The Bertrams. Trollope Anthony

I hardly know. I do know this – that I did more towards refusing him than accepting him; that I must have much more love for any man I do marry than I have for him at present; and that after what has passed, I think we had better not go to Damascus together."

      To this latter proposition aunt Mary fully agreed; and thus it was decided that the extra patching for the longer journey need not be accomplished. Miss Baker would explain the matter to Sir Lionel in her way; and Caroline would do the same to George Bertram in hers. On one other point, also, Miss Baker made up her mind fully; though on this matter she did not think it prudent to make her mind known to her niece. She was very confident that the marriage would take place, and resolved to do all in her power to bring it about. Personally, she was fond of George Bertram; she admired his talents, she liked his father, and felt very favourably inclined towards his uncle's wealth. She finished her toilet therefore in calm happiness. She had an excellent match in view for her niece – and, after all, she would escape that dreadful horseback journey to Damascus.

      During the next day Caroline and George Bertram were not together for a moment – that is, they were not together alone; for they breakfasted and dined at the same table, and he sat between the aunt and her niece as he had done continually since he had been at Jerusalem. Sir Lionel told him in the forenoon that they were not to have the pleasure of the ladies' company on their journey, and rallied him as to the heart-breaking tendency of these tidings. But George showed, in his countenance at least, no symptoms of heart-breaking.

      That evening, as they all parted for the night, George did press Miss Waddington's hand more warmly than was usual with him; and, as he did so, he did look into her face for one moment to see what encouragement he might find there. I cannot say that there was no encouragement. The pressure was perhaps not met by any similar warmth on her part, but it was submitted to without any touch of resentment: the love which shot from his eye was not returned to him from hers, but hers were soft beneath his glance, softer than was usual with Caroline Waddington.

      But on the next morning they did come together. It was the day before the departure of the Bertrams, and whatever was to be said must be said then. Caroline watched her opportunity, and as soon as breakfast was over – they all breakfasted in the public salon – asked him to come into her aunt's sitting-room. She was quite collected, had fully made up her mind what to say, and was able also to say it without hesitation, and with perfect self-possession. This was more than could be boasted of on the gentleman's behalf.

      "You know, Mr. Bertram, that we are not going to travel together?"

      "Yes; my father told me so yesterday."

      "And you will understand the reason of it, I am sure?"

      "Not exactly, Miss Waddington. I cannot say I do understand it. I may have been presumptuous in what I said to you the other day; but I do not see why on that account your aunt should be put to the inconvenience of altering her plans. You fear, I suppose, that I should annoy you; but you might trust me – and still may if you will do so."

      "Now, Mr. Bertram, you are hardly so sincere as you asserted yourself to be, and required me to be on the mount. You are yourself quite aware that nobody has thought you presumptuous. I have nothing to complain of, and much to thank you for – independently of the honour you have now done me; – for from you it is an honour. But I cannot say that I love you. It would not be natural that I should do so."

      "Good heavens! not natural. I love you with the whole strength of my heart. Is that unnatural?"

      "It is the province of men to take the initiative in such matters," said Caroline, smiling.

      "I know nothing as to man's province, or of woman's province either. By province, you mean custom and conventional rule; and conventional rule means falsehood. I have known you but a week or two, and I love you dearly. You, of course, have known me as long, and are at any rate as capable of loving as I am. There would be nothing unnatural in you loving me – though, indeed, it may be very unlikely that you should do so."

      "Well; I will not contradict you in anything if I can help it, except perhaps as to that last little would-be-proud, petulant protest. But putting out of sight all question of likelihood, what ought I to do if I do not love you? What in such a case would you recommend a sister to do? Is it not better that we should not be immediately thrown together, as must so certainly be the case in travelling?"

      "Then I am to understand that you positively can never love me?"

      "I have not said so: but you press me unfairly, Mr. Bertram."

      "Unfairly. No, by heavens! no pressure in such case can be unfair. I would press the truth out from you – the real truth; the truth that so vitally concerns myself. You will not say that you have an aversion to me?"

      "Aversion! No, certainly not."

      "Or that you cannot love me? Then why not let us remain together? You argue that you do not yet know me well enough; will not that be the way to know me better?"

      "If I were to travel with you now, Mr. Bertram, it would be tantamount to accepting you. Your own sense will certainly tell you that. Were I to do so, I should give you the privilege of coming with me as my lover. Forgive me for saying that I cannot give you that privilege. I grieve to hurt your feelings for a day even; but I am sure you will ultimately approve of what I am doing."

      "And are we to meet no more, then?"

      "Of course we shall meet again; at least, in all human probability. My guardian is your uncle."

      "I never even knew that till I met you the other day."

      "Because you have always been at school or at college; but you know it now. I, at least, shall look forward to meeting you – and so will my aunt."

      "Yes; as acquaintances. It would be impossible for me to meet you in that way. I hardly think you know or realize what my feelings to you are. I can only meet you to tell you again and again that I love you. You are so cold yourself that you cannot understand my – my – my impetuosity, if you choose to call it so."

      "In three or four months, Mr. Bertram, you will be laughing at your own impetuosity – when I perhaps shall be grieving over my own coldness." These last words she said with a smile in which there was much archness, and perhaps also a little encouragement.

      "You will tell me at any rate that I may hope?"

      "No; certainly not. You will hope enough for anything you really desire without my telling you. But I will not joke, as I believe that you are serious."

      "Oh, you believe so, do you?"

      "Yes; I suppose I must believe so. Your declaration the other day took me very much by surprise. I had no conception that you had any feelings towards me of that sort. I certainly had entertained none such towards you. Love with me cannot be the birth of a moment. I cannot say that I will love merely because I am asked. You would not wish me to be false even in your own favour. We will part now, Mr. Bertram; and being apart we shall better learn to know, each of us, how we value the other. On my part I can truly say that I hope we shall meet again – at any rate, as friends." And then she held out her hand to him.

      "Is this to be our farewell?" said he, without at once taking it.

      "It shall be if you so please. We shall meet again only at the public table."

      "And you will not tell me that I may hope?"

      "I will tell you nothing further, Mr. Bertram. You will shake hands with me as with a friend, will you not?"

      He then took her hand, and, holding it in his own, gazed for a moment into her face. She bore the weight of his eyes with unabashed front. She showed neither anger nor pleasure; neither disdain nor pride; the same sweet smile was still upon her face, somewhat playful, somewhat hopeful, but capable of no definite construction either for making or marring a man's comfort.

      "Caroline!" he said at last.

      "Good-bye, Mr. Bertram. I thoroughly hope you may enjoy your journey."

      "Caroline!"

      She essayed to withdraw her hand from his. Feeling this, he raised it to his lips and kissed it, and then left the room. As he closed the