The Honorable Miss by L. T. Meade

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He stood motionless, he listened hard. Once even he called aloud:

"I am here, Nina! Here, Nina! waiting for you here!"

But no one responded. He was alone; the vision, the delicious,
heart-stirring vision, had vanished.

Captain Bertram wandered about, restless and miserable, for an hour or
two. Then he went home and retired straight to his room.

That night he did not attempt to keep the secret chamber of his heart in
which Josephine dwelt, locked and barred. No, he opened the doors wide,
and bade her come out, and talked to her. Passionate and wild and loving
words he used, and Beatrice was nothing to him. He did not go to bed
that night. In the morning his face showed symptoms of the vigil he had
passed through. His mother noticed the haggard lines round his eyes, and
she gave vent to a sigh--scarcely audible, it is true, and quickly
smothered.

Mrs. Bertram was happy, but still she lived on thorns. She felt that the
fairy palace she had built over that sepulchre of the past might crumble
at any moment. The lines of care on Bertram's brow gave her a sensation
of fear. Was anything the matter? Was the courage of the bride-elect
failing? At the eleventh hour could anything possibly injure the
arrangements so nearly completed?

Catherine and Mabel were in good spirits. Their bride's-maids' dresses
had arrived from town the previous night. They were of gauzy white over
silk slips; the girls had never possessed such luxurious costumes
before.

"You'd like to see us in them, wouldn't you, Loftie?" said Mabel.
"Catherine looks splendid in hers, and those big hats with Marguerites
are so becoming. Shall we put our dresses on, Loftie, for you to see
before you run away to Beatrice? Shall we?"

Loftus raised his dark eyes, and looked full at his young sister. There
were heavy shadows round his eyes; their depths looked gloomy and
troubled.

"What did you say?" he asked, in a morose voice.

"What did I say? Well, really, Loftie, you are too bad. I do think you
are the most selfish person I know. At one time I thought Bee was
improving you, but you are worse than ever this morning. You never,
never, take a bit of interest in things that don't immediately concern
yourself. I thought our bride's-maids' dresses would have been
sufficiently important to rouse a passing interest even in--now, what's
the matter, Catherine? I _will_ speak out."

"Forgive me, Mab, I have a headache and feel stupid," interrupted
Loftus, rising to his feet. "I'm going out for a stroll; the air will do
me good."

He went up to the end of the table where his mother sat, kissed her
almost tenderly, and left the room.

Catherine began to reprove Mabel.

"It is you who are selfish," she said. "You know Loftie must have a
great deal on his mind just now."

"Oh, well, I don't care. Every little pleasure is somehow or other
dashed to the ground. _I was_ pleased when I thought Bee was to be
my sister, and she was so sweet about the dresses, choosing just what
we'd look best in. Loftus was nice, too, until this morning. Now I don't
feel as if I cared about anything."

Mabel never reflected on the possibility of her own words causing
annoyance. She ate her breakfast without observing that both her mother
and Catherine looked depressed. Presently, like the thoughtless child
she was, she looked up with laughing eyes:

"Won't the Bells look funny in those grand robes. Do you know, Kate, I
heard such a ridiculous thing yesterday. It was Mrs. Gorman Stanley who
told me. She said Matty Bell was over head and ears in love with Loftie,
and that Mrs. Bell had quite made up her mind that Loftie was to marry
Mattie. She told such a funny story of the way Mrs. Butler broke the
news of Beatrice's engagement to the Bells. Now, what's up? Have I said
anything wrong again?"

"You have, Mabel," said her mother. "You have been guilty of repeating
common and vulgar gossip. You ought never to have listened to it. I had
hoped that a daughter of mine, a Bertram, too, would have inspired too
much respect to have any such rubbish spoken of in her presence."

"Oh, really, mother, I don't think people much care whether we are
Bertrams or not."

"Hush, my dear, that is sufficient. I always feared the effect of the
low society of this place on you both, and in especial on you, Mabel. My
fears have been justified by the results. As soon as Loftus's wedding is
over we will return to our seclusion, my dears."

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE LIGHTS WERE DIM.

Early on that very morning Miss Hart tapped at Mrs. Bell's door. That
good lady was not fully dressed, but she appeared in a voluminous
morning robe to answer her young visitor's summons.

"I am going away, Mrs. Bell," said Miss Hart.

"Oh, my dear!" Mrs. Bell's full-moon face turned absolutely pale. "Going
away, my love!" she said. She thought of her private hoard, not nearly
large enough, and her voice became absolutely pathetic. "Going away,
Miss Hart? I'm truly grieved to hear it. And haven't I made you
comfortable enough, my poor dear?"

