The Honorable Miss by L. T. Meade

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"You cannot. She is from home. It was you then, who bribed Tester to
keep the lodge gate open?"

"I gave the man a shilling. Yes, I confess it. I am doing no harm here.
Put yourself in my place."

"How dare you? How can you?" said Catherine, stepping away from the
travel-stained figure.

"Ah, you are very proud, but there's a verse of Scripture that fits you.
'Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall.' I know your
age--you are just seventeen, I'm only nineteen, just two years older
than you. You have no feeling for me. Suppose I had none for you?"

The refinement of the girl's voice became more and more apparent to
Catherine. There was a thrill and a quality in it which both repelled
and fascinated. This queer waif and stray, this vagabond of the
woodside, was at least as fearless as herself.

"I don't know what you mean," she said, in a less imperious tone than
she had hitherto used.

"I could explain what I mean, but I won't. I have too kind a heart to
crush you. I could crush you. I could take that dainty white hand of
yours, and feel it tremble in mine--and if you knew all that I could say
you wouldn't leave me out here in the avenue, but you'd take me in, and
give me the best to eat, and the softest bed to lie upon. Don't you
think it's very kind of me when I could use such power over you that I
don't use it? Don't you think it's noble of me? Oh, you are a dainty
girl, and a proud, but I could bring you and yours to the very dust."

"You must be mad," said Catherine. "Absolutely mad. How can you possibly
expect me to listen to this wild nonsense? You had better go away now.
I'll walk with you as far as the gate, and then I'll wake up Tester to
lock it after you. You needn't suppose that I'm afraid."

"Don't taunt me," said the girl. "If you do I'll use my power. Oh, I am
hungry, and thirsty, and footsore. Why shouldn't I go into that house
and sleep there, and eat there, and be rested?"

Her words were defiant, but just at the last they wavered, and Catherine
saw by the moonlight that her face grew ghastly under its grimness, and
she saw the slender young figure sway as if it would fall.

"You are hungry?" said Catherine, all her feelings merged in sudden
pity. "Even though you have no right to be here, you sha'n't go hungry
away. Sit down. Rest against that tree, and I will fetch you something."

She ran into the house, returning presently with a jug of milk, and some
thick bread and butter.

"Eat that," she said, "and drink this milk, then you will be better. I
slipped a cup into my pocket. It is not broken. I will pour you out a
cup of milk."

The girl seized the bread and butter, and began devouring it. She was so
famished that she almost tore it as she ate. Catherine, who had quite
forgotten her dignified _role_ in compassion for the first real
hunger she had ever witnessed, knelt on the grass by her side, and once,
twice, thrice, filled the cup full of milk, and held it to her lips.

"Now you are better," she said, when the meal had come to an end.

"Yes, thank you, Miss Bertram, much better. The horrible sinking is
gone, and the ground doesn't seem to reel away when I look at it. Thank
you, Miss Catherine Bertram, I shall do nicely now. I do not at all mind
sleeping here on the cool grass till the morning."

"But you are not to stay. Why are you obstinate when I am good to you?
And why do you call me Miss Catherine Bertram? How can you possibly know
my name?"

The girl laughed. Her laugh was almost cheerful, it was also young and
silvery.

"You ask me a lot of questions," she said. "I'll answer them one by one,
and the least important first. How I know your name is my own secret; I
can't tell that without telling also what would crush you. But I may as
well say that I know all about you. I know your appearance, and your
age, and even a little bit about your character; and I know you have a
younger sister called Mabel, and that she is not so pretty as you, and
has not half the character, and in short that you are worth two of her.

"Then you have a brother. His name is Loftus. He is like you, only he is
not so fearless. He is in the army. He is rather extravagant, and your
mother is afraid of him. Ah, yes, I know all about you and yours; and I
know so much in especial about that proud lady, your mother, that if
there were daylight, and I had pencil and paper, I could draw a portrait
of her for you. There, have I not answered your first question? Now you
want to know why I don't go away. If you had no money in your purse, and
if you had walked between twenty and thirty miles to effect an object of
the greatest possible importance to yourself, would you give it up at
the bidding of a young girl? Would you now?"

"You are very queer," said Catherine; "I fail to understand you. I don't
know how you have got your extraordinary knowledge about us. You talk
like a lady, but ladies don't starve with hunger, nor walk until they
are travel-sore and spent. Ladies don't hide at midnight in shrubberies,
in private grounds that don't belong to them. Then you say you have no
money, and yet you gave Tester a shilling."

"I gave him my last shilling. Here is my empty purse. Look at it."

