The Honorable Miss by L. T. Meade

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Miss Peters proceeded with her toilet, took tenderly out of its folds of
camphor and white linen, a little antiquated brown silk dress, put it
on, crossed over her shoulders a neat fichu of white lace, mounted her
bonnet, composed of a piece of silk, which she had artfully removed from
the skirt of her dress. This bonnet was trimmed with three enormous
lemon-colored chrysanthemums, and was further embellished with a pink
ruching, which surrounded the good lady's face.

Miss Peters almost trembled as she placed this exquisite head-dress over
her scanty locks. The moment the bonnet was on, she became conscious of
an immense amount of moral support. In that bonnet she could even defy
Mrs. Butler.

"Nothing gives a lady such a nice feeling as being properly dressed,"
she murmured. "I am glad I went to the expense of a bit of pink silk to
make this ruching. It is wonderfully soft, and becoming, too. I hope
Martha won't object to the chrysanthemums. I chose the largest Perry had
in his shop on purpose, in order not to be accused of aping youth. Now,
my parasol, my gloves, my handkerchief. Oh, and my fan. I'm sure to
flush a little when I see that dear child being given away. Now I'm
quite ready. It certainly is an extraordinarily early hour to be dressed
for a wedding, which is not to take place till eleven o'clock."

"Maria!" screamed Mrs. Butler's voice. "If you're not quick, you'll not
have time to swallow your coffee."

"Dear, dear!" exclaimed Miss Peters, "is Martha's head going? I have not
been half-an-hour dressing; can she have mistaken the hour?"

The little spinster ran downstairs.

"Here I am, Martha. Really I--"

"Not a word, Maria. Sit down at once, and drink off your coffee. You can
munch a bit of bread in your hand as we go along."

"But, Martha, it is not six o'clock yet."

"What of that? We have not a moment to lose. There'll be crowds at the
church. I am given to understand it will be packed, and as I intend to
have a front seat, I'm going now."

Miss Peters began to count on her fingers.

"But Martha, it surely is not necessary."

"Now, Maria, that's enough. You'd argue any one black in the face. I
don't often have my way, but I'll have it on this occasion. I am going
to call for Mrs. Gorman Stanley; and Mrs. Morris asked me to knock her
up, and we'll all of us just be at the church in good time."

"In good time," gasped Miss Maria. "But the doors won't be opened."

"Oh, won't they! You just wait and see. I haven't fought that girl's
battles for nothing. We'll be able to get into the church, Maria, don't
you fear. I have made friends as well as foes of late, and there are
these who can get me into the church, so that I may stand up for
Beatrice to the last. Now, have you swallowed your coffee?"

"I have. It has scalded my throat frightfully. I hate drinking hot
liquid in such a hurry."

"Maria, you are dreadfully fractious this morning. And, good gracious
me! What have you got in your bonnet! Here let me hold up the candle and
look."

"Don't--don't drop the grease on my brown silk, Martha."

"Brown fiddlestick! Hold your head steady. Well--I never! The vanity of
some folk! The apings of some people. Oh, I haven't a word to say if you
like to make a show of yourself. I respect my years. I live up to them.
Some people, I won't name who--don't."

"Had I better take off the bonnet, Martha? I thought these very
_large_ chrysanthemums--I chose them on purpose--"

"Hideous--you're a perfect fright! Look at me. Is there anything to
laugh at in my velvet bonnet? Does it poke itself on the back of my
head? And does it deck itself in pink and yellow?"

"It looks funereal, Martha, it's all black."

"Funereal! It looks suitable. Come on, or we'll be late."

The two ladies left the house. They walked quickly in the early morning
light. Presently, they were joined by Mrs. Gorman Stanley. She was
completely clothed in bridal garments of yellow. Her robe was yellow
satin, her bonnet was to match, with blue forget-me-nots cozily nestling
in its folds. Mrs. Morris joined the group in terra-cotta cashmere, with
a cream lace bonnet. Round her face and mouth she had enveloped a black
woollen shawl, but this was to be discarded presently.

As the ladies walked to the church they were joined by several more
Beatricites, and when at last they found themselves under the shadow of
the old tower, and in the shelter of the ancient porch, they were quite
a goodly company.

"We'll just fill the front seats comfortably," said Mrs. Butler. "When
Mrs. Bell and her Hartites arrive they'll have to go behind."

