The Honorable Miss by L. T. Meade

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[Illustration: Cover]

THE HONORABLE MISS

A Story of an Old-Fashioned Town

BY

L.T. MEADE

AUTHOR OF "THE YOUNG MUTINEER," "WORLD OF GIRLS,"
"A VERY NAUGHTY GIRL," "SWEET GIRL GRADUATE," ETC.

NEW YORK
HURST & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS

=======================================================================

L.T. MEADE SERIES

UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME

By MRS. L.T. MEADE

Bunch of Cherries, A. Merry Girls of England.
Daddy's Girl. Miss Nonentity.
Dr. Rumsey's Patient. Palace Beautiful.
Francis Kane's Fortune. Polly, a New-Fashioned Girl.
Gay Charmer, A. Rebels of the School.
Girl in Ten Thousand, A. Sweet Girl Graduate, A.
Girls of St. Wodes, The. Their Little Mother.
Girl of the People, A. Time of Roses, The.
Girls of the True Blue. Very Naughty Girl, A.
Heart of Gold, The. Wild Kitty.
Honorable Miss, The. World of Girls.
How It All Came About. Young Mutineers, The.
Little Princess of Tower Hill.

_Price, postpaid, 50c each, or any three books for $1.25_

HURST & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK

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THE HONORABLE MISS.

* * * * *

CHAPTER I.

BEATRICE WILL FIT.

"So," continued Mrs. Meadowsweet, settling herself in a lazy, fat sort
of a way in her easy chair, and looking full at her visitor with a
complacent smile, "so I called her Beatrice. I thought under the
circumstances it was the best name I could give--it seemed to fit all
round, you know, and as _he_ had no objection, being very
easy-going, poor man, I gave her the name."

"Yes?" interrogated Mrs. Bertram, in a softly surprised, and but
slightly interested voice; "you called your daughter Beatrice? I don't
quite understand your remark about the name fitting all round."

Mrs. Meadowsweet raised one dimpled hand slowly and laid it on top of
the other. Her smile grew broader.

"A name is a solemn thing, Mrs. Bertram," she continued. "A name is, so
to speak, to fit the person to whom it is given, for life. Will you tell
me how any mother, even the shrewdest, is to prophecy how an infant of a
few weeks old is to turn out? I thought over that point a good deal when
I gave the name, and said I to myself however matters turn 'Beatrice'
will fit. If she grows up cozy and soft and petting and small, why she's
Bee, and if she's sharp and saucy, and a bit too independent, as many
lasses are in these days, what can suit her better than Trixie? And
again if she's inclined to be stately, and to hold herself erect, and to
think a little more of herself than her mother ever did--only not more
than she deserves--bless her--why then she's Beatrice in full. Oh! and
there you are, Beatrice! Mrs. Bertram has been good enough to call to
see me. Mrs. Bertram, this is my daughter Beatrice."

A very tall girl came quietly into the room, bowed an acknowledgment of
her mother's introduction, and sat down on the edge of the sofa. She was
a dignified girl from the crown of her head to her finger-tips, and Mrs.
Bertram, who had been listening languidly to the mother, favored the
newcomer with a bright, quick, inquisitive stare, then rose to her
feet.

"I am afraid I must say good-bye, Mrs. Meadowsweet. I am glad to have
made your daughter's acquaintance, and another day I hope I shall see
more of her. I have of course heard of you from Catherine, my dear," she
added, holding out her hand frankly to the young girl.

"Yes. Is Catherine well?" asked Beatrice, in a sweet high-bred voice.

"She is well, my dear. Good-bye, Mrs. Meadowsweet. I quite understand
the all-roundness and suitability of your choice in the matter of
names."

Then the great lady sailed out of the room, and Beatrice flew to the
window, placed herself behind the curtain and watched her down the
street.

"What were you saying about me, mother?" she asked, when Mrs. Bertram
had turned the corner.

"I was only telling about your name, my dearie girl. _He_ always
gave me my way, poor man, so I fixed on Beatrice. I said it would fit
all round, and it did. Shut that window, will you, Bee?--the wind is
very sharp for the time of year. You don't mind my calling you Bee now
and then--even if it doesn't seem quite to fit?" continued Mrs.
Meadowsweet.

"No, mother, of course not. Call me anything in the world you fancy.
What's in a name?"

"Don't say that, Trixie, there's a great deal in a name."

