Mrs. Meadowsweet wondered why Beatrice did not come home. It was the night before the wedding. Surely on that night the bride ought to come early to sleep under her mother's roof.
Mrs. Meadowsweet had a good deal to say to her girl. She had made up her mind to give her a nice little domestic lecture. She thought it her duty to reveal to her innocent Beatrice some of the pitfalls into which young married girls are so apt to fall.
"Jane," she said to her handmaid, "Miss Beatrice is late."
"Eh, so she is," responded Jane. Jane was a woman of very few words. Her remarks generally took the form of an echo. Mrs. Meadowsweet thought her a very comfortable kind of body to confide in. Jane was taking away the supper things.
"We were married ourselves, Jane, and we know what it means," continued Mrs. Meadowsweet.
Jane was a widow—her husband had been a drunkard, and she had gone through a terrible time with him.
She shook her head now with awful solemnity.
"We do that," she said. "It's an awful responsibility, is marriage—it's not meant for the young."
"I don't agree with you there, Jane. How could elderly people bring up their families?"
"It's not meant for the young," repeated Jane. "It's a careful thing, and a troubling thing and a worreting thing is marriage, and it's not meant for the young. Shall I leave the peaches on the table, ma'am, and shall I make fresh cocoa for Miss Beatrice when she comes in?"
"Make the cocoa with all milk, Jane, it's more supporting. I always made it a rule to sustain Beatrice a good deal. She wears herself out—she's a great girl for wearing herself out, and it's my duty in life to repair her. I used to repair her poor father, and now I repair her. It seems to me that a woman's province in life is to repair—first the husband, and then the children. Jane, I was thinking of giving Beatrice a little lecture to-night on the duties that lie before her."
"Good sakes, ma'am, I'd leave her alone. She'll find out her worrits fast enough."
"I don't agree with you, Jane. It seems to me as if the whole of a married woman's bliss consists in this—be tidy in your dress, don't answer back, and give your husband a good dinner. That's what I did—I repaired Meadowsweet, and I never riled him, and we hadn't a word, no, not a word."
"All aren't like your blessed husband, Mrs Meadowsweet. Well, ma'am, I'll go now and get the milk on for the cocoa."
She left the room, and Mrs. Meadowsweet sat on by the fire.
Presently there came a ring to the front door bell. Mrs. Meadowsweet started up. Bee had some—no, it wasn't Bee—it was Mrs. Morris.
Her bronchitis was almost gone to-night; her voice was high, sharp and quick.
"Well, my poor friend, and how are you?" she said.
"I wish you wouldn't call me your poor friend, Jessie," answered Mrs. Meadowsweet, with almost irritation. "I don't know what has come to the good folks here of late—'Poor dearing,' and 'poor friending' till I'm sick of the sound of it. When I was married, people didn't look like boiled vinegar over it; neighbors were chirpy and cheery about a wedding in those days."
Mrs. Morris made no reply at all to this tirade. She sat down solemnly, and looked around her.
"Is Beatrice in?" she asked.
"No, she's not; she went to the Manor some hours ago—I'm expecting my girl back every minute. I've several things to say to her when she does come in, so you won't take it amiss, Jessie, if I ask you not to stay."
"No, my dear neighbor, I won't take anything amiss, from you at present, only, if I were you, I wouldn't worry Beatrice with advice to-night. Yon have time enough for that. Time and to spare for that, poor dear."
"There you are with your 'poor dear,' again, Jessie. Now whose ring is that at the bell? Oh, it's Bee, of course; come back at last, my girl has. Well, Jessie Morris, I wish you good-night."
"Stay a minute, neighbor—that isn't Bee's voice." The door was opened, and Miss Peters came in.
"How are you, Mrs. Meadowsweet," she said, running up to the good lady and giving her a kiss, which resembled the peck of an eager bird, on her cheek. "I ran on first, and Martha is following. I came to know how you are, and how you're bearing up—and is Beatrice in?"
