“I belong to the canaille,” she murmured.  “And my father—­my father is taunted because he earned his bread in trade.  Mrs. Bertram, I am glad I don’t belong to your set.”

Beatrice had never been so angry in all her life before.  The anger of those who scarcely ever give way to the emotion has something almost fearful about it.  Mrs. Bertram was a passionate woman, but she cowered before the words and manner of this young girl.  She had taunted Beatrice.  The country girl now was taunting her, and she shrank away in terror.

The door was opened, and Loftus Bertram came in.  Beatrice went up to him at once.

“I have prepared the way for you, Loftus,” she said.  “It is your turn now to speak.  Tell your mother the truth.”

“Yes, my son.”

Mrs. Bertram looked up in his face.  Her look was piteous; it disarmed Beatrice; her great anger fled.  She went up to the poor woman, and stood close to her.

“Speak, Loftus,” she said.  “Be quick, be brave, be true.  Your mother cannot bear much.  Don’t keep her in suspense.”

“Go out of the room, Beatrice,” said Loftus.  “I can tell her best alone.”

“No, I shall stay.  It is right for me to stay.  Now speak.  Tell your mother who you really love.”

“Go on, Loftus,” said Mrs. Bertram, suddenly.  “You love Beatrice Meadowsweet.  She angered me, but she is a true and good girl at heart.  You love her; she is almost your bride—­say that you love her.”

“She is the best girl I ever met, mother.”

“There, Beatrice, does not that content you?” said Mrs. Bertram.

“Hush,” said Beatrice.  “Listen.  He has more to say.  Go on, Loftus—­speak, Captain Bertram.  Is Josephine not worth any effort of courage?”

“Josephine!” Mrs. Bertram clasped her hands.

Bertram stepped forward.

“Mother, I don’t love Beatrice as I ought to love my wife.  I do love Josephine Hart, and she is to be my wife to-morrow morning.”

“Josephine Hart!” repeated Mrs. Bertram.  She looked round at Beatrice, and a smile played all over her face—­a fearful smile.

“My son says he loves Josephine Hart—­Josephine—­and he will marry her!”

She gave a laugh, which was worse than any cry, and fell insensible on the floor.

CHAPTER XXXII.

THE NIGHT BEFORE THE WEDDING.

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.”