Grace snatched her hand from Henry, and raised herself with a vigor¹ that contrasted with her late weakness. “Oh, it is Mr. Coventry. How wicked of me to forget him for a moment. Thank Heaven you are alive. Where have you been?”  
“I fell into the mountain stream, and it rolled me down, nearly to here. I think I must have fainted on the bank. I found myself lying covered with snow; it was your beloved voice that recalled me to life.”
 
Henry turned yellow, and rose to his feet.
 
Grace observed him, and replied, “Oh, Mr. Coventry, this is too high-flown. Let us both return thanks to the Almighty², who has preserved us, and, in the next place, to Mr. Little: we should both be dead but for him.” Then, before he could reply, she turned to Little, and said, beseechingly³, “Mr. Coventry has been the companion of my danger.”
 
“Oh, I'll do the best I can for him,” said Henry, doggedly⁴. “Draw nearer the fire, sir.” He then put some coal on the forge, and blew up an amazing fire: he also gave the hand-bellows⁵ to Mr. Coventry, and set him to blow at the small grates in the mausoleum. He then produced a pair of woolen⁶ stockings. “Now, Miss Carden,” said he, “just step into that pew, if you please, and make a dressing-room of it.”
 
She demurred⁷, faintly, but he insisted, and put her into the great pew, and shut her in.
 
“And now, please take off your shoes and stockings, and hand them over the pew to me.”
 
“Oh, Mr. Little: you are giving yourself so much trouble.”
 
“Nonsense. Do what you are bid.” He said this a little roughly.
 
“I'll do whatever YOU bid me,” said she, meekly⁸: and instantly took off her dripping shoes, and stockings, and handed them over the pew. She received, in return, a nice warm pair of worsted stockings.
 
“Put on these directly,” said he, “while I warm your shoes.”
 
He dashed all the wet he could out of the shoes, and, taking them to the forge, put hot cinders⁹ in: he shook the cinders up and down the shoes so quickly, they had not time to burn, but only to warm and dry them. He advised Coventry to do the same, and said he was sorry he had only one pair of stockings to lend. And that was a lie: for he was glad he had only one pair to lend. When he had quite dried the shoes, he turned round, and found Grace was peeping over the pew, and looking intolerably lovely in the firelight. He kissed the shoes furtively¹⁰, and gave them to her. She shook her head in a remonstrating¹¹ way, but her eyes filled.
 
He turned away, and, rousing all his generous manhood, said, “Now you must both eat something, before you go.” He produced a Yorkshire pie, and some bread, and a bottle of wine. He gave Mr. Coventry a saucepan, and set him to heat the wine; then turned up his sleeves to the shoulder, blew his bellows, and, with his pincers, took a lath of steel and placed it in the white embers. “I have only got one knife, and you won't like to eat with that. I must forge you one apiece.”
 
Then Grace came out, and stood looking on, while he forged knives, like magic, before the eyes of his astonished guests. Her feet were now as warm as a toast, and her healthy young body could resist all the rest. She stood, with her back to the nearest pew, and her hands against the pew too, and looked with amazement¹³, and dreamy complacency, at the strange scene before her: a scene well worthy¹⁴ of Salvator Rosa; though, in fact, that painter never had the luck to hit on so variegated¹⁵ a subject.
 
Three broad bands of light shot from the fires, expanding in size, but weakening in intensity¹⁶. These lights, and the candles at the west end, revealed in a strange combination the middle ages, the nineteenth century, and eternal nature.
 
Nature first. Snow gleaming on the windows. Oh, it was cozy¹⁷ to see it gleam and sparkle, and to think “Aha! you all but killed me; now King Fire warms both thee and me.” Snow-flakes, of enormous size, softly descending¹⁸, and each appearing a diamond brooch, as it passed through the channels of fiery¹⁹ light.
 
The middle ages. Massive old arches, chipped, and stained; a moldering altar-piece, dog's-eared (Henry had nailed it up again all but the top corner, and in it still faintly gleamed the Virgin²⁰'s golden crown). Pulpit, richly carved, but moldering: gaunt walls, streaked²¹ and stained by time. At the west end, one saint—the last of many—lit by two candles, and glowing ruby²² red across the intervening gulf²³ of blackness: on the nearest wall an inscription²⁴, that still told, in rusty²⁵ letters, how Giles de la Beche had charged his lands with six merks a year forever, to buy bread and white watered herrings, the same to be brought into Cairnhope Church every Sunday in Lent, and given to two poor men and four women; and the same on Good Friday with a penny dole²⁶, and, on that day, the clerk to toll²⁷ the bell at three of the clock after noon, and read the lamentation²⁸ of a sinner, and receive one groat.
 
