Oh, those days and nights of sorrow and suspense! The tortured parents
would never forget them.
The memory of their harshness was a lash to conscience that never
ceased to sting.
In the weary nightly vigils, when they hung over the sufferer’s
bedside, the mother prayed, unceasingly:
“Oh, God, give me back my boy, that I may atone!”
All her pride was brought low. If she could have known where to find
the mysterious girl her son loved, she would have dragged her by force,
if necessary, to her son’s bedside, hoping that the sight of her beauty
would lure him back to life.
Oh, the strength of a mother’s love! What will it not endure and yield
and suffer for the sake of the beloved one!
The proud woman learned, in that fiery trial, all the strength of her
love for her son--knew that it was stronger than pride or ambition,
mightier than death.
“Give him back that I may atone!” was her continual prayer, until it
seemed as if God must have heard and pitied at last.
The day came when he opened his heavy eyes and knew his mother.
They lightened with a faint gleam of pleasure, and from that moment he
began to convalesce.
Memory lay dormant in his mind for days; but it wakened at last, as she
knew by the sudden change on his face.
It was twilight, and the windows were open, that warm summer evening,
to admit the pleasant air. The western sky was still faintly roseate
with hues of the fading sunset, and the sounds of the London streets
were softening with the close of the weary day of toil.
Mr. Beresford had gone out for a walk, and the mother and son were
alone.
She sat at the head of his low couch, softly stroking back the dark
hair from his high, white brow with her jeweled slender white hand.
It made her heart ache to see how thin and wasted he was, and to think
that her cruelty had wrought the change.
His hollow dark eyes were turned toward the open window, watching the
rosy-purple sky with a far-off look.
Suddenly she saw his whole face change as with a spasm, and his lips
contract as with pain. She knew that memory had reasserted itself, by
the anguish in his eyes.
Impulsively she stooped and pressed her lips to his brow, and it was
not all her fancy that he shrunk from the caress.
“My son!” she cried, entreatingly; but there was no reply, and she
continued: “Forgive me!”
She knelt down by his side and put her arms around him. The proud,
beautiful woman had never humbled herself like this to any one before
in all her life.
“St. George, listen to me,” she murmured, tremulously, but he could not
speak. She felt his whole form shaking with emotion.
She cried out, tenderly:
“Oh, my son, I see that you remember everything, and you shrink from
me. You feel that I was hard and cruel, and I know now that I was
wrong, that I had no right to write you that cruel letter. My heart
almost broke when I heard of your illness, and I came to you at
once--your father with me--to tell you that we repent our harshness and
wish to atone.”
No answer yet, and she felt the wasted form heaving beneath the touch
with heavy, repressed sobs that it seemed unmanly to utter.
“St. George, do you understand me, my dear?” she murmured, tenderly.
“We repent our harshness, we withdraw our objections to your marriage.
Whoever the girl is--and we feel that she must be good and pure, or she
would not be our son’s choice--we will take her to our hearts for your
sake.”
She paused for his answer, but it was only a succession of heavy sobs,
such as can only burst from the breast of a man who gives up the
struggle against emotion and lets the storm sweep him away.
It was a tempest of grief before which the grieving mother was appalled.
She put her arms around him and wept with him in passionate sympathy.
Mr. Beresford stole back to the room so quietly that neither heard him.
He hovered over them in perplexity of grief.
At length he saw that the tempestuous sobs were stifled by a manly
will, and St. George answered, faintly, to his mother’s implorings:
“Alas! it is too late.”
“No, no, my son! Do not grieve my heart with such cruel words!” she
cried. “You will soon be strong enough to come home with us, and then
you shall marry when you will. Shall I write to Alva to seek out your
betrothed and bring her home to greet you when we return?”
A strangled sob shook the invalid’s form.
“Oh, mother, how good you are to me--just like an angel! I forgive
all that there is to forgive, and--there will never be any more
discord between us, please Heaven. I shall never have any one to love
henceforth but you three--for--for--_she_ is dead!”
“Great Heaven!” cried his mother, in amazement.
“_She_ is dead,” he repeated, with the calmness of despair. “That was
the secret of my sickness, dear mother. They wrote to me just after I
sent you my last letter, that she was dead--my pure, beautiful little
love! There, I can not talk of it even to you, dear, and---- But there
is father with a letter.”