People who have secrets, who find themselves hemmed into corners, who live perpetually over graves of the dead past, are seldom quite free from fear. Mrs. Bertram had gone through tortures during the last couple of hours. When she was alone with Beatrice she seized her hands, and drew her down to sit on the sofa by her side. Her eyes asked a thousand questions, while her lips made use of some conventional commonplace.
Beatrice was after all an unsophisticated country girl. She had never been trained in finesse; painful things had not come to her in the past of her life, either to conceal or avoid. Now a terrible task was laid upon her, and she went straight to the point.
Mrs. Bertram said: "You look tired, my dear future daughter."
Beatrice made no reply to this. She did not answer Mrs. Bertram's lips, but responding to the hunger in her eyes, said:
"I have got something to tell you."
Then Mrs. Bertram dropped her mask.
"I feared something was wrong. I guessed it from Loftie's manner. Go on, speak. Tell me the worst."
"I'm afraid I must give you pain."
"What does a chit like you know of pain? Go on, break your evil tidings. Nay, I will break them for you. There is to be no wedding tomorrow."
"You are wrong. There is."