"Well, I get confused with mine now and then. Mother, I just came in to
kiss you and run away again. Alice Bell and I are going to the lecture
at the Town Hall. It begins at five, and it's half-past four now.
Good-bye, I shall be home to supper."

"One moment, Bee, I am really pleased that your fine friend's mother has
chosen to call at last."

Beatrice frowned.

"Catherine is not my fine friend," she said.

"Well, your _friend_, then, dearie. I am glad your friend's mother
has called."

"I am not--that is, I am absolutely indifferent. Now, I really must run
away. Good-bye until you see me again."

She tripped out of the room as lightly and carelessly as she had entered
it, and Mrs. Meadowsweet sat on by the window which looked into the
garden.

Mrs. Meadowsweet had the smoothest and most tranquil of faces. She had
taken as her favorite motto in life, that somehow, if you only allowed
them, things did fit all round. Each event in her own career, to use her
special phraseology "fitted." As her husband had to die, he passed away
from this life at the most fitting moment. As Providence had blessed her
with only one child, a daughter was surely the most fitting companion
for a widowed mother. The house Mrs. Meadowsweet lived in fitted her
requirements to perfection. In short, she was fat and comfortable, both
in mind and body; she never fretted, she never worried; she was not
rasping and disagreeable; she was not fault-finding. If her nature
lacked depth, it certainly did not lack affection, generosity, and a
true spirit of kindliness. If she were a little too well pleased with
herself, she was also well pleased with her neighbors. She was not
especially appreciated, for she was considered prosy and commonplace.
Prosy she undoubtedly was, but not commonplace, for invariable
contentment and unbounded good-nature are more and more difficult to
find in this censorious world.

Mrs. Meadowsweet now smiled gently to herself.

"However Beatrice may take it, I _am_ glad Mrs. Bertram called,"
she murmured. "_He'd_ have liked it, poor man! he never put himself
out, and he never interfered with me, no, never, poor dear. But he liked
people to show due respect--it's a respect to Beatrice for Mrs. Bertram
to call. It shows that she appreciates Beatrice as her daughter's
friend. Mrs. Bertram, notwithstanding her pride, is likely to be very
much respected in Northbury, and no wonder. She's a little above most of
us, but we like her all the better for that. We are going to be proud of
her. It's nice to have some one to be proud of. And she has no airs when
you come to know her, no, she hasn't airs; she's as pleasant as
possible, and seems interested too, that is, as interested as people
like us can expect from people like her. She didn't even condescend to
Beatrice. I wonder how my little girl would have taken it, if she had
condescended to her. Yes, Jane, do you want me?"

An elderly servant opened the drawing-room door.

"If you please, ma'am, Mrs. Morris has called, and she wants to know if
it would disturb you very much to see her?"

"Disturb me? She knows it won't disturb me. Show her in at once. And
Jane, you can get tea ready half-an-hour earlier than usual. I daresay,
as Mrs. Morris has called she'd like a cup. How do you do, Mrs. Morris?
I'm right glad to see you, right glad. Sit here, in this chair--or
perhaps you'd rather sit in this one; this isn't too near the window.
And you'll like a screen, I know;--not that there's any draught--for
these windows fit as tight as tight when shut."

Mrs. Morris was a thin, tall woman. She always spoke in a whisper, for
she was possessed of the belief that she had lost her voice in
bronchitis. She had not, for when she scolded any one she found it
again. She was not scolding now, however, and her tones were very low
and smothered.

"I saw her coming in, my dear; I was standing at the back of the wire
blind, and I saw her going up your steps, so I thought I'd come across
quickly and hear the news. You'll tell me the news as soon as possible,
won't you? Mrs. Butler and Miss Peters are coming to call in a few
minutes. I met them and they told me so. They saw her, too. You'll tell
me the news quickly, Lucy, for I'd like to be first, and it seems as if
I had a right to that much consideration, being an old friend."

"So you have, Jessie."

Mrs. Meadowsweet looked immensely flattered.

"I suppose you allude to Mrs. Bertram having favored me with a call,"
she continued, in a would-be-humble tone, which, in spite of all her
efforts, could not help swelling a little.

"Yes, dear, that's what I allude to; I saw her from behind the wire
screen blind. We were having steak and onions for dinner, and the doctor
didn't like me jumping up just when I had a hot bit on my plate. But I
said, it's Mrs. Bertram, Sam, and she's standing on Mrs. Meadowsweet's
steps! There wasn't a remonstrance out of him after that, and the only
other remark he made was, 'You'll call round presently, Jessie, and
inquire after Mrs. Meadowsweet's cold.' So here I am, my dear. And how
_is_ your cold, by the way?"