"But how are we to get in?" again questioned Miss Maria.

"Oh, I'll manage that. I have it all arranged. I spoke to Hunt
yesterday."

Hunt was not only the baker, he was the church verger. He had quite
sympathized with Mrs. Butler's wishes, while selling her a two-penny
loaf yesterday. But why did he not put in an appearance now?

"Martha," again whispered Miss Maria, "Who are those people creeping
round there by the south wall?"

"No one," snapped Mrs. Butler. "You're fanciful this morning, Maria.
It's those horrid lemon-colored chrysanthemums; they have turned your
head."

"I don't know about that," retorted Miss Peters. "I am sure I saw Mrs.
Bell's snuff-colored bonnet."

Mrs. Butler sniffed. She would not retort again; but she was conscious
of a little sense of uneasiness. It was difficult, even for a person as
blind as she considered her sister Maria, to mistake that snuff-colored,
drawn silk bonnet, ornamented with a huge bow in front of pale blue
ribbon. That bonnet was celebrated. It had been worn by Mrs. Bell in
season and out of season for many long years; it had been altered in
shape; it had been turned. Sometimes the bow which filled up the gap in
front was yellow, sometimes red, sometimes mauve. But every one in the
town knew that for the wedding the bow on Mrs. Bell's bonnet was to be
a delicate and bridal blue. This was to be her sole wedding adornment.
To the length of purchasing that bow she had gone, and no further.
Therefore now Mrs. Butler felt uncomfortable. If the Hartites secured
the front seats in church she would have to own to defeat and
humiliation. Was Hunt--could Hunt be faithless? He was known to be
something of a toady, something of a Sergeant Eitherside, a Vicar of
Bray sort of individual. To all appearance Hunt was a sworn Beatricite,
but if by any chance he had heard something in favor of the Hartites,
he was just the man to go over to them.

"There are about ten or twenty people with Mrs. Bell," said Miss Maria.
"I'm sure that's Mrs. Bell. Yes, that _is_ her bonnet."

She raised herself on tip-toe, clutching hold of Mrs. Morris's arm as
she did so.

"It's freezing cold standing by this door," said Mrs. Morris, shivering.
"I'll have an awful attack after this. Poor Beatrice, she'll cause my
death."

"Keep the shawl well over your mouth," said Mrs. Gorman Stanley.
"Really, Mrs. Butler, it is extraordinary that no one comes to open the
door."

"Hunt is faithless," proclaimed Mrs. Butler. "Maria, listen to me. Never
as long as I live will I buy bread from Hunt again. I'll eat Coffin's
bread in future."

"Oh, Maria, it's so musty."

"Fiddle dumpling. Hunt is certainly faithless. Maria, do you think you
could squeeze yourself through an open window?"

"I don't, Martha," replied Miss Peters; "and, what's more, I won't. I
have got my best brown silk on. Where am I to get another silk? Ah,"
with a sigh of infinite relief, "here is Hunt."

The baker, who was red in the face, and had a somewhat nervous manner,
now appeared. He came by a sidewalk which led directly from the vestry.

"I beg your pardon, ladies," he apologized; "I overslept myself, and
that's a fact. Now the floors are open--find your places, ladies."

Hunt vanished, and Mrs. Butler led her party into the sacred edifice.
The light was still faint in the old church, and at first the good lady
could not see very plainly. When she did, however, she beheld a sight
which petrified her. As she and her party hurried up one aisle, she
perceived Mrs. Bell and her party rushing up the other. There was not a
moment to lose. It is disgraceful to have to relate it, but there was
almost a scuffle in the church. In short, the two generals met opposite
the front pews. There was a scramble for seats. The Beatricites and the
Hartites got mixed up in the most confusing manner, and finally Mrs.
Butler and Mrs. Bell found themselves side by side and crushed very
close together in a small space.

Some awful hours followed. Mrs. Butler deliberately placed her back to
Mrs. Bell. Mrs. Bell talked at Mrs. Butler in a loud whisper to a
neighbor at the other side. Poor Miss Peters fanned herself violently.
Mrs. Morris's breathing became so oppressed that it was audible; and in
short, all these good ladies who had got up hours before their rightful
time were as uncomfortable and cross as they well could be. But the
longest time passes at last. From six to seven went by, from seven to
eight, from eight again to nine. The waiting was awful. By degrees,
without quite knowing it, Mrs. Bell was forced to lean against Mrs.
Butler for support. By half-past nine she ventured to say to her
neighbor:

"This waiting is intolerable."

