Notwithstanding her crushing disappointment Matty Bell did not sink into an early grave. That report which had got into the country with regard to her funeral and tombstone began to be very flatly contradicted. It was now whispered on the breeze that Matty was not only in a fair state of recovery but also that a substantial means of consolation had been opportunely found her.
Not only was Gus Jenkins very much to Matty's taste, but she proved, which, perhaps, was more to the point, to suit him exactly. This hero, who was doing a thriving trade in the oil business in London, delighted in laughing, merry, giggling girls, and surely where could he find another to equal Matty in that respect. Whenever he looked at her she laughed, whenever he spoke to her she blushed and giggled. He began to consider himself a wonder of wit and fascination. Really it was no trouble at all to entertain a nice, little, soft, round thing like Matty Bell. He pronounced the shot silk a splendid robe, and asked Matty pointedly what place of amusement she would like best to see in London, and in whose presence she would most happily enjoy it.
Matty could scarcely speak when this remarkable question was addressed to her, unless giggles, blushes, gasps, and "Oh, Gus, how killing you are!" could be taken as a sensible reply.
Under these circumstances Mrs. Bell felt that the less she said about Captain Bertram and that old affair of his with Matty the better. She always mentioned it now as "that old affair," and whispered in strictest confidence to her friends that Gus, poor dear fellow, was so absurdly jealous of Captain Bertram that she dared not breathe the captain's name in his presence.
"It's awful to see the thunder-clap that comes on Gusty's brow," the good lady would say. "And what I'm so terrified of is that if he and the captain meet they'll do each other a serious mischief. My poor child, she is the innocent cause, Well, well, she has been much sought after."
When Beatrice asked the Bells to become her bride's-maids, Mrs. Bell thought the time had arrived to let bygones be bygones, and to accept the proffered honor.
"It was the captain's wish, I make no doubt," she said to her husband; "he knew he hadn't a chance of winning the girl on whom his heart was set, but he thought, at least, he might have the pleasure of seeing her at his wedding, and, so to speak, looking his last on her. It's my belief, too, that he'll relieve his feelings by giving Matty a very beautiful present. She must hide it from Gusty, though; Gusty is so terrible in the jealous excess of his feelings."
As Beatrice had insisted on giving her bride's-maids their dresses, no difficulty could be experienced on that head, and the Bells, notwithstanding that stormy period which had gone before, enjoyed themselves immensely during the brief season of Beatrice's engagement.
Mrs. Bell certainly was happy during this time. If Matty was not engaged to Bertram she soon would be to a better man. Gusty Jenkins, as she invariably called him, was, of course, the better man now in her eyes. The three girls were being supplied with new and lovely dresses, in which Mrs. Bell assured her husband they'd look like angels wafted down fresh from the skies—for the occasion. When she said this, Bell did not agree with her, but that was not of the slightest consequence.
Mrs. Bell also during these happy weeks was making a little secret hoard of money, which further considerably added to the good lady's felicity.
That young visitor of the Bell's, Miss Hart, proved herself a most unobtrusive and retiring person. She was strangely reserved, no doubt, and would reveal none of the secret which she had dimly alluded to on the night of her arrival to Mrs. Bell, but she was chatty and pleasant enough to the girls when quite alone with them. She put them up to many small wrinkles with regard to their toilette, and insisted on dressing Matty's hair in a way which made it look both thick and becoming. When the Bells were quite alone she was present at their meals where she quite subjugated the hearts of Bell and his son, Albert. But when visitors appeared at the hospitable board Miss Hart would not present herself. She had a curious reserve about her, which everyone noticed at the time, and commented on largely by-and-bye. If the all-absorbing topic of the day, Beatrice's wedding, was discussed, she invariably grew grave, her face would become a shade paler than its wont, and her bright, restless eyes would be lowered.
Except on one occasion, she never asked questions about the approaching wedding. On the contrary, she markedly avoided the subject. Once, however, she inquired the date of the wedding from Matty. On hearing it she turned very pale, and left the room. Matty remembered this fact by-and-bye.
Once, too, Sophy saw her standing in her bedroom with her two hands pressed tightly to her side, as though something had given her an intense pain there. She was close to the window, and must have been looking out, and Sophy observed that Captain Bertram and Beatrice were walking down the street together.
