it might have been repaired

The blaze from the fire flickered on Sir Geoffry’s wasted facetop-up degree. Hers was kept in the shadow, or it might have betrayed the bitterness of her aching heart. He had been speaking of things that touched her conscience.







“Yes, it was a sin, mother. But; and, if it had been, I believe God would have blessed us all. As it is — well, we did not repair it, you and I; and so — and so, as I take it, there has not been much of real blessing given to us here; certainly not of heartfelt comfort. I seem to see all things clearly now — if it be not wrong to say it.”







Lady Chavasse saw them too — though perhaps not exactly in the way he meant. Never was the vision, of what might have been, more vividly before her than now as he spoke. She saw him, a hale happy man; his wife Mary, their children, a goodly flock, all at the Grange, and herself first amongst them, reigning paramount, rejoicing in her good and dutiful daughter-in-law. Oh, what a contrast between that vision and reality! A repressed groan escaped her lips; she coughed to smother it.







“Mother!”







“Well, Geoffry?”







“You need not have suppressed my last letter to Mary — the letter of explanation I wrote when I quitted her and the Grange. You might have been sure of me — that I would be true to my word to you.”







No answer. There was a great deal that she would not suppress, besides the letter, if the time had to come over again. The log sparkled and crackled and threw its jets of flame upwards; but no other noise disturbed the room’s stillness.











“It shall be done, Geoffry.”







“There’s not much in the desk. Just a few odds and ends of papers; mementoes of the short period when I was happy — though I ought not to have been. Nothing of value; except a ring that I bought for her at Worcester at the time, and which she would not take.”







“I promise it, Geoffry. I will do all you wish.”







“Thank you. You have ever been my loving friend, mother.”