"It's getting on nicely, Jessie. Wasn't that a ring I heard at the door
bell?"

"Well, I never!" Mrs. Morris suddenly found her voice. "If it isn't that
tiresome Mrs. Butler and Miss Peters. And now I won't be first with the
news after all!"

Mrs. Meadowsweet smiled again.

"There really isn't so much to tell, Jessie. Mrs. Bertram was just
affable like every one else. Ah, and how are you, Mrs. Butler? Now, I do
call this kind and neighborly. Miss Peters, I trust your cough is
better?"

"I'm glad to see you, Mrs. Meadowsweet," said Mrs. Butler, in a slightly
out-of-breath tone.

"My cough is no better," snapped Miss Peters. "Although it's summer, the
wind is due east; east wind always catches me in the throat."

Miss Peters was very small and slim. She wore little iron-gray,
corkscrew curls, and had bright, beady black eyes. Miss Peters was Mrs.
Butler's sister. She was a snappy little body, but rather afraid of Mrs.
Butler, who was more snappy. This fear gave her an unpleasant habit of
rolling her eyes in the direction of Mrs. Butler whenever she spoke. She
rolled them now as she described the way the east wind had treated her
throat.

Mrs. Butler seated herself in an aggressive manner on the edge of the
sofa, and Miss Peters took a chair as close as possible to Mrs. Morris,
who pushed hers away from her.

Each lady was anxious to engross the whole attention of Mrs.
Meadowsweet, and it was scarcely possible for the good-natured woman not
to feel flattered.

"Now, you'll all have a cup of tea with me," she said. "I know Jane's
getting it, but I'll ring the bell to hasten her. Ah, thank you, Miss
Peters."

Miss Peters had sprung to her feet, seized the bell-rope before any one
could hinder her, and sounded a vigorous peal. Then she rolled her eyes
at Mrs. Butler and sat down.

Mrs. Morris said that when Miss Peters rolled her eyes she invariably
shivered. She shivered now in such a marked and open way that poor Mrs.
Meadowsweet feared her friend had taken cold.

"Dear, dear--I only wish I had a fire lighted," she said. "Your
bronchitis will be getting worse, if you aren't careful, Jessie. Miss
Peters, a cup of tea will do your throat good. It always does mine when
I get nipped."

"Don't encourage Maria in her fancies," snapped Mrs. Butler. "There's
nothing ails her throat, only she will wrap herself in so much wool that
she makes herself quite delicate. I tell her she fancies she is a
hothouse plant."

"Oh, nothing of the kind," whispered Mrs. Morris.

"That's what I say," nodded back Mrs. Butler. "More of the nature of the
hardy broom. But now we haven't come to discuss Maria and her fads. You
have had a visitor to-day, Mrs. Meadowsweet."

"Ah, here comes the tea," exclaimed Mrs. Meadowsweet. "Bring the table
over here, Jane. Now this is what I call cozy. Jane, you might ask cook
to send up some buttered toast, and a little more cream. Yes, Mrs.
Butler, I beg your pardon."

"I was remarking that you had a visitor," repeated Mrs. Butler.

"Ah, so I had. Mrs. Bertram called on me."

"And why shouldn't she call on you, dear?" suddenly whispered
Mrs. Morris. "Aren't you quite as good as she is when all's said and
done? Yes, dear, I'll have some of your delicious tea. Such a treat!
Some more cream? Thank you, yes; I'll help myself. Why shouldn't Mrs.
Bertram call on Mrs. Meadowsweet? That's what I say, ladies," continued
Mrs. Morris, looking over the top of her cup of tea in a decidedly
fight-me-if-you-dare manner.

"Nobody said she shouldn't call," answered Mrs. Butler. "Maria, you'll
oblige me by going into the hall and fetching my wrap. There's rather a
chill from this window--and the weather is very inclement for the time
of year. No, thank you, Mrs. Morris, I wouldn't take your seat for the
world. As you justly remark, why shouldn't Mrs Bertram call on our good
friend here? And, for that matter, why shouldn't she cross the road, and
leave her card on _you_, Mrs. Morris?"

