MRS. BERTRAM'S WILL.
And Mrs. Bertram did not care in the
least what anybody thought of her. She was in
no sense of the word a sham. She was well-born,
well-educated, respectably married, and fairly well-off.
The people in Northbury considered her rich.
She always spoke of herself as poor. In reality
she was neither rich nor poor. She had an income
of something like twelve hundred a year, and on that
she lived comfortably, educated her children well,
and certainly managed to present a nice appearance
wherever she went.
There never was a woman more full
of common sense than Mrs. Bertram. She had quite
an appalling amount of this virtue; no one ever heard
her say a silly thing; each step she took in life
was a wise one, carefully considered, carefully planned
out. She had been a widow now for sis years.
Her husband had nearly come into the family estate,
but not quite. He was the second son, and his
eldest brother had died when his heir was a month
old. This heir had cut out Mrs. Bertram’s
husband from the family place, with its riches and
honors. He himself had died soon after, and had
left his widow with three children and twelve hundred
a year.
The children were a son and two daughters.
The son’s name was Loftus, the girls were called
Catherine and Mabel. Loftus was handsome in person,
and very every-day in mind. He was good-natured,
but not remarkable for any peculiar strength of character.
His mother had managed to send him to Rugby and Sandhurst,
and he had passed into the army with tolerable credit.
He was very fond of his mother, devotedly fond of
her, but since he entered the army he certainly contrived
to cost her a good deal.
She spoke to him on the subject, believed
as much as she chose of his earnest promises to amend,
took her own counsel and no one else’s, gave
up her neat little house in Kensington, and came to
live at Northbury.
Catherine and Mabel did not like this
change, but as their mother never dreamt of consulting
them, they had to keep their grumbles to themselves.
Mrs. Bertram considered she had taken
a wise step, and she told the girls so frankly.
Their house in Kensington was small and expensive.
In the country they had secured a delightful old Manor Rosendale
Manor was its pretty name for a small rent.
Mrs. Bertram found herself comparatively
rich in the country, and she cheered the girls by
telling them that if they would study economical habits,
and try to do with very little dress for the present,
she would save some money year by year, so that by
the time Catherine was twenty they might have the
advantage of a couple of seasons in town.
“Catherine will look very young
at twenty,” remarked the mother. “By
that time I shall have saved quite a fair sum out of
my income. Catherine looked younger at twenty
than Mabel at eighteen. They can both come out
together, and have their chances like other girls.”
Catherine did not want to wait for
the dear delights of society until she had reached
so mature an age. But there was no murmuring against
her mother’s decree, and as she was a healthy-minded,
handsome, good-humored girl, she soon accommodated
herself to the ways and manners of country folk, and
was happy enough.
“I shall live on five hundred
a year at Rosen dale Manor,” determined Mrs.
Bertram. “And I have made up my mind that
Loftie shall not cost me more than three. Thus
I shall save four hundred a year. Catherine is
only seventeen now. By the time she is twenty
I shall have a trifle over and above my income to
fall back upon. Twelve hundred pounds is a bagatelle
with most people, but I feel I shall effect wonders
with it. Catherine and Mabel will be out of the
common, very out of the common. Unique people
have an advantage over those who resemble the herd.
Catherine and Mabel are to be strongly individual.
In any room they are to be noticeable. Little
hermits, now, some day they shall shine. They
are both clever, just clever enough for my purpose.
Catherine might with advantage be a shade less beautiful,
but Mabel will, I am convinced, fulfil all my expectations.
Then, if only Loftie,” but here Mrs. Bertram
sighed. She was returning from her visit to Mrs.
Meadowsweet, walking slowly down the long avenue which
led to the Manor. This avenue was kept in no
order; its edges were not neatly cut, and weeds appeared
here and there through its scantily gravelled roadway.
The grass parterre round the house, however, was smooth
as velvet, and interspersed with gay flower-beds.
It looked like a little agreeable oasis in the middle
of a woodland, for the avenue was shaded by forest
trees, and the house itself had a background of two
or three acres of an old wood.
Mrs. Bertram was tired, and walked
slowly. She did not consider herself a proud
woman, but in this she was mistaken. Every line
of her upright figure, each glance of her full, dark
eyes, each word that dropped from her lips spoke of
pride both of birth and position. She often said
to herself, “I am thankful that I don’t
belong to the common folk; it would grate on my nerves
to witness their vulgarities, their bad
taste would torture me; their want of refinement would
act upon my nature like a blister. But I am not
proud, I uphold my dignity, I respect myself and my
family, but with sinful, unholy pride I have no part.”