"I do declare," said Mrs. Meadowsweet. She rose from her easy-chair. "You mean to be good-natured, neighbors, but really you're enough to deave one. How am I bearing up? Am I the woman to bring ill-luck to my child by crying at her wedding? No, she's not in—she's at the Bertrams. But there's her ring now at the hall-door. Good-night, neighbors both. You mean it kindly, but don't stay just now. I have a word or two to say to the girl in private to-night."
"I think that's Martha's voice," said Miss Peters. "Don't say that I told you anything, Mrs. Meadowsweet."
The door was opened, and Mrs. Butler came in.
This good woman, who led the army of the Beatricites, had now attained to all the airs of a victorious general. Her bonnet-strings were thrown back, her face was flushed, and her throat, conspicuous by the absence of her large white brooch, was bared to view.
"Well, my friend," she said. "Well, the time is near."
She took Mrs. Meadowsweet's fat hand, squeezed it hard, and looked with awful solemnity into her eyes.
"Good gracious," said the poor woman. "I never felt more exasperated in all my life. Any one would suppose that my girl was drowned in the harbor from the faces you one and all bring me."
"Mrs. Meadowsweet," said Mrs. Butler, "there is such a thing as having the body safe and well, and the character drowned."
Mrs. Meadowsweet's cheeks flushed deeply.
"I'll thank you to explain yourself, Martha Butler," she said. "Whose character is drowned?"
"No one's," said Mrs. Butler. "Or at least, no one who belongs to us."
Here she waved one of her arms in theatrical style.
"I have fought for that girl," she said, "as my sister Maria can bear testimony, and my friend Mrs. Morris can vouch—-I have fought for her, and I may truly say I have brought her through a sea of slander—yes, through a sea of slander—victorious. Now, who's that? Who's coming to interrupt us?"
"It's only me, Mrs. Butler," said Beatrice. She came quietly into the room. Her face was white, but its expression was serene, and almost happy.
"It's you, Bee, at last," said her mother.
She went straight up to the girl, and taking one of her hands raised it to her lips.
"You have come, Bee," she said in a purring cone of delight and content. "My girl has come at last, neighbors, and now I'll wish you, every one, a very good-night. I'm obliged for all sympathy, and if I don't understand these new-fashioned ways about weddings with their poor dears, and their poor friends, and drowning of somebody's character, and saving of somebody else's character, it's because I'm old-fashioned, and belong to an ancient school. Good-night, friends. Is that you, Jane?"
Jane appeared, bearing in a cup of cocoa for Beatrice.
"Jane, show these ladies out."
They all went. They hated to go, but they went, for the mantle of innocence and ignorance in which Mrs. Meadowsweet was so securely wrapped gave her a certain dignity which they could not resist. Jane shut the door on them, and they stood still outside the house, and wrangled, and talked, and worked themselves into a perfect rage of excitement and curiosity and longing. "Well, well, all surmises would soon be at rest. Who would win, Beatrice or Josephine? Who would be to-morrow's bride."
"Mother," said Beatrice, when the ladies had left—she looked into her old mother's face. There was an expression in her eyes which made Mrs. Meadowsweet cry out:
"Bee, you have got a hunger at your heart. Oh, child, you want your mammy—I never saw that look in your eyes since long, long ago, when you were a little tot, and wanted your mammy more than anything else in all the wide world."
"I want her now," said Beatrice.
She put her arms about her mother, and wept on her shoulder.
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 child.
"One person, however, he forbade the premises; with one individual he would have nothing to do. That person was his wife's father. From the moment he laid his young wife in her grave, he ignored the very existence of Hart. Your mother tells me, Bertram, that Hart was in all particuars a disreputable person. He was nothing but a needy adventurer, and he only approached Major Bertram to sponge on him.
"During the Major's absence your mother thought long and seriously of his proposals for her; the more she thought of them, the more desirable did they seem. She thought of herself in the sheltered position of a good man's wife. Above all, she thought of you. This marriage might save you. Suppose Major Bertram, for love of her, consented to adopt you as his son, to give you his name, and to present you to the world as his own lawful child. She thought this might be done; and the only difficulty in the way was the little bright-eyed, fair-haired Nina.
