The Honorable Miss by L. T. Meade

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"Not any," replied Catherine. "I can't make blind people see, and I
can't bring love when there is no love to bring. Of course, it is
different for me."

"How is it different for you?"

"I love Loftus. He gives me pain, but that can be borne, for I love
him."

At this moment Mrs. Bertram's tall figure was seen standing on the steps
of the house. It was getting dark; a heavy dew was falling, and the air
was slightly, pleasantly chill after the intense heat of the day. Mrs.
Bertram had wrapped a white fleecy cloud over her head. She descended
the steps, stood on the broad gravel sweep, and looked around her.

"We are here, mother," said May, jumping up. "Do you want us?"

"I want Catherine. Don't you come, Mabel. I want Catherine alone."

"Keep Loftus's letter," said Catherine, tossing it into her sister's
lap. "I know by mother's tone she is troubled. Don't let us show her the
letter to-night. Put it in your pocket, May."

Aloud she said,--

"Yes, mother, I'm coming. I'll be with you directly." She ran across the
grass, looking slim and pale in her white muslin dress, her face full of
intense feeling, her manner so hurried and eager that her mother felt
irritated by it.

"You need not dash at me as if you meant to knock me down, Kate," she
said.

"You said you wanted me, mother."

"So I did, Catherine. I do want you. Come into the house with me."

Mrs. Bertram turned and walked up the steps. She entered the wide hall
which was lit by a ghostly, and not too carefully-trimmed, paraffin
lamp. Catherine followed her. They went into the drawing-room. Here also
a paraffin lamp gave an uncertain light; very feeble, yellow, and
uncertain it was, but even by it Catherine could catch a glimpse of her
mother's face. It was drawn and white, it was not only changed from the
prosperous, handsome face which the girl had last looked at, but it had
lost its likeness to the haughty, the proud, the satisfied Mrs. Bertram
of Catherine's knowledge. Its expression now betokened a kind of inward
scare or fright.

"Mother, you have something to worry you," said Kate, "I see that by
your face. I am sorry. I am truly sorry. Sit down, mother. What can I do
for you?"

"Nothing, my dear, except to be an attentive daughter--attentive and
affectionate and obedient. Sometimes, Catherine, you are not that."

"Oh, never mind now, when you are in trouble, I'd do anything in the
world for you when you are in trouble. You know that."

Mrs. Bertram had seated herself. Catherine knelt now, and took one of
her mother's hands between her own. Insensibly the cold hand was
comforted by the warm steadfast clasp.

"You are a good child, Kate," said her mother in an unwonted and gentle
voice. "You are full of whims and fancies; but when you like you can be
a great support to one. Do you remember long ago when your father died
how only little Kitty's hand could cure mother's headaches?"

"I would cure your heartache now."

"You can't, child, you can't. And besides, who said anything about a
heartache? We have no time, Kate, to talk any more sentimentalities. I
have had a letter, my dear, and it obliges me to go to town to-night."

"To-night? Surely there is no train?"

"There is. One stops at Northbury to take up the mails at a quarter to
twelve. I shall go by it."

"Do you want me to go with you?"

"By no means. Of what use would you be?"

"I don't know. Perhaps not of any use, and yet long ago when you had
headaches, Kitty could cure them."

There was something so pathetic and so unwonted in Catherine's tone that
Mrs. Bertram was quite touched. She bent forward, placed her hand under
the young chin, raised the handsome face, and printed a kiss on the
brow.

"Kitty shall help her mother best by staying at home," she said.
"Seriously, my love. I must leave you in charge here. Not only in charge
of the house, of the servants, of Mabel--but--of my secret."

"What secret, mother?"

"I don't want any one here to know that I have gone to London."

Catherine thought a moment.

"I know you are not going to give me your reasons," she said, after a
pause. "But why do you tell me there is a secret?"

"Because you are trustworthy."

"Why do tell _me_ that you are going to London?"

"Because you must be prepared to act in an emergency."

"Mother, what do you mean?"

"I will tell you enough of my meaning to guide you, my love. I have had
some news that troubles me. I am going to London to try and put some
wrong things right. You need not look so horrified, Kate; I shall
certainly put them right. It might complicate matters in certain
quarters if it were known that I had gone to London, therefore I do it
secretly. It is necessary, however, that one person should know where to
write to me. I choose you to be that person, Catherine, but you are only
to send me a letter in case of need."

"If we are ill, or anything of that sort, mother?"

