The Honorable Miss by L. T. Meade

L >> L. T. Meade >> The Honorable Miss

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19

Mrs. Bertram thought of the girls, but no compunctions with regard to
them caused her to hesitate even for a moment. She loved some one else
much better than these bright-eyed lasses. Loftus was the darling of his
mother's heart. It was bad to sacrifice girls, but it was impossible to
sacrifice the beloved and only son.

Mrs. Bertram saw her solicitors, confided to them her difficulties, and
accepted the terms proposed to her by the enemy, who, treacherous and
awful, had suddenly risen out of the ashes of the past to confront her.

With four hundred a year she bought silence, and silence meant
everything for her. Thus she saved herself, and one at least belonging
to her, from open shame.

She received Catherine's telegram, and was made aware that Josephine
Hart had come down to spy out the nakedness of the land. She felt
herself, however, in a position to defy Josephine, and she returned to
the Manor fairly well pleased.

It was Loftus, for whom she had really sacrificed so much, who dealt her
the final blow. This idle scapegrace had got into fresh debt and
difficulty. Mrs. Bertram expostulated, she wrung her hands, she could
almost have torn her hair. The young man stood before her half-abashed,
half sulky.

"Can you help me, mother? That's the main point," was his reiterated
cry.

Mrs. Bertram managed at last to convince him that she had not a farthing
of ready money left.

"In that case," he replied, "nothing but ruin awaits me."

His mother wept when he told her this. She was shaken with all she had
undergone in London, poor woman, and this man, who could cringe to her
for a large dole out of her pittance, was the beloved of her heart.

He begged of her to put her hand to a bill; a bill which should not
become due for six months. She consented; she was weak enough to set
him, as he expressed it, absolutely on his feet. All debts would be paid
at once, and he would never exceed his allowance again; and as to his
mother's difficulty, in meeting a bill for six hundred pounds, it was
not in Loftus Bertram's nature to trouble himself on this score six
months ahead.

That bill, however was the proverbial last straw to Mrs. Bertram. It
haunted her by day and night; she dreamt of it, sleeping, she pondered
over it, waking. Six short months would speedily disappear, and then she
would be ruined; she could not meet the bill, exposure and disaster must
follow.

Even very honorable people when they get themselves into corners often
seek for means of escape which certainly would not occur to them as the
most dignified exits if they were, for instance, not in the corner, but
in the middle of the room.

Mrs. Bertram was a woman of resources, and she made up her mind what to
do. She made it up absolutely, and no doubts or difficulties daunted her
for an instant. Loftus should marry Beatrice Meadowsweet long before the
six months were out.

Having ascertained positively not only from her mother's lips, but also
from those of Mr. Ingram, that the young girl could claim as her portion
twenty thousand pounds on her wedding day, Mrs. Bertram felt there was
no longer need to hesitate. Beatrice was quite presentable in herself;
she was handsome, she was well-bred, she had a gracious and even
careless repose of manner which would pass muster anywhere for the
highest breeding. It would be quite possible to crush that fat and
hopelessly vulgar mother, and it would be easy, more than easy, to talk
of the wealthy merchant's office instead of the obnoxious draper's shop.

Bertram, who had just moved with the _depot_ of his regiment to
Chatham, on returning to his quarters one evening from mess saw lying on
his table a thick letter in his mother's handwriting. He took it up
carelessly, and, as he opened it, he yawned. Mother's letters are not
particularly sacred things to idolized sons of Bertram's type.

"I wonder what the old lady has got to say for herself," he murmured.
"Can she have seen Nina? And has Nina said anything. Not that she can
seriously injure me in the mater's eyes. No one would be more lenient to
a little harmless flirtation which was never meant to lead anywhere than
my good mother. Still it was a great bore for Josephine to turn up when
she did. Obliged me to shorten my leave abruptly, and see less of Miss
Beatrice. What a little tiger Nina would be if her jealousy was
aroused--no help for me but flight. Yes, Saunders, you needn't wait."

Bertram's servant withdrew; and taking his mother's letter out of its
envelope, the young man proceeded to acquaint himself with its contents.
They interested him, not a little, but deeply. The color flushed up into
his face as he read. He made one or two strong exclamations, finally he
laughed aloud. His laugh was excited and full of good humor.

