“We were too harsh,” sighed the father.
“It was all my fault,” sobbed the mother. “If I had pleaded for my boy you would have yielded, for your pride was not so great as mine.”
“And, after all, the girl might not have been so objectionable. She was a poor girl,” he said, “but poverty is not a crime, dear.”
“No—no; and we have wealth enough to spare as a royal dowry for our son’s bride. But, oh, the doubt as to whether she is pure and worthy!—for St. George is a noble son—it is that which tortures so cruelly. Oh, why did he not tell us who she was, that we might have judged for ourselves.”
“It may be that he feared our interference with the girl during his absence.”
“And he was right; for had I known where to find her, I should have bribed her, if possible, to give up her claim on St. George—yes, to go away and hide herself until the affair blew over,” confessed Mrs. Beresford, frankly.
And had any one told the proud lady that she had employed a high-priced detective to seek the girl her son loved, and bring her home to the Fifth Avenue palace, she would have thought they had taken leave of their senses.
The weary journey was over at last, and they reached London.
Soon they were bending over their son’s sick-bed.
But alas! it was enough to break their hearts, that sight.