"You must go to Mrs. Bertram's," she said; "she has a trouble on her mind. Get her to tell it to you. She will be better afterwards. She fears much. I guess a little of what she fears. She does not know that by to-morrow night all her anxieties will be over."

 

"And the wedding is really to take place in the morning, Beatrice?"

 

"Really and truly. I will be present as bride's-maid, not as bride."

 

Beatrice went home, and Mr. Ingram hastened to the Manor.

 

There was much confusion there. Mrs. Bertram was very ill; she would not see her daughters, she would allow no doctor to be summoned. Mabel was crying in the drawing-room. Catherine was pacing up and down the corridor outside her mother's room.

 

The Rector came. Bertram saw him for a few moments alone; then he went into Mrs. Bertram's room. He stayed with her for some hours; it was long past midnight when he left her. Catherine and Mabel had gone to bed, but Bertram met the Rector outside his mother's door.

 

"Come home with me," said Mr. Ingram; "I have a message to give you. I have something to say."

 

"How is my mother, sir?"

 

"She is better,—better than she has been for years—she will sleep now—she has carried a heavy burden, but confession has relieved it. She has sent you a message; come to my house, and I will give it to you."

 

The Rector and Bertram went quickly back to the cozy Rectory study. Mr. Ingram began his story at once.

 

"Have you any early recollections?" he asked. "Cast your memory back. What are the first things you can recall?"

 

Bertram raised his eyebrows in astonishment.

 

"I was born in India," he said; "I was sent home when I was little more than a baby."

 

"You don't remember your Indian life, nor your—your—father?"

 

"Of course I remember my father, sir. I was over twenty when he died."

 

"Ah, yes, your reputed father. You cannot possibly recall, you have no shadowy remembrance of another who bore the name?"

 

"Good God, Mr. Ingram! what do you mean?"

 

"Have you any memory? Answer me."

 

"No, sir, not the faintest. Is this a dream?"

 

"My poor lad, I don't wonder that you are staggered. Your mother could not bring herself to tell you. She has borne much for your sake, Bertram; you must be tender to her, gentle. She committed sin, she has gone through terrible hours for you. She was wrong, of course; but her motive—you must respect her motive, Loftus Bertram."

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