself into his sash, were of opinion that sooner or later he would suffer from vertigo in his head. Miss Baker and her niece had fallen in with these people, and were considered to be of the same party.

There was a clergyman to be there, one Mr.
Cruse, the gentleman who had been so keenly annoyed at the absence of potatoes from the dinner board. He was travelling in charge of a young gentleman of fortune, a Mr. Pott, by whose fond parents the joint expense of the excursion was defrayed. Mr. Cruse was a University man, of course; had been educated at Trinity College, Cambridge, and piqued himself much on being far removed from the dangers of Puseyism. He was a man not of a happy frame of mind, and seemed to find that from Dan to Beersheba everything in truth was barren. He was good-looking, unmarried, not without some talent, and seemed to receive from the ladies there assembled more attention than his merits altogether deserved.

Mr. M'Gabbery had talked of not going, but had been over-persuaded by the good-natured Miss Todd. He had become almost overwhelmed by the intensity of his feelings in regard to the sacred associations of the place, since George Bertram had contrived to seat himself between Miss Baker and Miss Waddington. Up to that moment, no one had been merrier than he. He had, so he had flattered himself, altogether cut out Mr. Cruse in that special quarter, the good graces namely of those two ladies, and had been prepared to take on his own shoulders all the hard work of the picnic. But now things were altered with him; he had some doubts whether the sacredness of the valley would not be desecrated by such a proceeding, and consulted Mr. Cruse on the matter. Hitherto these gentlemen had not been close friends; but now they allied themselves as
against a common enemy. Mr. Cruse did not care much for associations, seemed indeed to think that any special attention to sacred places savoured of idolatry, and professed himself willing to eat his dinner on any of the hills or in any of the valleys round Jerusalem. Fortified with so good an opinion, and relying on the excellence of his purpose, Mr. M'Gabbery gave way, and renewed his offers of assistance to Miss Todd.

There was also Mr. Pott, Mr. Cruse's young charge, the son of a man largely engaged in the linen trade; a youth against whom very little can be alleged. His time at present was chiefly given up to waiting on Miss Jones; and, luckier in this respect than his tutor, Mr. Cruse, he had no rival to interfere with his bliss.

Miss Baker and Miss Waddington made up the party. Of the former, little more need be said, and that little should be all in her praise. She was a lady-like, soft-mannered, easy-tempered woman, devoted to her niece, but not strongly addicted to personal exertions on her own part. The fact that she was now at Jerusalem, so far away from her own comfortable drawing-room, sufficiently proved that she
was
devoted to her niece.

And now for Caroline Waddington, our
donna primissima
. Her qualities, attributes, and virtues must be given more in detail than those of her companions at the picnic, seeing that she is destined to fill a prominent place upon our canvas.

At the time of which we are speaking, she might perhaps be twenty years of age; but her
general appearance, her figure, and especially the strong character marked in her face, would have led one to suspect that she was older. She was certainly at that time a beautiful girl—very beautiful, handsome in the outline of her face, graceful and dignified in her mien, nay, sometimes almost majestic—a Juno rather than a Venus. But any Paris who might reject her, awed by the rigour of her dignity, would know at the time that he was wrong in his judgment. She was tall, but not so tall as to be unfeminine in her height. Her head stood nobly on her shoulders, giving to her bust that ease and grace of which sculptors are so fond, and of which tight-laced stays are so utterly subversive. Her hair was very dark—not black, but the darkest shade of brown, and was worn in simple rolls on the side of her face. It was very long and very glossy, soft as the richest silk, and gifted apparently with a delightful aptitude to keep itself in order. No stray jagged ends would show themselves if by chance she removed her bonnet, nor did it even look as though it had been prematurely crushed and required to be afresh puffed out by some head-dresser's mechanism. She had the forehead of a Juno; white, broad, and straight; not shining as are some foreheads, which seem as though an insufficient allowance of skin had been vouchsafed for their covering. It was a forehead on which an angel might long to press his lips—if angels have lips, and if, as we have been told, they do occasionally descend from their starry heights to love the daughters of men.