"Your mother did not wish to return to England calling Hart's granddaughter her child. She said she had an insuperable objection and repugnance to the idea, and an aversion for the poor little creature began to grow up in her mind."
Bertram, who had sat during the greater part of this recital with his hand shading his eyes, now started up with an impatient and distressed exclamation. The Rector looked at him, sighed heavily, and said in a voice of sympathy:
"My poor boy, this is a very hard story for you to listen to."
"Go on, Mr. Ingram," said Bertram. "Get it over quickly; that is all I have to ask you."
"While these thoughts were troubling your mother," continued the Rector, "she was one day surprised by a visit from Hart. He said he had come to see his grandchild; and he took little Nina in his arms and kissed her. Your mother says she scarcely knows how it was, but she and Hart began to talk about the child, and both simultaneously revealed to the other his and her real feelings.
"Hart hated Major Bertram, and would like to do him an injury. Your mother had no love for Nina. I nead not lengthily describe this interview. Suffice it to say that they made a plot between them. It was a bad plot. I am sorry to have to use this word to a son about any act of his mother's, but the truth must be told at all hazards. The plot was bad, bad at the time, bad subsequently.
"Your mother arranged to give Nina to her grandfather. She would pay him for delivering her from the child. After receiving his bribe Hart was to leave that part of India at once, When the Major returned your mother would tell him that the child was lost. That she feared her grandfather Hart had stolen her. She would help Major Bertram to make inquiries. These inquiries, she would arrange beforehand, should turn out useless, for Hart was one of those clever individuals, who, when necessary, could hide all trace of his existence.
"Your mother sold some jewellery to raise the necessary money for Hart. He came the next day and carried off the child. Major Bertram returned. He believed your mother's story, he was wild with grief at the loss of his child, and did everything in his power to recover her. In vain. Your mother and Hart were too clever for him.
"After a time he renewed his proposals to your mother. She made her conditions. You were to be acknowledged as his son.
"Soon after their marriage they returned to England, and Major Bertram retired from foreign service. His friends received them. The old story was never raked up. No suspicion attached to your mother. All the world believed you to be Major Bertram's son. No plot could have turned out better, and your mother rejoiced in her success.
"Her daughters were born, and she began to consider herself the happiest of living beings. The serpent, however, which she fondly thought killed, was once more to awake and torment her. She got a letter from Hart, who was then in Egypt. Nina was not dead, she was alive, and strong, and handsome. He would bring her back to her father and all the past would be known, if Mrs. Bertram did not buy his silence at a price.
"For some years after this letter she had to keep the old man quiet with money. Then suddenly, with no apparent reason, he ceased to trouble her. She believed that his silence was caused by Nina's death. She assured herself that the child must be dead, and once more her outward prosperity brought her happiness.
"Your father died, and his will was read. There was a codicil to his will which only his wife and the solicitors knew about. It was briefly to the effect that if by any chance the child of his first marriage was recovered, and her identity proved, she was to inherit one-half of his personal estate. He left her this large share of his property as compensation for the unavoidable neglect he had shown her all her life, and also in sorrow for having ever confided her to the care of another.
"That codicil tortured your mother's proud spirit. She felt that her husband had never really forgiven her for allowing his child to be stolen while under her care. Still she believed that the child now was dead.
"Her hour of terrible awakening came. Hart had returned to England. A couple of months ago he wrote to her here. Knowing that Nina's father was dead he had gone to Somerset House, paid a shilling and read a copy of the will. From that moment your mother knew no peace. Hart had all the necessary letters to prove Nina's identity. He had a copy of her baptismal certificate, and of the registration of her birth. Mrs. Bertram had now to bribe the old man heavily. She did so. She gave him and Nina a third of her income. Wretched, miserable, defiant, she yet hoped against hope. To-night, for the first time, she tasted despair."
The Rector ceased to speak. Bertram began to pace the floor.
"I can't forgive my mother," he said, at last. "I shall marry Josephine to-morrow morning and take her away, but I never want to see my mother again."