"Well, you are very, very queer. You have not even told me your name."

"Josephine. I am called Josephine."

"But you have another name. I am called Catherine, but I am also
Bertram. What are you besides Josephine?"

"Ah, that's trenching into the darkness where you wouldn't like to find
yourself. That's light for me, but dark ruin for you. Don't ask me what
my other name is."

"Listen," said Catherine, suddenly, "you want to see my mother?"

"Yes, I certainly want to see her."

"Listen again. I am absolutely determined that you shall not see her."

"But I have a message for her."

"You shall not see her. My mother is not well. I stand between my mother
and trouble. I know you are going to bring her trouble; and you shall
not see her."

"How can you prevent me?"

"In this way. My mother is away from home. I will take care that she
does not return until you have left this place. I am determined."

"Is that true?" asked the girl. "Is she really away from home?"

"Am I likely to tell you a lie? My mother is from home."

The strange girl had been sitting on the grass. Now she rose, pushed
back her thick hair, and fixed her eyes on Catherine. Catherine again
noticed the singular brightness, the half-wild light in her eyes.
Suddenly it was quenched by great tears. They splashed down on her
cheeks, and made clean channels where the dust had lain.

"I am deadly tired," she said, with a half moan.

"Listen, Josephine," said Catherine. "You shall not spend your night
here. You shall not stay to see my mother. I will take you down to the
lodge and wake up Tester, and his wife shall get a bed ready for you,
and you shall sleep there, and in the morning you are to go away. You
can have breakfast before you start, but afterwards you are to go away.
Do you promise me? Do you agree to this?"

The girl muttered something, and Catherine took her hand and led her
down to the lodge.

CHAPTER X.

THE REASON OF THE VISIT.

On the evening of the next day Mrs. Bertram came home. She looked very
tired and worn, but her manner to her children was less stern, and more
loving than usual. Loftus, in especial, she kissed with rare tenderness;
and even for one brief moment laid her head on her tall son's broad
shoulder, as if she wanted to rest herself there.

On the evening of her mother's return Catherine was particularly bright
and cheerful. As a rule, Catherine's will and her mother's were two
opposing elements. Now they were one. This conjunction of two strong
wills gave an immense sense of rest and harmony to the whole
establishment. No one knew particularly why they felt peaceful and
satisfied, but this was the true cause.

After dinner, Mrs. Bertram saw Catherine by herself. She called her into
the big drawing-room; and while Loftus and Mabel accurately measured out
a new tennis-court, asked her daughter many and various questions.

"She has really gone away, mother," said Catherine in conclusion. "I
went to the lodge early this morning, and Tester told me that she got up
early, and took a bit of bread in her pocket; but she would not even
wait for a cup of tea. Tester said she was out of the house by six
o'clock. She washed herself well first, though, and Mrs. Tester said
that she came out of her bath as fair as a lily, and her hair shining
like red gold. I thought last night, mother," concluded Catherine, "that
Josephine must be a pretty girl. I should like to have seen her this
morning when her hair shone and her face was like a lily."

"You are full of curiosity about this girl, are you not, Catherine?"
asked her mother.

"It is true, mother. I conjecture much about her."

"I can never gratify your curiosity, nor set your conjectures right."

"You know about her then, mother?"

"Yes, I know about her."

"Is Josephine an impostor?"

Mrs. Bertram paused.

"She is an impostor," she said then, in a slow, emphatic voice.

"Mother," said her daughter, suddenly. "You look very ill."

"I have gone through a bad time, Kate. I have been worried. My dear
child, be thankful you are not a middle-aged woman with many cares."

"The thing I should be most thankful for at this moment, mother, would
be to share in all your worries."

"God forbid, child. Heaven forbid that such a lot should be yours. Now,
my dear, we will keep our secret. It is only yours and mine. And--come
here--kiss me--you have acted well, my darling."

The rare caress, the unwonted word of love, went straight to Catherine
Bertram's deep heart. She put her firm young arm round her mother's
neck, and something like a vow and a prayer went up to God from her
fervent soul.

"Come out," said Mrs. Bertram. "The others will wonder what we are
doing. Look as usual, Kitty, and fear nothing. I have been in peril, but
for the present it is over."

When Mrs. Bertram appeared Loftus went up to her at once. She took his
arm, and they paced slowly under the trees. If Mrs. Bertram loved her
daughters, and there is no doubt she had a very real regard for them,
Loftus Bertram was as the apple of her eye. She adored this young man,
she was blind to his faults, and she saw his virtues through magnifying
glasses.

