I COULD PUT A CODICIL.

On their journey up from Southampton, George and Arthur parted from each other.  George went on direct to London, whereas Arthur turned off from Basingstoke towards his own home.

“Take my advice now, if you never do again,” said Bertram, as they parted; “make yourself master of your own house, and as soon after as possible make her the mistress of it.”

“That’s easily said, old fellow,” repeated the other.

“Make the attempt, at any rate.  If I am anything of a prophet, it won’t be in vain;” and so they parted.

At Southampton they had learnt that there had been a partial crash in the government.  The prime minister had not absolutely walked forth, followed by all his satellites, as is the case when a successful turn in the wheel gives the outs a full whip-hand over the ins, but it had become necessary to throw overboard a brace or two of Jonahs, so that the ship might be lightened to meet a coming storm; and among those so thrown over had been our unfortunate friend Sir Henry Harcourt.

And this, as regards him, had hardly been the worst of it.  We all know that bigwigs are never dismissed.  When it becomes necessary to get rid of them, they resign.  Now resignation is clearly a voluntary act, and it seemed that Sir Henry, having no wish that way, had not at first performed this act of volition.  His own particular friends in the cabinet, those to whom he had individually attached himself, were gone; but, nevertheless, he made no sign; he was still ready to support the government, and as the attorney-general was among those who had shaken the dust from their feet and gone out, Sir Henry expected that he would, as a matter of course, walk into that gentleman’s shoes.

But another learned gentleman was appointed, and then at last Sir Henry knew that he must go.  He had resigned; but no resignation had ever appeared to have less of volition in it.  And how could it be otherwise?  Political success was everything to him; and, alas! he had so played his cards that it was necessary to him that that success should be immediate.  He was not as those are who, in losing power, lose a costly plaything, which they love indeed over well, but the loss of which hurts only their pride.  Place to him was everything; and feeling this, he had committed that most grievous of political sins ­he had endeavoured to hold his place longer than he was wanted.  Now, however, he was out.  So much, in some sort of way, Bertram had learnt before he left Southampton.

His first business in London was to call on Mr. Pritchett.

“Oh, master George! oh, master George!” began that worthy man, as soon as he saw him.  His tone had never been so lachrymose, nor his face so full of woe.  “Oh, master George!”

Bertram in his kindest way asked after his uncle.

“Oh, master George! you shouldn’t be going to them furren parts ­indeed you shouldn’t; and he in such a state.”

“Is he worse than when I last saw him, Mr. Pritchett?”

“Gentlemen at his time of life don’t get much better, master George ­nor yet at mine.  It’s half a million of money; half ­a ­million ­of ­money!  But it’s no use talking to you, sir ­it never was.”

By degrees Bertram gathered from him that his uncle was much weaker, that he had had a second and a much more severe attack of paralysis, and that according to all the doctors, the old gentleman was not much longer for this world.  Sir Omicron himself had been there.  Miss Baker had insisted on it, much in opposition to her uncle’s wishes.  But Sir Omicron had shaken his head and declared that the fiat had gone forth.

Death had given his order; the heavy burden of the half-million must be left behind, and the soul must walk forth, free from all its toils, to meet such aethereal welcome as it could find.

Mr. Bertram had been told, and had answered, that he supposed as much.  “A man when he was too old to live must die,” he had said, “though all the Sir Ómicrons in Europe should cluster round his bed.  It was only throwing money away.  What, twenty pounds!” And being too weak to scold, he had turned his face to the wall in sheer vexation of spirit.  Death he could encounter like a man; but why should he be robbed in his last moments?

“You’ll go down to him, master George,” wheezed out poor Pritchett.  “Though it’s too late for any good.  It’s all arranged now, of course.”

Bertram said that he would go down immediately, irrespective of any such arrangements.  And then, remembering of whom that Hadley household had consisted when he left England in the early winter, he asked as to the two ladies.

“Miss Baker is there, of course?”

