The Honorable Miss Part 5

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

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

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

"You never will understand, Mabel! I grumble at mother for her frettiness, 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 of a person, and hate the other side; I don't know that I love or hate anybody 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 my fashion. I do everything very much. I love, I hate, I joy or sorrow, all in extremes. Perhaps it isn't a good way, but it's the only way I've got. 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 as ever he can be. He'll keep mother in a state of fret, and you in a state of excitement, and he'll insist on smoking a cigarette close to the new cretonne curtains in the drawing-room, and he'll make me go out in the hot part of the day to gather fresh strawberries for him. Oh, I do think brothers are worries! I wish he wasn't coming. We are very peaceful and snug here. And mother's face doesn't looked hara.s.sed as it often did when we were in town. I do wish Loftus wasn't coming to upset everything. It was he turned us away from our nice, sprightly, jolly London, and now, surely he need not follow us into the country. Yes, Catherine, what words of wisdom or reproof are going to drop from your lips?"

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

"How is it different for you?"

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

At this moment Mrs. Bertram's tall figure was seen standing on the steps of the house. It was getting dark; a heavy dew was falling, and the air was slightly, pleasantly chill after the intense heat of the day. Mrs.

Bertram had wrapped a white fleecy cloud over her head. She descended the 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's lap. "I know by mother's tone she is troubled. Don't let us show her the letter 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 the gra.s.s, looking slim and pale in her white muslin dress, her face full of intense feeling, her manner so hurried and eager that her mother felt irritated by it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You are a good child, Kate," said her mother in an unwonted and gentle voice. "You are full of whims and fancies; but when you like you can be a great support to one. Do you remember long ago when your father died how 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 a heartache? We have no time, Kate, to talk any more sentimentalities. I have 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 to twelve. 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 had headaches, Kitty could cure them."

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

"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 charge of 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 a pause. "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 had some news that troubles me. I am going to London to try and put some wrong things right. You need not look so horrified, Kate; I shall certainly put them right. It might complicate matters in certain quarters if it were known that I had gone to London, therefore I do it secretly. It is necessary, however, that one person should know where to write to me. I choose you to be that person, Catherine, but you are only to 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 not going to prepare for any such unlikely contingency as your sudden illness. Catherine, these are the _only_ circ.u.mstances under which you are to communicate with your mother. Listen, my dear daughter.

Listen attentively. A good deal depends on your discretion. A stranger may call. The stranger may be either a man or a woman. He or she will ask to see me. Finding I am away this person, whether man or woman, will try to have an interview with either you or Mabel, and will endeavor by every means to get my address. Mabel, knowing nothing, can reveal nothing, 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 telegraph to me. My address is in this closed-up envelope. Lock the envelope in your 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. She felt 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 going to Manchester. A train to Manchester can be taken from Fleet-hill Junction, so it will all sound quite natural. Go out to Mabel, dear.