“This frame seems to have been made for our purpose, Grace,” and Mrs.
Leconte arranged in order Gertrude with her two girls and Frances with
her two boys. “It seems only a few months, instead of four years, since
the wedding day.
“They have good husbands and happy homes. I only wish their father...”
This was so unusual that Grace looked at her mother, and Mrs. Leconte
checked herself. “You are going down to the Rectory, I hope, next week;
Gertrude is always anxious to have you, and August in London is very
trying.”
“Certainly; but on one condition, mother, that you go too; it would be
such a joy to Gerty, and you must have some change.”
“Perhaps I will, a little later, but I never leave London in August. I
have always been very strong, and I like a... quiet time then.”
“Mother,” and Mrs. Leconte turned at the passion in her daughter's
voice, “why will you not allow any of us to share your remembrance and
your grief? We know why you shut yourself up alone in August, and now,
when there are just you and I, it hurts me that I may not be with you,
if it were only to pray... or weep. Would it not be some help?” and
Grace took her mother's hand, a very rare caress.
“You are a good daughter, Grace,” she spoke with much difficulty,
“but... God made me to be alone, and silent I was not able to tell
either joy or sorrow even to your father. You spoke of weeping; do you
know I've never shed a tear since I was a child--not often then.
“When he died, my eyes were dry.... Oh, Grace, you are most like me: may
God deliver you from a tearless grief; but it must be so with me to the
end.”
“Dearest mother,” said Grace, but she did not kiss her.
“You are often in my thoughts, Grace,” after a long silence, “and I am
concerned about you, for you have aged beyond your years. Are you...
well?”
“What a question, mater; you know that I have the health of a
donkey--save a headache now and then that gives me an interesting
pallor. You forget that I am getting to be an old maid, nearly thirty.”
“Is it really that... I mean, do you not feel lonely?--it is a contrast,
your sisters' lot and yours, and a woman's heart was made for love, but
if it be so do not sorrow over-much... I can't explain myself--there are
many in this world to love, and, at any rate... you will never know the
sense of loss.”
“That is the postman's ring,” and Grace made an errand to obtain the
letters, and lingered a minute on the way.
“Only one letter, and it's for you, mother. I think I know the
handwriting.”
“Of course you do; it's from Mrs. Archer, George Lennox's aunt. She is
a capital correspondent, and always sends lots of news. Let me see. Oh,
they've had Gertrude and her husband staying a night with them for a
dinner.
“'Everything went off well'... 'Gerty looked very distinguished, and
has just the air of a clergyman's wife. Gerty was always suited for that
part, just as Frances does better among the painters.... I wish all the
same they were both here, Grace, but I suppose that's a wrong feeling,
for marriage is a woman's natural lot... that is in most cases, some
have another calling.'
“Do you know who has been staying with the Archers? Why, you might guess
that--George Lennox; he's Jane Archer's favourite nephew, and I don't
wonder; no woman, I mean sensible woman, could help liking him; he's
so reliable and high-toned, as well as able, and do you know, I always
thought Mr. Lennox good-looking.
“What's this? 'You will be sorry to hear that George is looking very ill
indeed, and just like an old man, and he's not forty yet. Are you there,
Grace? Oh, I thought perhaps you had left the room. Isn't that sad about
Mr. Lennox?
“Mrs. Archer goes on to say that he overworks shockingly, and that he is
bound to break down soon; he will take no advice, and allows himself no
pleasure. What a pity to see a man throwing away his life, isn't it?”
“Perhaps he finds his... satisfaction in work, mother.”
“Nonsense; no man ought to kill himself. Mr. Lennox ought to have
married years ago, and then he would not have been making a wreck of
himself; I don't know any man who would have made a better husband, or
of whom a woman would have been prouder.” And Mrs. Leconte compelled a
reply.
“He is a good man, and I think you are right, mother.” Something in her
tone struck Mrs. Leconte's ear.
“Grace, Mr. Lennox used to come frequently to this house, and now I have
noticed he never calls.”
Her daughter said nothing.
“It was after your sisters' wedding that he ceased to call. Do you
think... I mean, was he in love with Gerty? Frances it couldn't be. I
never thought of that before, for I am not very observant. Nothing would
have given me more pleasure, if my daughters were to be married, than
to have George Lennox for a son-in-law. Can it be, Grace, that Gerty
refused him, and we have never known?”
“I am sure she did not, mother;” and again Mrs. Leconte caught a strange
note in her daughter's voice.
“Do you know, I suspect that if you had given him any encouragement,
George Lennox would have been a happy man to-day. Is that so, Grace?
“Pardon me, Grace, perhaps I ought not to ask such a question; it came
suddenly into my mind. Whatever you did was no doubt right; a woman
cannot give her hand without her heart even to the best of men. If it
be as I imagine, I do not blame you, Grace, but... I am sorry for George
Lennox.”
Grace wept that night over the saddest of all the ironies of life--a
sacrifice which was a mistake and which had no reward.