"Then she will die. She is weak now, weak and crushed. If you refuse your forgiveness you will have her death to answer for. I don't exonerate your mother's sin, but I do plead for your mercy. She sinned to shield and save you. You must not turn from her. Are you immaculate yourself?"
"I am not, Mr. Ingram. I am in no sense of the word good. I have been extravagant, reckless, I have been untruthful. I have caused my mother many a pang, and she has invariably been an angel of goodness and kindness to me. But her cruelty to Nina cuts me like a sword, and I cannot forgive her."
The Rector went over to the window, drew up the blinds, and looked out.
"Come here," he said to the young man. "Do you see that faint light in the east?"
"Yes, sir, the day is breaking."
"The day of your wedding, and of your new life. To-day you realize what true love means. You take the hand of the girl who is all the world to you, and you promise to love and reverence and defend her. To-day you put away the past life. You rise out of the ashes of the past, and put on manliness, and honor, and those virtues which good men prize, like an armor, Beatrice tells me you have promised her all this."
"Beatrice—God bless Beatrice:" Bertram's eyes were misty. "I will be a good husband, and a true man," he said with fervor. "I have been a wretch in the past, and with God's help I'll show Nina, and Beatrice too, what stuff they have made of me. I'll be a true man for their sakes. But my mother—Mr. Ingram, you have given me a cruel shock on my wedding morning."
"Bertram, all that you have said to me now will end in failure, will wither up like the early dew if you cherish hard feelings towards your mother. Did she ever cherish them to you? What about that bill she had to meet? That bill would have ruined her."
"Beatrice met the bill."
"Had there been no Beatrice?"
Bertram turned his head away.
"I have been a scoundrel," he said at last.
The Rector laid his hand on his arm.
"You have been something uncommonly like it, my dear fellow. And the spirit of revenge does not sit well on you. Come, your mother is waiting. Change her despair to peace. Say some of the good things you have said to me to her, and the blessing of God will descend on you, Bertram, and on the young girl whom you will call your wife to-day. Give me your hand. Come."
Bertram went.
Miss Peters was lying in sound slumber, and Mrs. Butler, with a wet sponge in her hand, was standing over the little spinster's bed.
"Maria," she said, in her sharp voice. And at the same moment the sponge descended with unerring aim on the sleeper's upturned face.
"Good heavens—fire—water! What is it?—I'm drowning—" gasped Miss Peters.
She raised her eyes, choked, for her mouth had been open, and some of the contents of the sponge had got in, and then surveyed her sister in trepidation.
"Oh, Martha, it's you. How you frightened me!"
"I only applied the sponge," replied Mrs. Butler. "It's an old-fashioned remedy for inordinate drowsiness, and effectual."
"But surely, surely—I feel as if I had only just dropped to sleep."
"Maria, it's five o'clock."
"Five! What do you mean, Martha? Am I to be accused of inordinate sleepiness at five in the morning?"
"On this morning you are. This is the wedding morning—get up, dress yourself. Put on your bridal finery, and join me in the parlor."
Mrs. Butler left the room. Miss Peters rubbed her sleepy eyes again.
"The wedding morning! and my bridal finery!" she murmured. "One would think poor Sam had never been drowned. I don't think Martha has any heart. She knows how I suffered about Sam. He certainly never proposed for me, but he was attentive—yes, he was attentive, and I—I suffered. It's thirty years now since he was drowned. Martha oughtn't to forget. People have no memories in these days."
The little lady began to put on her garments.
"It does seem extraordinarily early to have to get up, even though Bee is to be married at eleven o'clock to-day," she murmured. "Certainly, Martha is a most masterful person. Well, I don't mind so much, as it is for Bee's sake."
Miss Peters proceeded with her toilet, took tenderly out of its folds of camphor and white linen, a little antiquated brown silk dress, put it on, crossed over her shoulders a neat fichu of white lace, mounted her bonnet, composed of a piece of silk, which she had artfully removed from the skirt of her dress. This bonnet was trimmed with three enormous lemon-colored chrysanthemums, and was further embellished with a pink ruching, which surrounded the good lady's face.