Notwithstanding all Mrs. Bell's coaxings, Miss Hart would never go out during the day-time, but when darkness fell, and it came early now, in the beginning of September, she would wrap her gray cloak about her, and go away for long, long walks all alone.
Mrs. Bell thought this proceeding anything but proper, but Josephine Hart minded very little what any one thought about her.
As the days wore on, her white face seemed to grow whiter, and her big bright eyes often looked pathetic as well as bright. She ate very little, too, and scarcely spoke at all; but it never occurred to her or any one else to suppose that she was ill.
The weather during all this period continued very fine. Never had so glorious a summer been remembered at Northbury, and the good folk said it was a lucky omen for the young bride, who was a favorite with rich and poor alike. Every one in Northbury made Beatrice a present, and she began to collect quite a curious collection of gifts. None of these presents were splendid, few of them possessed intrinsic value, but the young girl treasured them, one and all, very much; for they were to her symbols of the love which had shone about her path from her birth.
Mrs. Bertram could not understand the joy Beatrice felt over the crude gifts of the fishermen's wives, nor her ecstasy when a poor girl whom she had once befriended, brought her a dozen yards of narrow and very dirty crotchet edging. Beatrice almost kissed that edging, and her eyes filled with tears as she folded it up and put it away.
No such soft radiance came to them when her future mother-in-law presented her with a beautiful diamond cross, which was an old family heirloom, and must belong by right to Bertram's wife.
"This is of great value," Mrs. Bertram said; "and it will suit you, my dear, you are the sort of girl who can wear diamonds, and look well in them."
"But I like flowers best," said Beatrice, under her breath.
She kissed Mrs. Bertram, and thanked her for her gift, which she locked away very carefully, as she knew it was of much value. But her heart was not stirred by it as it had been by the crotchet edging which Jenny Ray had made for her.
Mrs. Gorman Stanley gave Beatrice a large piece of Berlin wool-work; it was not handsome, nor had it cost the good lady much, for she had picked it up years ago at an auction. Mrs. Gorman Stanley was not a generous person, and as the Berlin wool-work had always troubled her on account of its magnificence, its uselessness, and the almost certainty that the moths would get in and devour it, she thought it a good opportunity of making an effective present, and getting rid of a household care.
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.
"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."
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 entered by the open door. A woman met her in the passage.
"Is Mr. Hart within?"
"I don't know, madam, I'll inquire."
"No, don't do that. I'll go to him myself. He's at the top of the house, of course, as usual?"
"Why, as usual, madam? Mr. Hart has never been my lodger before."
"I know his ways. He invariably seeks the top."
"From no prejudice, madam. He seems a very quiet gentleman."
"Exactly. Treasure him, he is a valuable lodger. Now let me pass, please. I am going to seek him."
"Perhaps I had better tell him first, young lady."
"I am his grandchild. It is all right. Let me pass."
She brushed the woman aside, and flew lightly up the stairs. She knocked at the door of the top attic, but followed her knock into the room before any one had made response from within.
Old Hart was, as usual, messing over some cooking. He stopped it when he saw Josephine, and an iron spoon which he held in his hand clattered noisily to the floor.
"Now, Nina, what is the matter?"
"I am going to spend the day with you, Granddad, and probably the night as well. You can give me a bed in a corner of this delightful sitting-room. Is that breakfast? I wish you would serve it up; I am starving."
"It's a very good breakfast, little Nina. Fried rabbit, done after a new method. Bacon and eggs to follow, with a sauce of port wine. Olives and sour claret for dessert. I know your taste, witch."
"I love olives," said Nina. "Sit at the table, Grand-dad, and let us begin. By the way, when did you shave last?"
"Ha—ha, who have I to shave for now, my pretty Nina? Nobody cares for the old man, nobody looks at him with eyes of admiration. Why should he waste his money and his time over the barbarous rite of shaving? Nature has her way with the old man now, sweet witch."
"Nature doesn't improve you, Grand-dad. You require the refining touches of art. Your beard is unkempt, your hair too long. You shall visit the barber after we have concluded our meal. It is distressing to mankind in general to behold a spectacle like you. You owe a duty to the world at large. You must visit the barber."