"Nothing of that sort. You and Mabel are in superb health. I am not
going to prepare for any such unlikely contingency as your sudden
illness. Catherine, these are the _only_ circumstances under which
you are to communicate with your mother. Listen, my dear daughter.
Listen attentively. A good deal depends on your discretion. A stranger
may call. The stranger may be either a man or a woman. He or she will
ask to see me. Finding I am away this person, whether man or woman, will
try to have an interview with either you or Mabel, and will endeavor by
every means to get my address. Mabel, knowing nothing, can reveal
nothing, and you, Kate, you are to put the stranger on the wrong scent,
to get rid of the stranger by some means, and immediately to telegraph
to me. My address is in this closed-up envelope. Lock the envelope in
your desk; open it if the contingency to which I have alluded occurs,
not otherwise. And now, my dear child, I must go upstairs and pack."

Catherine roused herself from her kneeling position with difficulty. She
felt cold and stiff, queer and old.

"Shall I help you, mother," she asked.

"No, my dear, I shall ring for Clara. I shall tell Clara that I am going
to Manchester. A train to Manchester can be taken from Fleet-hill
Junction, so it will all sound quite natural. Go out to Mabel, dear.
Tell her any story you like."

"I don't tell stories, mother. I shall have nothing to say to Mabel."

"Tell her nothing, then; only run away. What is the matter now?"

"One thing before you go, mother. I too had a letter to-night."

"Had you, my dear? I cannot be worried about your correspondence now."

"My letter was from Loftie."

"Loftus! What did he write about?"

"He is coming here to-morrow night."

Catherine glanced eagerly into her mother's face as she spoke. It did
not grow any whiter or any more careworn.

She stood still for a moment in the middle of the drawing-room,
evidently thinking deeply. When she spoke her brow had cleared and her
voice was cheerful.

"This may be for the best," she said.

Catherine stamped her foot impatiently.

"Mother," she said, "you quite frighten me with your innuendoes and your
half-confidences. I don't understand you. It is very difficult to act
when one only half understands."

"I cannot make things plainer for you, my dear. I am glad Loftie is
coming. You girls must entertain him as well as you can. This is
Wednesday evening. I hope to be back at the latest on Monday. It is
possible even that I may transact my business sooner. Keep Loftus in a
good temper, Kate. Don't let him quarrel with Mabel, and, above all
things, do not breathe to a soul that your mother has gone to London.
Now, kiss me, dear. It is a comfort to have a grown-up daughter to lean
on."

CHAPTER V.

THE USUAL SORT OF SCRAPE.

On the following evening Loftus Bertram made his appearance at Rosendale
Manor. Catherine and Mabel were both waiting for him under the shade of
the great oak tree which commanded a view of the gate. His train was due
at Northbury at seven o'clock. He was to come by express from London,
and the girls concluded that the express would not be more than five
minutes late. Allowing for this, and allowing also for the probability
that Loftus would be extremely discontented with the style of hackney
coach which alone would await him at the little station and might in
consequence prefer to walk to the Manor, the girls calculated he might
put in an appearance on the scene at about twenty minutes past seven.
They had arranged to have dinner at a quarter to eight, and sat side by
side now, looking a little forlorn in the frocks they had grown out of,
and a little lonely, like half-fledged chicks, without their mother's
august protection.

"Loftie will wonder," said Mabel, "at mother going off to Manchester in
such a hurry."

It was the cook who had told Mabel about Manchester, Clara having
informed her.

"There's Loftus!" suddenly exclaimed Catherine. "I knew he'd walk. I
said so. There's the old shandrydan crawling after him with the luggage.
Come, Mabel. Let's fly to meet the dear old boy."

She was off and away herself before Mabel had time to scramble to her
feet. Her running was swift as a fawn's--in an instant she had reached
her brother--threw herself panting with laughter and joy against him,
and flung one arm round his neck.

"Here you are!" she said, her words coming out in gasps. "Isn't it
jolly? Such a fresh old place! Lots of strawberries--glad you'll see it
in the long days--give me a kiss, Loftie--I'm hungry for a kiss!"

"You're as wild an imp as ever," said Loftus, pinching her cheek, but
stooping and kissing her, nevertheless, with decided affection. "Why did
you put yourself out of breath, Kitty? Catch May setting her precious
little heart a-beating too fast for any fellow! Ah, here you come, lazy
Mabel. Where is the mater? In the house, I suppose? I say, Kate, what a
hole you have pitched upon for living in? I positively couldn't ride
down upon the thing they offered me at the station. It wasn't even
_clean_. Look at it, my dear girls! It holds my respectable
belongings, and not me. It's the scarecrow or ghost of the ordinary
station-fly. Could you have imagined the station-fly could have a
ghost?"

