He knew, moreover, that the assistance of no ordinary policeman would suffice to enable him to obtain possession of his wife's person; and he knew also that if he had such possession, it would avail him nothing. He could not pay his debts with her, nor could he make his home happy with her, nor could he compel her to be in any way of service to him. It had all been bravado. But when men are driven into corners—when they are hemmed4 in on all sides, so that they have no escape, to what else than bravado can they have recourse? With Sir Henry the game was up; and no one knew this better than himself.
He was walking up and down the platform, with his hat over his brows, and his hands in his trousers-pockets, when Mr. Stickatit came up. "We shall have a little rain this afternoon," said Mr. Stickatit, anxious to show that he had dropped the shop, and that having done so, he was ready for any of the world's ordinary converse5.
Sir Henry scowled6 at him from under the penthouse lid of his hat, and passed on in his walk, without answering a word. The thing had gone too far with him for affectation. He did not care to make sacrifice now to any of the world's graces. His inner mind was hostile to that attorney of Bucklersbury, and he could dare to show that it was so. After that, Mr. Stickatit made no further remark to him.
Yes; he could afford now to be forgetful of the world's graces, for the world's heaviest cares were pressing very heavily on him. When a man finds himself compelled to wade8 through miles of mud, in which he sinks at every step up to his knees, he becomes forgetful of the blacking on his boots. Whether or no his very skin will hold out, is then his thought. And so it was now with Sir Henry. Or we may perhaps say that he had advanced a step beyond that. He was pretty well convinced now that his skin would not hold out.
He still owned his fine house in Eaton Square, and still kept his seat for the Battersea Hamlets. But Baron9 Brawl10, and such like men, no longer came willingly to his call; and his voice was no longer musical to the occupants of the Treasury11 bench. His reign12 had been sweet, but it had been very short. Prosperity he had known how to enjoy, but adversity had been too much for him.
Since the day when he had hesitated to resign his high office, his popularity had gone down like a leaden plummet13 in the salt water. He had become cross-grained, ill-tempered, and morose14. The world had spoken evil of him regarding his wife; and he had given the world the lie in a manner that had been petulant16 and injudicious. The world had rejoined, and Sir Henry had in every sense got the worst of it. Attorneys did not worship him as they had done, nor did vice-chancellors and lords-justices listen to him with such bland17 attention. No legal luminary18 in the memory of man had risen so quickly and fallen so suddenly. It had not been given to him to preserve an even mind when adversity came upon him.
But the worst of his immediate19 troubles were his debts. He had boldly resolved to take a high position in London; and he had taken it. It now remained that the piper should be paid, and the piper required payment not in the softest language. While that old man was still living, or rather still dying, he had had an answer to give to all pipers. But that answer would suffice him no longer. Every clause in that will would be in the "Daily Jupiter" of the day after to-morrow—the "Daily Jupiter" which had already given a wonderfully correct biography of the deceased great man.
As soon as he reached the London station, he jumped into a cab, and was quickly whirled to Eaton Square. The house felt dull, and cold, and wretched to him. It was still the London season, and Parliament was sitting. After walking up and down his own dining-room for half an hour, he got into another cab, and was whirled down to the House of Commons. But there it seemed as though all the men round him already knew of his disappointment—as though Mr. Bertram's will had been read in a Committee of the whole House. Men spoke15 coldly to him, and looked coldly at him; or at any rate, he thought that they did so. Some debate was going on about the Ballot20, at which members were repeating their last year's speeches with new emphasis. Sir Henry twice attempted to get upon his legs, but the Speaker would not have his eye caught. Men right and left of him, who were minnows to him in success, found opportunities for delivering themselves; but the world of Parliament did not wish at present to hear anything further from Sir Henry. So he returned to his house in Eaton Square.
As soon as he found himself again in his own dining-room, he called for brandy, and drank off a brimming glass; he drank off one, and then another. The world and solitude21 together were too much for him, and he could not bear them without aid. Then, having done this, he threw himself into his arm-chair, and stared at the fireplace. How tenfold sorrowful are our sorrows when borne in solitude! Some one has said that grief is half removed when it is shared. How little that some one knew about it! Half removed! When it is duly shared between two loving hearts, does not love fly off with eight-tenths of it? There is but a small remainder left for the two to bear between them.
But there was no loving heart here. All alone he had to endure the crushing weight of his misfortunes. How often has a man said, when evil times have come upon him, that he could have borne it all without complaint, but for his wife and children? The truth, however, has been that, but for them, he could not have borne it at all. Why does any man suffer with patience "the slings23 and arrows of outrageous24 fortune," or put up with "the whips and scorns of time," but that he does so for others, not for himself? It is not that we should all be ready, each to make his own quietus with a bare bodkin; but that we should run from wretchedness when it comes in our path. Who fights for himself alone? Who would not be a coward, if none but himself saw the battle—if none others were concerned in it?
With Sir Henry, there was none other to see the battle, none to take concern in it. If solitude be bad in times of misery25, what shall we say of unoccupied solitude? of solitude, too, without employment for the man who has been used to labour?