"By Jove! the mother never thought of a better plot. Beatrice--and
fortune. Beatrice, and an escape into the bargain from all my worries.
Poor mater! She does not know that that six hundred of hers has only
just scraped me through my most pressing liabilities. But a small dip
out of Beatrice Meadowsweet's fortune will soon set me on my feet. The
mater's wishes and mine never so thoroughly chimed together as now. Of
course I'll do it. No fear on that point. I'll write off to the dear old
lady, and set her heart at rest, by this very post. As to leave, I must
manage that somehow. The mother is quite right. With a girl like
Beatrice there is no time to be lost. Any fellow might come over to
Northbury and pick her up. Why, she's perfectly splendid. I knew I was
in love with her--felt it all along. Just think of my patrician mother
giving in, though. Well, nothing could suit me better."

Bertram felt so excited that he paced up and down his room, and even
drank off a brandy and soda, which was not in his usual line, for he was
a sober young fellow enough.

As he walked up and down he thought again of that night when he had last
seen Beatrice. How splendid she had looked in her boat on the water; how
unreserved, and yet how reticent she was; how beautiful, and yet how
unconscious of her beauty. What a foil she made to that dreadful little
Matty Bell!

Bertram laughed as he remembered Matty's blushes and affected giggles
and simpers. He conjured up the whole scene, and when he recalled poor
Mrs. Bell's frantic efforts to get the white boat away from the green,
his sense of hilarity doubled. Finally he thought of his walk home, of
the meditations which had occupied his mind, and last of all of the girl
in the gray dress who had put her arms round his neck, laid her head on
his breast, and whose lips he had passionately kissed. That head! He
felt a thrill now as he remembered the sheen of its golden locks, and he
knew that the kisses he had given this girl had been full of the passion
of his manhood. He ceased to laugh as he thought of her. A growing sense
of uneasiness, of even fear, took possession of him, and chased away the
high spirits which his mother's acceptable proposal had given rise to.

He sat down again in his easy chair and began to think.

"It is not," he said to himself, "that I have got into any real scrape
with Nina. I have promised to marry her, of course, and I have made love
to her scores and scores of times, but I don't think she has any letters
of mine, and in any case, she is not the sort of girl to go to law with
a fellow. No, I have nothing really to fear on that score. But what
perplexes and troubles me is this: she has got a great power over me.
When I am with her I can't think of any one else. She has an influence
over me which I can't withstand. I want her, and her only. I know it
would ruin me to marry her. She has not a penny; she is an uneducated
poor waif, brought up anyhow. My God, when I think of how I first saw
you, Nina! That London street, that crowd looking on, and the pure young
voice rising up as it were into the very sky. And then the sound
stopping, and the shout from the mob. I got into the middle of the ring
somehow, and I saw you, I saw you, my little darling. Your hand was
clenched, and the fellow who had dared to insult you went down with that
blow you gave him to the ground. Didn't your eyes flash fire, and the
flickering light from that fishmonger's shop opposite lit up your hair
and your pale face. You looked half like a devil, but you were
beautiful, you were superb. Then you saw me, and you must have guessed
that I felt with you and for you. Our souls seemed to leap out to meet
one another, and you were by my side in an instant, kissing my hand, and
raining tears on it. We loved each other from that night; our love began
from the moment we looked at each other, and I love you still--but I
mustn't marry you, little wild, desperate, bewitching Nina, for that
would ruin us both. My God! I wish I had never met you; I am afraid of
you, and that is the fact."

Perhaps it was the unwonted beverage in which he had just indulged,
which gave rise to such eager and impetuous thoughts in the breast of
Captain Bertram. It is certain when he had slept over his mother's
letter he felt much more cool and collected. If he still feared
Josephine Hart, he was absolutely determined not to allow his fears to
get the better of him. He ceased even to say to himself that he was in
love with this pretty witch of the yellow hair, and his letter to his
mother was as cool and self-possessed as the most prudent among parents
could desire.

Bertram told his mother that he thought he could manage to exchange with
a brother officer, so as to secure his own leave while the days were
long and the weather fine. He said that if all went as he hoped, he
would be at the Manor by the end of the following week, and he sent his
love to his sisters, and hoped the mater was quite herself again.

Not once did he mention the name of Beatrice, but Mrs. Bertram read
between the lines. She admired her son for his caution. Her heart leaped
with exultation, her boy would not fail her.