"No," retorted Mabel, "being so scarecrowy and ghost-like already.
Please, driver, take Captain Bertram's things up to the house. He heard
you speak, Loftie. These Northbury people are as touchy as if they were
somebodies. Oh, Loftus, you will be disappointed. Mother has gone to
Manchester."

"To Manchester?" retorted Loftus. "My mother away from home! Did she
know that I was coming?"

"Yes," answered Kate, "I told her about your letter last night."

"Did you show her my letter?"

"No."

"Why didn't you? If she had read it she wouldn't have gone. I said I was
in a scrape. I was coming down on purpose to see the mater. You might
have sent me a wire to say she would not be at home, or you might have
kept her at home by showing her my letter. You certainly did not act
with discretion."

"I said you'd begin to scold the minute you came here, Loftie," remarked
Mabel. "It's a way you have. I told Kitty so. See, you have made poor
Kitty quite grave."

Loftus Bertram was a tall, slim, young fellow. He was well-made,
athletic, and neat in appearance, and had that upright carriage and
bearing which is most approved of in her Majesty's army. His face was
thin and dark; he had a look of Kate, but his eyes were neither so large
nor so full; his mouth was weak, not firm, and his expression wanted the
openness which characterized Catherine's features.

He was a selfish man, but he was not unkind or ill-natured. The news
which the girls gave him of their mother's absence undoubtedly worried
and annoyed him a good deal, but like most people who are popular, and
Loftus Bertram was undoubtedly very popular, he had the power of
instantly adapting himself to the exigencies of the moment.

He laughed lightly, therefore, at Mabel's words, put his arm round his
younger sister's unformed waist, and said, in a gay voice:

"I won't scold either of you any more until I have had something to
eat."

"We live very quietly at the Manor," remarked Mabel, "Mother wants to
save, you know. She says we must keep up our refinement at any cost, but
our meals are very--" she glanced with a gay laugh at Catherine.

"Oh, by Jove! I hope you don't stint in the matter of food," exclaimed
the brother. "You'll have to drop it while I'm here, I can tell you. I
thought the mater would be up to some little game of this kind when she
buried you alive in such an out-of-the-way corner. She makes a great
mistake though, and so I shall tell her. Young girls of your age ought
to be fed up. You'll develop properly then, you won't otherwise. That's
the new dodge. All the doctors go upon it. Feed up the young to any
extent, and they'll pay for it by-and-bye. Plenty of good English beef
and mutton. What's the matter, Kate? What are you laughing in that
immoderate manner for?"

"Oh, nothing, Loftie. I may laugh, I suppose, without saying why. I wish
you would not put on that killing air, though. And you know perfectly
there is no use in laying down the law in mother's house."

The three young people were now standing in the hall, and Clara tripped
timidly forward.

"We want dinner as quickly as possible, Clara," said Mabel. "Come,
Loftus, let us take you to your room."

That night the choicely served repast was less meagre than usual. Caller
herring graced the board in abundance, and even Loftus did not despise
these, when really fresh and cooked to perfection. The hash of New
Zealand mutton, however, which followed, was not so much to this
fastidious young officer's taste, but quantities of fine strawberries,
supplemented by a jug of rich cream, put him once more into a good
humor. He did not know that Kate had spent one of her very scarce
sixpences on the cream, and that the girls had walked a mile-and-a-half
through the hot sun that morning to fetch it.

The decanters of wine did not only do duty as ornaments that evening,
and as the black coffee which followed was quite to Loftus' taste, he
forgot the New Zealand mutton, or, at least, determined not to speak on
the subject before the next morning.

After Mabel went to bed that night Kate asked her brother what the fresh
scrape was about. He was really in an excellent humor then; the
seclusion and almost romance of the old place soothed his nerves, which
were somewhat jaded with the rush and tear of a life not lived too
worthily. He and Kitty were strolling up and down in the moonlight, and
when she asked her question and looked up at him with her fine,
intelligent, sympathetic face, he pulled her little ear affectionately,
and pushed back the tendrils of soft, dark hair from her brow.

"The usual thing, Kitty," he responded. "I'm in the usual sort of
scrape."

"Money?" asked Catherine.

"Confound the thing, yes. Why was money invented? It's the plague of
one's life, Catherine. If there was no money there'd be no crime."

"Nonsense," answered Catherine, with shrewdness. "If there wasn't money
there would be its equivalent in some form or other. Are you in debt
again, Loftie?"

"How can I help it? I can't live on my pittance."

"But mother gives you three hundred a year."

"Yes--such a lot! You girls think that a fine sum, I suppose! That's all
you know. Three hundred! It's a pittance. No fellow has a right to go
into the army with such small private means."