"Chut—chut! What a witch it is! Why didn't it stay at home, and not worry the old man?"
"Serve up the breakfast, Grand-dad, and believe in the salutary nature of your granddaughter's visitations."
The two sat down to their meal, and both ate for a time in unbroken silence. After his third glass of sour claret, the old man spoke:
"How are you, Nina? You don't look up to much?"
"Would you be up to much if a fever consumed you day and night? Feel my hand, Grand-dad."
The old man gripped the slender fingers, then flung them away.
"Good God! they burn!" he said. "Don't touch me, witch. You may have contracted something catching."
"No, nothing that the old man can catch. Now, let us be pleasant, and enjoy the day together."
"We can't. I am going to move to-day."
"You must stay here to-day; you can move tomorrow."
"Witch, how you order me. I won't be ordered. I shall move to-day."
"You have no idea of moving, either to-day or to-morrow. Don't talk nonsense. You have had your breakfast. I will wash the things up. Go and visit the barber."
The old man muttered and mumbled. Finally he tied a large crimson scarf in a loose knot round his throat, shoved a soft felt hat on his head, and donning a greasy and very old brown velvet cloak, he prepared to go out.
"It's a rare nuisance," he said; "I meant to try some Chinese cooking for dinner; something with a subtle aroma, delicate, and hard to obtain. You boil the leeks for so many hours, and catch the essence in a distiller. Bah! you care nothing for eating, witch."
"I like some of your dishes very well, Granddad, but I prefer cleanliness to luxury. Now, go out and get shaved."
"It will cost me sixpence."
"Sixpence well spent. Don't talk any more; go!"
He blew her a kiss, half of derision, half of pride, and shambled downstairs. A crowd of little boys followed him up the street; some pulled his cloak, some mocked him openly. He neither felt the pulls nor heard the words. He was absorbed in the thought of that delicious Chinese dinner which he could not now partake of to-day.
As soon as he was gone, Nina, too, ran downstairs. She went to a chemist's, and boldly asked for a small quantity of a certain drug.
"Have you a prescription?" the man inquired.
"No, but I understand the right proportions to take. Why do you hesitate? I am not asking for poison."
The man stared hard at the bright, queer face of his customer.
"The drug is not poison," he slowly repeated, "but taken in too large quantities it can inflict an injury. I will give it to you, but you must enter your name and address in this book."
Josephine laughed lightly, entered old Hart's address in the book, paid for her medicine, and departed. As soon as she got home she took out of a cupboard a decanter which contained a small portion of a very bright and clear wine. She mixed a little of the powder with the wine. It dissolved instantly, and did not disturb the rare amber of the liquid. The rest of the powder Nina threw into the fire, burning both paper and string.
When Hart came back, shaven and neat, his hair shortened, his long snow-white beard trimmed, he looked what he was—a strikingly handsome man. His grand-daughter possessed his regular features, but, although her eyes were as bright as his, they were not dark. She had black eyelashes and black brows, but the eyes themselves were peculiarly light.
Nina was in an excellent humor now. She helped her grandfather with his cooking, and by-and-by, as the day wore on, she tempted him to come for a stroll with her. She spoke very little of her present life, nor did he question her. He had a certain fondness for his grandchild, but it never rose to the extent of a genuine interest in her concerns. Of late she had been to him a valuable chattel—a trump-card, by which he could extract the good things of life out of another. With Nina he was powerful, without her he was a helpless and penniless old man. But he did not love Nina because of this. He was proud of her for what she brought him, proud of her because if he was lowly born she was not. But he loved her, after the slight fashion with which alone he could bestow love, because, notwithstanding that good birth, she also belonged to him—she was bone of his bone, flesh of his flesh. The ties of blood were strong with him, and because of these ties he loved her after his fashion.
The two came home presently and partook of supper together. Nina bought some figs and peaches, and they had quite a dainty meal. Nina herself prepared the board, and she put the decanter with the amber wine close to the old man. He ate and drank. He said the wine was good, and he helped himself twice to the sparkling contents of the decanter. "I feel in spirits to-night, Nina," he said, looking at his grandchild.
"Have a little more wine, Grand-dad," she said, in retort.
