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

"We were married ourselves, Jane, and we know what it means," continued
Mrs. Meadowsweet.

Jane was a widow--her husband had been a drunkard, and she had gone
through a terrible time with him.

She shook her head now with awful solemnity.

"We do that," she said. "It's an awful responsibility, is marriage--it's
not meant for the young."

"I don't agree with you there, Jane. How could elderly people bring up
their families?"

"It's not meant for the young," repeated Jane. "It's a careful thing,
and a troubling thing and a worreting thing is marriage, and it's not
meant for the young. Shall I leave the peaches on the table, ma'am, and
shall I make fresh cocoa for Miss Beatrice when she comes in?"

"Make the cocoa with all milk, Jane, it's more supporting. I always made
it a rule to sustain Beatrice a good deal. She wears herself out--she's
a great girl for wearing herself out, and it's my duty in life to repair
her. I used to repair her poor father, and now I repair her. It seems to
me that a woman's province in life is to repair--first the husband, and
then the children. Jane, I was thinking of giving Beatrice a little
lecture to-night on the duties that lie before her."

"Good sakes, ma'am, I'd leave her alone. She'll find out her worrits
fast enough."

"I don't agree with you, Jane. It seems to me as if the whole of a
married woman's bliss consists in this--be tidy in your dress, don't
answer back, and give your husband a good dinner. That's what I did--I
repaired Meadowsweet, and I never riled him, and we hadn't a word, no,
not a word."

"All aren't like your blessed husband, Mrs Meadowsweet. Well, ma'am,
I'll go now and get the milk on for the cocoa."

She left the room, and Mrs. Meadowsweet sat on by the fire.

Presently there came a ring to the front door bell. Mrs. Meadowsweet
started up. Bee had some--no, it wasn't Bee--it was Mrs. Morris.

Her bronchitis was almost gone to-night; her voice was high, sharp and
quick.

"Well, my poor friend, and how are you?" she said.

"I wish you wouldn't call me your poor friend, Jessie," answered Mrs.
Meadowsweet, with almost irritation. "I don't know what has come to the
good folks here of late--'Poor dearing,' and 'poor friending' till I'm
sick of the sound of it. When I was married, people didn't look like
boiled vinegar over it; neighbors were chirpy and cheery about a wedding
in those days."

Mrs. Morris made no reply at all to this tirade. She sat down solemnly,
and looked around her.

"Is Beatrice in?" she asked.

"No, she's not; she went to the Manor some hours ago--I'm expecting my
girl back every minute. I've several things to say to her when she does
come in, so you won't take it amiss, Jessie, if I ask you not to stay."

"No, my dear neighbor, I won't take anything amiss, from you at present,
only, if I were you, I wouldn't worry Beatrice with advice to-night. Yon
have time enough for that. Time and to spare for that, poor dear."

"There you are with your 'poor dear,' again, Jessie. Now whose ring is
that at the bell? Oh, it's Bee, of course; come back at last, my girl
has. Well, Jessie Morris, I wish you good-night."

"Stay a minute, neighbor--that isn't Bee's voice." The door was opened,
and Miss Peters came in.

"How are you, Mrs. Meadowsweet," she said, running up to the good lady
and giving her a kiss, which resembled the peck of an eager bird, on her
cheek. "I ran on first, and Martha is following. I came to know how you
are, and how you're bearing up--and is Beatrice in?"

"I do declare," said Mrs. Meadowsweet. She rose from her easy-chair.
"You mean to be good-natured, neighbors, but really you're enough to
deave one. How am I bearing up? Am I the woman to bring ill-luck to my
child by crying at her wedding? No, she's not in--she's at the Bertrams.
But there's her ring now at the hall-door. Good-night, neighbors both.
You mean it kindly, but don't stay just now. I have a word or two to say
to the girl in private to-night."

"I think that's Martha's voice," said Miss Peters. "Don't say that I
told you anything, Mrs. Meadowsweet."

The door was opened, and Mrs. Butler came in.

This good woman, who led the army of the Beatricites, had now attained
to all the airs of a victorious general. Her bonnet-strings were thrown
back, her face was flushed, and her throat, conspicuous by the absence
of her large white brooch, was bared to view.

"Well, my friend," she said. "Well, the time is near."

She took Mrs. Meadowsweet's fat hand, squeezed it hard, and looked with
awful solemnity into her eyes.

"Good gracious," said the poor woman. "I never felt more exasperated in
all my life. Any one would suppose that my girl was drowned in the
harbor from the faces you one and all bring me."