"But, Loftie, you would not accept Uncle Roderick Macleod's offer. He
wrote so often, and said he could help you if you joined him in India."

"Yes, I knew what that meant. Now, look here, Kate. We needn't rake up
the past. My lot in life is fixed. I like my profession, but I can't be
expected to care for the beggary which accompanies it. I'm in a scrape,
and I want to see the mater."

"Poor mother! I _wish_ you weren't going to worry her, Loftie."

"It doesn't worry a mother to help her only son."

"But she has helped you so often. You know it was on account of you that
we came down here, because mother had given you so much, and it was the
only way left to us to save. It wasn't at all a good thing for Mabel and
me, for we had to leave our education unfinished. But mother thought it
best. What's the matter, Loftie?"

"Only if you're going on in this strain I'm off to bed. It is hard on a
fellow when he comes once in a while to see his sisters to be called
over the coals by them. You know I'm awfully fond of you, Kitty, and
somehow I thought you'd be a comfort to me. You know very little indeed
of the real worries of life."

Loftus spoke in a tone of such feeling that Catherine's warm heart was
instantly touched.

"I won't say any more," she answered. "I know it isn't right of me. I
always wished and longed to be a help to you, Loftie."

"So you can. You are a dear little sis when you like. You're worth
twenty of May. I think you are going to be a very handsome girl, Kate,
and if you are only fed up properly, and dressed properly, so that the
best points of your figure can be seen--well--now what's the matter?"

"Only I won't have you talking of me as if I were going to be put up to
auction."

"So you will be when you go to London. All girls are. The mothers are
the auctioneers, and the young fellows come round and bid. Good
gracious, what a thunder-cloud! What flashing eyes! You'll see what a
famous auctioneer mother will make! What is the matter, Kitty?"

"Nothing. Good-night. I'm going to bed."

"Come back and kiss me first. Poor little Kit! Dear, handsome,
fiery-spirited little Kit! I say though, _what_ a shabby frock
you've got on!"

"Oh, don't worry me, Loftie! Any dress will do in the country."

"Right, most prudent Catherine. By the way, when did you say mother
would come back?"

"Perhaps on Monday."

"What did she go to Manchester for?"

"I can't tell you."

"Well, I trust she will be back on Monday evening, for I am due at the
Depot on Tuesday. Lucky for me I got a week's leave, but I didn't mean
to see it out. It will be uncommonly awkward if I cannot get hold of the
mater between now and Tuesday, Kate."

"Loftus--_are_ you going to ask her to give you much money?"

"My dear child, you would think the sum I want enormous, but it isn't
really. Most fellows would consider it a trifle. And I don't want her
really to give it, Kate, only to lend it. That's altogether a different
matter, isn't it? Of course I could borrow it elsewhere, but it seems a
pity to pay a lot of interest when one's mother can put one straight."

"I don't know how you are to pay the money back, Loftus."

Loftus laughed.

"There are ways and means," he said. "Am I going to take all the bloom
off that young cheek by letting its owner into the secrets of Vanity
Fair? Come Kitty, go to bed, and don't fret about me, I'll manage
somehow."

"Loftus, how much money do you want mother to lend you?"

"What a persistent child you are. You positively look frightened. Well,
three fifty will do for the present. That oughtn't to stump anyone,
ought it?"

"I suppose not," answered Kate, in a bewildered way.

She put her hand to her forehead, bade her brother good-night, and
sought her room.

"Three hundred and fifty pounds!" she murmured. "And mother won't buy
herrings more than eightpence a dozen! And we scarcely eat any meat, and
lately we have begun even to save the bread. Three hundred and fifty
pounds! Well, I won't tell Mabel. Does Mabel really know the world
better than I do, and is it wrong of me in spite of everything to love
Loftus?"

CHAPTER VI.

FOR MY PART, I AM NOT GOING TO TAKE ANY NOTICE OF THE BERTRAMS.

But notwithstanding all worries, the world in midsummer, when the days
are longest and the birds sing their loudest, is a gay place for the
young. Catherine Bertram stayed awake for quite an hour that night. An
hour was a long time for such young and bright eyes to remain wide open,
and she fancied with a wave of self-pity how wrinkled and old she would
look in the morning. Not a bit of it! She arose with the complexion of a
Hebe, and the buoyant and gladsome spirit of a lark.

As she dressed she sang, and when she ran downstairs she whistled a
plantation melody with such precision and clearness that Loftus
exclaimed, "Oh, how shocking!" and Mabel rolled up her eyes, and said
sagely, that no one ever could turn Kate into anything but a tom-boy.