In spite of all her efforts, her voice had an anxious ring in it as she spoke. He looked at her keenly. He was as suspicious as man could be. He half-stretched out his hand to seize the decanter, then with a sly smile he replaced the stopper in the neck of the bottle.
"No, no, witch," he said. "This wine is rare and precious. It raises the spirit and warms the heart. I have not much more wine from so rare a vintage, and I'll keep what's in the bottle for another night, when you, pretty Nina, are far away, and the spirits of the old man fail him."
"Do," she said. "Keep the precious wine, you don't need it to-night."
Then she handed him his pipe, and after a time he became drowsy and went to bed.
Hart's bedroom was a small attic inside the larger one. He shut the door, looked round for the key, for he generally locked himself in, could not find it, and then, being very drowsy, undressed and went to bed.
Nina was to sleep on the sofa in the sitting-room. She lay down, took a novel out of her pocket, and tried to read. Her heart was beating hard, and that burning fever of unrest and longing which was consuming her very life, kept coursing madly through her veins.
"The fever is my wine," she muttered. "At first it supplies false strength, false cheer, false hope. Afterwards—afterwards—" a queer look came into her strange face—"I too, shall rest and sleep."
Profound stillness reigned in the next room. Nina softly rose, and going to the sideboard took out the decanter of wine, opened a window, and emptied it into the area below. She washed the decanter afterwards and then put it back into the sideboard.
There was not a sound in the inner room. Candle in hand, she opened the door and went in. She put the candle on the mantelpiece, and then going to the bed, bent over it and looked at the sleeper.
"Poor Grand-dad!" said the girl. She stooped and kissed the old man's forehead. "You have been good to me after your lights—it was not your fault that those lights were dim. Had you been an educated man, Grand-dad, you'd have educated me; and had you been a good man, you'd have taught me goodness; and a kind man, you'd have guarded your poor Nina. Was it your fault that you were ignorant—and wanting in goodness—and lacking in kindness? You did your best—, after your lights."
Then she stooped and kissed him again. He was heavy from the drug she had put into the wine, and did not stir. She slipped her hand softly under his pillow.
"Poor old man, I am taking away your trump-card," she said. She drew a thick letter, yellow with age, from under the pillow, put it into her pocket, and taking up the candle left the room.
A couple of days after this Beatrice Meadowsweet received a note from Mrs. Bell, asking her to call to see her. The note came early in the morning, and immediately after breakfast Beatrice went to the Bells' house.
Mrs. Bell took her into the drawing-room and shut the door behind them both.
"Beatrice," she said, "I owed you a grudge, but that is past. You stepped in, where you had no right to step, and for a time, I won't deny it, my heart was very sore. I haven't sent for you to-day, though, to rip up past troubles. I'm inclined to think that all's for the best. It has pleased the Almighty to provide you with a wild mate—and my girl with a steady one. Last night as the clock struck nine, Gusty Jenkins popped the question for Matty, and all being agreeable, the young man torn with love, and rock-like as regards character, Gusty and Matty are now an affianced pair. Therefore, Beatrice, I say let by-gones be by-gones, and may you have what luck can await you in the future with that wild young man."
"I don't see why you should take away Captain Bertram's character," said Beatrice, with some spirit. "You liked him very much once."
"I'm not saying anything against him, my dear. I mean not anything more than the truth can bear out. There was a time when I thought well of Captain Bertram. I'm the last to deny there was such a time, but handsome is that handsome does, and when a young man had not the courage to obey his heart's promptings, and when rumors will travel on the breezes of extravagant, not to say naughty ways, I say, Beatrice, a woman can't become blind as a bat when these things stare her in the face."
No one in Northbury ever remembered seeing Beatrice in a passion. She was acknowledged to be sweet-tempered, and slow to be provoked. On this occasion, however, she was very nearly making the proverbial exception to her general rule. Beatrice was very nearly angry. A flush of color crimsoned her cheeks and brow, and an indignant light flashed from her eyes. In time, however, she was able to murmur to herself: "This is only Mrs. Bell's talk, and how could I be so silly as to mind Mrs. Bell?" So after a pause she said with effort, "I must congratulate Matty on her engagement; I am glad Matty is happy."
