"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 gra.s.s 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 cla.s.s 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 b.u.t.tered 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."