"Mrs. Meadowsweet," said Mrs. Butler, "there is such a thing as having
the body safe and well, and the character drowned."

Mrs. Meadowsweet's cheeks flushed deeply.

"I'll thank you to explain yourself, Martha Butler," she said. "Whose
character is drowned?"

"No one's," said Mrs. Butler. "Or at least, no one who belongs to us."

Here she waved one of her arms in theatrical style.

"I have fought for that girl," she said, "as my sister Maria can bear
testimony, and my friend Mrs. Morris can vouch---I have fought for her,
and I may truly say I have brought her through a sea of slander--yes,
through a sea of slander--victorious. Now, who's that? Who's coming to
interrupt us?"

"It's only me, Mrs. Butler," said Beatrice. She came quietly into the
room. Her face was white, but its expression was serene, and almost
happy.

"It's you, Bee, at last," said her mother.

She went straight up to the girl, and taking one of her hands raised it
to her lips.

"You have come, Bee," she said in a purring cone of delight and content.
"My girl has come at last, neighbors, and now I'll wish you, every one,
a very good-night. I'm obliged for all sympathy, and if I don't
understand these new-fashioned ways about weddings with their poor
dears, and their poor friends, and drowning of somebody's character, and
saving of somebody else's character, it's because I'm old-fashioned, and
belong to an ancient school. Good-night, friends. Is that you, Jane?"

Jane appeared, bearing in a cup of cocoa for Beatrice.

"Jane, show these ladies out."

They all went. They hated to go, but they went, for the mantle of
innocence and ignorance in which Mrs. Meadowsweet was so securely
wrapped gave her a certain dignity which they could not resist. Jane
shut the door on them, and they stood still outside the house, and
wrangled, and talked, and worked themselves into a perfect rage of
excitement and curiosity and longing. "Well, well, all surmises would
soon be at rest. Who would win, Beatrice or Josephine? Who would be
to-morrow's bride."

"Mother," said Beatrice, when the ladies had left--she looked into her
old mother's face. There was an expression in her eyes which made Mrs.
Meadowsweet cry out:

"Bee, you have got a hunger at your heart. Oh, child, you want your
mammy--I never saw that look in your eyes since long, long ago, when you
were a little tot, and wanted your mammy more than anything else in all
the wide world."

"I want her now," said Beatrice.

She put her arms about her mother, and wept on her shoulder.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE MORNING OF THE WEDDING.

Beatrice had seen Mr. Ingram. She had gone to him, but not to stay.

"You must go to Mrs. Bertram's," she said; "she has a trouble on her
mind. Get her to tell it to you. She will be better afterwards. She
fears much. I guess a little of what she fears. She does not know that
by to-morrow night all her anxieties will be over."

"And the wedding is really to take place in the morning, Beatrice?"

"Really and truly. I will be present as bride's-maid, not as bride."

Beatrice went home, and Mr. Ingram hastened to the Manor.

There was much confusion there. Mrs. Bertram was very ill; she would not
see her daughters, she would allow no doctor to be summoned. Mabel was
crying in the drawing-room. Catherine was pacing up and down the
corridor outside her mother's room.

The Rector came. Bertram saw him for a few moments alone; then he went
into Mrs. Bertram's room. He stayed with her for some hours; it was long
past midnight when he left her. Catherine and Mabel had gone to bed, but
Bertram met the Rector outside his mother's door.

"Come home with me," said Mr. Ingram; "I have a message to give you. I
have something to say."

"How is my mother, sir?"

"She is better,--better than she has been for years--she will sleep
now--she has carried a heavy burden, but confession has relieved it. She
has sent you a message; come to my house, and I will give it to you."

The Rector and Bertram went quickly back to the cozy Rectory study. Mr.
Ingram began his story at once.

"Have you any early recollections?" he asked. "Cast your memory back.
What are the first things you can recall?"

Bertram raised his eyebrows in astonishment.

"I was born in India," he said; "I was sent home when I was little more
than a baby."

"You don't remember your Indian life, nor your--your--father?"

"Of course I remember my father, sir. I was over twenty when he died."

"Ah, yes, your reputed father. You cannot possibly recall, you have no
shadowy remembrance of another who bore the name?"

"Good God, Mr. Ingram! what do you mean?"

"Have you any memory? Answer me."

"No, sir, not the faintest. Is this a dream?"

