The Honorable Miss: A Story of an Old-Fashioned Town

  CHAPTER IV.

  TWO LETTERS.

  Northbury was so completely out of the world that it only had a postaldelivery twice a day. The early post was delivered at eight o'clock, sothat the good people of the place could discuss their little items ofoutside news over their breakfast-tables. The postman went round withhis evening delivery at seven. He was not overwhelmed by the aristocracyof Rosendale Manor, and, notwithstanding Mrs. Bertram's open annoyance,insisted on calling there last. He said it suited him best to do so, andwhat suited Sammy Benjafield he was just as determined to do, as Mrs.Bertram was to carry out her own schemes.

  Consequently, the evening letters never reached the Manor until betweeneight and half-past. Mrs. Bertram and her daughters dined at seven. Theywere the only people in Northbury who ate their dinner at thataristocratic hour; tea between four and five, and hot, substantial andunwholesome suppers were the order of the day with the Northbury folk._Very_ substantial these suppers were, and even the Rector was notproof against the hot lobster and rich decoctions of crab with which hisflock favored him at these hours.

  For the very reason, however, that heavy suppers were in vogue atNorthbury, Mrs. Bertram determined to adhere to the refinement of aseven-o'clock dinner. Very refined and very simple this dinner generallywas. The fare often consisting of soup made out of vegetables from thegarden, with a very slight suspicion of what housekeepers call stock tostart it; fish, which meant as often as not three simple but freshherrings; a morsel of meat curried or hashed would generally follow; anddessert and sweets would in the summer be blended into one;strawberries, raspberries or gooseberries from the garden forming thenecessary materials. Cream did not accompany the strawberries, and therich wine in the beautiful and curiously-cut decanters was placed on thetable for show, not for use.

  But then the dinners at the Manor were so exquisitely served. Suchnapery, such china, such sparkling and elegant glass, and suchhighly-polished plate. Poor little Clara, the serving-maid, who had notyet acquired the knack of telling a lie with _sang froid_absolutely trembled, as she spread out her snowy table-cloths, and laidher delicate china and glass and silver on the board.

  "It don't seem worth while," she often remarked to the cook. "For what'san' erring? It seems wicked to eat an' erring off sech plates as them."

  "It's a way the quality have," retorted Mrs. Masters, who had come fromLondon with the Bertrams and did not mean to stay. "They heats nothing,and they lives on _sham_. Call _this_ soup! There, Clara, you'll bea sham yourself before you has done with them."

  Clara thought this highly probable, but she was still young andromantic, and could do a great deal of living on make-beliefs, like manyother girls all the world over.

  As the Bertrams were eating their strawberries off delicate Sevresplates on the evening of the day when Mr. Ingram had disclosed theparentage of poor Beatrice Meadowsweet, the postman was seen passing thewindow.

  Benjafield had a very slow and aggravating gait. The more impatientpeople were for their letters, the more tedious was he in his delivery.Benjafield had been a fisherman in his day, and had a very sharp,withered old face. He had a blind eye, too, and walked by the aid of acrutch but it was his boast that, notwithstanding his one eye and hislameness, no one had ever yet got the better of him.

  "There's Benjafield!" exclaimed Mabel. "Shall I run and fetch theletters, mother?"

  Mrs. Bertram rose slowly from her seat at the head of the board.

  "The post is later than ever," she remarked; "it is past the half-hour.I shall go myself and speak to Benjafield."

  She walked slowly out through the open window. She wore an evening dressof rusty black velvet with a long train. It gave her a very imposingappearance, and the effect of her evening dress and her handsome faceand imperious manners were so overpowering that the old postman, as hehobbled toward her, had to mutter under his breath:

  "Don't forget your game leg, Benjafield, nor your wall eye, and don'tyou be tooken down nor beholden to nobody."

  "Why is the post so late?" inquired Mrs. Bertram. "It is more thanhalf-past eight."

  "Eh!" exclaimed Benjafleld.

  "I asked why the post was so late."

  "Eh? I'm hard of hearing, your ladyship."

  He came a little nearer, and leered up in the most familiar way into thearistocratic face of Mrs. Bertram.

  "Intolerable old man," she muttered, aloud: "Take the letters from him,Catherine, and bring them here."

  Then raising her voice to a thin scream, she continued:

  "I shall write to the general post-office on this subject; it is quiteintolerable that in any part of England Her Majesty's Post should beentrusted to incapable hands."

  Old Benjafield, fumbling in his bag, produced two letters which hepresented to Catherine. He did so with a dubious, inquiring glance ather mother, again informed the company generally that he was hard ofhearing, and hobbled away.

  One of the letters, addressed in a manly and dashing hand, was forCatherine. The other, also in manly but decidedly cramped writing, wasaddressed to Mrs. Bertram.

  She started when she saw the handwriting, instantly forgot oldBenjafield, and disappeared into the house.

  When she was gone Mabel danced up to her sister's side, and looked overher shoulder at the thick envelope addressed in the manly hand.

  "Kate, it's from Loftie!" she exclaimed.

  "Yes, it's from Loftie," responded Catherine. "Let us come and sit underthe elm-tree and read what he says, May."

