“Eh, dear!” said Jane.  “Rumor’s a queer thing.”

She did not vouchsafe any more, and Mrs. Meadowsweet was too innocent and indolent and comfortable in her mind to question her.

The other person who knew nothing was Mrs. Bertram.  Of all the people in the world Mrs. Bertram was perhaps the most interested in that wedding which was to take place on Tuesday.  The wedding could scarcely mean more to the bride and bridegroom than it did to her—­yet no news of any contretemps, of any little hitch in the all-important proceedings, had reached her ears.  For the last week she had taken steps to keep Catherine and Mabel apart from all Northbury gossip.  The servants at the Manor who, of course knew everything did not dare to breathe a syllable of their conjectures.  The bravest Hartite and Beatricite would not have dared to intrude their budgets of wild conjecture on Mrs. Bertram’s ears.  Consequently she lived through these exciting days in comparative calm.  Soon the great tension would be over.  Soon her gravest alarms would be lulled to rest, Now and then she wondered that Beatrice was not oftener at the Manor.  Now and then she exclaimed with some vexation at Mr. Ingram’s extraordinary absence from home at such a time.

The Rector had gone to London, and a stranger took his pulpit on that all-important Sunday before the wedding.

Mrs. Bertram wondered a little over these two points, but they did not greatly disturb her;—­Loftus was at home and Loftus looked strangely, wildly happy.

Mrs. Bertram had been alarmed, and rendered vaguely uneasy by her son’s gloom a few days ago, but there was no shadow resting on the young man’s face now.  He laughed, he talked, his eyes wore an exultant expression in their fire and daring.  He caressed his sisters, he hung over his mother’s chair, and kissed her.

“Ah, Loftie,” she said once, “you are really and honestly in love.  I have had my doubts that you did not really appreciate our dear and noble Beatrice.  But your manner the last few days, your spirits, my son, your all-evident happiness, have abundantly sent these doubts to rest.  You are in love with your future wife, and no wonder!”

“No wonder,” echoed Loftus.

He had the grace to blush.

“Yes, I am in love,” he said.  “No one was ever more madly in love than I am.”  Then after a pause he added:  “And I think Beatrice, without exception, the noblest and best woman on earth.”

“That is right, my boy.  Ah, Loftus, I am glad I could do one thing for you.  I have got you a wife whose price is above rubies.”

Bertram laughed.

“You have made a feeble joke, mother,” he said in some confusion.  “I should like to know to which you allude—­Bee’s money or her personal charms.”

“Both—­both—­you naughty boy Beatrice is all that could be desired in herself, but in what position should you and I be in the future without her money?”