The Bertrams

George went back to town and commenced his preparations for Paris. But on the following day he received the unwonted honour of a visit from Mr. Pritchett, and the honour was very pointed; in this wise. Mr. Pritchett, not finding him at home, had gone to a neighbouring tavern "to get a bit of dinner," as he told the woman at the chambers; and stated, that he should go on calling till he did find Mr. George. And in this way, on his third or fourth visit, Mr. George was found.

Mr. Pritchett was dressed in his best, and was very sad and solemn. "Mr. George," said he, "your uncle wishes to see you at Hadley, particular."

"Why, I was there yesterday."

"I know you was, Mr. George; and that's just it. Your uncle, Mr. George, is an old man, and it will be only dutiful you should be with him a good deal now. You'd wish to be a comfort to your uncle in his last days. I know that, Mr. George. He's been good to you; and you've your duty to do by him now, Mr. George; and you'll do it." So said Mr. Pritchett, having thoroughly argued the matter in his own mind, and resolved, that as Mr. George was a wilful young horse, who would not be driven in one kind of bridle, another must be tried with him.

"But has my uncle sent to say that he wants to see me again at once?"

"He has, Mr. George; sent to say that he wants to see you again at once, particular."

There was nothing of course for Mr. George to do but to obey, seeing that the order was so particular. On that same evening, therefore, he put his dressing-things into a bag, and again went down to Hadley.

On his first arrival his uncle shook hands with him with much more than ordinary kindness, and even joked with him.

"So Pritchett came to you, did he? and sent you down at a moment's notice? ha! ha! He's a solemn old prig, is Pritchett; but a good servant; a very good servant. When I am gone, he'll have enough to live on; but he'll want some one to say a word to him now and again. Don't forget what I say about him. It's not so easy to find a good servant."

George declared that he always had had, and would have, a regard for Mr. Pritchett; "though I wish he were not quite so sad."

"Poor Pritchett! well; yes, he is sad," said the uncle, laughing; and then George went upstairs to get ready for dinner.

The dinner, considering the house in which it was spread, was quite recherché. George said to himself that the fat fowls which he saw must have come from Harcourt's larder. Roast mutton and boiled beef – not together, but one on one day and the other on the next – generally constituted the fare at Mr. Bertram's house when he did not sit down to dinner alone. But now there was quite a little banquet. During dinner, he made sundry efforts to be agreeable; pressed his nephew to eat, and drank wine with him in the old-fashioned affectionate manner of past days. "Your health, George," he said. "You'll find that sherry good, I think. It ought to be, if years can make it so."

It was good; and George was very sorry to find that the good wine had been brought out for him. He felt that something would be required in return, and that he could not give that something.

After dinner that something was soon asked for. "George," said the old man, "I have been thinking much since you went away the other day about you and Caroline. I have taken it into my stupid old head to wish that you two should be married."

"Ah, sir!"

"Now listen to me. I do wish it, and what you have said has disturbed me. Now I do believe this of you, that you are an honest lad; and though you are so fond of your own way, I don't think you'd wish to grieve me if you could help it."

"Not if I could help it, sir; not if I could help it, certainly."

"You can help it. Now listen to me. An old man has no right to have his fancies unless he chooses to pay for them. I know that well enough. I don't want to ask you why you have quarrelled with Caroline. It's about money, very likely?"

"No, sir, no; not in the least."

"Well, I don't want to inquire. A small limited income is very likely to lead to misunderstandings. You have at any rate been honest and true to me. You are not a bit like your father."

"Sir! sir!"

"And, and – I'll tell you what I'll do. Caroline is to have six thousand pounds, isn't she?"

"Pray believe me, sir, that money has nothing whatever to do with this matter."

"Yes, six," continued Mr. Bertram; "four of her own, and two from me. Now I'll tell you what I'll do. Let me see. You have two hundred a year; that's settled on you. And you had a thousand pounds the other day. Is that all gone yet?"

"I am in no want of money, uncle; none whatever."

"No, not as a bachelor; but as a married man you would be. Now do tell me – how much of that thousand pounds did the colonel get out of you?"

"Dear uncle, do remember that he is my father."

"Well, well; two hundred a year, and two thousand pounds, and one, and Pritchett's account. I'll tell you what, George, I should like to see you comfortable; and if you and Caroline are married before next October, I'll give you – "

"I can't tell you how you pain me, sir."

