The Honorable Miss by L. T. Meade

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A man or a woman can often live for a long time after this operation
takes place, but they are never the same again. They go slowly, with the
gait of those who are halt, through life.

Mrs. Bertram reached the lodge, and after the imperious fashion of her
class did not even knock at the closed door before she lifted the latch
and went in.

It was a shabby, little, tumble-down lodge. It needed papering, and
white-washing, and cleaning; in winter the roof let in rain, and the
rickety, ill-fitting windows admitted the cold and wind. Now, however,
it was the middle of summer. Virginia creeper and ivy, honeysuckle and
jasmine, nearly covered the walls. The little place looked picturesque
without; and within, honest, hard-working Mrs. Tester contrived with
plentiful scouring and washing to give a clean and cosy effect.

Mrs. Bertram, as she stepped into the kitchen, noticed the nice little
fire in the bright grate (the lodge boasted of no range); she also saw a
pile of buttered toast on the hob, and the tiny kitchen was fragrant
with the smell of fresh coffee.

Mrs. Bertram was not wrong when she guessed that Tester and his wife did
not live on these dainty viands.

"I'm just preparing breakfast, ma'am, for our young lady lodger," said
good Mrs. Tester, dropping a curtsey.

"For your young lady lodger? What do you mean, Mrs. Tester?"

"Well, ma'am, please take a chair, won't you, Mrs. Bertram--you'll like
to be near the fire, my lady, I'm sure." (The Testers generally spoke to
the great woman in this way--she did not trouble herself to contradict
them.) "Well, my lady, she come last night by the train. It was Davis's
cab brought her up, and set her down, her and her bits of things, just
outside the lodge. Nothing would please her but that we should give her
the front bedroom and the little parlor inside this room and she is to
pay us fifteen shillings a week, to cover board and all. It's a great
lift for Tester and me, and she's a nice-spoken young lady, and pleasant
to look at, too. Oh, yes, miss---I beg your pardon, miss. I was just a
bringing of your breakfast in, miss."

The door had been opened behind Mrs. Bertram. She started and turned, as
a tall, slim girl with a head of ruddy gold hair, a rather pale, fair
face, and big bright eyes, came in.

The girl looked at Mrs. Bertram quickly and eagerly. Mrs. Bertram looked
back at her. Neither woman flinched as she gazed, only gradually over
Mrs. Bertram's face there stole a greeny-white hue.

The girl came a little nearer. Old Mrs. Tester bustled past her with the
hot breakfast.

"_You!"_ said Mrs. Bertram, when the old woman had left the room,
"you are Josephine Hart."

"I am Josephine; you know better than to call me Hart."

"Hush! that matter has been arranged between your grandfather and my
solicitor. Do you wish the bargain undone?"

"I sincerely wish it undone."

"I think you don't," said Mrs. Bertram, slowly. She laughed in a
disagreeable manner. "The old woman is coming back," she said suddenly;
"invite me into your parlor for a moment, I have a word or two to say to
you."

Josephine led the way into the little sitting-room; she offered a chair
to Mrs. Bertram, who would not take it. Then she went and shut the door
between the kitchen and the parlor, and standing with her back to the
shut door turned and faced Mrs. Bertram.

"How did you guess my name?" she said, suddenly.

"That was not so difficult. I recognized you by the description my
daughter gave of you. She saw you, remember, that night you hid in the
avenue."

"I did not know it was that," said Josephine softly; "I thought it was
the likeness. I am the image of _him_, am I not?"

She took a small morocco case out of her pocket and proceeded to open
it.

Mrs. Bertram put her hand up to her eyes as if she would shut away a
terrible sight.

"Hush, child! how dare you? Don't show me that picture. I won't look.
What a wicked impostor you are!"

"Impostor! You know better, and my grandfather knows better. What is the
matter, Mrs. Bertram?"

Mrs. Bertram sank down into the chair which at first she had obstinately
refused.

"Josephine," she said, "I am no longer a young woman; I have not got the
strength of youth. I cannot bear up as the young can bear up. Why have
you come here? What object have you in torturing me with your presence
here?"