Mrs. Morris was here taken with such a fit of bronchial coughing and
choking that she could make no response. Miss Peters rolled her eyes at
her sister in a manner which plainly said, "You had her there, Martha,"
and poor Mrs. Meadowsweet began nervously to wish that she had not been
the honored recipient of Mrs. Bertram's favors.

"She came to see me on account of Beatrice," remarked the hostess. "At
least I think that was why she came. I beg your pardon, did you say
anything, ladies?"

"Oh! fie, fie! Mrs. Meadowsweet," said Miss Peters, "you are too modest.
In my sister's name and my own, I say you are too modest."

"And in my name too," interrupted Mrs. Morris. "You are too humble, my
dear friend. She called to see you for _your own dear sake_ and for
no other."

"And now let us all be friendly," continued Miss Peters, "and learn the
news. I think we are all of one mind in wishing to learn the news."

Mrs. Meadowsweet smoothed down the front of her black satin dress. She
knew, and her friends knew, that she would have much preferred the honor
of Mrs. Bertram's call to be due to Beatrice's charms than her own. She
smiled, however, with her usual gentleness, and plunged into the
conversation which the three other ladies were so eager to commence.

Before they departed they had literally taken Mrs. Bertram to pieces.
They had fallen upon her tooth and nail, and dissected her morally, and
socially, and with the closest scrutiny of all, from a religious point
of view.

Mrs. Meadowsweet, who never spoke against any one, was amazed at the
ingenuity with which the character of her friend (she felt she must call
Mrs. Bertram her friend) was blackened. Before the ladies left Mrs.
Meadowsweet's house they had proved, in the ablest and most thorough
manner, that Mrs. Bertram was worldly and vain, that she lived beyond
her means, that she trained her daughters to think of themselves far
more highly than they ought to think, that in all probability she was
not what she pretended to be, and, finally, that poor Mrs. Meadowsweet,
dear Mrs. Meadowsweet, was in great danger on account of her friendship.

"I don't agree with you, ladies," said the good woman, as they were
leaving the house, but they neither heeded nor heard her remark.

The explanation of their conduct was simple enough. They were devoured
with jealousy. Had Mrs. Bertram called on any one of them, she would
have been in that person's estimation the most fascinating woman in
Northbury.

CHAPTER II.

MRS. BERTRAM'S WILL.

And Mrs. Bertram did not care in the least what anybody thought of her.
She was in no sense of the word a sham. She was well-born,
well-educated, respectably married, and fairly well-off. The people in
Northbury considered her rich. She always spoke of herself as poor. In
reality she was neither rich nor poor. She had an income of something
like twelve hundred a year, and on that she lived comfortably, educated
her children well, and certainly managed to present a nice appearance
wherever she went.

There never was a woman more full of common sense than Mrs. Bertram. She
had quite an appalling amount of this virtue; no one ever heard her say
a silly thing; each step she took in life was a wise one, carefully
considered, carefully planned out. She had been a widow now for sis
years. Her husband had nearly come into the family estate, but not
quite. He was the second son, and his eldest brother had died when his
heir was a month old. This heir had cut out Mrs. Bertram's husband from
the family place, with its riches and honors. He himself had died soon
after, and had left his widow with three children and twelve hundred a
year.

The children were a son and two daughters. The son's name was Loftus,
the girls were called Catherine and Mabel. Loftus was handsome in
person, and very every-day in mind. He was good-natured, but not
remarkable for any peculiar strength of character. His mother had
managed to send him to Rugby and Sandhurst, and he had passed into the
army with tolerable credit. He was very fond of his mother, devotedly
fond of her, but since he entered the army he certainly contrived to
cost her a good deal.

She spoke to him on the subject, believed as much as she chose of his
earnest promises to amend, took her own counsel and no one else's, gave
up her neat little house in Kensington, and came to live at Northbury.

Catherine and Mabel did not like this change, but as their mother never
dreamt of consulting them, they had to keep their grumbles to
themselves.

Mrs. Bertram considered she had taken a wise step, and she told the
girls so frankly. Their house in Kensington was small and expensive. In
the country they had secured a delightful old Manor--Rosendale Manor was
its pretty name--for a small rent.

Mrs. Bertram found herself comparatively rich in the country, and she
cheered the girls by telling them that if they would study economical
habits, and try to do with very little dress for the present, she would
save some money year by year, so that by the time Catherine was twenty
they might have the advantage of a couple of seasons in town.

