"and tell it at once."

"I must tell it to you, George," my mother answered, sadly, "as
she told it to me. She begged me herself to do that. 'We must
disappoint him,' she said, 'but pray let it be done as gently as
possible.' Beginning in those words, she confided to me the
painful story which you know already--the story of her marriage.
From that she passed to her meeting with you at Edinburgh, and to
the circumstances which have led her to live as she is living
now. This latter part of her narrative she especially requested
me to repeat to you. Do you feel composed enough to hear it now?
Or would you rather wait?"

"Let me hear it now, mother; and tell it, as nearly as you can,
in her own words."

"I will repeat what she said to me, my dear, as faithfully as I
can. After speaking of her father's death, she told me that she
had only two relatives living. 'I have a married aunt in Glasgow,
and a married aunt in London,' she said. 'When I left Edinburgh,
I went to my aunt in London. She and my father had not been on
good terms together; she considered that my father had neglected
her. But his death had softened her toward him and toward me. She
received me kindly, and she got me a situation in a shop. I kept
my situation for three months, and then I was obliged to leave
it.'
"

My mother paused. I thought directly of the strange postscript
which Mrs. Van Brandt had made me add to the letter that I wrote
for her at the Edinburgh inn. In that case also she had only
contemplated remaining in her employment for three months' time.

"Why was she obliged to leave her situation?" I asked.

"I put that question to her myself," replied my mother. "She made
no direct reply--she changed color, and looked confused. 'I will
tell you afterward, madam,' she said. 'Please let me go on now.
My aunt was angry with me for leaving my employment--and she was
more angry still, when I told her the reason. She said I had
failed in duty toward her in not speaking frankly at first. We
parted coolly. I had saved a little money from my wages; and I
did well enough while my savings lasted. When they came to an
end, I tried to get employment again, and I failed. My aunt said,
and said truly, that her husband's income was barely enough to
support his family: she could do nothing for me, and I could do
nothing for myself. I wrote to my aunt at Glasgow, and received
no answer. Starvation stared me in the face, when I saw in a
newspaper an advertisement addressed to me by Mr. Van Brandt. He
implored me to write to him; he declared that his life without me
was too desolate to be endured; he solemnly promised that there
should be no interruption to my tranquillity if I would return to
him. If I had only had myself to think of, I would have begged my
bread in the streets rather than return to him--' "

I interrupted the narrative at that point.

"What other person could she have had to think of?" I said.

"Is it possible, George," my mother rejoined, "that you have no
suspicion of what she was alluding to when she said those words?"

The question passed by me unheeded: my thoughts were dwelling
bitterly on Van Brandt and his advertisement. "She answered the
advertisement, of course?" I said.

"And she saw Mr. Van Brandt," my mother went on. "She gave me no
detailed account of the interview between them. 'He reminded me,'
she said, 'of what I knew to be true--that the woman who had
entrapped him into marrying her was an incurable drunkard, and
that his ever living with her again was out of the question.
Still she was alive, and she had a right to the name at least of
his wife. I won't attempt to excuse my returning to him, knowing
the circumstances as I did. I will only say that I could see no
other choice before me, in my position at the time. It is
needless to trouble you with what I have suffered since, or to
speak of what I may suffer still. I am a lost woman. Be under no
alarm, madam, about your son. I shall remember proudly to the end
of my life that he once offered me the honor and the happiness of
becoming his wife; but I know what is due to him and to you. I
have seen him for the last time. The one thing that remains to be
done is to satisfy him that our marriage is impossible. You are a
mother; you will understand why I reveal the obstacle which
stands between us--not to him, but to you.' She rose saying those
words, and opened the folding-doors which led from the parlor
into a back room. After an absence of a few moments only, she
returned."

At that crowning point in the narrative, my mother stopped. Was
she afraid to go on? or did she think it needless to say more?

"Well?" I said.

"Must I really tell it to you in words, George? Can't you guess
how it ended, even yet?"

There were two difficulties in the way of my understanding her. I
had a man's bluntness of perception, and I was half maddened by
suspense. Incredible as it may appear, I was too dull to guess
the truth even now.


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