"I won't torture you; I shall live quietly."

"But why have you come? You had no right to come."

"I had perfect right to live where I pleased. I had all the world to
choose from, and I selected to live at your gates."

"You did very wrong. Wrong! It is unpardonable."

"Why so? What injury am I doing you? I have promised to be silent; I
will be silent for a little. I won't injure you or yours by word or
deed."

"You have a story in your head, a false story; you will spread it
abroad."

"I have a story, but it is not false."

"False or true, you will spread it abroad."

"No, the story is safe. For the present it is safe, my lips are sealed."

"Josephine, I wish you would go away."

"I am sorry, I cannot go away."

"We cannot associate with you. You are not brought up like us. You will
be lonely here, you will find it very dull, you had better go away."

"I am not going away. I have come here and I mean to stay. I shall watch
you, and your son, and your daughters; that will be my amusement."

"I won't say any more to you, proud and insolent girl. My son, at least,
is spared your scrutiny, he is not at Rosendale; and my daughters, I
think, they can live through it."

Mrs. Bertram turned and left the little parlor. She gave her note to
Mrs. Tester, desired it to be taken at once to the Gray House, and then
returned quietly and steadily to the Manor. When she got in she called
Catherine to her.

"Kate, the girl you saw hiding in the avenue has come to live at the
lodge."

"Mother!"

"I have seen her and spoken to her, my dear daughter. She is nothing
either to you or me. Take no notice of her."

"Very well, mother."

Meanwhile, in her little parlor, in the old lodge, Josephine stood with
her hands clasped, and fiery lights of anger, disappointment, pain,
flashing from her eyes. Were that woman's words true? Had Loftus Bertram
gone away? If so, if indeed he had left because she had arrived,
then--Her eyes flashed once more, and with so wicked a light that Mrs.
Tester, who, unobserved, had come into the room, left it again in a
fright. She thought Josephine Hart looked dangerous. She was right. No
one could be more dangerous if she chose.

CHAPTER XVI.

A BRITISH MERCHANT.

Soon after four that afternoon, Davis's tumble-down cab might have been
seen standing outside the gate of the Gray House. Immediately afterwards
the door was opened, and Mrs. Meadowsweet, in her rose-colored satin,
with a black lace shawl, and a bonnet to match made her appearance.

She stepped into the cab, and was followed by Beatrice, Jane, the little
maid, handing in after them a small band-box, which contained the cap
trimmed with Honiton lace.

Mrs. Meadowsweet's cheeks were slightly flushed, and her good-humored
eyes were shining with contentment and satisfaction.

"Oh, there's Mrs. Morris!" she said to Beatrice. "I'd better tell her
where we are going. She's always so interested in the Manor folks.
Davis, stop the cab a minute! Call to him, Bee. Da-vis!"

The cap stopped, and Mrs. Morris, eager and bustling, drew nigh.

"How are you, dear?" she said. "How do you do, Beatrice? Isn't it bad
for you, dear love," turning again to the elder lady, "to have the
window of the fly open? Although it is summer, and the doctor makes a
fuss about the thermometer being over eighty in the shade, I know for a
positive fact that the wind is east, and very treacherous."

"I don't take cold easily, Jessie," replied Mrs. Meadowsweet. "No, I
prefer not to have the windows up, poor Bee would be over hot. We must
think of the young things, mustn't we, Jessie? Well, you'll wonder why I
am in my best toggery! Bee and I are off to the Manor, no less, I assure
you. And to dinner, too! There's news for you."

"Well, I'm sure!" responded Mrs. Morris. Envy was in every tone of her
voice, and on every line of her face. As usual, when excited, she found
her voice, which came out quite thin and sharp. "Well, I'm sure," she
repeated. "I wish you all luck, Lucy. Not that it's such a
condescension, oh, by no means. The doctor said the bedrooms were very
shabby in their furniture, and such a meal as those poor girls were
eating for breakfast. He said his heart quite ached for them. Nothing
but stale bread, and the name of butter, and tea like water bewitched.
He said he'd rather never have a child than see her put down to such
fare."