"Catherine will look very young at twenty," remarked the mother.
"By that time I shall have saved quite a fair sum out of my income.
Catherine looked younger at twenty than Mabel at eighteen. They can both
come out together, and have their chances like other girls."

Catherine did not want to wait for the dear delights of society until
she had reached so mature an age. But there was no murmuring against her
mother's decree, and as she was a healthy-minded, handsome, good-humored
girl, she soon accommodated herself to the ways and manners of country
folk, and was happy enough.

"I shall live on five hundred a year at Rosen dale Manor," determined
Mrs. Bertram. "And I have made up my mind that Loftie shall not cost me
more than three. Thus I shall save four hundred a year. Catherine is
only seventeen now. By the time she is twenty I shall have a trifle over
and above my income to fall back upon. Twelve hundred pounds is a
bagatelle with most people, but I feel I shall effect wonders with it.
Catherine and Mabel will be out of the common, very out of the common.
Unique people have an advantage over those who resemble the herd.
Catherine and Mabel are to be strongly individual. In any room they are
to be noticeable. Little hermits, now, some day they shall shine. They
are both clever, just clever enough for my purpose. Catherine might with
advantage be a shade less beautiful, but Mabel will, I am convinced,
fulfil all my expectations. Then, if only Loftie," but here Mrs. Bertram
sighed. She was returning from her visit to Mrs. Meadowsweet, walking
slowly down the long avenue which led to the Manor. This avenue was kept
in no order; its edges were not neatly cut, and weeds appeared here and
there through its scantily gravelled roadway. The grass parterre round
the house, however, was smooth as velvet, and interspersed with gay
flower-beds. It looked like a little agreeable oasis in the middle of a
woodland, for the avenue was shaded by forest trees, and the house
itself had a background of two or three acres of an old wood.

Mrs. 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.

But the next day she was armed for the combat. The little parlor-maid,
in her neat black dress, clean muslin apron, large frilled, picturesque
collar, and high mob-cap, was instructed to say "Not at home" to all
comers. She was a country girl, not from Northbury, but from some still
more rusticated spot, and she thought she was telling a frightful lie,
and blushed and trembled while she uttered it. So apparent was her
confusion that Miss Peters, when she and her sister, Mrs. Butler,
appeared on the scene, rolled her eyes at the taller lady and asked her
in a pronounced manner if it would not be well to drop a tract on the
heinousness of lying in the avenue.

This speech was repeated by Clara to the cook, who told it again to the
young ladies' maid, who told it to the young ladies, who narrated it to
their mother.

Mrs. Bertram smiled grimly.

"Don't repeat gossip, my dears," she said, Then after a pause she
remarked aloud: "The difficulty will be about returning the calls."

Mabel, the youngest and most subservient of the girls, ventured to ask
her mother what she intended to do, but Mrs. Bertram was too wise to
disclose her plans, that is, if she had made any.

The Rector of Northbury was one of the first to visit the new
inhabitants of the Manor. To him Mrs. Bertram opened her doors gladly.
He was old, unmarried, and of good family. She was glad there was at
least one gentleman in the place with whom she might occasionally
exchange a word.

About a fortnight after his visit the Rector inclosed some tickets for a
bazaar to Mrs. Bertram. The tickets were accompanied by a note, in which
he said that it would gratify the good Northbury folk very much if Mrs.
Bertram and the young ladies would honor the bazaar with their presence.

"Every soul in the place will be there," said Mr. Ingram. "This bazaar
is a great event to us, and its object is, I think, a worthy one. We
badly want a new organ for our church."

"Eureka!" exclaimed Mrs. Bertram when she had read this note.

"What is the matter, mother?" exclaimed Mabel.

"Only that I have found a way out of my grand difficulty," responded
their mother, tossing Mr. Ingram's note and the tickets for the bazaar
into Catherine's lap.

"Are you so delighted to go to this country bazaar, mother?" asked the
eldest daughter.

"Delighted! No, it will be a bore."

"Then why did you say Eureka! and look so pleased?"

"Because on that day I shall leave cards on the Northbury folk--not one
of them will be at home."

"Shabby," muttered Catherine. Her dark cheek flushed, she turned away.

Mabel put out her little foot and pressed it against her sister's. The
pressure signified warning.

"Then you are not going to the bazaar, mother?" she questioned.

"I don't know. I may drop in for a moment or two, quite at the close. It
would not do to offend Mr. Ingram."

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