Such was the case with him. His whole mind was out of tune22. There was nothing now that he could do; no work to which he could turn himself. He sat there gazing at the empty fireplace till the moments became unendurably long to him. At last his chief suffering arose, not from his shattered hopes and lost fortunes, but from the leaden weight of the existing hour.
What could he do to shake this off? How could he conquer the depression that was upon him? He reached his hand to the paper that was lying near him, and tried to read; but his mind would not answer to the call. He could not think of the right honourable26 gentleman's speech, or of the very able leading article in which it was discussed. Though the words were before his eyes, he still was harping27 back on the injustice28 of that will, or the iniquity29 of his wife; on the imperturbable30 serenity31 of George Bertram, or the false, fleeting32 friends who had fawned33 on him in his prosperity, and now threw him over, as a Jonah, with so little remorse34.
He dropped the paper on the ground, and then again the feeling of solitude and of motionless time oppressed him with a weight as of tons of lead. He jumped from his chair, and paced up and down the room; but the room was too confined. He took his hat, and pressing it on his brow, walked out into the open air. It was a beautiful spring evening in May, and the twilight35 still lingered, though the hour was late. He paced three times round the square, regardless of the noise of carriages and the lights which flashed forth from the revelries of his neighbours. He went on and on, not thinking how he would stem the current that was running against him so strongly; hardly trying to think; but thinking that it would be well for him if he could make the endeavour. Alas36! he could not make it!
And then again he returned to the house, and once more sat himself down in the same arm-chair. Was it come to this, that the world was hopeless for him? One would have said not. He was in debt, it is true; had fallen somewhat from a high position; had lost the dearest treasure which a man can have; not only the treasure, but the power of obtaining such treasure; for the possession of a loving wife was no longer a possibility to him. But still he had much; his acknowledged capacity for law pleadings, his right to take high place among law pleaders, the trick of earning money in that fashion of life; all these were still his. He had his gown and wig37, and forensic38 brow-beating, brazen39 scowl7; nay40, he still had his seat in Parliament. Why should he have despaired?
But he did despair—as men do when they have none to whom they can turn trustingly in their miseries41. This man had had friends by hundreds; good, serviceable, parliamentary, dinner-eating, dinner-giving friends; fine, pleasant friends, as such friends go. He had such friends by hundreds; but he had failed to prepare for stormy times a leash42 or so of true hearts on which, in stress of weather, he could throw himself with undoubting confidence. One such friend he may have had once; but he now was among his bitterest enemies. The horizon round him was all black, and he did despair.
How many a man lives and dies without giving any sign whether he be an arrant43 coward, or a true-hearted, brave hero! One would have said of this man, a year since, that he was brave enough. He would stand up before a bench of judges, with the bar of England round him, and shout forth, with brazen trumpet44, things that were true, or things that were not true; striking down a foe45 here to the right, and slaughtering46 another there to the left, in a manner which, for so young a man, filled beholders with admiration47. He could talk by the hour among the Commons of England, and no touch of modesty48 would ever encumber49 his speech. He could make himself great, by making others little, with a glance. But, for all that, he was a coward. Misfortune had come upon him, and he was conquered at once.
Misfortune had come upon him, and he found it unendurable—yes, utterly50 unendurable. The grit51 and substance of the man within were not sufficient to bear the load which fate had put upon them. As does a deal-table in similar case, they were crushed down, collapsed52, and fell in. The stuff there was not good mahogany, or sufficient hard wood, but an unseasoned, soft, porous53, deal-board, utterly unfit to sustain such pressure. An unblushing, wordy barrister may be very full of brass54 and words, and yet be no better than an unseasoned porous deal-board, even though he have a seat in Parliament.
He rose from his chair, and again took a glass of brandy. How impossible it is to describe the workings of a mind in such a state of misery as that he then endured! What—what! was there no release for him? no way, spite of this black fit, to some sort of rest—to composure of the most ordinary kind? Was there nothing that he could do which would produce for him, if not gratification, then at least quiescence55? To the generality of men of his age, there are resources in misfortune. Men go to billiard-tables, or to cards, or they seek relief in woman's society, from the smiles of beauty, or a laughter-moving tongue. But Sir Henry, very early in life, had thrown those things from him. He had discarded pleasure, and wedded56 himself to hard work at a very early age. If, at the same time, he had wedded himself to honesty also, and had not discarded his heart, it might have been well with him.
He again sat down, and then he remained all but motionless for some twenty minutes. It had now become dark, but he would have no lights lit. The room was very gloomy with its red embossed paper and dark ruby57 curtains. As his eye glanced round during the last few moments of the dusk, he remembered how he had inquired of his Caroline how many festive58 guests might sit at their ease in that room, and eat the dainties which he, with liberal hand, would put before them. Where was his Caroline now? where were his guests? what anxiety now had he that they should have room enough? what cared he now for their dainties?