"Dear, dear, you don't say so," answered Mrs. Meadowsweet. "Bee, my
love, we must have those nice girls constantly to the Gray House, and
feed them up all we can. I'm very sorry to hear your news, Jessie. But
I'm afraid we can't wait to talk any longer now. Nothing could have been
more affable than Mrs. Bertram's letter, sent down by special messenger,
and written in a most stylish hand."

"You haven't got it in your pocket, I suppose?" asked Mrs. Morris.

"To be sure I have. You'd like to see it; well, here it is. You can let
me have it back to-morrow. Now, good-bye. Drive on, Davis."

The cab jumbled and rattled over the paving stones, and Mrs. Meadowsweet
lay back against the cushions, and fanned her hot face.

"I wonder if it's true about those poor girls being so badly fed," she
inquired of her daughter. "Dear, dear, and there's nothing young things
want like generous living. Well, it's grievous. When I think of the
quarts of milk I used to put into you, Bee, and the pounds and pounds of
the best beef jelly--jelly that you could fling over the house, for
thickness and solidity, and the fowls I had boiled down for you after
the measles--who's that coming down the street, Bee? Look, my love, I'm
a bit short-sighted. Oh, it's Miss Peters, of course. How are you, Miss
Peters? Hot day, isn't it? Bee and I are off to the Manor--special
invitation--letter--I lent it to Mrs. Morris. Oh, yes, to dinner. I have
my best cap in this band-box. What do you say? You'll look in
to-morrow--glad to see you. Drive on, Davis."

"Really, mother, if you stop to speak to every one we won't get to the
Manor to-night," gently expostulated Beatrice.

"Well, well, my love, but we don't go to see the Bertrams every day, and
when one feels more pleased and gratified than ordinary, it's nice to
get the sympathy of one's neighbors. I do think the people at Northbury
are very sympathetic, don't you, Bee?"

"Yes, mother, I think they are," responded the daughter.

"And she took care not to tell her parent of any little lurking doubts
which might come to her now and then with regard to the sincerity of
those kind neighbors, who so often partook of the hospitality of the
Gray House."

When they reached the lodge, old Mrs. Tester came out to open the gates.
She nodded and smiled to Beatrice who had often been very kind to her,
and Mrs. Meadowsweet bent forward in the cab to ask very particularly
about the old woman's rheumatism. It was at that moment that Beatrice
caught sight of a face framed in with jasmine and Virginia creeper,
which looked at her from out of an upper casement window in Mrs.
Tester's little lodge. The face with its half-tamed expression, the
eager scrutiny in the eyes, which were almost too bold in their
brightness, startled Beatrice and gave her a sense of uneasiness. The
face came like a flash to the window and then disappeared, and at that
same moment Davis started the cab forward with a jerk. It was to the
credit of both Davis and his sorry-looking steed that they should make a
good show in the avenue. For this they had been reserving themselves,
and they went along now in such a heedless and almost frantic style that
Mrs. Meadowsweet had her bonnet knocked awry, and the band-box which
contained the precious cap absolutely dashed to the floor of the cab.

Beatrice had therefore no time to make any remark with regard to Mrs.
Tester's unwonted visitor.

"This is delightful," said Mrs. Meadowsweet, as she clasped her
hostess's hand, in the long, cool, refined-looking drawing-room. "I'm
very glad to come, and it's most kind of you to invite me. Dear, dear,
what a cool room! Wonderful! How do you manage this kind of effect, Mrs.
Bertram? Dearie me--_very_ pretty--_very_ pretty indeed."

Here Mrs. Meadowsweet sank down on one of the sofas, and gazed round her
with the most genuine delight.

"Where's Bee?" she said. "She ought to look round this room and take
hints from it. We spent a lot of money over our drawing-room, but it
never looks like this. Where are you, Beatrice?"

"Never mind now," responded Mrs. Bertram, whose voice, in spite of
herself, had to take an extra well-bred tone when she spoke to Mrs.
Meadowsweet. Miss Beatrice has just gone out with my girls, and I
thought you and I would have tea here, and afterwards sit under the
shade of that oak-tree and watch the children at their game."