Ancient monuments, sculptures with here an arm gone, and here a head, that yet looked half-alive in the weird²⁹ and partial light.
 
And between one of those mediaeval sculptures, and that moldering picture of the Virgin, stood a living horse, munching³⁰ his corn; and in the foreground was a portable forge, a mausoleum turned into fires and hot plate, and a young man, type of his century, forging table-knives amidst the wrecks³¹ of another age.
 
When Grace had taken in the whole scene with wonder, her eye was absorbed by this one figure, a model of manly³³ strength, and skill, and grace. How lightly he stepped: how easily his left arm blew the coals to a white heat, with blue flames rising from them. How deftly³⁴ he drew out the white steel. With what tremendous force his first blows fell, and scattered³⁵ hot steel around. Yet all that force was regulated to a hair—he beat, he molded, he never broke. Then came the lighter³⁶ blows; and not one left the steel as it found it. In less than a minute the bar was a blade, it was work incredibly unlike his method in carving³⁷; yet, at a glance, Grace saw it was also perfection, but in an opposite style. In carving, the hand of a countess; in forging, a blacksmith's arm.
 
She gazed with secret wonder and admiration³⁸; and the comparison was to the disadvantage of Mr. Coventry; for he sat shivering, and the other seemed all power. And women adore power.
 
When Little had forged the knives and forks, and two deep saucers, with magical celerity, he plunged³⁹ them into water a minute, and they hissed⁴⁰; he sawed off the rim⁴² of a pew, and fitted handles.
 
Then he washed his face and hands, and made himself dry and glowing; let down his sleeves, and served them some Yorkshire pie, and bread, and salt, and stirred a little sugar into the wine, and poured it into the saucers.
 
“Now eat a bit, both of you, before you go.”
 
Mr. Coventry responded at once to the invitation.
 
But Grace said, timidly, “Yes, if you will eat with us.”
 
“No, no,” said he. “I've not been perished with snow, nor rolled in a river.”
 
Grace hesitated still; but Coventry attacked the pie directly. It was delicious. “By Jove, sir,” said he, “you are the prince of blacksmiths.”
 
“Blacksmiths!” said Grace, coloring high. But Little only smiled satirically.
 
Grace, who was really faint with hunger, now ate a little; and then the host made her sip⁴³ some wine.
 
The food and wine did Mr. Coventry so much good, that he began to recover his superiority, and expressed his obligations to Henry in a tone which was natural, and not meant to be offensive; but yet, it was so, under all the circumstances: there was an underlying⁴⁴ tone of condescension⁴⁵, it made Grace fear he would offer Henry his purse at leaving.
 
Henry himself writhed⁴⁶ under it; but said nothing. Grace, however, saw his ire, his mortification⁴⁷, and his jealousy⁴⁸ in his face, and that irritated her; but she did not choose to show either of the men how much it angered her.
 
She was in a most trying situation, and all the woman's wit and tact⁴⁹ were keenly on their guard.
 
What she did was this; she did not utter one word of remonstrance⁵⁰, but she addressed most of her remarks to Mr. Little; and, though the remarks were nothing in themselves, she contrived⁵¹ to throw profound respect into them. Indeed, she went beyond respect. She took the tone of an inferior addressing a superior.
 
This was nicely calculated to soothe⁵² Henry, and also to make Coventry, who was a man of tact, change his own manner.
 
Nor was it altogether without that effect. But then it annoyed Coventry, and made him wish to end it.
 
After a while he said, “My dear Grace, it can't be far from Raby Hall. I think you had better let me take you home at once.”
 
Grace colored high, and bit her lip.
 
Henry was green with jealous anguish⁵³.
 
“Are you quite recovered yourself?” said Grace, demurely⁵⁴, to Mr. Coventry.
 
“Quite; thanks to this good fellow's hospitality.”
 
“Then WOULD you mind going to Raby, and sending some people for me? I really feel hardly equal to fresh exertion⁵⁵ just yet.”
 
This proposal brought a flush of pleasure to Henry's cheek, and mortified⁵⁶ Mr. Coventry cruelly in his turn.
 
“What, go and leave you here? Surely you can not be serious.”
 
“Oh, I don't wish you to leave me. Only you seemed in a hurry.”
 
Henry was miserable⁵⁷ again.
 
Coventry did not let well alone, he alluded⁵⁸ delicately but tenderly to what had passed between them, and said he could not bear her out of his sight until she was safe at Raby. The words and the tone were those of a lover, and Henry was in agony: thereupon Grace laughed it off, “Not bear me out of your sight!” said she. “Why, you ran away from me, and tumbled into the river. Ha! ha! ha! And” (very seriously) “we should both be in another world but for Mr. Little.”
 