"Oh, you misunderstand me, Mrs. Bell. I am going away, but only for a
little--just for a day or two. I don't know exactly when I shall be
back, but probably in a day or two. I am going by the early train, and I
tapped at your door to say good-bye."

Then Mrs. Bell in her delight and joy kissed Miss Hart, who soon
afterwards left the house.

She walked to the station, the hour was early, and there was no special
person about. She took a first-class ticket to a small town about thirty
miles away, and immediately afterwards her train came up.

During the greater part of her journey Miss Hart had the compartment to
herself. By-and-bye fellow-passengers got in, who almost started back at
the sight of the pale face of the girl, who sat with her veil thrown
back, looking straight out of the open window.

There was a strange expression on her face; her brows were slightly
drawn together, and the curves of her lips had a, weary and pathetic
droop. She had taken off her gloves, and now and then she clasped her
slender white hands together with a nervous, passionate tension. Then
the look in her eyes became almost ugly, and her fellow passengers were
uncomfortable as they watched her.

At the little country town of West Brockley, Miss Hart alighted. She had
brought all her luggage in a small handbag, and now she walked to her
destination. It was in the outskirts of the little town, and amongst a
row of poor houses. She stopped at one of these, and entered by the open
door. A woman met her in the passage.

"Is Mr. Hart within?"

"I don't know, madam, I'll inquire."

"No, don't do that. I'll go to him myself. He's at the top of the house,
of course, as usual?"

"Why, as usual, madam? Mr. Hart has never been my lodger before."

"I know his ways. He invariably seeks the top."

"From no prejudice, madam. He seems a very quiet gentleman."

"Exactly. Treasure him, he is a valuable lodger. Now let me pass,
please. I am going to seek him."

"Perhaps I had better tell him first, young lady."

"I am his grandchild. It is all right. Let me pass."

She brushed the woman aside, and flew lightly up the stairs. She knocked
at the door of the top attic, but followed her knock into the room
before any one had made response from within.

Old Hart was, as usual, messing over some cooking. He stopped it when he
saw Josephine, and an iron spoon which he held in his hand clattered
noisily to the floor.

"Now, Nina, what is the matter?"

"I am going to spend the day with you, Granddad, and probably the night
as well. You can give me a bed in a corner of this delightful
sitting-room. Is that breakfast? I wish you would serve it up; I am
starving."

"It's a very good breakfast, little Nina. Fried rabbit, done after a new
method. Bacon and eggs to follow, with a sauce of port wine. Olives and
sour claret for dessert. I know your taste, witch."

"I love olives," said Nina. "Sit at the table, Grand-dad, and let us
begin. By the way, when did you shave last?"

"Ha--ha, who have I to shave for now, my pretty Nina? Nobody cares for
the old man, nobody looks at him with eyes of admiration. Why should he
waste his money and his time over the barbarous rite of shaving? Nature
has her way with the old man now, sweet witch."

"Nature doesn't improve you, Grand-dad. You require the refining touches
of art. Your beard is unkempt, your hair too long. You shall visit the
barber after we have concluded our meal. It is distressing to mankind in
general to behold a spectacle like you. You owe a duty to the world at
large. You must visit the barber."

"Chut--chut! What a witch it is! Why didn't it stay at home, and not
worry the old man?"

"Serve up the breakfast, Grand-dad, and believe in the salutary nature
of your granddaughter's visitations."

The two sat down to their meal, and both ate for a time in unbroken
silence. After his third glass of sour claret, the old man spoke:

"How are you, Nina? You don't look up to much?"

"Would you be up to much if a fever consumed you day and night? Feel my
hand, Grand-dad."

The old man gripped the slender fingers, then flung them away.

"Good God! they burn!" he said. "Don't touch me, witch. You may have
contracted something catching."

"No, nothing that the old man can catch. Now, let us be pleasant, and
enjoy the day together."

"We can't. I am going to move to-day."

"You must stay here to-day; you can move tomorrow."

"Witch, how you order me. I won't be ordered. I shall move to-day."

"You have no idea of moving, either to-day or to-morrow. Don't talk
nonsense. You have had your breakfast. I will wash the things up. Go and
visit the barber."

The old man muttered and mumbled. Finally he tied a large crimson scarf
in a loose knot round his throat, shoved a soft felt hat on his head,
and donning a greasy and very old brown velvet cloak, he prepared to go
out.

"It's a rare nuisance," he said; "I meant to try some Chinese cooking
for dinner; something with a subtle aroma, delicate, and hard to obtain.
You boil the leeks for so many hours, and catch the essence in a
distiller. Bah! you care nothing for eating, witch."

