St. George Beresford’s precautions that his parents should not know of
his illness were useless.
It was not probable that the son of an American millionaire could fall
ill in London without the knowledge of the ubiquitous reporters for the
American newspapers.
So the first news the Beresfords had of their son’s illness was brought
through a special to a New York daily paper.
Something seemed to snap like a too hardly strained cord in the
mother’s heart when she read the paragraph and she fell in a heavy
swoon to the floor.
The thought had struck through her mind that if her son died it would
have been through her pride and harshness that it had happened.
She had been too imperious and too hasty. She should have tried gentler
means with her spoiled but noble and loving boy.
She realized it all too late as she cried out to her anxious husband:
“You must take me to my son. He must forgive me before he dies!”
“We will start at the earliest possible hour,” he replied, huskily.
Most fortunately a steamer was leaving New York that day, and they had
no difficulty in securing a first-class passage.
“It will be lonely for you, dear, without us. Perhaps you had better
go on to Newport next week, as we had planned,” they said to Alva, who
answered, cheerily:
“No--no; I will await your return here. I am not anxious to begin the
gay season at the seashore.”
So she remained in the large, splendid mansion with the servants, and
the anxious parents set out on their journey.
Oh, those weary days upon the sea, how long they were, how heavily they
dragged to those two hearts aching with remorse and grief!
“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.
The lethargy of that terrible illness following on acute delirium held
the patient in its grasp, and he did not recognize the fond, anxious
faces that bent over him, his ears were deaf to their words of love.
This condition continued for days, and they feared that the patient
would sink into death without knowing the remorse and penitence they
had crossed the sea to pour into his ears.