"Ah, my dear, and well she may be! Glad should I be to know that other girls had half so bright a future before them. Rich, handsome, and young, that's what Gusty is! Devoted! he's like one of the old knights for devotion. I have had my qualms about the jealousy of his nature, but otherwise Gusty is, song pear and song reproach."
At this moment the door was opened, some childish giggles and mirth were heard in the passage, and Matty rushed in, followed by the redoubtable Gusty. "Oh, Gus, you'll kill me!" she exclaimed; "you are too funny. Why, ma, is that you? And—and—Bee? How do you do, Bee?"
Matty came over and kissed her friend awkwardly.
"I am very glad to hear of your happiness, Matty," said Beatrice; "and I congratulate you, too, Augustus," she added, turning to the bashful swain.
"Oh, you want us to leave this room to yourselves, you two naughty things!" said the mother, shaking her head in fat ecstasy over her two turtle-doves. "Come, Bee; by-the-way, there's a young girl upstairs, a Miss Hart, a friend of mine, who is very anxious to see you."
Mrs. Bell and Beatrice left the drawing-room, and Augustus Jenkins turned to his fiancée "By Jove," he said, "that girl is a bouncer!"
"What girl?" said Matty, in a quick jealous voice. She had flung herself in a languid attitude on the sofa, now she sat bolt upright.
"Killing, I call her," proceeded Gus; "simply killing. Such an eye, such a curl of the lip! By Jove—she'd bowl any fellow over."
Matty flushed deeply, and turned her head away to look out of the window.
"What's up, now, little duck?" said the lover. "Oh, she's jealous, is she? By George, that's a good un! You were in luck, missy, to come in my way first, or I don't know what mightn't have happened; and she's got lots of the tin, too, I've been told! So she's Captain Bertram's fancy. Well, he's a good judge and no mistake."
"I don't know that she's his fancy at all, Gusty. Ma always said that I—I—"
"Oh, by Jove! Matty, don't you try to come it over me like that. What a thunder-cloud? So she's frightfully jealous, is she, poor little duck? I say, though, you'd better keep me out of that girl's way; engaged or not, she'd mash any fellow. Now, what's up? Is that you, Alice? What a noisy one you are, to be sure!"
Alice had rushed into the room followed by Sophy, who was followed again by Daisy Jenkins.
"The bride's-maid dresses have come!" screamed Alice. "Let's all go and try them on, Matty!"
When Mrs. Bell took Beatrice out of the room, she said a few more words about Miss Hart. Finally she took Beatrice upstairs, and ushered her into her young visitor's bedroom.
Amongst the other luxuries which Josephine's money had secured for her in the Bells' house was an old-fashioned sofa, which was drawn across the windows. On this sofa Josephine often lay for hours. She was lying on it now, in a white morning dress. Mrs. Bell introduced the girls to each other, and then left them.
"I have seen you before," said Beatrice, the moment they were alone; "once before I have seen your face. You were looking out of a window. Stay," she added, suddenly, "I think I have seen you twice before. Are you not the girl who brushed past Captain Bertram and me the other night in the dark? Yes, I am sure you are the girl."
"You are right," said Josephine; "I am the girl." She spoke in an eager voice, two burning spots rose to her pale cheeks; her eyes always bright now almost glittered. "I am the girl," she repeated. She half rose from her sofa, but sat down on it again, and panted heavily, as though her breath failed her.
"You are ill," said Beatrice, with compunction; "you look very ill. Have you been long here? Mrs. Bell says that you are a friend of hers, a visitor."
"Yes, I am a friend and visitor. Mrs. Bell is very good to me."
"But you are ill. You ought to see a doctor."
"I ought not—I will not."
"Can I help you? It was kind of you to send for me. Can I do anything for you?"
"Wait until I get back my breath. I will speak in a minute. Sit quiet. Let me be still. It is agitation enough to have you in the room."
Her eyes glittered again. She pressed her white transparent hands to her throbbing heart.
Beatrice sat motionless. She had a queer feeling at her own heart, a kind of premonition that a blow was about to be struck at her. Several minutes passed. Then the girl on the sofa spoke.
"The struggle of seeing you is past. I see—I endure. Your name is Beatrice Meadowsweet—?"
