“My work at Court was finished a little earlier to-day, and I have done
myself the pleasure of calling to inquire for Mrs. Leconte and you after
the marriage. Will you accept a few roses?” The manner was grave and a
trifle formal, but George Lennox was one in whom any woman might safely
put her trust--tall and well built, with a strong face and kindly
eyes--a modest and courteous gentleman.
“It is good of you to remember us, but, indeed, you have always been
most kind,” said Miss Leconte, with the faintest flush on her cheek.
“Mother is out, and will be sorry to have missed you. Will you not sit
down, and I'll order tea.”
The London sun, which labours hard, with many ingenuities, to do his
part by every home and give to each its morsel of brightness, found
the right angle at that moment, and played round Grace's face with soft
afternoon light She was not beautiful like her sisters, but one man out
of a thousand would learn to love her for the loyalty that could be read
in the grey eyes, and the smile, a very revelation of tenderness, as if
her soul had looked at you.
“Yes, mother and I have settled down to our quiet round after the
festivities; mother needs a rest, for you know how little she thinks of
herself; her unselfishness puts one to shame every day.”
Mr. Lennox looked as if he knew another unselfish person, and Grace
continued hurriedly: “Every one thought the marriage went off so well,
and the day was certainly perfect Didn't Gertrude and Frances make
lovely brides, each in her own way?”
“So the people said, and I know how they would look; but it happened
that I stood where I could only see the bridesmaids.”
“Will you excuse me putting the roses in water? they are the finest I've
seen this summer, and I want to keep them fresh,” and she escaped for
the moment He watched her place one dish on the end of the grand piano
and another on a table near her mother's chair, and a yearning look came
over his face.
They talked of many things, but both were thinking of one only, and then
it was she, In her kindness, that provoked the catastrophe.
“You will come again and see mother; she misses Gerty and Frances, and
it is very pleasant to have a talk with old friends.”
“And you, Grace--Miss Leconte, I mean--may I not come to visit you?”
“You know that I am glad when you come, and always will be; you are my
friend also,” and she looked at him with frank, kind eyes.
“Nothing more than friend after all these years--seven now since first
we met Do you not guess what I was thinking as your sisters stood beside
their bridegrooms in church?” But she did not answer.
“Can you give me no hope, Grace? If you told me to come back in five
years, I would count them days for the joy of hearing you call me by my
name at the end, as a woman speaks to the man she loves.”
“You ought not to open this matter again” but she was not angry, “for
my mind is made up, and cannot be changed. There is no man living whom
I respect more; none to whom I would rather go in time of trouble; there
is nothing I would not do for you, Mr. Lennox, except one...”
“But it is the one thing I desire;” and then Lennox began to plead. “No
man is worthy of you, Grace, and I least of all. The world counts me
proud and cold, and I regret my manner every day, but I can love, and
I love you with all my heart You know I can give you a house and every
comfort of life--perhaps I may be able to bring you honour and rank some
day; but these are not the arguments I would urge or you would care to
hear. Love is my plea--that I never loved before I saw you, and if you
refuse me that I will not love any other.
“Do not speak yet” His face was white, and he stretched out his hands in
appeal. “Have we not the same... faith and the same ideals? Could not we
work together for a lifetime, and serve the world with our love?
Perhaps I ought to have spoken years ago, but the Bar is an uncertain
profession, and my position was not made. It seemed to me cowardly to
ask a woman's love before one could offer her marriage, so I kept
silent till last spring, when I saw your sisters' lovers and their
happiness--and then I could not help telling you that one man hoped to
win your heart Now I ask for your answer.
“If you love another man,” he went on, “or feel that you can never love
me, tell me at once, Grace, for this were better for us both. I would
never cease to love you, for we slow, cold men do not change, and if you
had need I would serve you, but never again would I... trouble you,” and
the ablest of the junior counsel at the Chancery Bar broke down before a
girl that had no other attraction than the goodness of her soul.
Grace Leconte was the calmer of the two when she spoke, but her face was
set like a martyr's in his agony.
“I had hoped, Mr. Lennox, that you would not have followed up what you
said in March, but yet so selfish is a woman, I am not sorry to be told
that I... am loved by such a man.
“Believe me, it is I that am unworthy. You have made too much of a very
ordinary woman But I am proud of... your love, and in after years, when
I find the strain too heavy, will often say, 'God has been good to me.
George Lennox loved me.”
He was waiting anxiously, not knowing how this would end.
“You have spoken frankly to me, and have laid bare your heart,” she went
on. “I do not see why I should be hindered by custom from telling you
the truth also,” and then she hesitated, but only for a little. “For
years--I do not know how long--I have... loved you, and have followed
your career as only a woman who loves could--gathering every story of
your success, and rejoicing in it all as if you had been mine. Wait, for
I have not yet done.
“If I could say 'Yes,' I would, George--may I call you this, only
to-day?--without any delay but I must say 'No' instead, although it may
break my heart I can never be your wife.”
“What do you mean...?”
“Bear with me, and I will tell you all. You know now it is not because I
do not want to marry you--I do; I also can love, and I do not wish to be
an old maid--no woman does. I will not pretend indifference, but it is
not possible for me to leave my mother.”
“Is that all?” cried Lennox, as one who has cast off a great dread. “I
would never ask Mrs. Leconte to part from the last of her daughters. She
will come with you, and we shall strive to make her life peaceful and
glad....”
“Please do not go on, for this can never be. No power could induce
mother to change her way or live with us. She will live and die alone,
or I must stay with her. My duty is clear, and, George, you must...
accept this decision as final.”
“You will let me speak to her and put our case...?”
“No, a thousand times no. She must never know our secret. It would still
be the same between you and me, but mother would fret every year because
I had made this sacrifice. As it is she knows nothing, and will never
guess the truth. Promise me you will say nothing; that is one favour I
have to ask, and there is another, that... you do not call again, for I
could not bear to see you for a little... for some years. You will do so
much for me, will you not?”
He had sat down, his head on his breast, a figure of utter dejection,
when she laid her hand on his arm.
“Things cannot end after this fashion,” and Lennox sprang to his feet;
“does not the Book say that a man will forsake father and mother for
love's sake, and should it not be so with a woman also? What right have
you to deny your love and blight two lives?”
“Many would say that I am wrong, but my mind is made up. Do not try
me farther, George; God knows how hard it is to obey my conscience. My
duty, as I see it, and that is all one can go by, is to mother, and if
I made it second even to love, I should be inwardly ashamed, and you...
you could not respect me.
“Say you understand,” and her lips trembled; “say that you forgive me
for the sorrow I have brought upon you, and let us say farewell.”
He made as though he would have clasped her in his arms and compelled
her to surrender, and then he also conquered.
“God keep and bless you, Grace; if I cannot have you in my home, none
can keep me from carrying you in my heart,” and he was gone.
She watched him till he disappeared round the corner of the square, and
noticed that he walked as one stricken with age. One of their windows
commanded a corner of the square garden, where the trees were in their
first summer greenery, and she could hear the birds singing. As she
turned away, the sunlight lingered on the white roses which George
Lennox had brought as the token of his love, and then departed, leaving
the faded room in the shadow.