"My poor lad, I don't wonder that you are staggered. Your mother could
not bring herself to tell you. She has borne much for your sake,
Bertram; you must be tender to her, gentle. She committed sin, she has
gone through terrible hours for you. She was wrong, of course; but her
motive--you must respect her motive, Loftus Bertram."

"I am in a dream," said Bertram. "General Bertram not my father! Whose
son am I then? What is my name? Who am I? Good God, sir, speak! Get me
out of this horrible nightmare."

"Bertram, I have a good deal to tell you. You have a very strange story
to hear. You must listen as quietly as you can. You must take in the
facts as well as you can. The story concerns you deeply--you and
another."

"Do you mean my mother?"

"No, I mean Josephine Hart."

"Josephine? This story concerns Josephine. Rector, my brain is
whirling."

"Sit down, keep still, listen."

Bertram restrained his impatience with an effort. He sank into a chair;
in a moment he rose to his feet.

"I can't keep still," he said. "This story concerns Nina. Does my mother
know Nina?"

"I will tell you the whole story, Bertram; I will tell it briefly, and
you must listen with patience. You must remember, as you hear, that the
woman who played this sorry part is your mother, that she did the wrong
out of mistaken love for you, that she has suffered bitterly for her
sin."

"Go on, sir; I am listening."

"Remember that the story is about your mother."

"I don't forget."

The Rector poured out a glass of water from a jug which stood on the
table, drank it off, and began to speak.

"Your mother, Bertram, was twice married. Her first husband--my poor
boy, I am sorry for you--was a scoundrel, a thief, a blackleg. He died
in prison. You are his son. Your father died in a Bombay prison; you
were in England at the time."

"Stop, sir," said Bertram. "What was my--my--what was the name of the
man to whom I owe my being?"

"Your mother has not told me. She says she will never reveal his name.
She says that your stepfather gave you legally the name of Bertram.
That, at least, need never be disturbed."

"Then Catherine and Mabel are not my sisters."

"They are your half-sisters; that is a small matter."

"True. Everything in the world is a small matter in comparison with the
awful fact that I am the son of a felon."

"I am deeply pained for you, Bertram. Your mother knew how this would
strike home. Hence her sin."

"I forgot. I have to hear of that. Go on, Mr. Ingram."

"At the time of your father's death she was, she tells me, a very
beautiful young woman. She was alone and peculiarly defenceless; Major
Bertram, he was a Major at the time, made her acquaintance in Calcutta.
You will be startled, Bertram, at the way in which these two made
friends. She was asked to take care of Major Bertram's baby daughter."

"Then he, too, was married before."

"Yes, he had a young wife, who died when the baby was born. Little Nina
was six months old when Major Bertram, who had to accompany his regiment
up the country, asked your mother to look after her."

"Nina, did you say Nina, Mr. Ingram?"

"Yes. I need not conceal from you who that Nina was."

Bertram covered his face with his hands.

"I can't bear this," he said. "This story unmans me."

"You must listen. I am making the narrative as brief as possible. Your
mother tells me that when the baby was given to her to care for she
meant to be very good to it. She was miserable at the time, for her
sorrows with and about your father had almost maddened her. She was good
to the child, and very glad of the money which the Major paid her for
giving the little creature a home. She kept the baby for some months,
nearly a year; and whenever he could Major Bertram called to see her.
Soon the meaning of his visits dawned upon her. He had fallen in love
with her. He was, in all respects, a desirable husband; he was of good
family; his antecedents were honorable, his own life stainless. She
thought of you, she was always thinking about you, you were at a poor
little school in England. She thought what your lot might be, if you
were really the son of this honorable man. She tells me that at this
time her love for you was like a terrible passion within her. Beyond all
things in the world she dreaded your learning your father's history--she
shuddered as she fancied your baby lips asking her artless questions
which she could never answer. Your father's name was, alas, notorious.
Bearing that name, you must one day learn the history of your father's
ruin, disgrace, dishonor."

"Mr. Ingram," said Bertram, "you are crushing me. How much more must you
say about my--my father?"

"Nothing more. I had to say this much to explain your mother's motive.
One day Major Bertram called to see her. He was going away. Before he
left he asked her to marry him. She refused. He persisted. She told him
her history. He said he knew it already. Then she put off her decision.
He might speak to her again on his return to Calcutta. It was during
Major Bertram's absence that the temptation which led to your mother's
sin came to her.

