Now, however, she had absolutely an attack of the nerves. Mabel found her mother, on coming to wish her good-morning one day, shivering so violently that she could not complete her dressing. Loftus was not at home. He had rejoined his regiment for a brief spell, so Catherine and Mabel had to act on their own responsibility.
They did not hesitate to send for the local doctor.
Dr. Morris, who was calmly shaving in his bedroom was very much excited when his wife rushed in to tell him that he was summoned in haste to the Manor.
"And you might peep into the Manor drawing-room on your way downstairs, doctor," whispered the good lady, in her muffled tone, "and find out if the carpet is really felt. Mrs. Gorman Stanley swears that it is, but for my part I can scarce give credence to such an unlikely story, for surely no woman who could only afford a felt covering for the floor of her best sitting-room would give herself the airs Mrs. Bertram has done."
"Just see that my black bag is ready, Jessie," was the husband's retort to this tirade. "And you might hurry John round with the pony-chaise."
Dr. Morris felt intensely proud as he drove off to see his august patient. He drew up his rough pony once or twice to announce the fact to any stray passer-by.
"Good-day, Bell,—fine morning, isn't it? I'm just off to the Manor. Mrs. B. not quite the thing. Ah, I see Mrs. Jenkins coming down the street. I must tell her that I can't look in this morning."
He nodded to Mr. Bell, and drove on until he met the angular lady known by this name.
"Good-morning, good-morning," he called in his cheery tones, and scarcely drawing in the pony at all now. "I meant to look round in the course of the forenoon to see how the new tonic agrees with Miss Daisy; but I may be a little late; I'm summoned in haste to the Manor."
Here he touched his little pony's head with the whip, and, before Mrs. Jenkins could utter a word of either astonishment or interest, had turned the corner and was out of sight.
The fashionable disease of nerves had not yet become an epidemic at Northbury, and Dr. Morris was a little puzzled at the symptoms which his great patient exhibited. He was proud to speak of Mrs. Bertram as his "great patient," and told her to her face in rather a fulsome manner that he considered it the highest possible honor to attend her. He ordered his favorite tonic of cod liver oil, told her to stay in bed, and keep on low diet, and, having pocketed his fee drove away.
Mrs. Bertram was outwardly very civil to the Northbury doctor, but when he departed she scolded Catherine and Mabel for having sent for him, tore up his prescription, wrote one for herself, which she sent to the chemist to have made up, and desired Catherine to give her a glass of port wine from one of a treasured few bottles of a rare vintage which she had brought with her to Rosendale.
"It was a few days after her visit to the Meadowsweets that Mrs. Bertram had been taken ill. She soon became quite well again, and then rather astonished Catherine by telling her that she had herself seen Beatrice Meadowsweet; that she had found her daughter's judgment with regard to her to be apparently correct, and that, in consequence, she did not object to Beatrice visiting at the Manor.
"You may make Miss Meadowsweet your friend," she said to both girls. "She may come here, and you may sometimes go to see her. But remember, she is the only Northbury young lady I will admit into my society."
A few days afterwards, Loftus, who had again managed to obtain leave of absence from his military duties, reappeared on the scenes. As has been seen, Loftus would admit of no restrictions with regard to his acquaintances, and after the remarkable fashion of some young men, he tried to secure an interest in the affections of Beatrice by flirting with Matty Bell.
Mrs. Bertram knew nothing of these iniquities on the part of her son. It never entered even into her wildest dreams that any son or daughter of her could associate with people of the stamp of the Bells. Even had she been aware of it, however, she knew better than to try to coerce her captain.
She had quite worries enough of her own, poor woman, and not the least of them, in the eyes of the girls, was the fresh mania she took for saving. Meals had never been too plentiful at Rosendale. Now, the only remark that could be made in their favor was that they satisfied hunger. Healthy girls will eat any wholesome food, and when Loftus was not at home, Catherine and Mabel Bertram made their breakfast off porridge.
Mabel ate hungrily, and grumbled not a little. Catherine was also hungry, but she did not grumble. She was never one to care greatly for the luxuries of life, and all her thoughts now were taken up watching her mother. The effect of her mother's sudden confidence in her, the effect of the trouble which had undoubtedly come to her mother had altogether an extraordinary influence over Catherine. She ceased to be a wild and reckless tom-boy, she ceased to defy her mother in small matters; her character seemed to gain strength, and her face, always strong in its expression and giving many indications of latent power of character, looked now more serious than gay, more sweet and thoughtful than fastidious and discontented.
Catherine had plenty of tact, and she watched her mother without appearing to watch her. She was loyal, too, in heart and soul, and never even hinted to others of the confidence reposed in her.
It was a lovely summer's morning. Catherine and Mabel were up early; they were picking raspberries to add to the meagre provisions for breakfast. It was always difficult to manage a pleasant breakfast hour when Loftus was at home. Mrs. Bertram used to flush up painfully when Loftus objected to the viands placed before him, and Catherine was most anxious to spare her mother by satisfying the fastidious tastes of her brother.
"Why should Loftus have all the raspberries?" angrily queried Mabel. "I should like some myself, and so would you, Kate. Why should Loftus have everything?"
"Nonsense, May, he's not going to have everything. This plate of special beauties is for mother."
"Well, that's quite right. Loftus and you and I can divide the rest."
"May, I'm going to whisper a secret to you. Now, don't let it out, for the lords of creation would be so angry if they knew. But I do think in little things girls are much greater than men. Now what girl who is worth anything cares whether she eats a few raspberries or not. While as to the men—I consider them nothing but crybabies about their food. Here, Mab, race me to the house."
Mabel puffed and panted after her more energetic sister. It was a very hot morning, and it really was aggravating of Kate to fly on the wings of the wind, and expect her to follow.