"I'll give you – I wonder how much income you think you'll want?"

"None, sir; none. As our marriage is out of the question, we shall want no income. As I am, and am likely to remain unmarried, my present income is sufficient for me."

"I'll give you – let me see." And the old miser – for though capable of generosity to a great extent, as he had certainly shown with reference to his nephew's early years, he certainly was a miser – the old miser again recapitulated to himself all that he had already done, and tried to calculate at what smallest figure, at what lowest amount of ready money to be paid down, he could purchase the object which he now desired. "I'll give you four thousand pounds on the day you are married. There, that will be ten thousand beside your own income, and whatever your profession will bring you."

"What am I to say, sir? I know how generous you are; but this is not an affair of money."

"What is it then?"

"We should not be happy together."

"Not happy together! You shall be happy, I tell you; you will be happy if you have enough to live on. Remember, I may leave you something more than that when I die; that is, I may do so if you please me. You will understand, however, that I make no promise."

"Dear uncle," said George, and as he spoke he rose from his seat, and crossing over to his uncle, took the old man's hand in his own. "You shall be asked for no promise; you shall be asked for nothing. You have been most liberal, most kind to me; too kind, I know, for I have not returned it by that attention which you deserved from me. But, believe me, I cannot do as you ask me. If you will speak to Miss Waddington, she will tell you the same."

"Miss Waddington! Pshaw!"

"Caroline, I mean. It is impossible, sir. And it adds greatly to my own suffering – for I have suffered in all this – that you also should be grieved."

"Why, you were so much in love with her the other day! Mary told me that you were dying for her."

"I cannot explain it all. But she – Caroline – doubtless will. However, pray, pray take this for granted: the engagement between us cannot be renewed."

Old Mr. Bertram still kept his nephew's hand, and it seemed as though he liked to hold it. He continued to look up into George's face as though striving to read there something different from the words which he heard, something which might yet give him some consolation. He had said that George was honest, and he believed it, as far as he could believe in honesty. But, nevertheless, he was still meditating at what price he could buy over his nephew to his purpose. After such a struggle as that of his whole lifetime, could he have any other faith but that money were omnipotent? No; this of course, this necessarily was his belief. As to the sufficient quantity – on that point it was possible for him to doubt. His nephew's manner to him was very touching; the tone of his voice, the look of his countenance, the grief which sat on his brow, did touch him. But they touched him in this manner; they made him feel that a few thousands were not sufficient. He had at last a desire at his heart, a family domestic warm desire; and he began to feel that if he were not prepared to give up his desire, he must bid high for its fulfilment.

"George," said he, "after all, you and Caroline are the nearest relatives I have; the nearest and the dearest."

"Caroline is your own child's child, sir."

"She is but a girl; and it would all go to some spendthrift, whose very name would be different. And, I don't know, but I think I like you better than her. Look here now. According to my present will, nine-tenths of my property will go to build a hospital that shall bear my name. You'll not repeat that to anybody, will you?"

"No, sir; I will not."

"If you'll do as I would have you about this marriage, I'll make a new will, and you and your children shall have – I'll let you say yourself how much you shall have; there – and you shall see the will yourself before the wedding takes place."

"What can I say to him? what can I say to him?" said George, turning away his face. "Sir, it is quite impossible. Is not that enough? Money has nothing to do with it; can have nothing to do with it."

"You don't think I'd deceive you, do you, and make another will afterwards? It shall be a deed of gift if you like, or a settlement – to take effect of course after my death." On hearing this George turned away his face. "You shall have half, George; there, by G – you shall have half; settled on you – there – half of it, settled on you." And then only did the uncle drop his nephew's hand. He dropped it, and closing his eyes, began to meditate on the tremendous sacrifice he had made.

There was something terrible in this to young Bertram. He had almost ceased to think of himself in watching his uncle's struggles. It was dreadful to see how terribly anxious the old man was, and more dreadful still to witness the nature of the thoughts which were running through his mind. He was making lavish tenders of his heaven, his god, his blessings; he was offering to part with his paradise, seeing that nature would soon imperatively demand that he should part with it. But useless as it must soon be to him, he could not bring himself to believe that it was not still all-powerful with others.