"Little Josephine was now between a year and two years old. On her
mother's side she was of low birth. Major Bertram had married beneath
him. He had fallen desperately in love with the beautiful daughter of a
strolling minstrel. He had married her, found out his mistake when too
late, but still, being a chivalrous and honorable man, had done his duty
by his ignorant young wife; had never allowed her to guess at his
feelings; and after her death had been filled with compunction for not
loving her more, and had done everything he could to secure the welfare
of their child.

"One person, however, he forbade the premises; with one individual he
would have nothing to do. That person was his wife's father. From the
moment he laid his young wife in her grave, he ignored the very
existence of Hart. Your mother tells me, Bertram, that Hart was in all
particuars a disreputable person. He was nothing but a needy adventurer,
and he only approached Major Bertram to sponge on him.

"During the Major's absence your mother thought long and seriously of
his proposals for her; the more she thought of them, the more desirable
did they seem. She thought of herself in the sheltered position of a
good man's wife. Above all, she thought of you. This marriage might save
you. Suppose Major Bertram, for love of her, consented to adopt you as
his son, to give you his name, and to present you to the world as his
own lawful child. She thought this might be done; and the only
difficulty in the way was the little bright-eyed, fair-haired Nina.

"Your mother did not wish to return to England calling Hart's
granddaughter her child. She said she had an insuperable objection and
repugnance to the idea, and an aversion for the poor little creature
began to grow up in her mind."

Bertram, who had sat during the greater part of this recital with his
hand shading his eyes, now started up with an impatient and distressed
exclamation. The Rector looked at him, sighed heavily, and said in a
voice of sympathy:

"My poor boy, this is a very hard story for you to listen to."

"Go on, Mr. Ingram," said Bertram. "Get it over quickly; that is all I
have to ask you."

"While these thoughts were troubling your mother," continued the Rector,
"she was one day surprised by a visit from Hart. He said he had come to
see his grandchild; and he took little Nina in his arms and kissed her.
Your mother says she scarcely knows how it was, but she and Hart began
to talk about the child, and both simultaneously revealed to the other
his and her real feelings.

"Hart hated Major Bertram, and would like to do him an injury. Your
mother had no love for Nina. I nead not lengthily describe this
interview. Suffice it to say that they made a plot between them. It was
a bad plot. I am sorry to have to use this word to a son about any act
of his mother's, but the truth must be told at all hazards. The plot was
bad, bad at the time, bad subsequently.

"Your mother arranged to give Nina to her grandfather. She would pay him
for delivering her from the child. After receiving his bribe Hart was to
leave that part of India at once, When the Major returned your mother
would tell him that the child was lost. That she feared her grandfather
Hart had stolen her. She would help Major Bertram to make inquiries.
These inquiries, she would arrange beforehand, should turn out useless,
for Hart was one of those clever individuals, who, when necessary, could
hide all trace of his existence.

"Your mother sold some jewellery to raise the necessary money for Hart.
He came the next day and carried off the child. Major Bertram returned.
He believed your mother's story, he was wild with grief at the loss of
his child, and did everything in his power to recover her. In vain. Your
mother and Hart were too clever for him.

"After a time he renewed his proposals to your mother. She made her
conditions. You were to be acknowledged as his son.

"Soon after their marriage they returned to England, and Major Bertram
retired from foreign service. His friends received them. The old story
was never raked up. No suspicion attached to your mother. All the world
believed you to be Major Bertram's son. No plot could have turned out
better, and your mother rejoiced in her success.

"Her daughters were born, and she began to consider herself the happiest
of living beings. The serpent, however, which she fondly thought killed,
was once more to awake and torment her. She got a letter from Hart, who
was then in Egypt. Nina was not dead, she was alive, and strong, and
handsome. He would bring her back to her father and all the past would
be known, if Mrs. Bertram did not buy his silence at a price.

"For some years after this letter she had to keep the old man quiet with
money. Then suddenly, with no apparent reason, he ceased to trouble her.
She believed that his silence was caused by Nina's death. She assured
herself that the child must be dead, and once more her outward
prosperity brought her happiness.

"Your father died, and his will was read. There was a codicil to his
will which only his wife and the solicitors knew about. It was briefly
to the effect that if by any chance the child of his first marriage was
recovered, and her identity proved, she was to inherit one-half of his
personal estate. He left her this large share of his property as
compensation for the unavoidable neglect he had shown her all her life,
and also in sorrow for having ever confided her to the care of another.

"That codicil tortured your mother's proud spirit. She felt that her
husband had never really forgiven her for allowing his child to be
stolen while under her care. Still she believed that the child now was
dead.