"Very nice, I'm sure," responded Mrs. Meadowsweet. She spread out her
fat hands on her lap and untied her bonnet-strings. "It's hot," she
said. "Do you find the dog-days try you very much, Mrs. Bertram?"

"I don't feel the heat particularly," said Mrs. Bertram. She was anxious
to assume a friendly tone, but was painfully conscious that her voice
was icy.

"Well, that's lucky for you," remarked the visitor. "I flush up a good
deal. Beatrice never does. She takes after her father; he was
wonderfully cool, poor man. Have you got a newspaper of any sort about,
that you'd lend me, Mrs. Bertram?"

"Oh, certainly," answered Mrs. Bertram, in some astonishment. "Here is
yesterday's _Times_."

"I'll make it into a fan, if you have no objection. Now, that's better.
Dear, dear, what a nice room!"

Mrs. Bertram fidgetted on her chair. She wondered how many more times
Mrs. Meadowsweet would descant on the elegancies of her drawing-room.
She need not have feared. Whatever Mrs. Meadowsweet was she was honest;
and at that very moment her eyes lighted on the felt which covered the
floor. Mrs. Meadowsweet had never been trained in a school of art, but,
as she said to herself, no one knew better what was what than she did;
above all, no one knew better what was _comme il faut_ in the
matter of carpets. Meadowsweet, poor man, had been particular about his
carpets. There were grades in carpets as in all other things, and felt,
amongst these grades, ranked low, very low indeed. Kidderminster might
be permitted in bedrooms, although Mrs. Meadowsweet would scorn to see
it in any room in _her_ house, but Brussels was surely the only
correct carpet for people of medium means to cover their drawing-room
floors with. The report that Mrs. Bertram's drawing-room wore a mantle
of felt had reached Mrs. Meadowsweet's ears. She had emphatically
declined to believe in any such calumny, and yet now her own eyes saw,
her own good-humored, kind eyes, that wished to think well of all the
world, rested on that peculiar greeny-brown felt, which surely must have
come to its present nondescript hue by the aid of many suns. The whole
room looked immediately almost sordid to the poor woman, and she felt no
longer anxious for Beatrice to appreciate its beauties.

At that moment Clara appeared with the tea. Now, if there was a thing
Mrs. Meadowsweet was particular about it was her tea; she revelled in
her tea; she always bought it from some very particular and exclusive
house in London. She saw that it was served strong and hot; she was
particular to have it made with what she called the "first boil"
of the water. Water that had boiled for five minutes made, in Mrs.
Meadowsweet's opinion, contemptible tea. Then she liked it well
sweetened, and flavored with very rich cream. Such a cup of tea, as she
expressed it, set her up for the day. The felt carpet had given Mrs.
Meadowsweet a kind of shock, but all her natural spirits revived when
she saw the tea equipage. She approved of the exquisite eggshell china,
and noted with satisfaction that the teapot was really silver.

"What a refreshment a cup of tea is!" exclaimed the good woman. "Nothing
like it, as I dare say you know, Mrs. Bertram."

Mrs. Bertram smiled languidly, and raising the teapot, prepared to pour
out a cup for her guest. She was startled by a noise, which sounded
something like a shout, coming from the fat lady's lips.

"Did you speak?" she asked.

"Oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Bertram, but don't--it's cruel."

"Don't do what?"

"The tea isn't drawn. Let it rest a bit--why, it's the color of straw."

"This peculiar tea is always of a light color," replied Mrs. Bertram,
her sallow face growing darkly red. "I hope you will appreciate it; but
perhaps it is a matter of training. It is, however, I assure you, quite
the vogue among my friends in London."

Mrs. Meadowsweet felt crushed. She received the cup of flavorless,
half-cold liquid presented to her in a subdued spirit, sipped it with
the air of a martyr, and devoutly wished herself back again in the Gray
House.