"Vile," snapped Mrs. Butler, in response.

By ten o'clock the opposing generals were sharing the same footstool. By
a quarter-past ten they were both nodding.

It was about that hour that Hunt in his position as verger once more
appeared. The church doors were opened to the community at large, the
bells began to ring out a merry and bridal peal, and the inhabitants of
the town, the rich and poor alike, filed into the church.

Mrs. Butler was right. Long before eleven o'clock the building was
packed. Mrs. Bell was also right. She communicated this fact to Mrs.
Butler, who nodded in response. Both ladies chuckled over their
individual sagacity.

All the side aisles of the church began to fill. It was really an
imposing spectacle. The weary inmates of the front pews felt they were
reaping their rewards.

At a quarter to eleven some of the bridal guests appeared on the scene.
Those who had been especially invited by the Bertram family were
magnificently attired, and occupied one or two seats reserved for them.

Then the bride's-maids came. They stood in groups near the door, waiting
to follow the bride to her place at the altar.

Mrs. Bell turned her flushed face; looked down the church, and nodded to
her girls. She thought she had never seen anything so heavenly as the
vision of her Matty in her bride's-maid's costume. Her heart swelled so
with exultation, that she could not help confiding some of her feelings
to Mrs. Butler.

"Pooh, you're a goose!" nodded back this good woman. But a slow smile
stole over her face as she said the words.

The moments flew on. The organist took his place at the organ, the choir
boys filed into their places.

At the end of the church the bride's-maids looked nervously around. Had
any one listened very attentively they might have heard Matty Bell's
titter.

A thrill went through the waiting crowds. The bridegroom had appeared;
he was accompanied by a strange youth, a young officer from his
regiment. He walked slowly up the church, and took his place before the
altar.

Bertram looked so handsome at this moment, so pale, so dignified, that
every woman in the church fell in love with him. Miss Peters sighed
audibly, and even shed a tear for the memory of that Sam, who had never
proposed for her, but had been attentive, and had died thirty years ago.

Matty Bell felt quite a little tumult in her heart. No, no, whatever her
mother might say her Bayard was not like Beatrice's Bayard. She did not
even want to look at her Gusty this moment.

Bertram stood before the altar and waited.

_The bride!_

There was a little buzz through the church. All the occupants of the
pews rose; all heads were turned towards the door. In the excitement of
the moment the Beatricites clasped the Hartites by the hands, Mrs.
Bell's fat fingers rested on Mrs. Butler's shoulder.

The bride! She had come. Beatrice would marry Loftus Bertram. The
Beatricites would conquer. Slander would die.

No, no. What was the matter? What was wrong? Was anything wrong?

A girl dressed in shimmering bridal clothes was walking up the church.
A very slender and very pale girl. She was leaning on Mr. Ingram's arm;
she was beautiful. There was an expression on her face which melted
hearts, and made eyes brim over with tears. A bride was coming up the
church--not Beatrice Meadowsweet--not the girl who was beloved by all
the town.

Close behind the bride followed the principal bride's-maid. She was in a
plain dress of white. Round her head she wore a wreath of white lilies,
and in her hand she carried a bouquet of white flowers.

The other bride's-maids wore green silk sashes, and green with the
marguerites which trimmed their broad hats.

"May God have mercy on us!" exclaimed Mrs. Butler.

She made this remark aloud; it was distinctly heard, and Beatrice, as
she passed the good lady, turned and gave her a swift bright smile.

The bride joined the bridegroom before the altar, and the bishop, who
was to perform the ceremony, began the marriage service:

"I, Loftus, take thee, Josephine--"

When these words were uttered Mrs. Bell turned and faced Mrs. Butler.

"Whose cause has won?" she murmured, "who was right?"

"Never you say a word against that blessed girl, Beatrice Meadowsweet,"
replied Mrs. Butler. "Watch her face--it's the face of an angel."

"So it is," said Mrs. Bell. And the ladies clasped hands and buried
their feud.

CHAPTER XXXV.

BEATRICITES--EVERY ONE.

Mrs. Bell and Mrs. Butler had a cup of tea together after the wedding.
They partook of their tea in Mrs. Butler's house, and they gossiped over
the events of the day for long hours.