  The girls seated themselves together on a rustic bench, tore open thethick letter, and acquainted themselves with its contents.

  "Dearest,--I'm coming home to-morrow night. _Must_ see the mater. Have got into a fresh scrape. Don't tell anyone but May--I mean about the scrape.

  "Your devoted brother,

  "LOFTUS."

  Catherine read this letter twice, once to herself, then aloud forMabel's benefit.

  "Now, what's up?" exclaimed Mabel. "It must be very bad. He never callsyou 'dearest;' unless it's awfully bad. Does he, Kitty?"

  "No," said Catherine. "Poor mother," she added then, and she gave aprofound and most ungirlish sigh.

  "Why, Catherine, you have been grumbling at mother all day! You havebeen feeling so cross about her."

  "You never will understand, Mabel! I grumble at mother for herfrettiness, but I love her, I pity her for her sorrows."

  Mabel looked full into her sister's face.

  "I confess I don't understand you," she said. "I can't love one side ofa person, and hate the other side; I don't know that I love or hateanybody very much. It's more comfortable not to do things very much,isn't it, Kitty?"

  "I suppose so," replied Catherine, "but I can't say. That isn't myfashion. I do everything very much. I love, I hate, I joy or sorrow, allin extremes. Perhaps it isn't a good way, but it's the only way I'vegot. Now let us talk about Loftus. I wonder if he is going to stay long,and if he will make himself pleasant."

  "No fear of that," responded Mabel. "He'll be as selfish and exacting asever he can be. He'll keep mother in a state of fret, and you in a stateof excitement, and he'll insist on smoking a cigarette close to the newcretonne curtains in the drawing-room, and he'll make me go out in thehot part of the day to gather fresh strawberries for him. Oh, I do thinkbrothers are worries! I wish he wasn't coming. We are very peaceful andsnug here. And mother's face doesn't looked harassed as it often didwhen we were in town. I do wish Loftus wasn't coming to upseteverything. It was he turned us away from our nice, sprightly, jollyLondon, and now, surely he need not follow us into the country. Yes,Catherine, what words of wisdom or reproof are going to drop from yourlips?"

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

  "How is it different for you?"

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

  At this moment Mrs. Bertram's tall figure
was seen standing on the stepsof the house. It was getting dark; a heavy dew was falling, and the airwas slightly, pleasantly chill after the intense heat of the day. Mrs.Bertram had wrapped a white fleecy cloud over her head. She descendedthe 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'slap. "I know by mother's tone she is troubled. Don't let us show her theletter 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 thegrass, looking slim and pale in her white muslin dress, her face full ofintense feeling, her manner so hurried and eager that her mother feltirritated by it.

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

  "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 hallwhich was lit by a ghostly, and not too carefully-trimmed, paraffinlamp. Catherine followed her. They went into the drawing-room. Here alsoa paraffin lamp gave an uncertain light; very feeble, yellow, anduncertain it was, but even by it Catherine could catch a glimpse of hermother's face. It was drawn and white, it was not only changed from theprosperous, handsome face which the girl had last looked at, but it hadlost its likeness to the haughty, the proud, the satisfied Mrs. Bertramof Catherine's knowledge. Its expression now betokened a kind of inwardscare or fright.

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

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

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

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

  "You are a good child, Kate," said her mother in an unwonted and gentlevoice. "You are full of whims and fancies; but when you like you can bea great support to one. Do you remember long ago when your father diedhow 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 aheartache? We have no time, Kate, to talk any more sentimentalities. Ihave 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 totwelve. 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 hadheadaches, Kitty could cure them."

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

  "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 chargeof 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 apause. "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 hadsome news that troubles me. I am going to London to try and put somewrong things right. You need not look so horrified, Kate; I shallcertainly put them right. It might complicate matters in certainquarters if it were known that I had gone to London, therefore I do itsecretly. It is necessary, however, that one person should know where towrite to me. I choose you to be that person, Catherine, but you are onlyto 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 notgoing to prepare for any such unlikely contingency as your suddenillness. Catherine, these are the _only_ circumstances under whichyou are to communicate with your mother. Listen, my dear daughter.Listen attentively. A good deal depends on your discretion. A strangermay call. The stranger may be either a man or a woman. He or she willask to see me. Finding I am away this person, whether man or woman, willtry to have an interview with either you or Mabel, and will endeavor byevery means to get my address. Mabel, knowing nothing, can revealnothing, 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 telegraphto me. My address is in this closed-up envelope. Lock the envelope inyour 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. Shefelt 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 goingto Manchester. A train to Manchester can be taken from Fleet-hillJunction, 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 didnot 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 hervoice 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 yourhalf-confidences. I don't understand you. It is very difficult to actwhen one only half understands."

  "I cannot make things plainer for you, my dear. I am glad Loftie iscoming. You girls must entertain him as well as you can. This isWednesday evening. I hope to be back at the latest on Monday. It ispossible even that I may transact my business sooner. Keep Loftus in agood temper, Kate. Don't let him quarrel with Mabel, and, above allthings, 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 leanon."