"Kate has no thought," she muttered, as she panted along. "I shall feel hot and messy for the day now, and there's nothing nice for me to eat when I do get in. It's all very fine to be Kate, who, I don't think, is mortal at all about some things, but I expect I'm somewhat of a cry-baby too, when I see all the nice appetizing food disappearing down a certain manly throat. Hullo, what's the matter now, Kitty?"
Catherine was standing by the window of the breakfast-room waving an open note in her hand.
"Three cheers for you, Mabel! You may be as greedy as you please. The knight of the raspberry plantation has departed. Read this; I found it on my plate."
Catherine was about to toss the note to Mabel, when a hand was put quietly over her shoulder, and Mrs. Bertram took Loftus's letter to read.
"Mother, I didn't know you were down."
"I just came in, my dear, and heard you speaking to Mabel. What is this?"
She stood still to read the brief lines:
"Dearest Sis,—I have had a sudden recall to Portsmouth. Will write from there. Love to the mother and Mab.—Your affectionate brother,
"Loftus."
Mrs. Bertram looked up with a very startled expression in her eyes.
"Now, mother, there's nothing to fret you in this," said Kate, eagerly. "Was not Loftie always the most changeable of mortals?"
"Yes, my dear, but not quite so changeable as not to know anything at all about a recall in the afternoon yesterday, and to have to leave us before we are out of bed in the morning. Did anybody see Loftus go? Had he any breakfast?"
Catherine flew away to inquire of Clara, and Mabel said in an injured voice:
"I dare say Loftie had a telegram sent to him to the club. Anyhow, he has all the excitement and all the pleasure. I watched him through the spy-glass last night. He was in the Bells' boat, and Beatrice was all alone in hers. Beatrice was talking to Loftus and the boats were almost touching. Mother, I wish we could have a boat."
"Yes, dear, I must try and manage it for you at some future time. Well, Catherine, have you heard anything?"
"No, mother. Loftus must have gone away very, very early. No one saw him go; he certainly had no breakfast."
Mrs. Bertram was silent for a few moments; then, suppressing a sigh, she said, in a would-be cheerful tone:
"Well, my loves, we must enjoy our breakfasts, even without the recreant Loftus. Mabel, my dear, what delicious raspberries! They give me quite an appetite."
"Kitty picked them for you, mother," said Mabel. "She has been treasuring a special bush for you for a week past."
Mrs. Bertram looked up at her eldest daughter and smiled at her. That smile, very much treasured by Kate, was after all but a poor attempt, gone as soon as it came. Mrs. Bertram leant back in her chair and toyed with the dainty fruit. Her appetite was little more than a mockery.
"It was very thoughtful of Loftus not to waken any one up to give him breakfast," said Catherine.
Her mother again glanced at her with a shadow of approval on her worn face. Artful Kitty had made this speech on purpose; she knew that any praise of Loftus was balm to her mother.
After breakfast Mrs. Bertram showed rather unwonted interest in her daughters' plans.
"It is such a lovely day I should like you to go on the water," she said. "At the same time, I must not think of hiring a boat this summer."
"Are we so frightfully poor, mother?" asked Mab.
Mrs. Bertram's brow contracted as if in pain, but she answered with unwonted calm and gentleness:
"I have a fixed income, my dear Mabel, but, as you know, we have come to Northbury to retrench."
She was silent again for a minute. Then she said:
"I see nothing for it but to cultivate the Meadowsweets."
"Mother!" said Catherine. The old fire and anger had come into her voice. Unusual as it may be with any girl brought up in such a worldly manner, Catherine hated to take advantage of people.
"You mistake me, Kate," said her mother, shrinking back from her daughter's eyes, as if she had received a blow. "I want you to have the pleasure of Beatrice Meadowsweet's friendship."
"Oh, yes," replied Catherine, relieved.
"And," continued the mother, her voice growing firm and her dark eyes meeting her daughter's fully, "I don't mean to be out in the cold, so I shall make a friend of Mrs. Meadowsweet."
Mabel burst into a merry girlish laugh. Catherine walked across the grass to pick a rose. Mrs. Bertram took the rose from her daughter's hand, although she knew and Catherine knew that it was never intended for her. She smelt the fragrant, half-open bud, then placed it in her dress, with a simple, "Thank you, my dear."
"I am going to write a note to Mrs. Meadowsweet," she said, after a minute or two. "I know Beatrice is coming here this afternoon. It would give me pleasure if her mother accompanied her."
"Shall we take the note to the Gray House, mother?" eagerly asked Mabel. "It is not too long a walk. We should like to go."
"No, my dear. You and Kate can amuse yourselves in the garden, or read in the house, just as you please. I will write my note quietly, and when it is written take it down to Tester at the lodge. No, thank you, my loves, I should really like the walk, and would prefer to take it alone."
Mrs. Bertram then returned to her drawing-room, sat down by her davenport, and wrote as follows:
"Rosendale Manor.
"Thursday.
"Dear Mrs. Meadowsweet,—Will you and Miss Beatrice join the girls and me at dinner this afternoon? Your daughter has already kindly promised to come here to play tennis to-day—at least I understand from Kate that such is the arrangement. Will you come with her? We old people can sit quietly under the shade of the trees and enjoy our tea, while the young folks exert themselves. Hoping to see you both,
"Believe me,
"Yours sincerely,
"Catherine de Clifford Bertram."
Mrs. Bertram put this letter into an envelope, directed it in her dashing and lady-like hand, and then in a slow and stately fashion proceeded to walk down the avenue to the lodge. She was always rather slow in her movements, and she was slower than usual to-day. She scarcely owned to herself that she was tired, worried—in short, that the strong vitality within her was sapped at its foundation.
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.
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