“Oh, yes, Miss Baker is there.  She doesn’t go to any furren parts, master George.”

“And ­and ­”

“Yes, she’s in the house, too ­poor creature ­poor creature!”

“Then how am I to go there?” said George, speaking rather to himself than to Mr. Pritchett.

“What! you wouldn’t stay away from him now because of that?  You ought to go to him, master George, though there were ten Lady Harcourts there ­or twenty.”  This was said in a tone that was not only serious, but full of melancholy.  Mr. Pritchett had probably never joked in his life, and had certainly never been less inclined to do so than now, when his patron was dying, and all his patron’s money was to go into other and into unknown hands.

Some other information Bertram received from his most faithful ally.  Sir Henry had been three times to Hadley, but he had only once succeeded in seeing Mr. Bertram, and then the interview had been short, and, as Mr. Pritchett surmised, not very satisfactory.  His last visit had been since that paid by Sir Omicron, and on that occasion the sick man had sent out to say that he could not see strangers.  All this Mr. Pritchett had learnt from Miss Baker.  Sir Henry had not seen his wife since that day ­now nearly twelve months since ­on which she had separated herself from him.  He had made a formal application to her to return to him, but nothing had come of it; and Mr. Pritchett took upon himself to surmise again, that Sir Henry was too anxious about the old gentleman’s money to take any steps that could be considered severe, until .  And then Mr. Pritchett wheezed so grievously that what he said was not audible.

George immediately wrote to Miss Baker, announcing his return, and expressing his wish to see his uncle.  He did not mention Lady Harcourt’s name; but he suggested that perhaps it would be better, under existing circumstances, that he should not remain at Hadley.  He hoped, however, that his uncle would not refuse to see him, and that his coming to the house for an hour or so might not be felt to be an inconvenience.  By return of post he got an answer from Miss Baker, in which she assured him that his uncle was most anxious for his presence, and had appeared to be more cheerful, since he had heard of his nephew’s return, than he had been for the last two months.  As for staying at Hadley, George could do as he liked, Miss Baker said.  But it was but a sad household, and perhaps it would be more comfortable for him to go backwards and forwards by the railway.

This correspondence caused a delay of two days, and on one of them Bertram received a visit which he certainly did not expect.  He was sitting in his chamber alone, and was sad enough, thinking now of Mrs. Cox and his near escape, then of Adela and his cousin’s possible happiness, and then of Caroline and the shipwreck of her hopes, when the door opened, and Sir Henry Harcourt was standing before him.

“How d’ye do, Bertram?” said the late solicitor-general, putting out his hand.  The attitude and the words were those of friendship, but his countenance was anything but friendly.  A great change had come over him.  His look of youth had deserted him, and he might have been taken for a care-worn, middle-aged man.  He was thin, and haggard, and wan; and there was a stern, harsh frown upon his brow, as though he would wish to fight if he only dared.  This was the successful man ­fortune’s pet, who had married the heiress of the millionaire, and risen to the top of his profession with unexampled rapidity.

“How are you, Harcourt?” said Bertram, taking the proffered hand.  “I had no idea that you had heard of my return.”

“Oh, yes; I heard of it.  I supposed you’d be back quick enough when you knew that the old man was dying.”

“I am glad, at any rate, to be here in time to see him,” said George, disdaining to defend himself against the innuendo.

“When are you going down?”

“To-morrow, I suppose.  But I expect to have a line from Miss Baker in the morning.”

Sir Henry, who had not sat down, began walking up and down the room, while Bertram stood with his back to the fire watching him.  The lawyer’s brow became blacker and blacker, and as he rattled his half-crowns in his trousers-pockets, and kept his eyes fixed upon the floor, Bertram began to feel that the interview did not promise to be one of a very friendly character.

“I was sorry to hear, Harcourt, that you are among the lot that have left the Government,” said Bertram, hardly knowing what else to say.

