The Honorable Miss: A Story of an Old-Fashioned Town by L. T. Meade (online e reader .TXT) 📗
- Author: L. T. Meade
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Once that wool-work had been put together with love and pride. The impossible lilies and roses, the huge peonies, and gigantic hollyhocks which composed its pattern, had been formed, stitch by stitch, by unknown fingers, probably now crumbled to dust.
The wool-work might have told a story could it speak, but it had never imparted its secrets, pathetic or otherwise, to Mrs. Gorman Stanley, and Beatrice received the gorgeous gift with little emotion, and some shrinking away from its bad taste.
Mrs. Butler, after a great deal of consultation with her sister Maria, decided to give the bride-elect a huge white, carved ivory brooch. This brooch was her own favorite ornament; it was of gigantic dimensions, and consisted of an elaborate circle of flowers, supporting the word "Martha" in the centre.
"You'll wear it for me, love," said Mrs. Butler, "you'll never put it on, but you'll give Martha Butler a thought."
Beatrice assured her friend that this must certainly be the case. She was really grateful to Mrs. Butler, for she knew the old lady adored that brooch, and it had cost her much to deprive herself of it.
Miss Peters smuggled her little gift into Beatrice's hand as they were parting. It was a yard of Honiton lace, very old, and much darned. Bee had often seen this lace round Miss Peters' little wintry throat. She kissed it when she looked at it now, and placed it very near the crotchet edging in her regard.
But it would take a much longer space than this story can afford to recount all the presents that came to Beatrice Meadowsweet. From the Bertram connection the gifts were of money value, from the Northbury people they were rich with something better than money. Not one of Bee's friends forgot her at this time.
September came on apace, and at last there wanted but a week of the wedding day.
On a certain evening when the wind blew rather fresh from the sea, Captain Bertram asked Beatrice to walk with him. She complied. They took a long walk over the cliffs, and it was quite late and dark when they returned home.
They had to pass the Manor on their way back to the Gray House, where Bertram was to stay for supper.
As they walked along, talking gravely, for Beatrice did not often laugh when alone with her lover, a slender and tall figure passed them quickly in the darkness. Bertram, who was walking very close to Bee, stumbled against her, and uttered a smothered oath.
"What is the matter?" she asked in astonishment. "Have you hurt yourself?"
"No, I thought I recognized a face, but I must be mistaken."
"That slim girl who passed us so quickly just now? I, too, fancy I have seen her before. Certainly she is a stranger here."
"Don't talk about her, Beatrice. It was a casual likeness. People look so different—distorted by the darkness. To-night it is very dark. There is no moon."
"Still, I can see," said Beatrice, pausing and looking back. "I can see, and I fancy the stranger is standing still and looking at us. Back there, by the hedge. Perhaps she is in trouble. Shall I run and speak to her?"
"No, not for the world. Come home. Forget her."
His tone was almost rough. They walked on rapidly. The high wind of a coming storm beat in their faces. Beatrice felt tired and dispirited, and Bertram's agitation and complete change of manner puzzled her.
Presently they reached the house.
"Here we are at last; you will be glad of your supper," she said.
"No, thanks, I am not coming in."
"Not coming in? You promised. Mother expects you."
"Excuse me to-night, Beatrice. I have a headache. I shall go straight home. Good-night. I'll come down early in the morning."
He took her hand, dropped it hastily, and almost before the door was opened, had turned away. Beatrice did not go in at once. She heard his quick, retreating steps. Presently they quickened into a run.
CHAPTER XXVI. WE WILL RETURN TO OUR SECLUSION.
"I am mad," said Bertram to himself. "Mad, as ever was the proverbial March hare. That girl who passed us in the darkness was Josephine Hart. Yes, that girl was Nina, and I must, I will, see her again."
His heart was beating tumultuously; he felt the great passion of his love tingling through all his veins. Money was nothing to him in this hour, debts were forgotten, disgrace and dishonor were nowhere. Nina and love were all in all. He would see her, he would kiss her, he would hold her in his arms, he would, he must. The very elements helped him as he ran back to the place where he knew she had paused to watch him. Why had she come back! She knew her power only too well. Why had she come to exercise it? It was mad of her, wicked of her, it meant his ruin, and yet he was glad, yet he rejoiced.
The moments seemed endless until he could reach her. Beatrice was as absolutely forgotten by him at this moment as if she had never existed.
At last he gained the spot where Josephine had brushed past him in the darkness. He knew it, he knew the sudden curve of the road, the bend in the path where it began to dip downwards. He stood still, and strained his eyes to look through the darkness. No one was there. Beatrice had seen the slender figure leaning against the hedge, but all now was emptiness and solitude. Not a soul was in sight. On this lonely road not a being but himself breathed.
He stood motionless, he listened hard. Once even he called aloud:
"I am here, Nina! Here, Nina! waiting for you here!"
But no one responded. He was alone; the vision, the delicious, heart-stirring vision, had vanished.
Captain Bertram wandered about, restless and miserable, for an hour or two. Then he went home and retired straight to his room.