"Girls, what are we to do after breakfast?" asked the brother.

"Have you any money at all in your pocket, Loftie?" demurely asked
Mabel, "for if so, if so--" her eyes danced, "I can undertake to provide
a pleasant day for us all."

"Well, puss, I don't suppose an officer in her Majesty's Royal
Artillery--is quite without some petty cash. How much do you want?"

"A few shillings will do. Let us pack up a picnic basket. Kate, you
needn't look at me. I have taken Mrs. Masters into confidence, and
there's a cold roast fowl downstairs--and--and--but I won't reveal
anything further. We can have a picnic--we can go away an hour after
breakfast, and saunter to that place known as the Long Quay, and hire
the very best boat to be had for money, and we can float about on this
lovely harbor, and land presently on the shore over there where the
ruins of the old Port are; and we can eat our dinners there and be
jolly. Remember that we have never but once been on the water since we
came. Think how we have pined for this simple pleasure, Loftie, and fork
out the tin."

"My dear Mabel, I must place my interdict on slang."

"Nonsense. When the cat's away. Oh, don't look shocked! Are we to go?"

"Go! of course we'll go. Is there no pretty girl who'll come with us?
It's rather slow to have only one's sisters."

"Very well, Loftus. We'll pay you out presently," said Kate.

"And there is a very pretty girl," continued Mabel, "At least Catherine
considers her very pretty--only--" her eyes danced with mischief.

"Only what?"

"The mother doesn't like her. There's a dear old Rector here, and he
introduced the girl to Kitty, and mother was wild. Mother sounded the
Rector the next day and heard something which made her wilder still, but
we are not in the secret. Kate fell in love with the girl."

"Did you, Kate? When a woman falls in love with another woman the
phenomenon is so uncommon that a certain amount of interest must be
roused. Describe the object of your adoration, Kitty."

"Her name," responded Kate, "is Beatrice Meadowsweet. I won't say any
more about her. If ever you meet her, which isn't likely, you can judge
for yourself of her merits."

"Kitty is rather cross about Beatrice," said Mabel; then she continued,
"Loftie, what do you think? Mother has cut all the Northbury folk."

"Mabel, you talk very wild nonsense."

It was Kate who spoke. She rose from the breakfast-table with an annoyed
expression.

"Wild or not--it is true," replied Mabel. "Mother has cut the Northbury
people, cut them dead. They came to see us, they came in troops. Such
funny folk! The first lot were let in. Mother was like a poker. She
astonished her visitors, and the whole scene was so queer and
uncomfortable, although mother was freezingly _polite_, that Kate
and I got out of the room. The next day more people came--and more, and
more every day, but Clara had her orders, and we weren't 'at home.'
Kitty and I used to watch the poor Northburians from behind the
summer-house. One day Kitty laughed. It was awful, and I am sure they
heard.

"Another day a dreadful little woman with rolling eyes said she would
leave a tract on _Lying_ in the avenue--I wish she had. But I
suppose she thought better of it.

"Then there came a bazaar, a great bazaar, and the Rector invited us,
and said all the Northburians would be there. What do you think mother
did? She returned their calls on that day. She knew they'd be out, and
they were. Wasn't that a dead cut, Loftie?"

"Rather," responded Loftus.

He rose slowly, looked deliberately at Kate, and then closed his lips.

"Mother is away, so we won't discuss her," said Kate. "Run and pack the
picnic basket, Mabel, and then we'll be off."

The picturesque little town of Northbury was built on the slope of a
hill. This hill gently descended to the sea. Nowhere was there to be
found a more charming, landlocked harbor than at Northbury. It was a
famous harbor for boating. Even at low tide people could get on the
water, and in the summer time this gay sheet of dark blue sparkling
waves had many small yachts, fishing smacks, and row-boats of all sizes
and descriptions skimming about on its surface. In the spring a large
fishing trade was done here, and then the steamers whistle? and
shrieked, and disturbed the primitive harmony of the place. But by
midsummer the great shoals of mackerel went away, and with them the dark
picturesque hookers, and the ugly steamers, and the inhabitants were
once more left to their sleepy, old-fashioned, but withal pleasant life.

Rosendale Manor was situated on high ground. It was surrounded by a
wall, and the wide avenue was entered by ponderous iron gates. It was
about eleven o'clock when the girls and their brother started gayly off
for their day on the water. Loftus carried a couple of rugs, so that the
fact of Mabel lugging a heavy picnic basket on her sturdy left arm did
not look specially remarkable. They went down a steep and straggling
hill, passed through an old-fashioned green, with the local club at one
side, and a wall at the other which seemed to hang right over the sea.

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