“D ­ the Government!  But I didn’t come here to talk about the Government.  That old man down there will be gone in less than a week’s time.  Do you know that?”

“I hear that in all probability he has not long to live.”

“Not a week.  I have it from Sir Omicron himself.  Now I think you will admit, Bertram, that I have been very badly used.”

“Upon my word, my dear fellow, I know nothing about it.”

“Nonsense!”

“But it isn’t nonsense.  I tell you that I know nothing about it.  I suppose you are alluding to my uncle’s money; and I tell you that I know nothing ­and care nothing.”

“Psha!  I hate to hear a man talk in that way.  I hate such humbug.”

“Harcourt, my dear fellow ­”

“It is humbug.  I am not in a humour now to stand picking my words.  I have been infernally badly used ­badly used on every side.”

“By me, among others?”

Sir Henry, in his present moody mind, would have delighted to say, “Yes,” by him, Bertram, worse, perhaps, than by any other.  But it did not suit him at the present moment to come to an open rupture with the man whom he had been in such a hurry to visit.

“I treated that old man with the most unbounded confidence when I married his granddaughter ­”

“But how does that concern me?  She was not my granddaughter.  I, at least, had nothing to do with it.  Excuse me, Harcourt, if I say that I, of all men, am the last to whom you should address yourself on such a subject.”

“I think differently.  You are his nearest relative ­next to her; next to her, mind ­”

“Well!  What matter is it whether I am near or distant?  Lady Harcourt is staying with him.  Did it suit her to do so, she could fight your battle, or her own battle, or any battle that she pleases.”

“Yours, for instance?”

“No, Sir Henry.  That she could not do.  From doing that she is utterly debarred.  But I tell you once for all that I have no battle.  You shall know more ­if the knowledge will do you any good.  Not very long since my uncle offered to settle on me half his fortune if I would oblige him in one particular.  But I could not do the thing he wanted; and when we parted, I had his positive assurance that he would leave me nothing.  That was the last time I saw him.”  And as Bertram remembered what that request was to which he had refused to accede, his brow also grew black.

“Tell me honestly, then, if you can be honest in the matter, who is to have his money?”

“I can be very honest, for I know nothing.  My belief is that neither you nor I will have a shilling of it.”

“Well, then; I’ll tell you what.  Of course you know that Lady Harcourt is down there?”

“Yes; I know that she is at Hadley.”

“I’ll not submit to be treated in this way.  I have been a deuced sight too quiet, because I have not chosen to disturb him in his illness.  Now I will have an answer from him.  I will know what he means to do; and if I do not know by to-morrow night, I will go down, and will, at any rate, bring my wife away with me.  I wish you to tell him that I want to know what his intentions are.  I have a right to demand as much.”

“Be that as it may, you have no right to demand anything through me.”

“I have ruined myself ­or nearly so, for that woman.”

“I wonder, Harcourt, that you do not see that I am not the man you should select to speak to on such a subject.”

“You are the man, because you are her cousin.  I went to enormous expense to give her a splendid home, knowing, of course, that his wealth would entitle her to it.  I bought a house for her, and furnished it as though she were a duchess ­”

“Good heavens, Harcourt!  Is this anything to me?  Did I bid you buy the house?  If you had not given her a chair to sit on, should I have complained?  I tell you fairly, I will have nothing to do with it.”

“Then it will be the worse for her ­that’s all.”

“May God help her!  She must bear her lot, as must I mine, and you yours.”

“And you refuse to take my message to your uncle?”

“Certainly.  Whether I shall see him or not I do not yet know.  If I do, I certainly shall not speak to him about money unless he begins.  Nor shall I speak about you, unless he shall seem to wish it.  If he asks about you, I will tell him that you have been with me.”