Mrs. Bertram knew perfectly well that her guest thought the tea
detestable and the cake stale. It was as necessary for people of Mrs.
Meadowsweet's class to go in for strong tea and high living as it was
for people of Mrs. Bertram's class to aspire to faded felt in the matter
of carpets, and water bewitched in the shape of tea. Each after her
kind, Mrs. Bertram murmured. But as she had an object in view it was
necessary for her to earn the good-will of the well-to-do widow.

Accordingly, when the slender meal came to an end, and the two ladies
found themselves under the shelter of the friendly oak-tree, matters
went more smoothly. Mrs. Bertram put her guest into an excellent humor
by bestowing some cordial praise upon Beatrice.

"She is not like you," continued the good lady, with some naivete.

"No, no," responded the gratified mother. "And sorry I'd be to think
that Beatrice took after me. I'm commonplace. Mrs. Bertram. I have no
figure to boast of, nor much of a face either. What _he_ saw to
like in me, poor man, has puzzled my brain a score and score of times.
Kind and affectionate he ever was, but he couldn't but own, as own I did
for him, that I was a cut below him. Beatrice features her father, Mrs.
Bertram, both in mind and body."

Mrs. Bertram murmured some compliment about the mother's kind heart, and
then turned to a subject which is known to be of infallible interest to
all ladies. She spoke of her ailments.

Mrs. Meadowsweet beamed all over when this subject came on the
_tapis_. She even laid her fat hand on Mrs. Bertram's lap.

"Now, _did_ you ever try Eleazer Macjone's Pills of Life?" she
asked. "I always have a lot of them in the house; and I assure you, Mrs.
Bertram, they are worth all the doctor's messes put together; for years
I have taken the pills, and it's a positive fact that they're made to
fit the human body all round. Headaches--it's wonderful what Macjone's
pills do for headaches. If you have a low, all-overish feeling,
Macjone's pills pick you up directly. They are wonderful, too, for
colds; and if there's any infection going they nip it in the bud. I wish
you would try them, Mrs. Bertram; I know they'd pull you round, I'll
send for a box for you with pleasure when I'm having my next chest of
tea down from London. I always get my tea from London. I think what they
sell here is little better than dishwater; so I say to Beatrice, 'Bee,
my love, whatever happens, we'll get our tea from town."

"And your pills from town, too," responded Mrs. Bertram. "I think you
are a very wise woman, Mrs. Meadowsweet. How well your daughter plays
tennis. Yes, she is decidedly graceful. I have heard of many pills in my
day, and patent pills invariably fit one all round, but I have never yet
heard of Eleazer Macjone's Life Pills. You look very well, Mrs.
Meadowsweet, so I shall recommend them in future. For my part, I think
the less drugs one swallows the better."

"You are quite right, Mrs. Bertram, quite right. Except for the pills I
never touch medicine. And now I'd like to give you a wrinkle. I wouldn't
spend much money, if I were you, on Dr. Morris. He's all fads, poor man,
all fads. He speaks of the Life Pills as poison, and his terms--I have
over and over told his wife, Jessie Morris, that her husband's terms are
preposterous."

"Then I am afraid he will not suit me," replied Mrs. Bertram, "I cannot
afford to meet preposterous terms, for I, alas! am poor."

"Dear, dear, I'm truly sorry to hear it, Mrs. Bertram. And with your
fine young family, too. That lad of yours is as handsome a young fellow
as I've often set eyes on. And your girls, particularly Miss Catherine,
are specially genteel."

"A great many people consider Catherine handsome," replied her mother,
who began to shiver inwardly under the infliction of Mrs. Meadowsweet's
talk. She tried to add something about Loftus, but for some reason or
other words failed her. After a moment's pause she resumed:

"Only those who know what small means are can understand the constant
self-denial they inflict.

"And that's true enough, Mrs. Bertram."

"Ah, Mrs. Meadowsweet, you must be only assuming this sympathetic tone.
For, if all reports are true, you and Miss Beatrice are wealthy."

Mrs. Meadowsweet's eyes beamed lovingly on her hostess.