"Her hour of terrible awakening came. Hart had returned to England. A
couple of months ago he wrote to her here. Knowing that Nina's father
was dead he had gone to Somerset House, paid a shilling and read a copy
of the will. From that moment your mother knew no peace. Hart had all
the necessary letters to prove Nina's identity. He had a copy of her
baptismal certificate, and of the registration of her birth. Mrs.
Bertram had now to bribe the old man heavily. She did so. She gave him
and Nina a third of her income. Wretched, miserable, defiant, she yet
hoped against hope. To-night, for the first time, she tasted despair."

The Rector ceased to speak. Bertram began to pace the floor.

"I can't forgive my mother," he said, at last. "I shall marry Josephine
to-morrow morning and take her away, but I never want to see my mother
again."

"Then she will die. She is weak now, weak and crushed. If you refuse
your forgiveness you will have her death to answer for. I don't
exonerate your mother's sin, but I do plead for your mercy. She sinned
to shield and save you. You must not turn from her. Are you immaculate
yourself?"

"I am not, Mr. Ingram. I am in no sense of the word good. I have been
extravagant, reckless, I have been untruthful. I have caused my mother
many a pang, and she has invariably been an angel of goodness and
kindness to me. But her cruelty to Nina cuts me like a sword, and I
cannot forgive her."

The Rector went over to the window, drew up the blinds, and looked out.

"Come here," he said to the young man. "Do you see that faint light in
the east?"

"Yes, sir, the day is breaking."

"The day of your wedding, and of your new life. To-day you realize what
true love means. You take the hand of the girl who is all the world to
you, and you promise to love and reverence and defend her. To-day you
put away the past life. You rise out of the ashes of the past, and put
on manliness, and honor, and those virtues which good men prize, like an
armor, Beatrice tells me you have promised her all this."

"Beatrice--God bless Beatrice:" Bertram's eyes were misty. "I will be a
good husband, and a true man," he said with fervor. "I have been a
wretch in the past, and with God's help I'll show Nina, and Beatrice
too, what stuff they have made of me. I'll be a true man for their
sakes. But my mother--Mr. Ingram, you have given me a cruel shock on my
wedding morning."

"Bertram, all that you have said to me now will end in failure, will
wither up like the early dew if you cherish hard feelings towards your
mother. Did she ever cherish them to you? What about that bill she had
to meet? That bill would have ruined her."

"Beatrice met the bill."

"Had there been no Beatrice?"

Bertram turned his head away.

"I have been a scoundrel," he said at last.

The Rector laid his hand on his arm.

"You have been something uncommonly like it, my dear fellow. And the
spirit of revenge does not sit well on you. Come, your mother is
waiting. Change her despair to peace. Say some of the good things you
have said to me to her, and the blessing of God will descend on you,
Bertram, and on the young girl whom you will call your wife to-day. Give
me your hand. Come."

Bertram went.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE BRIDE!

Miss Peters was lying in sound slumber, and Mrs. Butler, with a wet
sponge in her hand, was standing over the little spinster's bed.

"Maria," she said, in her sharp voice. And at the same moment the sponge
descended with unerring aim on the sleeper's upturned face.

"Good heavens--fire--water! What is it?--I'm drowning--" gasped Miss
Peters.

She raised her eyes, choked, for her mouth had been open, and some of
the contents of the sponge had got in, and then surveyed her sister in
trepidation.

"Oh, Martha, it's you. How you frightened me!"

"I only applied the sponge," replied Mrs. Butler. "It's an old-fashioned
remedy for inordinate drowsiness, and effectual."

"But surely, surely--I feel as if I had only just dropped to sleep."

"Maria, it's five o'clock."

"Five! What do you mean, Martha? Am I to be accused of inordinate
sleepiness at five in the morning?"

"On this morning you are. This is the wedding morning--get up, dress
yourself. Put on your bridal finery, and join me in the parlor."

Mrs. Butler left the room. Miss Peters rubbed her sleepy eyes again.

"The wedding morning! and my bridal finery!" she murmured. "One would
think poor Sam had never been drowned. I don't think Martha has any
heart. She knows how I suffered about Sam. He certainly never proposed
for me, but he was attentive--yes, he was attentive, and I--I suffered.
It's thirty years now since he was drowned. Martha oughtn't to forget.
People have no memories in these days."

The little lady began to put on her garments.

"It does seem extraordinarily early to have to get up, even though Bee
is to be married at eleven o'clock to-day," she murmured. "Certainly,
Martha is a most masterful person. Well, I don't mind so much, as it is
for Bee's sake."

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