After some further discussion, Harcourt left him.  George Bertram found it difficult to understand what motive could have brought him there.  But drowning men catch at straws.  Sir Henry was painfully alive to the consideration, that if anything was to be done about the rich man’s money, if any useful step could be taken, it must be done at once; the step must be taken now.  In another week, perhaps in another day, Mr. Bertram would be beyond the power of will-making.  No bargain could then be driven in which it should be stipulated that after his death his grandchild should be left unmolested ­for a consideration.  The bargain, if made at all, must be made now ­now at once.

It will be thought that Sir Henry would have played his game better by remaining quiet; that his chance of being remembered in that will would be greater if he did not now make himself disagreeable.  Probably so.  But men running hither and thither in distress do not well calculate their chances.  They are too nervous, too excited to play their game with judgment.  Sir Henry Harcourt had now great trouble on his shoulders:  he was in debt, was pressed for money on every side, had brought his professional bark into great disasters ­nearly to utter shipwreck ­and was known to have been abandoned by his wife.  The world was not smiling on him.  His great hope, his once strong hope, was now buried in those Hadley coffers; and it was not surprising that he did not take the safest way in his endeavours to reach those treasures which he so coveted.

On the following morning, George received Miss Baker’s letter, and very shortly afterwards he started for Hadley.  Of course he could not but remember that Lady Harcourt was staying there; that she would naturally be attending upon her grandfather, and that it was all but impossible that he should not see her.  How were they to meet now?  When last they had been together, he had held her in his arms, had kissed her forehead, had heard the assurance of her undying love.  How were they to meet now?

George was informed by the servant who came to the door that his uncle was very ill.  “Weaker to-day,” the girl said, “than ever he had been.”  “Where was Miss Baker?” George asked.  The girl said that Miss Baker was in the dining-room.  He did not dare to ask any further question.  “And her ladyship is with her grandfather,” the girl added; upon hearing which George walked with quicker steps to the parlour door.

Miss Baker met him as though there had been no breach in their former intimacy.  With her, for the moment, Lady Harcourt and her troubles were forgotten, and she thought only of the dying man upstairs.

“I am so glad you have come!” she said.  “He does not say much about it.  You remember he never did talk about such things.  But I know that he will be delighted to see you.  Sometimes he has said that he thought you had been in Egypt quite long enough.”

“Is he so very ill, then?”

“Indeed he is; very ill.  You’ll be shocked when you see him:  you’ll find him so much altered.  He knows that it cannot last long, and he is quite reconciled.”

“Will you send up to let him know that I am here?”

“Yes, now ­immediately.  Caroline is with him;” and then Miss Baker left the room.

Caroline is with him!  It was so singular to hear her mentioned as one of the same family with himself; to have to meet her as one sharing the same interests with him, bound by the same bonds, anxious to relieve the same suffering.  She had said that they ought to be as far as the poles asunder; and yet fortune, unkind fortune, would bring them together!  As he was thinking of this, the door opened gently, and she was in the room with him.

She, too, was greatly altered.  Not that her beauty had faded, or that the lines of her face were changed; but her gait and manners were more composed; her dress was so much more simple, that, though not less lovely, she certainly looked older than when he had last seen her.  She was thinner too, and, in the light-gray silk which she wore, seemed to be taller, and to be paler too.

She walked up to him, and putting out her hand, said some word or two which he did not hear; and he uttered something which was quite as much lost on her, and so their greeting was over.  Thus passed their first interview, of which he had thought so much in looking forward to it for the last few hours, that his mind had been estranged from his uncle.

“Does he know I am here?”

“Yes.  You are to go up to him.  You know the room?”

“The same he always had?”

“Oh, yes; the same.”  And then, creeping on tiptoe, as men do in such houses, to the infinite annoyance of the invalids whom they wish to spare, he went upstairs, and stood by his uncle’s bed.

Miss Baker was on the other side, and the sick man’s face was turned towards her.  “You had better come round here, George,” said she.  “It would trouble Mr. Bertram to move.”

“She means that I can’t stir,” said the old man, whose voice was still sharp, though no longer loud.  “I can’t turn round that way.  Come here.”  And so George walked round the bed.