If she had known that the old postman Benjafield had left a letter by
the very same post for Miss Hart at the lodge, and that this letter in a
disguised hand bore within the undoubted signature of her own beloved
captain, her rejoicing would not have been so keen. But as people are
very seldom allowed to see behind the scenes Mrs. Bertram may as well
have her short hour of triumph undisturbed.

CHAPTER XVIII.

"WHEN DUNCAN GRAY CAME HOME TO WOO."

Most people go away for change of air in the month of August, but this
was by no means the fashion in the remote, little old-world town of
Northbury. In November people left home if they could, for it was dull,
very dull at Northbury in November, but August was the prime month of
the year.

It was then the real salt from the broad Atlantic came into the limpid
waters of the little harbor. August was the month for bathing, for
yachting, for trawling. Some denizens of the outside world even came to
Northbury in August; the few lodging-houses were crammed to overflowing;
people put up with any accommodation for the sake of the crisp air, and
the lovely deep blue water of the bay. For in August this same water was
often at night alight with phosphorescent substances, which gave it the
appearance in the moonlight of liquid golden fire. It was then the girls
sang their best, and the young men said soft nothings, and hearts beat a
little more quickly than ordinary, and in short the mischievous,
teasing, fascinating god of love was abroad.

In preparation for these August days Perry the draper did a roaring
trade, for all the Northbury girls had fresh ribbons put on their sailor
hats, and fresh frills in their blue serge dresses, and their tan
leather gloves had to be neat and new, and their walking shoes trim and
whole, for the entire little world would be abroad all day and half the
night, in company with the harvest moon and the glittering golden waves,
and all the other gay, bright things of summer.

This was therefore just the most fitting season for Captain Bertram to
come back to Northbury, on wooing intent. More than one girl in the
place rejoiced at his arrival, and Mrs. Bertram so far relaxed her rigid
hold over Catherine and Mabel as to allow them to partake, in company
with their brother and Beatrice Meadowsweet, of a certain portion of the
general merry-making.

Northbury was a remarkably light-hearted little place, but it never had
entered into quite so gay a season as this memorable August when Captain
Bertram came to woo.

It somehow got into the air that this gay young officer had taken his
leave for the express purpose of getting himself a wife. Nobody quite
knew how the little gossiping whisper arose, but arise it did, and great
was the commotion put into the atmosphere, and severe the flutterings it
caused to arise in more than one gentle girl heart.

Catherine and Mabel Bertram were in the highest possible spirits during
this same month of August. Their mother seemed well once more, well, and
gay, and happy. The hard rule of economy, always a depressing
_regime_, had also for the time disappeared. The meals were almost
plentiful, the girls had new dresses, and as they went out a little it
was essential for them in their turn to entertain.

Mrs. Bertram went to some small expense to complete the tennis courts,
and she even endured the sight of the Bells and Jenkinses as they
struggled with the intricacies of the popular game.

She herself took refuge in Mr. Ingram's society. He applauded her
efforts at being sociable, and told her frankly that he was glad she was
changing her mind with regard to the Northbury folk.

"Any society is better than none," he said. "And they really are such
good creatures. Not of course in the matter of finish and outward manner
to compare with the people you are accustomed to, Mrs. Bertram, but--"

"Ah, I know," interrupted Mrs. Bertram in a gay voice. "Rough diamonds
you would call them. But you are mistaken, my dear friend; there is, I
assure you, not a diamond in this motley herd, unless I except Miss
Beatrice."

"I never class Beatrice with the other Northbury people," replied Mr.
Ingram; "there is something about her which enables her to take a stand
of her own. I think if she had been born in any rank, she would have
kept her individuality. She is uncommon, so for that matter is Miss
Catherine."

The two girls were standing together as Mr. Ingram spoke. They were
resting after a spirited game, and they made a pretty picture as they
stood under the shelter of the old oak tree. Both were in white, and
both wore large drooping hats. These hats cast picturesque shadows on
their young faces.

Mrs. Bertram looked at them with a queer half-jealous pang. Beatrice was
the child of a lowly tradesman, Catherine the daughter of a man of
family and some pretension; and yet Mrs. Bertram had to own that in any
society this tall, upright, frank, young Beatrice could hold her own,
that even Catherine whose dark face was patrician, who bore the
refinement of race in every point, could scarcely outshine this country
girl.

"It is marvellous," said Mrs. Bertram after a pause; "Beatrice is one of
nature's ladies. There are a few such, they come now and then, and no
circumstances can spoil them. To think of that girl's mother!"

