The Honorable Miss Part 44

"I was not unhappy. It always gives me pleasure to help people. And Catherine seemed so bright, and Mrs. Bertram so delighted, and Loftus himself--there was much to win my regard in Loftus. I did not know it was only my money they wanted."

"Poor child! And yet you are wrong. No one who looks at you, Beatrice, can only want you for your money."

"Dear Rector, in this case my money was the charm. Well, my money shall still have power. You are my guardian as well as my trustee. I want you to help me. You can, you must. I will take no denial. Loftus and I have had a long, long talk this afternoon. I have found at last the very bottom of Bertram's heart. He came to me to save him, and I am determined to be his deliverer. One quarter of my fortune I give to Loftus Bertram, and he shall marry Nina, and his debts shall be paid, and his mother relieved from the dreadful strain of anxiety she is now undergoing, and Loftus and Nina shall be happy and good. Oh, yes, I know they will be good as well as happy. You will help me, Rector, you will, you must."

"Beatrice, you are the most quixotic, extraordinary, unworldly, unpractical creature that ever breathed. What sort of guardian should I be if I listened to so mad a scheme? What right has Loftus Bertram to one farthing of your money, without you?"

"He can't have it with me, Rector. I would not marry him now at any price."

"Then he must do without the money."

"No, he must have the money. Steps must be taken to secure it to him at once, and he must keep his wedding-day with Nina instead of me. Nina shall have my trousseau; we are exactly of one height--You have got to change the name in the marriage license. If that is impossible there shall be a special license. I am rich, I can pay for it. Oh, the joy that sometimes money brings!"

"My dear ward, you are a little off your head to-night. How could you possibly expect your guardian to be such a faithless old man."

"Faithless? Mr. Ingram, have you quite forgotten my father?"

"No, Beatrice, I remember him to-night."

"Let his face rise before you. Picture his face--his unworldly face."

"I see it, Beatrice. Yes, Meadowsweet was not cankered by the sordid cares of life."

"Truly he was not? Go on thinking about him. He made money. How did he spend it?"

"My dear child, your father was a very good man. His charities were extraordinary and extensive. He gave away, hoping for nothing in return; he was too liberal, I often told him so."

"You were his clergyman and you told him so."

A flash of indignation came out of Beatrice Meadowsweet's eyes.

"I don't think, Mr. Ingram, that a Greater than you has ever said that to my father."

"Well, child, perhaps not. You reprove me, perhaps justly. Few of us have your father's unworldly spirit."

"Don't you think his only daughter may inherit a little of it? Mr.

Ingram, what is money for?"

"Beatrice, you could argue any one into thinking with you. But I must exercise my own common-sense."

"No, you must not. You must exercise your unworldly sense, and help me in this matter."

"What! And help you to throw away a quarter of your fortune?"

"I shall have fifteen thousand pounds left, more than enough for the requirements of any girl."

"I doubt if the wording of your father's will could give me the power for a moment."

"I am sure it could. I am confident that in drawing his will he trusted you absolutely and me absolutely. He often spoke to me about money, and told me what a solemn trust riches were. He charged me like the man in the parable not to bury my talent in a napkin, but to put it out to usury. He said that he made you my guardian, because you were the most unworldly-minded man he knew, and he told me many times that although he could not give me absolute control of my money before I was twenty-one, yet that no reasonable wish of mine would be refused by you."

"And you call this a reasonable wish?"

"I do. And so would my father if he were alive. Bring his face once again before you, Rector, and you will agree with me."

The Rector sat down in his arm-chair, and shaded his eyes with one of his long white hands. He sat for a long time motionless, and without speaking. Beatrice stood by the mantelpiece; there was a small fire in the grate; now and then a flame leaped up, and cast its reflection on her face.

Suddenly the Rector started upright.

"What day is this?" he asked.

"Thursday--Thursday night."

"And you are to be married on Tuesday?"

"No, I may never marry. Nina Hart and Loftus Bertram are to be married on Tuesday."

"G.o.d bless me! Beatrice, you have put me into a nice fix. Guardians are not always to be envied. What's the hour, child?"

Beatrice glanced at the clock.

"It is half-past nine," she said.

"You say that this--this Miss Hart is staying at the Bells'?"

"Yes."

"I must go to her. I must see her to-night."

"Remember she is weak and ill. You will be gentle with her."

"Beatrice, am I as a rule rough with people? Come, I will see you home, and then call on Miss Hart."

CHAPTER x.x.xI.

CIVIL WAR AT NORTHBURY.

It is often very difficult to trace Rumor to his foundation. His beginning is sometimes as small as a particle of sand; the first dawning of his existence as impalpable as the air.

From these small beginnings, however, rumor arises, strong as a giant, cruel as death. Perhaps no foe has more injured mankind than idle rumor.

He was abroad now in the little town of Northbury, and no one quite knew the exact place of his birth. A good many people traced his existence to Hunt, the baker, who sold many loaves of bread, and many sweet and tasty cakes by reason of his love of gossip--some people laid it to Miss Peters' door, some to Mrs. Gorman Stanley's, some again to Mrs.

Morris's; but soon, in the excitement which the Giant Rumor caused, people had no time to talk of the place of his birth--he was there, he was among them, and he was the only subject now discussed.

A great many afternoon teas, and small social gatherings were given during the next few days in his honor. As to the Bells' house it became quite notorious. People paused as they pa.s.sed the windows, and even the paving stones round the time-worn steps were fraught with interest.