It was not to be borne. He clasped his hand to his brow, and rising from his chair, he went upstairs to his dressing59-room. For what purpose, he had not even asked himself. Of bed, and rest, and sleep he had had no thought. When there, he again sat down, and mechanically dressed himself—dressed himself as though he were going out to some gay evening-party—was even more than ordinarily particular about his toilet. One white handkerchief he threw aside as spoiled in the tying. He looked specially60 to his boots, and with scrupulous61 care brushed the specks62 of dust from the sleeve of his coat. It was a blessing63, at any rate, to have something to do. He did this, and then—
When he commenced his work, he had, perhaps, some remote intention of going somewhere. If so, he had quickly changed his mind, for, having finished his dressing, he again sat himself down in an arm-chair. The gas in his dressing-room had been lighted, and here he was able to look around him and see what resources he had to his hand. One resource he did see.
Ah, me! Yes, he saw it, and his mind approved—such amount of mind as he had then left to him. But he waited patiently awhile—with greater patience than he had hitherto exhibited that day. He waited patiently, sitting in his chair for some hour or so; nay, it may have been for two hours, for the house was still, and the servants were in bed. Then, rising from his chair, he turned the lock of his dressing-room door. It was a futile64 precaution, if it meant anything, for the room had another door, which opened to his wife's chamber65, and the access on that side was free and open.
Early on the following morning, George Bertram went up to town, and was driven directly from the station to his dull, dingy66, dirty chambers67 in the Temple. His chambers were not as those of practising lawyers. He kept no desk there, and no servant peculiar68 to himself. It had suited him to have some resting-place for his foot, that he could call his home; and when he was there, he was waited upon by the old woman who called herself the laundress—probably from the fact of her never washing herself or anything else.
When he reached this sweet home on the morning in question, he was told by the old woman that a very express messenger had been there that morning, and that, failing to find him, the express messenger had gone down to Hadley. They had, therefore, passed each other upon the road. The express messenger had left no message, but the woman had learned that he had come from Eaton Square.
"And he left no letter?"
"No, sir; no letter. He had no letter; but he was very eager about it. It was something of importance sure—ly."
It might have been natural that, under such circumstances, George should go off to Eaton Square; but it struck him as very probable that Sir Henry might desire to have some communication with him, but that he, when he should know what that communication was, would in no degree reciprocate69 that desire. The less that he had to say to Sir Henry Harcourt at present, perhaps, the better. So he made up his mind that he would not go to Eaton Square.
After he had been in his rooms for about half an hour, he was preparing to leave them, and had risen with that object, when he heard a knock at his door, and quickly following the knock, the young attorney who had read the will was in his room.
"You have heard the news, Mr. Bertram?" said he.
"No, indeed! What news? I have just come up."
"Sir Henry Harcourt has destroyed himself. He shot himself in his own house yesterday, late at night, after the servants had gone to bed!"
George Bertram fell back, speechless, on to the sofa behind him, and stared almost unconsciously at the lawyer.
"It is too true, sir. That will of Mr. Bertram's was too much for him. His reason must have failed him, and now he is no more." And so was made clear what were the tidings with which that express messenger had been laden70.
There was little or nothing more to be said on the matter between George Bertram and Mr. Stickatit. The latter declared that the fact had been communicated to him on authority which admitted of no doubt; and the other, when he did believe, was but little inclined to share his speculations71 on it with the lawyer.
Nor was there much for Bertram to do—not at once. The story had already gone down to Hadley—had already been told there to her to whom it most belonged; and Bertram felt that it was not at present his province to say kind things to her, or seek to soften72 the violence of the shock. No, not at present.
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1
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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valid
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| adj.有确实根据的；有效的；正当的，合法的 | |
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hemmed
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| 缝…的褶边( hem的过去式和过去分词 )； 包围 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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wade
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| v.跋涉，涉水；n.跋涉 | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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brawl
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| n.大声争吵，喧嚷；v.吵架，对骂 | |
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treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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plummet
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| vi.(价格、水平等)骤然下跌；n.铅坠；重压物 | |
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morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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luminary
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| n.名人，天体 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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ballot
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| n.（不记名）投票，投票总数，投票权；vi.投票 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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slings
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| 抛( sling的第三人称单数 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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harping
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| n.反复述说 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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fawned
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| v.（尤指狗等）跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的过去式和过去分词 )；巴结；讨好 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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forensic
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| adj.法庭的，雄辩的 | |
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brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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leash
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| n.牵狗的皮带，束缚；v.用皮带系住 | |
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arrant
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| adj.极端的；最大的 | |
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trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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slaughtering
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| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的现在分词 ) | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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encumber
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| v.阻碍行动，妨碍，堆满 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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grit
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| n.沙粒，决心，勇气；v.下定决心，咬紧牙关 | |
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collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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porous
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| adj.可渗透的，多孔的 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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quiescence
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| n.静止 | |
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wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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specks
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| n.眼镜；斑点，微粒，污点( speck的名词复数 ) | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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67
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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68
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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69
reciprocate
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| v.往复运动；互换；回报，酬答 | |
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70
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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71
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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72
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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