Two loving hearts may meet.”
Beresford lifted his head, his face transfigured with its passionate love and wounded pride.
Drawing a sheet of paper to him, he seized a pen, and wrote rapidly:
“May God forgive you, my beloved mother, for your cruel pride, and comfort you for the loss of your son; for you have forced me to choose between you and my heart’s love. You have put my heart on the rack, like Alva’s; but I am not weak like she was, my poor sister; so I, loving you still, and praying as ever for your welfare, renounce everything you choose to withhold from me, for my love’s sake.”
It was signed and posted, the brief letter, and then he realized the might of his love for Floy, that could reconcile him to such a renunciation as he had made.
He was no longer the heir of a millionaire, but a disinherited son, with nothing to live on but an income of three thousand a year left him by his grandfather. What then? He and Floy would be poor in gold, but rich in love. He could bear anything, so that she was not taken away from him.
Two days passed, and then there came another letter from New York. It was from Otho Maury—a smooth, fawning letter, pleading the paragraph he inclosed as an excuse for writing.
It was the story of poor little Floy’s accident, and Otho wrote briefly of what had happened to Floy since Beresford had gone away—the death of John Banks, and Floy’s venture as a salesgirl in New York, with the unaccountable accident that had closed the brief story of her sweet life; for at the end of the paragraph Otho penciled:
“She died the next day. Thinking you had a kindly interest in the sweet girl is the reason why I have written you,” he added. “As for myself, I loved her, and had proposed marriage, but she refused me. I hope that our mutual admiration for the dear girl may form a bond of sympathy between us.”
St. George Beresford could not bear the terrible shock of this letter, following on the excitement of his mother’s denunciation.