She came and
knelt beside the couch, laid and her head against the satin pillows,
tenderly, caressingly.
'Dear grandmother, pray be calm,' she murmured.
'Mary, do not look at me like that, as if you would read my heart. There
are hearts that must not be looked into. Mine is like a charnel-house.
Monotonous, yes; my life has been monotonous. No conventual gloom was
ever deeper than the gloom of Fellside. My boy did nothing to lighten it
for me, and his son followed in his father's footsteps. You and Lesbia
have been my only consolation. Lesbia! I was so proud of her beauty, so
proud and fond of her, because she was like me, and recalled my own
youth. And see how easily she forgets me. She has gone into a new world,
in which my age and my infirmities have no part; and I am as nothing to
her.'
Mary changed from red to pale, so painful was her embarrassment. What
could she say in defence of her sister? How could she deny that Lesbia
was an ingrate, when those rare and hurried letters, so careless in
their tone, expressing the selfishness of the writer in every syllable,
told but too plainly of forgetfulness and ingratitude?
'Dear grandmother, Lesbia has so much to do--her life is so full of
engagements,' she faltered feebly.
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