It was in the midst of this noise about Bertram\'s new book that the scene is presumed to be re-opened. He had resigned his fellowship, and pocketed his thousand pounds. Neither of these events had much depressed his spirits, and he appeared now to his friends to be a happy man in spite of his love troubles. At the same time, Harcourt also was sufficiently elate. He had made his great speech with considerable éclat, and his sails were full of wind—of wind of a more substantial character than that by which Bertram\'s vessel was wafted.

And just now Harcourt and Bertram were again much together. A few months since it had appeared to Harcourt that Bertram intended to do nothing in the world, to make no figure. Even now there was but little hope of his doing much as a barrister; but it seemed probable that he might at any rate make himself known as an author. Such triumphs, as Harcourt well knew, were very barren; but still it was well to know men who were in any way triumphant; and therefore the barrister, himself so triumphant, considered it judicious not to drop his friend.

It may be said that Bertram had given up all idea of practising as a barrister. He still intended to go through the form of being called; but his profession was to be that of an author. He had all manner of works in hand: poems, plays, political pamphlets, infidel essays, histories, and a narrative of his travels in the East. He had made up his mind fully that there were in England only two occupations worthy of an Englishman. A man should be known either as a politician or as an author. It behoved a man to speak out what was in him with some audible voice, so that the world might hear. He might do so either by word of mouth, or by pen and paper; by the former in Parliament, by the latter at his desk. Each form of speech had its own advantage. Fate, which had made Harcourt a member of Parliament, seemed to intend him, Bertram, to be an author.

Harcourt, though overwhelmed by business at this period, took frequent occasion to be with Bertram; and when he was with him alone he always made an effort to talk about Miss Waddington. Bertram was rather shy of the subject. He had never blamed Harcourt for what had taken place while he was absent in Paris, but since that time he had never volunteered to speak of his own engagement.

They were together one fine May evening on the banks of the river at Richmond. George was fond of the place, and whenever Harcourt proposed to spend an evening alone with him, they would go up the river and dine there.

On this occasion Harcourt seemed determined to talk about Miss Waddington. Bertram, who was not in the best possible humour, had shown, one might say plainly enough, that it was a subject on which he did not wish to speak. One might also say that it was a subject as to talking on which the choice certainly ought to have been left to himself. A man who is engaged may often choose to talk to his friend about his engaged bride; but the friend does not usually select the lady as a topic of conversation except in conformity with the Benedict\'s wishes.

On this occasion, however, Harcourt would talk about Miss Waddington, and Bertram, who had already given one or two short answers, began to feel that his friend was almost impertinent.

They were cracking decayed walnuts and sipping not the very best of wine, and Bertram was expatiating on Sir Robert Peel\'s enormity in having taken the wind out of the sails of the Whigs, and rehearsing perhaps a few paragraphs of a new pamphlet that was about to come out, when Harcourt again suddenly turned the conversation.

"By-the-by," said he, "I believe there is no day absolutely fixed for your marriage."

"No," said Bertram, sharply enough. "No day has been fixed. Could anything on earth have been more base than the manner in which he has endeavoured to leave Cobden as a necessary legacy to the new government? Would he have put Cobden into any place in a government of his own?"

"Oh, d—— Cobden! One has enough of him in the House,—quite."

"But I have not that advantage."

"You shall have some of these days. I\'ll make over the Battersea Hamlets to you as soon as I can get a judge\'s wig on my head. But I\'m thinking of other things now. I wonder whether you and Caroline Waddington ever will be man and wife?"

"Probably about the time that you are made a judge."

"Ha! ha! Well, I hope if you do do it, it will come off before that. But I doubt it\'s coming off at all. Each of you is too proud for the other. Neither of you can forgive what the other has done."

"What do you mean? But to tell you the truth, Harcourt, I have no great inclination to discuss that matter just at present. If you please, we will leave Miss Waddington alone."

"What I mean is this," said the embryo judge, perseveringly, "that you are too angry with her on account of this enforced delay, and she is too angry with you because you have dared to be angry with her. I do not think you will ever come together."

Bertram looked full at Harcourt as this was said, and observed that there was not the usual easy, gentlemanlike smile on the barrister\'s face; and yet the barrister was doing his best to look as usual. The fact was, that Harcourt was playing a game, and playing it with considerable skill, but his performance was not altogether that of a Garrick. Something might have been read in his face had Bertram been cunning enough to read it. But Bertram was not a cunning man.

Bertram looked full in the other\'s face. Had he been content to do so and to say nothing, he would have gained his point, and the subject would have been at once dropped. Harcourt then could have gone no further. But Bertram was now angry, and, being angry, he could not but speak.

"Harcourt, you have interfered once before between me and Miss Waddington—"

"Interfered!"

"Yes, interfered—in what I then thought and still think to have been a very unwarrantable manner."

"It was a pity you did not tell me of it at the time."

"It is a pity rather that you should drive me to tell you of it now; but you do so. When I was in Paris, you said to Miss Waddington what you had no right to say."

"What did I say?"

"Or, rather, she said to you—"

"Ah! that was no fault of mine."

"But it was a fault of yours. Do you think that I cannot understand? that I cannot see? She would have been silent enough to you but for your encouragement. I do not know that I was ever so vexed as when I received that letter from you. You took upon yourself—"

"I know you were angry, very angry. But that was not my fault. I said nothing but what a friend under such circumstances was bound to say."

"Well, let the matter drop now; and let Miss Waddington and myself settle our own affairs."

"I cannot let the matter drop; you have driven me to defend myself, and I must do it as best I may. I know that you were angry, exceedingly angry—

"Exceedingly angry!" he repeated; "but that was no fault of mine. When Miss Baker sent for me, I could not but go to her. When I was there, I could not but listen to her. When Caroline told me that she was wretched—"

"Miss Waddington!" shouted Bertram, in a voice that caused the glasses to shake, and made the waiter turn round. And then suddenly recollecting himself, he scowled round the room as he observed that he was noticed.

"Hush, my dear fellow. It shall be Miss Waddington; but not quite so loud. And I beg your pardon, but hearing the lady called by her Christian name so often, both by yourself and Miss Baker, I forgot myself. When she spoke to me of her wretched state, what was I to do? Was I to say, fie! fie! and take my hat and go away?

"She was very wretched," he continued, for Bertram merely scowled and said nothing, "and I could not but sympathize with her. She thought that you had neglected her. It was clear that you had gone abroad without telling her. Was it to be wondered at that she should be unhappy?"

"Her telling you that she was so was unexcusable."

"At any rate, I am blameless. I myself think that she was also; but that is another question. In what I wrote to you, I did my duty as a friend to both parties. After that, I do confess that I thought your anger too great to allow you ever to stand at the altar with her."

"You do not mean to say that she showed you my letter?" said Bertram, almost leaping at him.

"Your letter! what letter?"

"You know what letter—my letter from Paris? The letter which I wrote to her in reference to the one I received from you? I desire at once to have an answer from you. Did Caroline show you that letter?"

Harcourt looked very guilty, extremely guilty; but he did not immediately make any reply.

"Harcourt, answer me," said Bertram, much more coolly. "I have no feeling of anger now with you. Did Caroline show you that letter?"

"Miss Waddington did show it to me."

And thus the successful Mr. Harcourt had been successful also in this. And now, having narrated this interview in a manner which does not make it redound very much to that gentleman\'s credit, I must add to the narrative his apology. If even-handed justice were done throughout the world, some apology could be found for most offences. Not that the offences would thus be wiped away, and black become white; but much that is now very black would be reduced to that sombre, uninviting shade of ordinary brown which is so customary to humanity.

............