"Yes, I am Beatrice Meadowsweet."
"You are engaged to Captain Bertram?"
"Yes."
"You are to be married on the 10th of this month."
"Yes."
"This is the 5th. You are to be married in five days!"
"I am, Miss Hart. Do you want to congratulate me?"
"I—yes—I congratulate you. You—are attached—to Loftus?"
"To Captain Bertram? Do you know him?"
"No matter. You—you love him?"
"Why should I speak of my feelings? To marry a man is a proof of love, is it not? Do you know my future husband?"
"I—once I knew him."
"He has never spoken to me about you. Did you know him well?"
"No matter. I knew him—no matter how much. He loves you, does he not?"
"I believe he faithfully loves me."
"Yes, I saw you together. There is no doubt. I heard the tone in his voice. You can't mistake that tone, can you?"
"I don't know. I have not much experience."
"You ought to have, for you are so beautiful. Yes, he loves you. It is all over."
"What is all over?"
"Nothing. Did I say anything wild of that sort? Don't believe the nonsense I speak. I am ill, and my brain sometimes wanders. There is a great fire consuming me, and I am tired of being burned alive. Sometimes in my pain I talk wildly. Nothing is over, for nothing really began. You will be good to Captain Bertram, won't you? How you look at me! You have very true eyes, very true. Now I will tell you the truth. Once I knew him, and he was kind to me—a little kind—you know the sort of thing. I thought it meant more. He has forgotten me, of course, and you'll be good to him, for he—he's not perfect—although he suited—yes, he suited me very well. How my heart beats! Don't talk to me for a minute."
She lay back panting on the sofa. Beatrice got up and walked to the window. There was a long view of the High Street from this window. The street was straight and narrow, with few curves.
At that moment Beatrice saw Captain Bertram. He was a long way off, but he was walking down the street in the direction of the Bells' house. In about three minutes he would pass the house.
As Beatrice stood by the window she thought. A memory came over her. A memory of a man's steps—they were leaving her—they were hurrying—they were quickening to a run. In a flash she made up her mind.
She came back to the sofa where Nina sat.
"Can I do anything for you? Tell me quickly, for I earnestly desire to help you."
"You are good," said Nina. "You have a true voice, as well as a true face. Yes, I sent for you. I do want you to be kind to me. I want you to take a present from me to Captain Bertram."
"A present? What?"
"This little packet. It is sealed and addressed. Inside there is a story. That story would make Captain Bertram unhappy. I know the story; he does not know it. On your wedding-day, after you are married, give him this packet. When you put it in his hands, say these words, 'Nina sent you this, Loftus, and you are to burn it.' You must promise to see him burn the packet. What is the matter? Aren't you going to take it?"
"Yes, I will take it. Give it to me; I will put it in my pocket. Now, wait a moment. I want to run downstairs. I will come back again."
She softly closed the door of Nina's room, rushed downstairs, and out into the street.
Captain Bertram was passing the Bells' door when Beatrice ran up to him.
"Loftus, I want you," she said.
He turned in astonishment. He had been walking down the street, lost in a miserable dream. Beatrice, in her sharp, clear tone awoke him. He started, a wave of color passed over his dark face.
"Is anything wrong?" he asked, almost in alarm. "Bee, you are excited!"
"I am, fearfully. Come in, come upstairs!"
"Into the Bells' house! I don't want to visit the Bells. Beatrice, you look strange, and oh, how lovely!"
"Don't talk of my looks. Come in, come upstairs. No, you are not to see the Bells, nor are any of them about. Come—come at once."
She ran quickly up the stairs. He followed her, wondering, perplexed and irritated.
"Beatrice, what is the matter?" he said, once.
"Not much—or, rather, yes, everything. Inside that room, Captain Bertram, is one you know. Go and see her—or rather, come and see her, with me. You know her, and once, you were, after your fashion,—a little kind."
Beatrice threw open the door.
"Nina," she said, "Captain Bertram is here,"—then she paused,—her next words came with a visible effort—"And his heart shall choose the girl he loves."
Beatrice walked straight across the room to the window. She heard a cry from Nina, and something between a groan and an exclamation of joy from Bertram.
She did not look round.