That night he did not attempt to keep the secret chamber of his heart in which Josephine dwelt, locked and barred. No, he opened the doors wide, and bade her come out, and talked to her. Passionate and wild and loving words he used, and Beatrice was nothing to him. He did not go to bed that night. In the morning his face showed symptoms of the vigil he had passed through. His mother noticed the haggard lines round his eyes, and she gave vent to a sigh—scarcely audible, it is true, and quickly smothered.
Mrs. Bertram was happy, but still she lived on thorns. She felt that the fairy palace she had built over that sepulchre of the past might crumble at any moment. The lines of care on Bertram's brow gave her a sensation of fear. Was anything the matter? Was the courage of the bride-elect failing? At the eleventh hour could anything possibly injure the arrangements so nearly completed?
Catherine and Mabel were in good spirits. Their bride's-maids' dresses had arrived from town the previous night. They were of gauzy white over silk slips; the girls had never possessed such luxurious costumes before.
"You'd like to see us in them, wouldn't you, Loftie?" said Mabel. "Catherine looks splendid in hers, and those big hats with Marguerites are so becoming. Shall we put our dresses on, Loftie, for you to see before you run away to Beatrice? Shall we?"
Loftus raised his dark eyes, and looked full at his young sister. There were heavy shadows round his eyes; their depths looked gloomy and troubled.
"What did you say?" he asked, in a morose voice.
"What did I say? Well, really, Loftie, you are too bad. I do think you are the most selfish person I know. At one time I thought Bee was improving you, but you are worse than ever this morning. You never, never, take a bit of interest in things that don't immediately concern yourself. I thought our bride's-maids' dresses would have been sufficiently important to rouse a passing interest even in—now, what's the matter, Catherine? I will speak out."
"Forgive me, Mab, I have a headache and feel stupid," interrupted Loftus, rising to his feet. "I'm going out for a stroll; the air will do me good."
He went up to the end of the table where his mother sat, kissed her almost tenderly, and left the room.
Catherine began to reprove Mabel.
"It is you who are selfish," she said. "You know Loftie must have a great deal on his mind just now."
"Oh, well, I don't care. Every little pleasure is somehow or other dashed to the ground. I was pleased when I thought Bee was to be my sister, and she was so sweet about the dresses, choosing just what we'd look best in. Loftus was nice, too, until this morning. Now I don't feel as if I cared about anything."
Mabel never reflected on the possibility of her own words causing annoyance. She ate her breakfast without observing that both her mother and Catherine looked depressed. Presently, like the thoughtless child she was, she looked up with laughing eyes:
"Won't the Bells look funny in those grand robes. Do you know, Kate, I heard such a ridiculous thing yesterday. It was Mrs. Gorman Stanley who told me. She said Matty Bell was over head and ears in love with Loftie, and that Mrs. Bell had quite made up her mind that Loftie was to marry Mattie. She told such a funny story of the way Mrs. Butler broke the news of Beatrice's engagement to the Bells. Now, what's up? Have I said anything wrong again?"
"You have, Mabel," said her mother. "You have been guilty of repeating common and vulgar gossip. You ought never to have listened to it. I had hoped that a daughter of mine, a Bertram, too, would have inspired too much respect to have any such rubbish spoken of in her presence."
"Oh, really, mother, I don't think people much care whether we are Bertrams or not."
"Hush, my dear, that is sufficient. I always feared the effect of the low society of this place on you both, and in especial on you, Mabel. My fears have been justified by the results. As soon as Loftus's wedding is over we will return to our seclusion, my dears."
CHAPTER XXVII. THE LIGHTS WERE DIM.
Early on that very morning Miss Hart tapped at Mrs. Bell's door. That good lady was not fully dressed, but she appeared in a voluminous morning robe to answer her young visitor's summons.
"I am going away, Mrs. Bell," said Miss Hart.
"Oh, my dear!" Mrs. Bell's full-moon face turned absolutely pale. "Going away, my love!" she said. She thought of her private hoard, not nearly large enough, and her voice became absolutely pathetic. "Going away, Miss Hart? I'm truly grieved to hear it. And haven't I made you comfortable enough, my poor dear?"
"Oh, you misunderstand me, Mrs. Bell. I am going away, but only for a little—just for a day or two. I don't know exactly when I shall be back, but probably in a day or two. I am going by the early train, and I tapped at your door to say good-bye."
Then Mrs. Bell in her delight and joy kissed Miss Hart, who soon afterwards left the house.
She walked to the station, the hour was early, and there was no special person about. She took a first-class ticket to a small town about thirty miles away, and immediately afterwards her train came up.
During the greater part of her journey Miss Hart had the compartment to herself. By-and-bye fellow-passengers got in, who almost started back at the sight of the pale face of the girl, who sat with her veil thrown back, looking straight out of the open window.
There was a strange expression on her face; her brows were slightly drawn together, and the curves of her lips had a, weary and pathetic droop. She had taken off her gloves, and now and then she clasped her slender white hands together with a nervous, passionate tension. Then the look in her eyes became almost ugly, and her fellow passengers were uncomfortable as they watched her.
At the little country town of West Brockley, Miss Hart alighted. She had brought all her luggage in a small handbag, and now she walked to her destination. It was in the outskirts of the little town, and amongst a row of poor houses. She stopped at one of these, and
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