Loftus could always talk his mother into the best of humors. He was not
devoid of tact, and he knew exactly how to manage her, so as to bring
her round to his wishes. Having two ends in view to-night he was more
than usually fascinating. He wanted money to relieve a pressing
embarrassment, and he also wished to cultivate his acquaintance with
Beatrice Meadowsweet. He was not absolutely in love with Beatrice, but
her cool indifference to all his fascinations piqued him. He thought it
would be pleasant to see more of her, delightful to make a conquest of
her. He was not the sort of man to thwart his own inclinations. Beatrice
had contrived to make Northbury interesting to him, and he thought he
could easily manage to get leave to visit it soon again.

That evening, therefore, Mrs. Bertram not only found herself arranging
to put her hand to a bill, payable at the end of six months, for her
son's benefit, but further, quite complacently agreeing to call the very
next day on Mrs. Meadowsweet, the wife of the ex-shopkeeper.

Hence that visit which had aroused the jealous feelings not only of Mrs.
Morris, of Mrs, Butler and Miss Peters, but more or less of the whole
society of Northbury.

CHAPTER XI.

SOMEBODY ADMIRED SOMEBODY.

"Then, if that's the case," said Mrs. Bell, "if that's really and truly
the case, and no mistake about it, Matty must have some new frocks made
up for her at once. I have no idea of a child of mine looking shabby or
behind any one else, but you must tell me truly, Alice, if he really was
attentive. Bless you, child, you know what I mean. Was there any
hand-squeezing, and was he always and forever making an excuse to have a
look at her. No one could have been more genteel than your father during
courtship, but the way his eyes did follow me wherever I turned, over
and over put me to the blush."

"Don't say anything to Matty," responded Alice Bell. "She'll be sure to
giggle awfully when next they meet, if you do. She can't keep anything
in, and she owned to Sophy and me that he had got her heart. Well, yes,
I suppose he was particular with her. He danced with her, and he looked
at her, only, I do think it was _she_ squeezed _his_ hand."

"Oh, fie, Alice, to say such things of your sister. Well, anyhow the
town is full of it. When I went out yesterday Mrs. Morris asked me
point-blank if I hadn't news for her, and Miss Peters has taken so
frightfully to rolling her eyes whenever Matty and Captain Bertram are
seen together, that I'm quite afraid she will contract a regular squint.
How long was he with Matty on the green last night, Alice?"

"About half-an-hour, I should say," responded Alice. "They walked round
the Green five times, with me and Sophy doing gooseberry behind. I don't
think Matty stopped laughing for a single minute, and the captain he did
quiz her frightfully."

"Poor man, he was trying to wheedle her heart out of her!" remarked the
gratified mother. "And he has all my sympathies, and what's more, we
must have him to supper, and lobsters and crabs, and anything else he
fancies. It isn't for me to be hard-hearted, and not give the poor
fellow his opportunities; and no doubt Matty will relent by-and-bye."

"Oh, dear me, mother, she has relented now. She's only waiting and dying
for him to pop the question."

"If I were you, Alice, I wouldn't make so light of your own sister. Of
course she is gratified by being spoken to and appreciated, but if you
think a girl of mine is going to let herself down cheap--well, she'll be
very different metal from her mother before her. Three times Bell had to
go on his knees for me, and he thought all the more of me for having to
do it. If I'm not mistaken, there are some in this town who are jealous
of Matty. Who would have thought that handsome friend of yours, Bee
Meadowsweet, would be looked over and made nothing of, and my girl be
the favored one? Well, I must own I'm pleased, and so will her father
be, too. It's a nice genteel connection, and they say there's lots of
money somewhere in the background.--Oh, is that you, Matty?--Goodness,
child, don't get your face so burnt,--you shouldn't go out without a
veil in the sun. Now come here, pet, sit down and keep cool, and I'll
bring in some buttermilk presently to bathe your neck and cheeks.
There's nothing like buttermilk for burns. Well, well, what were we
talking about, Alice, when Matty came in?"

"About the person we're always talking about," replied Alice, rather
crossly. "About Captain Bertram. Good gracious, Matty, it isn't at all
becoming to you to flame up in that sudden way. Lor' ma, look at her,
she's the color of a peony."

[It may be remarked in passing that the Bells did not echo one another
when at home.]

"Never mind, never mind," retorted Mrs. Bell, who, with true delicacy,
would not look at her blushing daughter.