This was by no means the opinion held
of her, however, by the Northbury folk. They
had hailed her advent with delight; they had witnessed
her arrival with the keenest, most absorbing interest,
and, to the horror of the good lady herself, had one
and all called on her. She was petrified when
this very natural event happened. She had bargained
for a life of retirement for herself and her girls.
She had never imagined that society of a distinctly
lower strata than that into which she had been born
would be forced on her. Forced! Whoever yet
had forced Mrs. Bertram into any path she did not
care to walk in?
She was taken unawares by the first
visitors, and they absolutely had the privilege of
sitting on her sofas, and responding to a few icy
remarks which dropped from her lips.
But the next day she was armed for
the combat. The little parlor-maid, in her neat
black dress, clean muslin apron, large frilled, picturesque
collar, and high mob-cap, was instructed to say “Not
at home” to all comers. She was a country
girl, not from Northbury, but from some still more
rusticated spot, and she thought she was telling a
frightful lie, and blushed and trembled while she
uttered it. So apparent was her confusion that
Miss Peters, when she and her sister, Mrs. Butler,
appeared on the scene, rolled her eyes at the taller
lady and asked her in a pronounced manner if it would
not be well to drop a tract on the heinousness of
lying in the avenue.
This speech was repeated by Clara
to the cook, who told it again to the young ladies’
maid, who told it to the young ladies, who narrated
it to their mother.
Mrs. Bertram smiled grimly.
“Don’t repeat gossip,
my dears,” she said, Then after a pause she
remarked aloud: “The difficulty will be
about returning the calls.”
Mabel, the youngest and most subservient
of the girls, ventured to ask her mother what she
intended to do, but Mrs. Bertram was too wise to disclose
her plans, that is, if she had made any.
The Rector of Northbury was one of
the first to visit the new inhabitants of the Manor.
To him Mrs. Bertram opened her doors gladly.
He was old, unmarried, and of good family. She
was glad there was at least one gentleman in the place
with whom she might occasionally exchange a word.
About a fortnight after his visit
the Rector inclosed some tickets for a bazaar to Mrs.
Bertram. The tickets were accompanied by a note,
in which he said that it would gratify the good Northbury
folk very much if Mrs. Bertram and the young ladies
would honor the bazaar with their presence.
“Every soul in the place will
be there,” said Mr. Ingram. “This
bazaar is a great event to us, and its object is,
I think, a worthy one. We badly want a new organ
for our church.”
“Eureka!” exclaimed Mrs.
Bertram when she had read this note.
“What is the matter, mother?” exclaimed
Mabel.
“Only that I have found a way
out of my grand difficulty,” responded their
mother, tossing Mr. Ingram’s note and the tickets
for the bazaar into Catherine’s lap.
“Are you so delighted to go
to this country bazaar, mother?” asked the eldest
daughter.
“Delighted! No, it will be a bore.”
“Then why did you say Eureka! and look so pleased?”
“Because on that day I shall
leave cards on the Northbury folk not one
of them will be at home.”
“Shabby,” muttered Catherine. Her
dark cheek flushed, she turned away.
Mabel put out her little foot and
pressed it against her sister’s. The pressure
signified warning.
“Then you are not going to the bazaar, mother?”
she questioned.
“I don’t know. I
may drop in for a moment or two, quite at the close.
It would not do to offend Mr. Ingram.”
“No,” replied Mabel. “He is
a dear, gentlemanly old man.”
“Don’t use that expression,
my love. It is my object in life that all
your acquaintances in the world of men should be gentlemen.
It is unnecessary therefore to specify any one by a
term which must apply to all.”
Mrs. Bertram then asked Mabel to reply
to Mr. Ingram’s note. The reply was a warm
acceptance, and Mr. Ingram cheered those of his parishioners
who pined for the acquaintance of the great lady, with
the information that they would certainly meet her
at the bazaar.
Accordingly when the fateful day arrived
the town was empty, and the Fisherman’s Hall
(Northbury was a seaport), in which the bazaar was
held was packed to overflowing. Accordingly Mrs.
Bertram in a neat little brougham, which she had hired
for the occasion, dropped her cards from house to
house in peace; accordingly, too, she caught the maids-of-all-work
in their undress toilets, and the humble homes looking
their least pretentious.
The bazaar was nearly at an end, when
at last, accompanied by her two plainly-dressed, but
dainty looking girls, she appeared on the scene.
The Northbury folk had all been watching
for her. Those who had been fortunate enough
to enter the sacred precincts of the Manor watched
with interest, mingled with approval. (Her icy style
was quite comme-il-faut, they said.) Those
who had been met by the frightened handmaid’s
“not at home” watched with interest, mixed
with disapproval, but all, all waited for Mrs. Bertram
with interest.