He literally would not have known his uncle, so completely changed was the face.  It was not only that it was haggard, thin, unshorn, and gray with coming death; but the very position of the features had altered.  His cheeks had fallen away; his nose was contracted; his mouth, which he could hardly close, was on one side.  Miss Baker told George afterwards that the left side was altogether motionless.  George certainly would not have known his uncle ­not at the first glance.  But yet there was a spark left in those eyes, of the old fire; such a spark as had never gleamed upon him from any other human head.  That look of sharpness, which nothing could quench, was still there.  It was not the love of lucre which was to be read in those eyes, so much as the possessor’s power of acquiring it.  It was as though they said, “Look well to all you have; put lock and bar to your stores; set dragons to watch your choice gardens; fix what man-traps you will for your own protection.  In spite of everything, I will have it all!  When I go forth to rob, no one can stay me!” So had he looked upon men through all his long life, and so now did he look upon his nephew and his niece as they stood by to comfort him in his extremity.

“I am sorry to see you in this state,” said George, putting his hand on to that of his uncle’s, which was resting on the bed.

“Thank’ee, George, thank’ee.  When men get to be as old as I am, they have nothing for it but to die.  So you’ve been to Egypt, have you?  What do you think about Egypt?”

“It is not a country I should like to live in, sir.”

“Nor I to die in, from all that I hear of it.  Well, you’re just in time to be in at the last gasp ­that’s all, my boy.”

“I hope it has not come to that yet, sir.”

“Ah, but it has.  How long a time did that man give me, Mary ­he that got the twenty pounds?  They gave a fellow twenty pounds to come and tell me that I was dying! as if I didn’t know that without him.”

“We thought it right to get the best advice we could, George,” said poor Miss Baker.

“Nonsense!” said the old man, almost in his olden voice.  “You’ll find by-and-by that twenty pounds are not so easy to come by.  George, as you are here, I might as well tell you about my money.”

George begged him not to trouble himself about such a matter at present; but this was by no means the way in which to propitiate his uncle.

“And if I don’t talk of it now, when am I to do it?  Go away, Mary ­and look here ­come up again in about twenty minutes.  What I have got to say won’t take me long.”  And so Miss Baker left the room.

“George,” said his uncle, “I wonder whether you really care about money? sometimes I have almost thought that you don’t.”

“I don’t think I do very much, sir.”

“Then you must be a great fool.”

“I have often thought I am, lately.”

“A very great fool.  People preach against it, and talk against it, and write against it, and tell lies against it; but don’t you see that everybody is fighting for it?  The parsons all abuse it; but did you ever know one who wouldn’t go to law for his tithes?  Did you ever hear of a bishop who didn’t take his dues?”

“I am quite fond enough of it, sir, to take all that I can earn.”

“That does not seem to be much, George.  You haven’t played your cards well ­have you, my boy?”

“No, uncle; not very well.  I might have done better.”

“No man is respected without money ­no man.  A poor man is always thrust to the wall ­always.  Now you will be a poor man, I fear, all your life.”

“Then I must put up with the wall, sir.”

“But why were you so harsh with me when I wanted you to marry her?  Do you see now what you have done?  Look at her, and what she might have been.  Look at yourself, and what you might have been.  Had you done that, you might have been my heir in everything.”

“Well, sir, I have made my bed, and I must lie upon it.  I have cause enough for regret ­though, to tell the truth, it is not about your money.”

“Ah, I knew you would be stiff to the last,” said Mr. Bertram, angry that he could not move his nephew to express some sorrow about the half-million.

“Am I stiff, sir?  Indeed, I do not mean it.”

“No, it’s your nature.  But we will not quarrel at the last; will we, George?”

“I hope not, sir.  I am not aware that we have ever quarrelled.  You once asked me to do a thing which, had I done it, would have made me a happy man ­”

“And a rich man also.”

