"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."