Miss Peters almost trembled as she placed this exquisite head-dress over her scanty locks. The moment the bonnet was on, she became conscious of an immense amount of moral support. In that bonnet she could even defy Mrs. Butler.
"Nothing gives a lady such a nice feeling as being properly dressed," she murmured. "I am glad I went to the expense of a bit of pink silk to make this ruching. It is wonderfully soft, and becoming, too. I hope Martha won't object to the chrysanthemums. I chose the largest Perry had in his shop on purpose, in order not to be accused of aping youth. Now, my parasol, my gloves, my handkerchief. Oh, and my fan. I'm sure to flush a little when I see that dear child being given away. Now I'm quite ready. It certainly is an extraordinarily early hour to be dressed for a wedding, which is not to take place till eleven o'clock."
"Maria!" screamed Mrs. Butler's voice. "If you're not quick, you'll not have time to swallow your coffee."
"Dear, dear!" exclaimed Miss Peters, "is Martha's head going? I have not been half-an-hour dressing; can she have mistaken the hour?"
The little spinster ran downstairs.
"Here I am, Martha. Really I—"
"Not a word, Maria. Sit down at once, and drink off your coffee. You can munch a bit of bread in your hand as we go along."
"But, Martha, it is not six o'clock yet."
"What of that? We have not a moment to lose. There'll be crowds at the church. I am given to understand it will be packed, and as I intend to have a front seat, I'm going now."
Miss Peters began to count on her fingers.
"But Martha, it surely is not necessary."
"Now, Maria, that's enough. You'd argue any one black in the face. I don't often have my way, but I'll have it on this occasion. I am going to call for Mrs. Gorman Stanley; and Mrs. Morris asked me to knock her up, and we'll all of us just be at the church in good time."
"In good time," gasped Miss Maria. "But the doors won't be opened."
"Oh, won't they! You just wait and see. I haven't fought that girl's battles for nothing. We'll be able to get into the church, Maria, don't you fear. I have made friends as well as foes of late, and there are these who can get me into the church, so that I may stand up for Beatrice to the last. Now, have you swallowed your coffee?"
"I have. It has scalded my throat frightfully. I hate drinking hot liquid in such a hurry."
"Maria, you are dreadfully fractious this morning. And, good gracious me! What have you got in your bonnet! Here let me hold up the candle and look."
"Don't—don't drop the grease on my brown silk, Martha."
"Brown fiddlestick! Hold your head steady. Well—I never! The vanity of some folk! The apings of some people. Oh, I haven't a word to say if you like to make a show of yourself. I respect my years. I live up to them. Some people, I won't name who—don't."
"Had I better take off the bonnet, Martha? I thought these very large chrysanthemums—I chose them on purpose—"
"Hideous—you're a perfect fright! Look at me. Is there anything to laugh at in my velvet bonnet? Does it poke itself on the back of my head? And does it deck itself in pink and yellow?"
"It looks funereal, Martha, it's all black."
"Funereal! It looks suitable. Come on, or we'll be late."
The two ladies left the house. They walked quickly in the early morning light. Presently, they were joined by Mrs. Gorman Stanley. She was completely clothed in bridal garments of yellow. Her robe was yellow satin, her bonnet was to match, with blue forget-me-nots cozily nestling in its folds. Mrs. Morris joined the group in terra-cotta cashmere, with a cream lace bonnet. Round her face and mouth she had enveloped a black woollen shawl, but this was to be discarded presently.
As the ladies walked to the church they were joined by several more Beatricites, and when at last they found themselves under the shadow of the old tower, and in the shelter of the ancient porch, they were quite a goodly company.
"We'll just fill the front seats comfortably," said Mrs. Butler. "When Mrs. Bell and her Hartites arrive they'll have to go behind."
"But how are we to get in?" again questioned Miss Maria.
"Oh, I'll manage that. I have it all arranged. I spoke to Hunt yesterday."
Hunt was not only the baker, he was the church verger. He had quite sympathized with Mrs. Butler's wishes, while selling her a two-penny loaf yesterday. But why did he not put in an appearance now?