Part of the strange story of Beatrice's engagement the rector had told
his guests at the wedding-breakfast--a sufficient portion of this
curious romance was related to show some of the real nobility of this
young girl's character. People were to conjecture about the rest. They
were never to know. They never did know.

The Hartites and the Beatricites ceased to exist at the breakfast, or
rather the whole community became Beatricites on the spot.

Bertram took his bride away, and the town was very glad to think they
might keep Beatrice Meadowsweet with them after all. Neither Mrs.
Bertram nor Mrs. Meadowsweet were present at the wedding, but they met
that evening, for Mrs. Meadowsweet drove up to the Manor; she was
accompanied by Beatrice and they both asked to see Mrs. Bertram.

They were admitted into the great lady's bedroom.

"I am sorry you are so poorly, Mrs. Bertram," said Mrs. Meadowsweet.
"I thought, as Bee was coming up, I'd call with her. There's nothing for
worry on the nerves like Eleazer Macjones's Life Pills, and here's a
fresh box of them. I thought I'd bring them up, and tell you that for my
part I'm highly pleased."

"Pleased," said Mrs. Bertram.

She raised her white face and looked at her visitor.

"Yes, of course I am. I keep my girl. The young man wasn't suited to
her, nor she to him. I guessed there'd be no luck about that engagement,
when I was so deaved with 'poor dears,' and 'poor friends.' That's not
the right way to speak before any wedding. They were neither of them
more than half-hearted towards one another, and it's well they found it
out in time. Now when I married Meadowsweet--"

"Mother," interrupted Beatrice, "I think Mrs. Bertram is tired."

"Well, my pet, and you want the old lady to stop her chatter. You try
the Life Pills, Mrs. Bertram, I'll wait in the next room for Bee. She
has a word to say to you."

When they were alone together Beatrice went and knelt by Mrs. Bertram's
sofa.

"So you never loved my son. Beatrice?" said Mrs. Bertram, raising her
heavy eyes, and looking at her.

"I did not, I consented to marry him because I was silly and thought I
could do him good. I was saved just in time from making a grave mistake.
Josephine loves him."

"You think she will do him good?"

"The greatest, the best. They were meant for one another. They ought to
lead happy lives together."

"Beatrice, I have heard--I don't know how to thank you--I have heard
what you have done with some--some of your money. I don't know how to
thank you, child. You have saved Loftus and me."

Beatrice bent forward and kissed Mrs. Bertram on her cheek.

"I am glad," she said in a simple, quiet voice. "My father would be glad
too. I am abundantly content."

"Beatrice, you would have been just the wife for Loftus."

"No, he was not the husband meant for me. Some day my true lover may
come. If not, I have always been a happy girl, Mrs. Bertram, I am happy
still. I feel full of delight to-night. Now I must go. Only, first of
all, do something--something for the girl who has been made your
daughter to-day."

"Something for--for Josephine?"

"For Nina, whose great love will raise and save your son. Take this
packet; put it into the fire."

"What is it, Beatrice? I am weak. Are there any more shocks?"

"No. Josephine does not wish the story of her birth to be ever revealed.
She is a Bertram now without any need of proving her title. Her object
is to guard her husband's secret, and she does this, when she asks his
mother to burn this packet which contains the full proofs of her
identity as a Bertram."

Mrs. Bertram shivered. She touched the packet. Then she gave it back to
Beatrice.

"Put it into the fire yourself," she said. "Beatrice, you have saved us
all."

This little scene happened on the evening of Bertram's wedding-day. Just
at that same hour Mrs. Bell and Mrs. Butler were hob-nobbing over their
tea.

"For my part," said Mrs. Butler, "I no longer regret the absence of my
brooch. I will own I fretted for it when there seemed likely to be no
wedding to speak of. For why should the Northbury folks put themselves
out about the marriage of two strangers. But now I am glad Beatrice has
it, for though she is not a bride she is a beautiful character, and no
mistake, and such should be encouraged."

"That's my way of thinking, too," said Mrs. Bell. "I'll thank you for
another lump of sugar, Mrs. Butler. Yes, I have no fault to find with
Beatrice Meadowsweet. If she failed, she failed in a graceful fashion,
and, when all is said and done, her intentions were of the best."

THE END.

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