"I was thinking Matty, my love, that you wanted a new evening dress. I
don't like you to be behind any one else, my dear, and that green skirt
with the white jacket, though genteel enough, doesn't seem quite the
thing. I can't tell what's the matter with it, for the mohair in the
skirts cost nine-pence half-penny a yard, and the first day you wore
those dresses, girls, they shone as if they were silk, and your father
asked me why I was so extravagant, and said that though he would like it
he hadn't money to dress you up in silk attire. Poor Bell has a turn for
poetry, and if he had not lost his money through the badness of the coal
trade, he'd make you look like _three poems_, that's what he said
to me. Well, well, somehow the dresses are handsome, and yet I don't
like them."

"They're hideous," said Matty, kicking out her foot with a petulant
movement. "Somehow, those home-made dresses never look right. They don't
sit properly. We weren't a bit like the other girls at Mrs.
Meadowsweet's a fortnight ago."

"No," said Alice, "we weren't. The Bertrams had nothing but full skirts
and baby bodies, and sashes round their waists, just like little girls.
Mabel Bertram's dress was only down to her ankles--nothing could have
been plainer--no style at all, and yet we didn't look like them."

"Well," said the mother, bristling and bridling, "handsome dresses or
not, _somebody_ admired _somebody_ at that party, or I'm greatly
mistaken. Well, Matty dear, what would you fancy for evening wear? If my
purse will stand it you shall have it. I won't have you behind no one,
my love."

It was at this critical moment, when Matty's giggles prevented her
speaking, and Alice was casting some truly sarcastic and sisterly shafts
at her, that Sophy burst open the door, and announced, in an excited
voice, that Mrs. Middlemass, the pedler, had just stepped into the hall.

"She has got some lovely things to-day," exclaimed Sophy. "Shall we have
her up, mamma? Have we anything to exchange?"

"It's only a week since she was here," replied Mrs. Bell. "And she
pretty nearly cleared us out then. Still it would be a comfort if we
could squeeze a frock for Matty out of her. I could buy the trimmings
easy enough for you, Matty, at Perry's, if I hadn't to pay for the
stuff. Dear, dear, now what can we exchange? Look here, Sophy, run, like
a good child, to your father's wardrobe, and see if there are a couple
of pairs of old trousers gone at the knees, and maybe that great-coat of
his that had one of the flaps torn, and the patch on the left sleeve. It
was warm, certainly, but it always was a show, that great-coat. Maybe he
wouldn't miss it, or at any rate he'd give it up to help to settle
Matty."

"Lor, ma, I really do think you are indelicate, when the man hasn't even
proposed!" exclaimed Alice. "There's Matty, she's off giggling again. I
do believe she'll soon laugh day and night without stopping."

"Are we to have Mrs. Middlemass up or not, mother?" exclaimed Sophy.

"Yes, child, yes. Bring her up by all means. We'll contrive to make some
sort of a bargain with her."

Sophy disappeared, and a moment or two later she ushered Mrs. Middlemass
into the bedroom where the above conversation had taken place.

The pedler was a very stout person, with a red face, and the bundle
which she carried in front of her and propelled first into the room, was
of enormous dimensions.

"Good-day, Mrs. Bell," she said. "Good-day, young ladies. And what may I
have the pleasure of serving you with to-day, Mrs. Bell? I've got some
elegant goods with me, just the style for your beautiful young ladies."

With this speech, which was uttered with great gravity, Mrs. Middlemass
proceeded to open her bundle, and to exhibit the worst muslin, cashmere,
French merino, and other fabrics, which she offered for the highest
price.

"There," she said, "there's a cashmere for you! Feel it between your
finger and thumb, Mrs. Bell, mum, there's substance, there's quality. It
would make up lovely. Shall I cut a length a-piece for the three young
ladies, ma'am?"

"No, no," said Mrs. Bell, "that cashmere is dark and heavy, and coarse,
too. I don't expect it's all-wool. It's shoddy, that's what it is."

"Shoddy, ma'am! That a lady whom I've served faithful for years should
accuse me of selling shoddy! No, Mrs. Bell, may Heaven forgive you for
trying to run down a poor widow's goods. This is as pure all-wool
cashmere as is to be found in the market, and dirt cheap at three and
elevenpence a-yard. Have a length for yourself, ma'am; it would stylish
you up wonderful."

"No," said Mrs. Bell, "I don't want a dress to-day, and that cashmere
isn't worth more than one and six. What we are wishing for--though I
don't know that we really _want_ anything--do we, girls? But what
we might buy, if you had it very cheap, is a bit of something light and
airy that would make up very elegantly for the evening. Do you care to
have another evening-dress, Matty? I know you have a good few in your
wardrobe."