"Martha," again whispered Miss Maria, "Who are those people creeping round there by the south wall?"
"No one," snapped Mrs. Butler. "You're fanciful this morning, Maria. It's those horrid lemon-colored chrysanthemums; they have turned your head."
"I don't know about that," retorted Miss Peters. "I am sure I saw Mrs. Bell's snuff-colored bonnet."
Mrs. Butler sniffed. She would not retort again; but she was conscious of a little sense of uneasiness. It was difficult, even for a person as blind as she considered her sister Maria, to mistake that snuff-colored, drawn silk bonnet, ornamented with a huge bow in front of pale blue ribbon. That bonnet was celebrated. It had been worn by Mrs. Bell in season and out of season for many long years; it had been altered in shape; it had been turned. Sometimes the bow which filled up the gap in front was yellow, sometimes red, sometimes mauve. But every one in the town knew that for the wedding the bow on Mrs. Bell's bonnet was to be a delicate and bridal blue. This was to be her sole wedding adornment. To the length of purchasing that bow she had gone, and no further. Therefore now Mrs. Butler felt uncomfortable. If the Hartites secured the front seats in church she would have to own to defeat and humiliation. Was Hunt—could Hunt be faithless? He was known to be something of a toady, something of a Sergeant Eitherside, a Vicar of Bray sort of individual. To all appearance Hunt was a sworn Beatricite, but if by any chance he had heard something in favor of the Hartites, he was just the man to go over to them.
"There are about ten or twenty people with Mrs. Bell," said Miss Maria. "I'm sure that's Mrs. Bell. Yes, that is her bonnet."
She raised herself on tip-toe, clutching hold of Mrs. Morris's arm as she did so.
"It's freezing cold standing by this door," said Mrs. Morris, shivering. "I'll have an awful attack after this. Poor Beatrice, she'll cause my death."
"Keep the shawl well over your mouth," said Mrs. Gorman Stanley. "Really, Mrs. Butler, it is extraordinary that no one comes to open the door."
"Hunt is faithless," proclaimed Mrs. Butler. "Maria, listen to me. Never as long as I live will I buy bread from Hunt again. I'll eat Coffin's bread in future."
"Oh, Maria, it's so musty."
"Fiddle dumpling. Hunt is certainly faithless. Maria, do you think you could squeeze yourself through an open window?"
"I don't, Martha," replied Miss Peters; "and, what's more, I won't. I have got my best brown silk on. Where am I to get another silk? Ah," with a sigh of infinite relief, "here is Hunt."
The baker, who was red in the face, and had a somewhat nervous manner, now appeared. He came by a sidewalk which led directly from the vestry.
"I beg your pardon, ladies," he apologized; "I overslept myself, and that's a fact. Now the floors are open—find your places, ladies."
Hunt vanished, and Mrs. Butler led her party into the sacred edifice. The light was still faint in the old church, and at first the good lady could not see very plainly. When she did, however, she beheld a sight which petrified her. As she and her party hurried up one aisle, she perceived Mrs. Bell and her party rushing up the other. There was not a moment to lose. It is disgraceful to have to relate it, but there was almost a scuffle in the church. In short, the two generals met opposite the front pews. There was a scramble for seats. The Beatricites and the Hartites got mixed up in the most confusing manner, and finally Mrs. Butler and Mrs. Bell found themselves side by side and crushed very close together in a small space.
Some awful hours followed. Mrs. Butler deliberately placed her back to Mrs. Bell. Mrs. Bell talked at Mrs. Butler in a loud whisper to a neighbor at the other side. Poor Miss Peters fanned herself violently. Mrs. Morris's breathing became so oppressed that it was audible; and in short, all these good ladies who had got up hours before their rightful time were as uncomfortable and cross as they well could be. But the longest time passes at last. From six to seven went by, from seven to eight, from eight again to nine. The waiting was awful. By degrees, without quite knowing it, Mrs. Bell was forced to lean against Mrs. Butler for support. By half-past nine she ventured to say to her neighbor:
"This waiting is intolerable."