"One of the dearest old ladies of my acquaintance," replied Mr. Ingram.
"Beatrice owes a great deal of her nobleness of heart and singleness of
purpose to her mother. Mrs. Bertram, I have never heard that woman say
an unkind word. I have heard calumny of her, but never from her. Then,
of course, Meadowsweet was quite a gentleman."

"My dear friend! A draper a gentleman?"

"I grant the anomaly is not common," said the Rector. "But in
Meadowsweet's case I make a correct statement. He was a perfect
gentleman after the type of some of those who are mentioned in the
Sacred Writings. He was honest, courteous, self-forgetful. His manners
were delightful, because his object ever was to put the person he was
speaking to completely at his ease. He had the natural advantage of a
refined appearance, and his accent was pure, and not marred by any
provincialisms. He could not help speaking in the best English because
he was a scholar, and he spent all his leisure studying the classics.
Therefore, although he kept a draper's shop, he was a gentleman. By the
way, Mrs. Bertram, do you know anything of the young girl who has been
staying at your lodge? You--you are tired, my dear lady?"

"A little. I will sit on this bench. There is room for you too, Rector.
Sit near me, what about the girl at my lodge?"

"She is no longer at your lodge. She has left. Do you happen to know
anything about her?"

"Nothing."

"Ah, that seems a pity. She is the sort of young creature to excite
one's sympathy. I called to see her a week ago, and she talked prettily
to me and looked sorrowful. Her name, she says, is Hart."

"Really? I--I confess I am not interested."

"But you ought to be, my dear friend, you ought to be. The girl seems
alone and defenceless. She is reserved with regard to her history, won't
make confidences, although I begged of her to confide in me, and assured
her that I, in my position, would receive what she chose to tell under
the seal of secrecy. Her eyes filled with tears, poor little soul, but
her lips were dumb."

"Oh, she has nothing to confide."

"Do you think so? I can't agree with you. Although my lot has been cast
in this remote out-of-the-world town, I have had my experiences, Mrs.
Bertram, and I never yet saw a face like Miss Hart's which did not
conceal a history."

"May I ask you, Mr. Ingram, if you ever before saw a face like Miss
Hart's?"

"Well, no, now that you put it to me, I don't think that I ever have. It
is beautiful."

"Ugly, you mean."

"No, no, Mrs. Bertram. With all due deference to your superior taste I
cannot agree with you. The features are classical, the eyes a little
wild and defiant, but capable of much expression. The hair of the
admired Rossetti type."

"Oh, spare me, Rector, spare me. I don't mean this low girl's outward
appearance. It is that which I feel is within which makes her altogether
ugly to me."

"Ah, poor child--women have intuitions, and you may be right. It would
of course not be judicious for your daughters to associate with Miss
Hart. But you, Mrs. Bertram, you, as a mother, might get at this poor
child's past, and counsel her as to her future."

"She has gone away, has she not?" asked Mrs. Bertram.

"I regret to say she has, but she may return. She promised me faithfully
to come to church on Sunday, and I called at the lodge on my way up to
leave her a little basket of fruit and flowers, and to remind her of her
promise. Mrs. Tester said she had left her, but might return again. I
hope so, and that I may be the means of helping her, for the poor
child's face disturbs me."

"I trust your wish may never be realized," murmured Mrs. Bertram, under
her breath. Aloud she said cheerfully, "I must show you my bed of
pansies, Rector. They are really quite superb."

CHAPTER XIX.

THE RECTOR'S GARDEN PARTY.

A few days after the tennis party at the Manor, at which Bertram had
talked a good deal to Beatrice, and in a very marked way snubbed Matty
Bell, the Rector gave his customary annual treat. He gave this treat
every year, and it was looked upon by high and low alike as the great
event of the merry month of August. The treat lasted for two days, the
first day being devoted to the schools and the humble parishioners, the
second to the lads and lasses, the well-to-do matrons and their spouses,
who formed the better portion of his parishioners.

Every soul in the place, however, from the poorest fisherman's child to
the wealthy widow, Mrs. Meadowsweet, wag expected to come to the Rectory
to be feasted and petted, and made much of, at Mr. Ingram's treat.

