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.
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