“You are very cruel,” said Mr. Coventry. “When you gave up in despair, I ran for help. You punish me for failure; punish me savagely⁵⁹.”
 
“Yes, I was ungenerous,” said Grace. “Forgive me.” But she said it rather coolly, and not with a very penitent⁶⁰ air.
 
She added an explanation more calculated to please Henry than him. “Your gallantry is always graceful⁶²; and it is charming, in a drawing-room; but in this wild place, and just after escaping the grave, let us talk like sensible people. If you and I set out for Raby Hall alone, we shall lose our way again, and perish, to a certainty. But I think Mr. Little must know the way to Raby Hall.”
 
“Oh, then,” said Coventry, catching⁶³ at her idea, “perhaps Mr. Little would add to the great obligation, under which he has laid us both, by going to Raby Hall and sending assistance hither.”
 
“I can't do that,” said Henry, roughly.
 
“And that is not at all what I was going to propose,” said Grace, quietly. “But perhaps you would be so good as to go with us to Raby Hall? Then I should feel safe; and I want Mr. Raby to thank you, for I feel how cold and unmeaning all I have said to you is; I seem to have no words.” Her voice faltered⁶⁴, and her sweet eyes filled.
 
“Miss Carden,” said the young man, gravely, “I can't do that. Mr. Raby is no friend of mine, and he is a bigoted⁶⁵ old man, who would turn me out of this place if he knew. Come, now, when you talk about gratitude⁶⁶ to me for not letting you be starved to death, you make me blush. Is there a man in the world that wouldn't? But this I do say; it would be rather hard if you two were to go away, and cut my throat in return; and, if you open your mouths ever so little, either of you, you WILL cut my throat. Why, ask yourselves, have I set up my workshop in such a place as this—by choice? It takes a stout⁶⁷ heart to work here, I can tell you, and a stout heart to sleep here over dead bones.”
 
“I see it all. The Trades unions!”
 
“That is it. So, now, there are only two ways. You must promise me never to breathe a word to any living soul, or I must give up my livelihood⁶⁸, and leave the country.”
 
“What can not you trust me? Oh, Mr. Little!”
 
“No, no; it's this gentleman. He is a stranger to me, you know; and, you see, my life may be at stake, as well as my means.”
 
“Mr. Coventry is a gentleman, and a man of honor. He is incapable⁶⁹ of betraying you.”
 
“I should hope so,” said Coventry. “I pledge you the word of a gentleman I will never let any human creature know that you are working here.”
 
“Give me your hand on that, if you please.”
 
Coventry gave him his hand with warmth and evident sincerity⁷⁰.
 
Young Little was reassured⁷¹. “Come,” said he, “I feel I can trust you both. And, sir, Miss Carden will tell you what happened to me in Cheetham's works; and then you will understand what I risk upon your honor.”
 
“I accept the responsibility; and I thank you for giving me this opportunity to show you how deeply I feel indebted to you.”
 
“That is square enough. Well, now my mind is at ease about that, I'll tell you what I'll do; I won't take you quite to Raby Hall; but I'll take you so near to it, you can't miss it; and then I'll go back to my work.”
 
He sighed deeply at the lonely prospect⁷², and Grace heard him.
 
“Come,” said he, almost violently, and led the way out of church. But he stayed behind to lock the door, and then joined them.
 
They all three went together, Grace in the middle.
 
There was now but little snow falling, and the air was not so thick; but it was most laborious⁷⁴ walking, and soon Mr. Coventry, who was stiff and in pain, fell a little behind, and groaned⁷⁵ as he hobbled on.
 
Grace whispered to Henry: “Be generous. He has hurt himself so.”
 
This made Henry groan⁷⁶ in return. But he said nothing. He just turned back to Coventry—“You can't get on without help, sir; lean on me.”
 
The act was friendly, the tone surly. Coventry accepted the act, and noted⁷⁷ the tone in his memory.
 
When Grace had done this, she saw Henry misunderstood it, and she was sorry, and waited an opportunity to restore the balance; but, ere one came, a bell was heard in the air; the great alarm-bell of Raby Hall.
 
Then faint voices were heard of people calling to each other here and there in the distance.
 
“What is it?” asked Grace.
 
Henry replied, “What should it be? The whole country is out after you. Mr Raby has sense enough for that.”
 
“Oh, I hope they will not see the light in the church, and find you out.”
 
