“Anything but that. You admit that I am a good fellow enough, and that Bessie would probably marry some one in course of time. Now, I don’t see why you cannot make us both happy by giving your consent. It costs you a pang to do it. I honor you for that. Give me the right to console you.”
“By making myself an object of pity? No, not yet, not yet. I must, at least, have time to think.”
I inwardly cursed my luck. How long was this sort of thing going to last? I was about to rise and take my leave, when an inspiration struck me.
“Mrs. Pinkerton,” I said gravely, “what you have said of the ties that exist between you and your daughter has touched me deeply. I believe we young people do not half appreciate a mother’s unchanging love. It lies so far beneath the surface that we are too apt to forget its constant blessing. My mother died when I was very young. Ah, if she were only here now, to plead my cause for me!”
With these words, I turned on my heel and hastily got out of the room. I went into the garden and lighted a cigar, the better to think over the situation. I could not determine what progress, if any, I had made in the good graces of Mrs. Pinkerton. While I was cogitating, Bessie came out and approached me with an inquiring look. I am afraid my returning glance did not greatly reassure her. As she came up and took my arm, she said,—
“Well?”
“Well! No, it’s not very well. I am beaten, my dear. Your mother is simply a stony-hearted parent!”
“What did she say?”
“Oh, she wants you to grow up an old maid—as if such a thing were possible!—and says that lovers have no idea of what a mean, cruel thing it is to rob people of only daughters; and that she shall require time to think of it. What do you think of that?”
Bessie knitted her pretty brows, and dug her toes into the walk.