"Vile," snapped Mrs. Butler, in response.
By ten o'clock the opposing generals were sharing the same footstool. By a quarter-past ten they were both nodding.
It was about that hour that Hunt in his position as verger once more appeared. The church doors were opened to the community at large, the bells began to ring out a merry and bridal peal, and the inhabitants of the town, the rich and poor alike, filed into the church.
Mrs. Butler was right. Long before eleven o'clock the building was packed. Mrs. Bell was also right. She communicated this fact to Mrs. Butler, who nodded in response. Both ladies chuckled over their individual sagacity.
All the side aisles of the church began to fill. It was really an imposing spectacle. The weary inmates of the front pews felt they were reaping their rewards.
At a quarter to eleven some of the bridal guests appeared on the scene. Those who had been especially invited by the Bertram family were magnificently attired, and occupied one or two seats reserved for them.
Then the bride's-maids came. They stood in groups near the door, waiting to follow the bride to her place at the altar.
Mrs. Bell turned her flushed face; looked down the church, and nodded to her girls. She thought she had never seen anything so heavenly as the vision of her Matty in her bride's-maid's costume. Her heart swelled so with exultation, that she could not help confiding some of her feelings to Mrs. Butler.
"Pooh, you're a goose!" nodded back this good woman. But a slow smile stole over her face as she said the words.
The moments flew on. The organist took his place at the organ, the choir boys filed into their places.
At the end of the church the bride's-maids looked nervously around. Had any one listened very attentively they might have heard Matty Bell's titter.
A thrill went through the waiting crowds. The bridegroom had appeared; he was accompanied by a strange youth, a young officer from his regiment. He walked slowly up the church, and took his place before the altar.
Bertram looked so handsome at this moment, so pale, so dignified, that every woman in the church fell in love with him. Miss Peters sighed audibly, and even shed a tear for the memory of that Sam, who had never proposed for her, but had been attentive, and had died thirty years ago.
Matty Bell felt quite a little tumult in her heart. No, no, whatever her mother might say her Bayard was not like Beatrice's Bayard. She did not even want to look at her Gusty this moment.
Bertram stood before the altar and waited.
The bride!
There was a little buzz through the church. All the occupants of the pews rose; all heads were turned towards the door. In the excitement of the moment the Beatricites clasped the Hartites by the hands, Mrs. Bell's fat fingers rested on Mrs. Butler's shoulder.
The bride! She had come. Beatrice would marry Loftus Bertram. The Beatricites would conquer. Slander would die.
No, no. What was the matter? What was wrong? Was anything wrong?
A girl dressed in shimmering bridal clothes was walking up the church. A very slender and very pale girl. She was leaning on Mr. Ingram's arm; she was beautiful. There was an expression on her face which melted hearts, and made eyes brim over with tears. A bride was coming up the church—not Beatrice Meadowsweet—not the girl who was beloved by all the town.
Close behind the bride followed the principal bride's-maid. She was in a plain dress of white. Round her head she wore a wreath of white lilies, and in her hand she carried a bouquet of white flowers.
The other bride's-maids wore green silk sashes, and green with the marguerites which trimmed their broad hats.
"May God have mercy on us!" exclaimed Mrs. Butler.
She made this remark aloud; it was distinctly heard, and Beatrice, as she passed the good lady, turned and gave her a swift bright smile.
The bride joined the bridegroom before the altar, and the bishop, who was to perform the ceremony, began the marriage service:
"I, Loftus, take thee, Josephine—"
When these words were uttered Mrs. Bell turned and faced Mrs. Butler.
"Whose cause has won?" she murmured, "who was right?"
"Never you say a word against that blessed girl, Beatrice Meadowsweet," replied Mrs. Butler. "Watch her face—it's the face of an angel."
"So it is," said Mrs. Bell. And the ladies clasped hands and buried their feud.
Mrs. Bell and Mrs. Butler had a cup of tea together after the wedding. They partook of their tea in Mrs. Butler's house, and they gossiped over the events of the day for long hours.