"I like some of your dishes very well, Granddad, but I prefer
cleanliness to luxury. Now, go out and get shaved."

"It will cost me sixpence."

"Sixpence well spent. Don't talk any more; go!"

He blew her a kiss, half of derision, half of pride, and shambled
downstairs. A crowd of little boys followed him up the street; some
pulled his cloak, some mocked him openly. He neither felt the pulls nor
heard the words. He was absorbed in the thought of that delicious
Chinese dinner which he could not now partake of to-day.

As soon as he was gone, Nina, too, ran downstairs. She went to a
chemist's, and boldly asked for a small quantity of a certain drug.

"Have you a prescription?" the man inquired.

"No, but I understand the right proportions to take. Why do you
hesitate? I am not asking for poison."

The man stared hard at the bright, queer face of his customer.

"The drug is not poison," he slowly repeated, "but taken in too large
quantities it can inflict an injury. I will give it to you, but you must
enter your name and address in this book."

Josephine laughed lightly, entered old Hart's address in the book, paid
for her medicine, and departed. As soon as she got home she took out of
a cupboard a decanter which contained a small portion of a very bright
and clear wine. She mixed a little of the powder with the wine. It
dissolved instantly, and did not disturb the rare amber of the liquid.
The rest of the powder Nina threw into the fire, burning both paper and
string.

When Hart came back, shaven and neat, his hair shortened, his long
snow-white beard trimmed, he looked what he was--a strikingly handsome
man. His grand-daughter possessed his regular features, but, although
her eyes were as bright as his, they were not dark. She had black
eyelashes and black brows, but the eyes themselves were peculiarly
light.

Nina was in an excellent humor now. She helped her grandfather with his
cooking, and by-and-by, as the day wore on, she tempted him to come for
a stroll with her. She spoke very little of her present life, nor did he
question her. He had a certain fondness for his grandchild, but it never
rose to the extent of a genuine interest in her concerns. Of late she
had been to him a valuable chattel--a trump-card, by which he could
extract the good things of life out of another. With Nina he was
powerful, without her he was a helpless and penniless old man. But he
did not love Nina because of this. He was proud of her for what she
brought him, proud of her because if he was lowly born she was not. But
he loved her, after the slight fashion with which alone he could bestow
love, because, notwithstanding that good birth, she also belonged to
him--she was bone of his bone, flesh of his flesh. The ties of blood
were strong with him, and because of these ties he loved her after his
fashion.

The two came home presently and partook of supper together. Nina bought
some figs and peaches, and they had quite a dainty meal. Nina herself
prepared the board, and she put the decanter with the amber wine close
to the old man. He ate and drank. He said the wine was good, and he
helped himself twice to the sparkling contents of the decanter. "I feel
in spirits to-night, Nina," he said, looking at his grandchild.

"Have a little more wine, Grand-dad," she said, in retort.

In spite of all her efforts, her voice had an anxious ring in it as she
spoke. He looked at her keenly. He was as suspicious as man could be. He
half-stretched out his hand to seize the decanter, then with a sly smile
he replaced the stopper in the neck of the bottle.

"No, no, witch," he said. "This wine is rare and precious. It raises the
spirit and warms the heart. I have not much more wine from so rare a
vintage, and I'll keep what's in the bottle for another night, when you,
pretty Nina, are far away, and the spirits of the old man fail him."

"Do," she said. "Keep the precious wine, you don't need it to-night."

Then she handed him his pipe, and after a time he became drowsy and went
to bed.

Hart's bedroom was a small attic inside the larger one. He shut the
door, looked round for the key, for he generally locked himself in,
could not find it, and then, being very drowsy, undressed and went to
bed.

Nina was to sleep on the sofa in the sitting-room. She lay down, took a
novel out of her pocket, and tried to read. Her heart was beating hard,
and that burning fever of unrest and longing which was consuming her
very life, kept coursing madly through her veins.

"The fever is my wine," she muttered. "At first it supplies false
strength, false cheer, false hope. Afterwards--afterwards--" a queer
look came into her strange face--"I too, shall rest and sleep."

Profound stillness reigned in the next room. Nina softly rose, and going
to the sideboard took out the decanter of wine, opened a window, and
emptied it into the area below. She washed the decanter afterwards and
then put it back into the sideboard.

There was not a sound in the inner room. Candle in hand, she opened the
door and went in. She put the candle on the mantelpiece, and then going
to the bed, bent over it and looked at the sleeper.