“And I fairly tell you now, that I would I had done as you would have had me.  That is not being stiff, sir.”

“It is too late now, George.”

“Oh, yes, it is too late now; indeed it is.”

“Not but that I could put a codicil.”

“Ah, sir, you can put no codicil that can do me a service.  No codicil can make her a free woman.  There are sorrows, sir, which no codicil can cure.”

“Psha!” said his uncle, trying in his anger to turn himself on his bed, but failing utterly.  “Psha!  Then you may live a pauper.”

George remained standing at the bedside; but he knew not what to do, or what answer to make to this ebullition of anger.

“I have nothing further to say,” continued his uncle.

“But we shall part in friendship, shall we not?” said George.  “I have so much to thank you for, that I cannot bear that you should be angry with me now.”

“You are an ass ­a fool!”

“You should look on that as my misfortune, sir.”  And then he paused a moment.  “I will leave you now, shall I?”

“Yes, and send Mary up.”

“But I may come down again to-morrow?”

“What! haven’t they a bed for you in the house?”

Bertram hummed and hawed, and said he did not know.  But the conference ended in his promising to stay there.  So he went up to town, and returned again bringing down his carpet bag, and preparing to remain till all should be over.

That was a strange household which was now collected together in the house at Hadley.  The old man was lying upstairs, daily expecting his death; and he was attended, as it was seemly that he should be, by his nearest relatives.  His brother’s presence he would not have admitted; but his grandchild was there, and his nephew, and her whom he had always regarded as his niece.  Nothing could be more fitting than this.  But not the less did Caroline and George feel that it was not fitting that they should be together.

And yet the absolute awkwardness of the meeting was soon over.  They soon found themselves able to sit in the same room, conversing on the one subject of interest which the circumstances of the moment gave, without any allusion to past times.  They spoke only of the dying man, and asked each other questions only about him.  Though they were frequently alone together while Miss Baker was with Mr. Bertram, they never repeated the maddening folly of that last scene in Eaton Square.

“She has got over it now,” said Bertram to himself; and he thought that he rejoiced that it was so.  But yet it made his heart sad.

It has passed away like a dream, thought Lady Harcourt; and now he will be happy again.  And she, too, strove to comfort herself in thinking so; but the comfort was very cold.

And now George was constantly with his uncle.  For the first two days nothing further was said about money.  Mr. Bertram seemed to be content that matters should rest as they were then settled, and his nephew certainly had no intention of recurring to the subject on his own behalf.  The old man, however, had become much kinder in his manner to him ­kinder to him than to any one else in the house; and exacted from him various little promises of things to be done ­of last wishes to be fulfilled.

“Perhaps it is better as it is, George,” he said, as Bertram was sitting by his bedside late one night.

“I am sure it is, sir,” said George, not at all, however, knowing what was the state of things which his uncle described as being better.

“All men can’t be made alike,” continued the uncle.

“No, uncle; there must be rich men, and there must be poor men.”

“And you prefer the latter.”

Now George had never said this; and the assertion coming from his uncle at such a moment, when he could not contradict it, was rather hard on him.  He had tried to prove to Mr. Bertram, not so much then, as in their former intercourse, that he would in no way subject his feelings to the money-bags of any man; that he would make no sacrifice of his aspirations for the sake of wealth; that he would not, in fact, sell himself for gold.  But he had never said, or intended to say, that money was indifferent to him.  Much as his uncle understood, he had failed to understand his nephew’s mind.  But George could not explain it to him now; ­so he merely smiled, and let the assertion pass.

“Well; be it so,” said Mr. Bertram.  “But you will see, at any rate, that I have trusted you.  Why father and son should be so much unlike, God only can understand.”  And from that time he said little or nothing more about his will.

But Sir Omicron had been wrong.  Mr. Bertram overlived the week, and overlived the fortnight.  We must now leave him and his relatives in the house of sickness, and return to Arthur Wilkinson.