Beatrice had seen Mr. Ingram. She had gone to him, but not to stay.  
"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."
 
"I am in a dream," said Bertram. "General Bertram not my father! Whose son am I then? What is my name? Who am I? Good God, sir, speak! Get me out of this horrible nightmare."
 
"Bertram, I have a good deal to tell you. You have a very strange story to hear. You must listen as quietly as you can. You must take in the facts as well as you can. The story concerns you deeply—you and another."
 
"Do you mean my mother?"
 
"No, I mean Josephine Hart."
 
"Josephine? This story concerns Josephine. Rector, my brain is whirling."
 
"Sit down, keep still, listen."
 
Bertram restrained his impatience with an effort. He sank into a chair; in a moment he rose to his feet.
 
"I can't keep still," he said. "This story concerns Nina. Does my mother know Nina?"
 
"I will tell you the whole story, Bertram; I will tell it briefly, and you must listen with patience. You must remember, as you hear, that the woman who played this sorry part is your mother, that she did the wrong out of mistaken love for you, that she has suffered bitterly for her sin."
 
"Go on, sir; I am listening."
 
"Remember that the story is about your mother."
 
"I don't forget."
 
The Rector poured out a glass of water from a jug which stood on the table, drank it off, and began to speak.
 
"Your mother, Bertram, was twice married. Her first husband—my poor boy, I am sorry for you—was a scoundrel, a thief, a blackleg. He died in prison. You are his son. Your father died in a Bombay prison; you were in England at the time."
 
"Stop, sir," said Bertram. "What was my—my—what was the name of the man to whom I owe my being?"
 
"Your mother has not told me. She says she will never reveal his name. She says that your stepfather gave you legally the name of Bertram. That, at least, need never be disturbed."
 
"Then Catherine and Mabel are not my sisters."
 
"They are your half-sisters; that is a small matter."
 
"True. Everything in the world is a small matter in comparison with the awful fact that I am the son of a felon."
 
"I am deeply pained for you, Bertram. Your mother knew how this would strike home. Hence her sin."
 
"I forgot. I have to hear of that. Go on, Mr. Ingram."
 
"At the time of your father's death she was, she tells me, a very beautiful young woman. She was alone and peculiarly defenceless; Major Bertram, he was a Major at the time, made her acquaintance in Calcutta. You will be startled, Bertram, at the way in which these two made friends. She was asked to take care of Major Bertram's baby daughter."
 
"Then he, too, was married before."
 
"Yes, he had a young wife, who died when the baby was born. Little Nina was six months old when Major Bertram, who had to accompany his regiment up the country, asked your mother to look after her."
 
"Nina, did you say Nina, Mr. Ingram?"
 
"Yes. I need not conceal from you who that Nina was."
 
Bertram covered his face with his hands.
 
"I can't bear this," he said. "This story unmans me."
 
"You must listen. I am making the narrative as brief as possible. Your mother tells me that when the baby was given to her to care for she meant to be very good to it. She was miserable at the time, for her sorrows with and about your father had almost maddened her. She was good to the child, and very glad of the money which the Major paid her for giving the little creature a home. She kept the baby for some months, nearly a year; and whenever he could Major Bertram called to see her. Soon the meaning of his visits dawned upon her. He had fallen in love with her. He was, in all respects, a desirable husband; he was of good family; his antecedents were honorable, his own life stainless. She thought of you, she was always thinking about you, you were at a poor little school in England. She thought what your lot might be, if you were really the son of this honorable man. She tells me that at this time her love for you was like a terrible passion within her. Beyond all things in the world she dreaded your learning your father's history—she shuddered as she fancied your baby lips asking her artless questions which she could never answer. Your father's name was, alas, notorious. Bearing that name, you must one day learn the history of your father's ruin, disgrace, dishonor."
 
"Mr. Ingram," said Bertram, "you are crushing me. How much more must you say about my—my father?"
 
"Nothing more. I had to say this much to explain your mother's motive. One day Major Bertram called to see her. He was going away. Before he left he asked her to marry him. She refused. He persisted. She told him her history. He said he knew it already. Then she put off her decision. He might speak to her again on his return to Calcutta. It was during Major Bertram's absence that the temptation which led to your mother's sin came to her.
 
"Little Josephine was now between a year and two years old. On her mother's side she was of low birth. Major Bertram had married beneath him. He had fallen desperately in love with the beautiful daughter of a strolling minstrel. He had married her, found out his mistake when too late, but still, being a chivalrous and honorable man, had done his duty by his ignorant young wife; had never allowed her to guess at his feelings; and after her death had been filled with compunction for not loving her more, and had done everything he could to secure the welfare of their ............