"I don't know," said Matty, "until I see what Mrs. Middlemass has. I
don't want anything common. I can get common things at Perry's; and
perhaps I had better send for my best dress to London, ma."

This remark of giggling Miss Matty's was really astute for she knew that
Mrs. Middlemass held Perry, the draper, in the most sovereign contempt.

"Right you are, my dear," said the pedler, a smile of gratified vanity
spreading over her face, "you _can_ get your common things, and
very common things they'll be, at Perry's. But maybe old Auntie
Middlemass can give you something as genteel as the London shops. You
look here, my pretty. Now, then."

Here Mrs. Middlemass went on her knees, and with slow and exasperating
deliberation, unfastened a parcel carefully done up in white muslin.
From the depths of this parcel she extracted a very thin and crackling
silk of a shade between brick and terra-cotta, which was further shot
here and there with little threads of pale blue and yellow. This texture
she held up in many lights, not praising it by any words, for she
guessed well the effect it would have on her company. She knew the Bells
of old: they were proof against anything that wasn't silk, but at the
glitter and sheen of real silk they gave way. They instantly, one and
all, fell down and worshipped it.

"_It is_ pretty," said Matty at last, with a little sigh, and she
turned away as one who must not any longer contemplate so dazzling a
temptation.

Mrs. Bell's heart quite ached for her eldest-born at this critical
juncture. It was so natural for her to wish for silk attire when the
hero was absolutely at the gates. And such a hero! So tall, so handsome,
such an Adonis--so aristocratic! But, alas! silk could not be had for
nothing. It would be an insult to offer Bell's old coat and the two
pairs of trousers gone at the knees for this exquisite substance.

"Sixteen yards," solemnly pronounced Mrs. Middlemass, when the silence
had been sufficiently long. "Sixteen yards for three pound ten. There!
it's a present I'm making to you, Miss Matty."

"I like it very much," said Matty.

"Like it! I should think you do. It was the fellow of it I sold this
morning to Lady Georgiana Higginbotham, of Castle Higgins. She who is to
be married next month. 'Middlemass,' she said, when she saw it, 'I'm in
love with it. It has a sheen about it, and a quality. Cut me twenty
yards, Middlemass; I do declare I'll wear it for my travelling dress,
and no other.' She'll do it, too, Miss Matty, you'll see. And beautiful
she'll look."

The three girls sighed. They sighed in unison. As there was a lover in
the question, the two younger were willing that Matty should have a new
frock. But a silk! Each girl wanted the silk for herself.

"It is exquisite," said Matty.

"Exquisite," repeated Alice.

"Quisite," said Sophy.

"I'll put it away for you, miss," said the pedler, beginning to pack up
her other things. "There, take it, miss," she said, flinging a long
sweep of the glittering texture over Matty's arm. "Now, it does become
you, my dear. Doesn't it, ma'am?" turning to the mother. "Well, now,
I never noticed it before, but Miss Matty has a great look of Lady
Georgiana. Remarkable likeness! You wouldn't be known from her, miss
when you had that dress on. Their eyes! the complexion! the figure! all
ditto, ditto, ditto."

The girls smiled; but what amount of flattery will not one accept when
judiciously offered? They were all pleased to hear Mrs. Middlemass
compare one of their number to Lady Georgiana, although they knew
perfectly that the pedler had never in the whole course of her life even
spoken to that young lady, who was a head and shoulders taller than
Matty, and as unlike her in all particulars as a girl could be.

"There!" said the pedler. "Three pound ten! Dirt-cheap. Going, you may
say, for nothing, and because it's the last piece I have of it. Lady
Georgiana paid me seven pounds for the length I cut her this morning.
I'd like to see you in this dress, Miss Matty, and, maybe, if all
reports is true, you'll want me to sell you something different, and
more--more--well, more, perhaps, bridal-like, by-and-bye, my pretty
young lady."

This last speech finished the fate of the silk. If rumor had reached
down to the strata of pedlers, etc., it simply could not be disregarded.
Mrs. Bell bargained and haggled for the best part of an hour. She
stripped herself of many necessary garments, and even ransacked her very
meagre little collection of jewelry. Finally the purchase was completed
with the sale of the ring which Bell had given her on the day when he
had gone down on his knees for the third and successful time. That ring,
of a showy style, but made of real gold and real gems, was beloved by
Mrs. Bell above all her worldly goods. Nevertheless, she parted with it
to make up the necessary price for the shot silk; for, what will not a
mother do for her child?

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