“My mother knows all that,” interrupted Richard, “but I cannot convince her no offence is intended. Mother, I think you might give Bessie a kinder reception; she has promised to marry me, and I think my future wife should be treated with consideration and respect.”
“No, no; how can you talk so?” interrupted Bessie, for the young man spoke in a fiery manner. “Mrs. Sefton, please don’t listen to him. You shall treat me as you will; but I shall always remember how good you have been to me. Of course you are not pleased with a poor girl like me; but you will be kind to me all the same—will you not? and I will try to follow all your wishes. It is not your son’s fault either,” very shyly, but trying to speak out bravely, “for he could not help caring for me, I suppose. Do, do try to forgive us both, and be kind to him.” And here Bessie faltered and broke down.
Nothing could have been better than Bessie’s little impetuous speech. Mrs. Sefton was a proud, ambitious woman, but she was not wholly without feelings, and she had always been fond of Bessie. The girl’s sweetness and humility, her absence of all assumption, the childlike way in which she threw herself upon her womanly kindness, touched Mrs. Sefton’s cold heart, and she kissed the wet, flushed cheek.
“Don’t cry, Bessie. I suppose as things are settled we must just make the best of them. Richard put me out, and I said more than I meant. I was not pleased. I think I ought to have been consulted at least, not left so wholly in the dark.”
“I am very sorry, mother, but you have never invited my confidence,” replied Richard; but his lips quivered as he spoke.
“Yes; but you will be kinder to him now,” and Bessie looked imploringly at her; “indeed, he has always loved you, but you have repelled him so. Richard,” very softly, “will you not tell your mother that you mean to be good to her?”
Mrs. Sefton looked up, and her eyes met her stepson’s. “It was not my fault, mother,” he said, with suppressed emotion.
Bessie thought that he was speaking of their engagement, but Richard’s words conveyed a different meaning to his stepmother’s ears. He was going back to the past. Again he saw himself a shy, nervous boy, standing before the proud, handsome girl who had just become his father’s wife. “He can never be anything to me,” he heard her say; and her low, bitter tones lingered long in his ears. “If I had known of his existence it might have been different; but now—” and she turned away with a gesture of dislike.
“Ritchie, my boy, you must ask this lady to forgive us both,” his father had observed, rather sadly.
How well Richard remembered that little scene! the discomfited expression of his father’s face; his own puzzled, childish feelings. All these years he had suffered the consequences of his father’s rash act. “He can never be anything to me,” she had said, and her words had come true.