“How late these fashionable
people are,” quote Miss Peters. “It’s
absolutely five o’clock. My dear Martha,
do sit down and rest yourself. You look fit to
drop. I’ll keep an eye on the door and tell
you the very moment Mrs. Bertram comes in. Mrs.
Gorman Stanley has promised to introduce us.
Mrs. Gorman Stanley was fortunate enough to find Mrs.
Bertram in. It was she who told us about the drawing-room
at the Manor. Fancy! Mrs. Bertram has only
a felt carpet on her drawing-room. Not even a
red felt, which looks warm and wears. But a sickly
green! Mrs. Gorman Stanley told me as a fact
that the carpet was quite a worn-out shade between
a green and a brown; and the curtains she
said the drawing room curtains were only cretonne.
You needn’t stare at me, Martha. Mrs. Gorman
Stanley never makes mistakes. All the same, though
she couldn’t tell why, she owned that the room
had a distingue effect. En règle, that
was it; she said the room was en règle.”
“Maria, if you could stop talking
for a moment and fetch me an ice, I’d be obliged,”
answered Mrs. Butler. “Oh!” standing
up, “there’s Mrs. Gorman Stanley.
How do you do, Mrs. Gorman Stanley? Our great
lady hasn’t chosen to put in her appearance
yet. For my part I don’t suppose she’s
any better than the rest of us, and so I say to Maria.
Well, Maria, what’s the matter now?”
“Here’s your ice,”
said Miss Peters; “take it. Don’t
forget that you promised to introduce us to Mrs. Bertram,
Mrs. Gorman Stanley.”
Mrs. Gorman Stanley was the wealthy
widow of a retired fish-buyer. She liked to condescend;
also to show off her wealth. It pleased her to
assume an acquaintance with Mrs. Bertram, although
she thoroughly despised that good lady’s style
of furnishing a house.
“I’ll introduce you with
pleasure, my dear,” she said to Mrs. Butler.
“Yes, I like Mrs. Bertram very much. Did
you say she was out when you called? Oh! she
was in to me. Yes, I saw the house. I don’t
think she had finished furnishing it. The drawing-room
looked quite bare. A made-up sort of look, you
understand. Lots of flowers on the tables, and
that nasty, cold, cheap felt under your feet.
Not that I mind how a house is furnished.”
(She did very much. Her one and only object in
life seemed to be to lade her own mansion with ugly
and expensive upholstery.) “Now, what’s
the matter, Miss Peters? Why, you are all on
wires. Where are you off to now?”
“I see the Rector,” responded
Miss Peters. “I’ll run and ask him
when he expects Mrs. Bertram. I’ll be back
presently with the news.”
The little lady tripped away, forcing
her slim form through the ever-increasing crowd.
The rector was walking about with a very favorite
small parishioner seated on his shoulder.
“Mr. Ingram,” piped Miss
Peters. “Don’t you think Mrs. Bertram
might favor us with her presence by now? We have
all been looking for her. It’s past five
o’clock, and ”
There was a hush, a pause. At
that moment Mrs. Bertram was sailing into the room.
Miss Peters’ exalted tones reached her ears.
She shuddered, turned pale, and also turned her back
on the eager little spinster.
Nobody quite knew how it was managed,
but Mrs. Bertram was introduced to very few of the
Northbury folk. They all wanted to know her; they
talked about her, and came in her way, and stared
at her whenever they could. There was an expectant
hush when she and the Rector were seen approaching
any special group.
“I do declare it’s the
Grays she’s going to patronize,” one jealous
matron said.
But the Grays were passed over just
as sedulously as the Joneses and the Smiths.
Excitement, again and again on the tenter-hooks, invariably
came to nothing. Even Mrs. Gorman Stanley, who
had sat on Mrs. Bertram’s sofa, and condemned
her felt carpet was only acknowledged by the most
passing and stately recognition. Little chance
had the poor lady of effecting other introductions;
she realized for the first time that she was only
a quarter introduced to the great woman herself.
The fact was this: There was
not a soul in Northbury, at least there was not an
acknowledged soul who could combat Mrs. Bertram’s
will. She had made up her mind to talk to no
one but Mr. Ingram at the bazaar. She carried
out her resolve, and that though the Rector had formed
such pleasant visions of making every one cheerful
and happy all round, for he knew the simple weaknesses
and desires of his flock, and saw not the smallest
harm in gratifying them. Why should not the Manor
and the town be friendly?
Mrs. Bertram saw a very good reason
why they should not. Therefore the Rector’s
dreams came apparently to nothing.