"We have enough and to spare," she responded. "Thank the good God we
have enough and to spare. Meadowsweet saw to that, poor man."

"Your husband was in business?" gently in quired Mrs. Bertram.

"He kept a shop, Mrs. Bertram. I'm the last to deny it. He kept a good,
thriving draper's shop in the High Street. The best of goods he had, and
he sold fair. I used to help him in those days. I used to go to London
to buy the Spring fashions, and pretty things I'd buy, uncommonly
pretty, and the prettiest of all, you may be sure, for little Beatrice.
Ah! you could get a stylish hat in Northbury in those days. Poor man, he
had the custom of all the country round. There was no shop like
Meadowsweet's. Well, he made his fortune in it, and he died full of
money and much respected. What could man do more?"

"And your daughter Beatrice resembles her father?"

"She does, Mrs. Bertram. He was a very genteel man--a cut above me, as I
said before. He was fond of books, and but for me maybe he'd have got
into trade in the book line. But I warned him off that shoal. I said to
him, scores of times, 'Mark my words, William, dress will last, and
books won't. People must be clothed, but they needn't read.' He was wise
enough to stick to my words, and he made his fortune."

"I suppose," said Mrs. Bertram, in a slow, meditative voice, "that
a--um--merchant--in a small town like this, might, with care, realize,
say, two or three thousand pounds."

Mrs. Meadowsweet's eyes almost flashed.

"Two or three thousand!" she said, "dearie me, dearie me. When people
talk of fortunes, in Northbury, they _mean_ fortunes, Mrs. Bertram."

"And your daughter will inherit?" asked the hostess of her guest.

"There's full and plenty for me, Mrs. Bertram, and when Beatrice comes
of age, or when she marries with her mother's approval, she'll have
twenty thousand pounds. Twenty thousand invested in the funds, that's
her fortune, not bad for a shopkeeper's daughter, is it, Mrs. Bertram?"
Mrs. Bertram said that it was anything but bad, and she inwardly
reflected on the best means of absolutely suppressing the memory of the
shopkeeper, and how, by a little judicious training, she might induce
Mrs. Meadowsweet to speak of her late partner as belonging to the roll
of British merchants.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE WITCH WITH THE YELLOW HAIR.

A corner is a very pretty addition to a room, and a cleft-stick has been
known to present a more picturesque appearance than a straight one. But
to find oneself, metaphorically speaking, pushed into the corner or
wedged into the cleft of the stick is neither picturesque nor pleasant.

This was Mrs. Bertram's present position. She had suddenly, and at a
moment when she least expected it, been confronted with the ghost of
a long ago past. The ghost of a past, so remote that she had almost
forgotten it, had come back and stared her in the face. This ghost had
assumed terrible dimensions, and the poor woman was dreadfully afraid
of it.

She had taken a hurried journey to London in the vain hope of laying it.
Alas! it would not be laid. Most things, however, can be bought at a
price, and Mrs. Bertram had bought the silence of this troublesome ghost
of the past. She had bought it at a very heavy cost.

Her money was in the hands of trustees; she dared not go to them to
assist her, therefore, the only price she could pay was out of her
yearly income.

To quiet this troublesome ghost she agreed to part with four hundred
a year. A third of her means was, therefore, taken away with one fell
swoop. Loftus must still have his allowance, for Loftus of all people
must know nothing of his mother's anxieties. Mrs. Bertram and her girls
would, therefore, have barely five hundred a year to live on. Out of
this sum she would still struggle to save, but she knew she could save
but little. She knew that all chance of introducing Catherine and Mabel
into society was at an end. She had dreamed dreams for her girls, and
these dreams must come to nothing. She had hoped many things for them
both, she had thought that all her care and trouble would receive its
fruition some day in Catherine's establishment, and that Mabel would
also marry worthily. In playing with her grandchildren by-and-bye, Mrs.
Bertram thought that she might relax her anxieties and feel that her
labors had not been in vain. She must put these hopes aside now, for her
girls would probably never marry. They would live on at this dull old
Manor until their youth had left them, and their sweet, fresh bloom
departed.

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