“And, had I known who my real master was,” said that young gentleman, “I never would have accepted the post.”
“Are you sorry you were ignorant?” asked Mr. Croft, with a smile, glancing towards Heather.
“No—oh, no!” was the quick reply; for every one now knew, that when Mr. Croft appeared so opportunely in Silk Street, he was coming to tell Mrs. Dudley of his wife’s death—coming to say, that if Bessie would only accept him, he would make reparation—he would prove his repentance.
There was not a relation he had in the world who opposed his decision—not one who, hearing the full details of that sad story, urged a word against the girl whom he desired, after a due interval, to make his wife.
All the reluctance was with Bessie—all the difficulty he experienced lay in her disinclination to speak to him, or listen to his suit.
“Her child,” she said to Heather, “would be looked down on.” Her child who, now chattering his first intelligible sentences, ran through the gardens at Berrie Down, making that sound of young life about the place which is always so pleasant to hear.
But there was hope for the suitor, nevertheless. In due time, Heather promised to take up his cause.
“I will talk to her when I get strong,” she said to Mr. Croft; and with that assurance he rested satisfied.
As for Mrs. Poole Seymour, she was quite enthusiastic about the affair.
“My dear,” she declared, “you must not be cruel. You ought to be the first to forgive him, since it was your pretty face led him so far astray; and as for your child—the estate is not entailed—what matter? besides, Mr. Stewart is so rich, and has taken to you so immensely!”