"Poor Grand-dad!" said the girl. She stooped and kissed the old man's
forehead. "You have been good to me after your lights--it was not your
fault that those lights were dim. Had you been an educated man,
Grand-dad, you'd have educated me; and had you been a good man, you'd
have taught me goodness; and a kind man, you'd have guarded your poor
Nina. Was it your fault that you were ignorant--and wanting in
goodness--and lacking in kindness? You did your best--, after your
lights."

Then she stooped and kissed him again. He was heavy from the drug she
had put into the wine, and did not stir. She slipped her hand softly
under his pillow.

"Poor old man, I am taking away your trump-card," she said. She drew a
thick letter, yellow with age, from under the pillow, put it into her
pocket, and taking up the candle left the room.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

RIVALS.

A couple of days after this Beatrice Meadowsweet received a note from
Mrs. Bell, asking her to call to see her. The note came early in the
morning, and immediately after breakfast Beatrice went to the Bells'
house.

Mrs. Bell took her into the drawing-room and shut the door behind them
both.

"Beatrice," she said, "I owed you a grudge, but that is past. You
stepped in, where you had no right to step, and for a time, I won't deny
it, my heart was very sore. I haven't sent for you to-day, though, to
rip up past troubles. I'm inclined to think that all's for the best. It
has pleased the Almighty to provide you with a wild mate--and my girl
with a steady one. Last night as the clock struck nine, Gusty Jenkins
popped the question for Matty, and all being agreeable, the young man
torn with love, and rock-like as regards character, Gusty and Matty are
now an affianced pair. Therefore, Beatrice, I say let by-gones be
by-gones, and may you have what luck can await you in the future with
that wild young man."

"I don't see why you should take away Captain Bertram's character," said
Beatrice, with some spirit. "You liked him very much once."

"I'm not saying anything against him, my dear. I mean not anything more
than the truth can bear out. There was a time when I thought well of
Captain Bertram. I'm the last to deny there was such a time, but
handsome is that handsome does, and when a young man had not the courage
to obey his heart's promptings, and when rumors will travel on the
breezes of extravagant, not to say naughty ways, I say, Beatrice, a
woman can't become blind as a bat when these things stare her in the
face."

No one in Northbury ever remembered seeing Beatrice in a passion. She
was acknowledged to be sweet-tempered, and slow to be provoked. On this
occasion, however, she was very nearly making the proverbial exception
to her general rule. Beatrice was very nearly angry. A flush of color
crimsoned her cheeks and brow, and an indignant light flashed from her
eyes. In time, however, she was able to murmur to herself: "This is only
Mrs. Bell's talk, and how could I be so silly as to mind Mrs. Bell?" So
after a pause she said with effort, "I must congratulate Matty on her
engagement; I am glad Matty is happy."

"Ah, my dear, and well she may be! Glad should I be to know that other
girls had half so bright a future before them. Rich, handsome, and
young, that's what Gusty is! Devoted! he's like one of the old knights
for devotion. I have had my qualms about the jealousy of his nature, but
otherwise Gusty is, _song pear and song reproach_."

At this moment the door was opened, some childish giggles and mirth were
heard in the passage, and Matty rushed in, followed by the redoubtable
Gusty. "Oh, Gus, you'll kill me!" she exclaimed; "you are too funny.
Why, ma, is that you? And--and--Bee? How do you do, Bee?"

Matty came over and kissed her friend awkwardly.

"I am very glad to hear of your happiness, Matty," said Beatrice; "and I
congratulate you, too, Augustus," she added, turning to the bashful
swain.

"Oh, you want us to leave this room to yourselves, you two naughty
things!" said the mother, shaking her head in fat ecstasy over her two
turtle-doves. "Come, Bee; by-the-way, there's a young girl upstairs, a
Miss Hart, a friend of mine, who is very anxious to see you."

Mrs. Bell and Beatrice left the drawing-room, and Augustus Jenkins
turned to his fiancee "By Jove," he said, "that girl _is_ a bouncer!"

"What girl?" said Matty, in a quick jealous voice. She had flung herself
in a languid attitude on the sofa, now she sat bolt upright.

"Killing, I call her," proceeded Gus; "simply killing. Such an eye, such
a curl of the lip! By Jove--she'd bowl any fellow over."

Matty flushed deeply, and turned her head away to look out of the
window.

"What's up, now, little duck?" said the lover. "Oh, she's jealous, is
she? By George, that's a good un! You were in luck, missy, to come in my
way first, or I don't know what mightn't have happened; and she's got
lots of the tin, too, I've been told! So she's Captain Bertram's fancy.
Well, he's a good judge and no mistake."

