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"It is most unfortunate," sighed poor Bertram, who thoroughly identified himself with his pistol, and felt as much ashamed of it as if the fault had been his own. "Wall, lads," observed Big Waller, drawing forth his pipe as the only source of comfort in these trying circumstances, and filling it with scrupulous care, "it ain't of no use gettin' growowly about it, I guess.
In this matter, then, I did not care to take the responsibility, but have left it for you to choose for yourself." "I shall be more likely to make a mistake than you will, Monsieur Bertram," Philip said with a laugh.
Lady Bertram agreed to it all with a calm "Yes"; and at the end of a quarter of an hour's silent consideration spontaneously observed, "Sir Thomas, I have been thinking and I am very glad we took Fanny as we did, for now the others are away we feel the good of it." Sir Thomas immediately improved this compliment by adding, "Very true.
"Beatrice, you would have been just the wife for Loftus." "No, he was not the husband meant for me. Some day my true lover may come. If not, I have always been a happy girl, Mrs. Bertram, I am happy still. I feel full of delight to-night. Now I must go. Only, first of all, do something something for the girl who has been made your daughter to-day." "Something for for Josephine?"
But the baby was fretful he was teething, Billy said and he needed a great deal of attention; so, naturally, Bertram drifted out of the nursery, after a time, and went down into his studio, where were his dear, empty palette, his orderly brushes, and his tantalizing "Face of a Girl." From the studio, generally, Bertram went out on to the street. Sometimes he dropped into a fellow-artist's studio.
That is Henry Bertram, son to Godfrey Bertram, umquihile of Ellangowan; that young man is the very lad-bairn that Dirk Hatteraick carried off from Warroch wood the day that he murdered the gager. I was there like a wandering spirit for I longed to see that wood or we left the country.
"What is your name?" "Edmund Bertram." "Whence do you come?" "From Germany." "Where is your home?" "So far as I can be said to have one, in Germany." "And you were educated in Germany?" "Yes." "And yet speak English like a native?" "I was bred up in an English family resident in North Germany." "What was your object in coming to England?"
The resounding chords and purling runs had become a bell-like melody that wound itself in and out of a maze of exquisite harmonies, now hiding, now coming out clear and unafraid, like a mountain stream emerging into a sunlit meadow from the leafy shadows of its forest home. In a breathless hush the melody quivered into silence. It was Bertram who broke the pause with a long-drawn: "By George!"
I think what they sell here is little better than dishwater; so I say to Beatrice, 'Bee, my love, whatever happens, we'll get our tea from town." "And your pills from town, too," responded Mrs. Bertram. "I think you are a very wise woman, Mrs. Meadowsweet. How well your daughter plays tennis. Yes, she is decidedly graceful.
It is to be observed also that the advice given by the Countess to Bertram when he leaves Rousillon is so like that of Polonius to Laertes in a similar situation, that either the latter is an expansion of the former, or the former a reminiscence of the latter; and as the passage is written in the later style, the second supposition appears the more probable.
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