Part of the strange story of Beatrice's engagement the rector had told his guests at the wedding-breakfast—a sufficient portion of this curious romance was related to show some of the real nobility of this young girl's character. People were to conjecture about the rest. They were never to know. They never did know.
The Hartites and the Beatricites ceased to exist at the breakfast, or rather the whole community became Beatricites on the spot.
Bertram took his bride away, and the town was very glad to think they might keep Beatrice Meadowsweet with them after all. Neither Mrs. Bertram nor Mrs. Meadowsweet were present at the wedding, but they met that evening, for Mrs. Meadowsweet drove up to the Manor; she was accompanied by Beatrice and they both asked to see Mrs. Bertram.
They were admitted into the great lady's bedroom.
"I am sorry you are so poorly, Mrs. Bertram," said Mrs. Meadowsweet. "I thought, as Bee was coming up, I'd call with her. There's nothing for worry on the nerves like Eleazer Macjones's Life Pills, and here's a fresh box of them. I thought I'd bring them up, and tell you that for my part I'm highly pleased."
"Pleased," said Mrs. Bertram.
She raised her white face and looked at her visitor.
"Yes, of course I am. I keep my girl. The young man wasn't suited to her, nor she to him. I guessed there'd be no luck about that engagement, when I was so deaved with 'poor dears,' and 'poor friends.' That's not the right way to speak before any wedding. They were neither of them more than half-hearted towards one another, and it's well they found it out in time. Now when I married Meadowsweet—"
"Mother," interrupted Beatrice, "I think Mrs. Bertram is tired."
"Well, my pet, and you want the old lady to stop her chatter. You try the Life Pills, Mrs. Bertram, I'll wait in the next room for Bee. She has a word to say to you."
When they were alone together Beatrice went and knelt by Mrs. Bertram's sofa.
"So you never loved my son. Beatrice?" said Mrs. Bertram, raising her heavy eyes, and looking at her.
"I did not, I consented to marry him because I was silly and thought I could do him good. I was saved just in time from making a grave mistake. Josephine loves him."
"You think she will do him good?"
"The greatest, the best. They were meant for one another. They ought to lead happy lives together."
"Beatrice, I have heard—I don't know how to thank you—I have heard what you have done with some—some of your money. I don't know how to thank you, child. You have saved Loftus and me."
Beatrice bent forward and kissed Mrs. Bertram on her cheek.
"I am glad," she said in a simple, quiet voice. "My father would be glad too. I am abundantly content."
"Beatrice, you would have been just the wife for Loftus."
"No, he was not the husband meant for me. Some day my true lover may come. If not, I have always been a happy girl, Mrs. Bertram, I am happy still. I feel full of delight to-night. Now I must go. Only, first of all, do something—something for the girl who has been made your daughter to-day."
"Something for—for Josephine?"
"For Nina, whose great love will raise and save your son. Take this packet; put it into the fire."
"What is it, Beatrice? I am weak. Are there any more shocks?"
"No. Josephine does not wish the story of her birth to be ever revealed. She is a Bertram now without any need of proving her title. Her object is to guard her husband's secret, and she does this, when she asks his mother to burn this packet which contains the full proofs of her identity as a Bertram."
Mrs. Bertram shivered. She touched the packet. Then she gave it back to Beatrice.
"Put it into the fire yourself," she said. "Beatrice, you have saved us all."
This little scene happened on the evening of Bertram's wedding-day. Just at that same hour Mrs. Bell and Mrs. Butler were hob-nobbing over their tea.
"For my part," said Mrs. Butler, "I no longer regret the absence of my brooch. I will own I fretted for it when there seemed likely to be no wedding to speak of. For why should the Northbury folks put themselves out about the marriage of two strangers. But now I am glad Beatrice has it, for though she is not a bride she is a beautiful character, and no mistake, and such should be encouraged."
"That's my way of thinking, too," said Mrs. Bell. "I'll thank you for another lump of sugar, Mrs. Butler. Yes, I have no fault to find with Beatrice Meadowsweet. If she failed, she failed in a graceful fashion, and, when all is said and done, her intentions were of the best."