"I don't know that she's his fancy at all, Gusty. Ma always said that
I--I--"

"Oh, by Jove! Matty, don't you try to come it over me like that. What a
thunder-cloud? So she's frightfully jealous, is she, poor little duck? I
say, though, you'd better keep me out of that girl's way; engaged or
not, she'd mash any fellow. Now, what's up? Is that you, Alice? What a
noisy one you are, to be sure!"

Alice had rushed into the room followed by Sophy, who was followed again
by Daisy Jenkins.

"The bride's-maid dresses have come!" screamed Alice. "Let's all go and
try them on, Matty!"

When Mrs. Bell took Beatrice out of the room, she said a few more words
about Miss Hart. Finally she took Beatrice upstairs, and ushered her
into her young visitor's bedroom.

Amongst the other luxuries which Josephine's money had secured for her
in the Bells' house was an old-fashioned sofa, which was drawn across
the windows. On this sofa Josephine often lay for hours. She was lying
on it now, in a white morning dress. Mrs. Bell introduced the girls to
each other, and then left them.

"I have seen you before," said Beatrice, the moment they were alone;
"once before I have seen your face. You were looking out of a window.
Stay," she added, suddenly, "I think I have seen you twice before. Are
you not the girl who brushed past Captain Bertram and me the other night
in the dark? Yes, I am sure you are the girl."

"You are right," said Josephine; "I am the girl." She spoke in an eager
voice, two burning spots rose to her pale cheeks; her eyes always bright
now almost glittered. "I am the girl," she repeated. She half rose from
her sofa, but sat down on it again, and panted heavily, as though her
breath failed her.

"You are ill," said Beatrice, with compunction; "you look very ill. Have
you been long here? Mrs. Bell says that you are a friend of hers, a
visitor."

"Yes, I am a friend and visitor. Mrs. Bell is very good to me."

"But you are ill. You ought to see a doctor."

"I ought not--I will not."

"Can I help you? It was kind of you to send for me. Can I do anything
for you?"

"Wait until I get back my breath. I will speak in a minute. Sit quiet.
Let me be still. It is agitation enough to have you in the room."

Her eyes glittered again. She pressed her white transparent hands to her
throbbing heart.

Beatrice sat motionless. She had a queer feeling at her own heart, a
kind of premonition that a blow was about to be struck at her. Several
minutes passed. Then the girl on the sofa spoke.

"The struggle of seeing you is past. I see--I endure. Your name is
Beatrice Meadowsweet--?"

"Yes, I am Beatrice Meadowsweet."

"You are engaged to Captain Bertram?"

"Yes."

"You are to be married on the 10th of this month."

"Yes."

"This is the 5th. You are to be married in five days!"

"I am, Miss Hart. Do you want to congratulate me?"

"I--yes--I congratulate you. You--are attached--to Loftus?"

"To Captain Bertram? Do you know him?"

"No matter. You--you love him?"

"Why should I speak of my feelings? To marry a man is a proof of love,
is it not? Do you know my future husband?"

"I--once I knew him."

"He has never spoken to me about you. Did you know him well?"

"No matter. I knew him--no matter how much. He loves you, does he not?"

"I believe he faithfully loves me."

"Yes, I saw you together. There is no doubt. I heard the tone in his
voice. You can't mistake that tone, can you?"

"I don't know. I have not much experience."

"You ought to have, for you are so beautiful. Yes, he loves you. It is
all over."

"What is all over?"

"Nothing. Did I say anything wild of that sort? Don't believe the
nonsense I speak. I am ill, and my brain sometimes wanders. There is a
great fire consuming me, and I am tired of being burned alive. Sometimes
in my pain I talk wildly. Nothing is over, for nothing really began. You
will be good to Captain Bertram, won't you? How you look at me! You have
very true eyes, very true. Now I will tell you the truth. Once I knew
him, and he was kind to me--a _little_ kind--you know the sort of
thing. I thought it meant more. He has forgotten me, of course, and
you'll be good to him, for he--he's not perfect--although he
suited--yes, he suited me very well. How my heart beats! Don't talk to
me for a minute."

She lay back panting on the sofa. Beatrice got up and walked to the
window. There was a long view of the High Street from this window. The
street was straight and narrow, with few curves.

At that moment Beatrice saw Captain Bertram. He was a long way off, but
he was walking down the street in the direction of the Bells' house. In
about three minutes he would pass the house.

As Beatrice stood by the window she thought. A memory came over her. A
memory of a man's steps--they were leaving her--they were hurrying--they
were quickening to a run. In a flash she made up her mind.

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