With the small scholars and the fishermen and their wives, and all the
humbler folk of the place, this story has nothing to do. But it would
not be a true chronicle of Northbury if it did not concern itself with
the Jenkinses and their love affairs, with Mrs. Gorman Stanley and her
furniture, with Mrs. Morris and her bronchitis, with Mrs. Butler and her
adorable sister, Miss Peters, and last, but not least, with that young,
_naive_, and childish heart which beat in the breast of Matty Bell.

There are the important people in all histories, and such a place in
this small chronicle must the Bertrams hold, and the Meadowsweets. But
Matty, too, had her niche, and it was permitted to her to pull some not
unimportant wires in this puppet show.

It is not too strong a word to say that Matty, Alice and Sophy Bell,
received their invitation to play tennis at the Manor with a due sense
of jubilation. Matty wore the shot silk which had been partly purchased
by the sale of good Mrs. Bell's engagement ring. This silk had been
made, at home, but, with the aid of a dressmaker young Susan Pettigrew,
who had served her time to the Perrys. Susan had made valuable
suggestions, which had been carried into effect, with the result that
the shot silk was provided with two bodies--a high one for morning wear,
and one cut in a modest, demi-style for evening festivities. The evening
body had elbow-sleeves, which were furnished with raffles of
coffee-colored lace, and, when put on, it revealed the contour of a
rather nice plump little throat, and altogether made Matty Bell look
nicer than she had ever looked in anything else before.

The wonderful Miss Pettigrew had also supplied the dress with a train,
which could be hooked on with safety hooks and eyes for evening wear,
and removed easily when the robe was to act as a tennis or morning
costume. Altogether, nothing could have been more complete than this
sinning garment, and no heart could have beat more proudly under it than
did fair Matty's.

When the captain went suddenly away this little girl and her good mother
had both owned to a sense of depression; but his speedy return was soon
bruited abroad, and at the same time that little whisper got into the
air with regard to the gallant captain, that, like Duncan Gray, he was
coming back to woo. It did not require many nods of Mrs. Bell's head to
assure all her acquaintances whom she considered the favored young lady.
Matty once more blushed consciously, and giggled in an audible manner
when the captain's name was mentioned. The invitation to play tennis at
the Manor completed the satisfaction of this mother and daughter.

"There's no doubt of it," said Mrs. Bell; "I thought my fine lady would
have to come down from her high horse. I expect the captain makes his
mother do pretty much what he wishes, and very right, too, very right.
He wants to show his little girl to his proud parent, and, whether she
likes it or not, she'll have to make much of you, my love. Sophy and
Alice, it's more than likely Matty will be asked to dine and spend the
evening, at the Manor, and I think we'll just make up the evening body
of her silk dress and her train in a bit of brown paper, and you can
carry the parcel up between you to the Manor. Then, if it's wanted, it
will come in handy, and my girl won't be behind one of them."

"Lor, ma, what are we to do with such a bulky parcel?" objected Sophy,
who was not looking her best in a washed-out muslin of two years' date.
"What can we do with the parcel when we get to the Manor?"

"Take it up, of course, to the house, child, and give it to the servant,
and tell her it's to be kept till called for. She'll understand fast
enough; servants always guess when there's a sweetheart in the question.
Most likely she'll place the things ready for Matty in one of the
bedrooms. I'll put in your best evening shoes too, Matty, love, and my
old black lace fan, in case you should flush up dreadful when the
captain is paying you attention. And now, Sophy, you'll just be
good-natured, and leave the parcel with the parlor maid, so your sister
will be prepared for whatever happens."

Sophy, having been judiciously bribed by the loan of a large Cairngorm
brooch of her mother's, which took up a conspicuous position at her
throat, finally consented to carry the obnoxious parcel. Alice was
further instructed, in case Mrs. Bertram so far failed in her duty as to
neglect to invite Matty to stay to dine at the Manor to try and bring
Captain Bertram back with them to supper.

"You tell him that I'll have a beautiful lobster, and a crab done to a
turn ready for him," whispered the mother. "You'll manage it, Alice, and
look sympathetic when you speak to him, poor fellow. Let him know that
I'll give him his chances, whether that proud lady, his mother, does or
not. Now then, off you go, all three of you. Kiss me, Matty, my pet.
Well, to be sure, you do look stylish."

The three little figures in their somewhat tight shoes toddled down the
street. In the evening they toddled back again. The brown paper parcel
tossed, and somewhat torn, was tucked fiercely under Sophy's arm, and
Alice was unaccompanied by any brave son of Mars.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19