“You are very good to think of that. Ah! There's a bonfire: and here comes a torch. I must go and quench⁷⁸ my fires. Good-by, Miss Carden. Good-evening, sir.”
 
With this, he retired⁷⁹: but, as he went, he sighed.
 
Grace said to Coventry, “Oh, I forgot to ask him a question;” and ran after him. “Mr. Little!”
 
He heard and came back to her.
 
She was violently agitated⁸⁰. “I can't leave you so,” she said. “Give me your hand.”
 
He gave it to her.
 
“I mortified you; and you have saved me.” She took his hand, and, holding it gently in both her little palms, sobbed⁸¹ out,—“Oh, think of something I can do, to show my gratitude, my esteem⁸². Pray, pray, pray.”
 
“Wait two years for me.”
 
“Oh, not that. I don't mean that.”
 
“That or nothing. In two years, I'll be as good a gentleman as HE is. I'm not risking my life in that church, for nothing. If you have one grain of pity or esteem for me, wait two years.”
 
“Incurable!” she murmured: but he was gone.
 
Coventry heard the prayer. That was loud and earnest enough. Her reply he could not bear.
 
She rejoined him, and the torch came rapidly forward.
 
It was carried by a lass, with her gown pinned nearly to her knees, and displaying grand and powerful limbs; she was crying, like the tenderest woman, and striding through the snow, like a young giant.
 
When the snow first came down, Mr. Raby merely ordered large fires to be lighted and fed in his guests' bedrooms; he feared nothing worse for them than a good wetting.
 
When dinner-time came, without them, he began to be anxious, and sent a servant to the little public-house, to inquire if they were there.
 
The servant had to walk through the snow, and had been gone about an hour, and Mr. Raby was walking nervously⁸³ up and down the hall, when Jael Dence burst in at the front door, as white as a sheet, and gasped⁸⁴ out in his face: “THE GABRIEL HOUNDS!!”
 
Raby ran out directly, and sure enough, that strange pack were passing in full cry over the very house. It was appalling⁸⁵. He was dumb with awe⁴¹ for a moment. Then he darted⁸⁶ into the kitchen and ordered them to ring the great alarm-bell incessantly⁸⁷; then into the yard, and sent messengers to the village, and to all his tenants⁸⁸, and in about an hour there were fifty torches, and as many sheep-bells, directed upon Cairnhope hill; and, as men and boys came in from every quarter, to know why Raby's great alarm-bell was ringing, they were armed with torches and sent up Cairnhope.
 
At last the servant returned from “The Colley Dog,” with the alarming tidings that Miss Carden and Mr. Coventry had gone up the hill, and never returned. This, however, was hardly news. The Gabriel hounds always ran before calamity⁸⁹.
 
At about eleven o'clock, there being still no news of them, Jael Dence came to Mr. Raby wringing⁹⁰ her hands. “Why do all the men go east for them?”
 
“Because they are on the east side.”
 
“How can ye tell that? They have lost their way.”
 
“I am afraid so,” groaned Raby.
 
“Then why do you send all the men as if they hadn't lost their way? East side of Cairnhope! why that is where they ought to be, but it is not where they are, man.”
 
“You are a good girl, and I'm a fool,” cried Raby. “Whoever comes in after this, I'll send them up by the old church.”
 
“Give me a torch, and I'll run myself.”
 
“Ay, do, and I'll put on my boots, and after you.”
 
Then Jael got a torch, and kilted her gown to her knees, and went striding through the snow with desperate vigor, crying as she went, for her fear was great and her hope was small, from the moment she heard the Gabriel hounds.
 
Owing to the torch, Grace saw her first, and uttered a little scream; a loud scream of rapture⁹¹ replied: the torch went anywhere, and gentle and simple were locked in each other's arms, Jael sobbing⁹² for very joy after terror, and Grace for sympathy, and also because she wanted to cry, on more accounts than one.
 
Another torch came on, and Jael cried triumphantly⁹³, “This way, Squire⁹⁴. She is here!” and kissed her violently again.
 
Mr. Raby came up, and took her in his arms, without a word, being broken with emotion: and, after he had shaken Coventry by both hands, they all turned homeward, and went so fast that Coventry gave in with a groan.
 
Then Grace told Jael what had befallen him, and just then another torch came in, held by George the blacksmith, who, at sight of the party, uttered a stentorian⁹⁵ cheer, and danced upon the snow.
 
“Behave, now,” said Jael, “and here's the gentleman sore hurt in the river; Geordie, come and make a chair with me.”
 
George obeyed and put out his hands, with the fingers upward, Jael did the same, with the fingers downward: they took hands, and, putting their stalwart arms under Coventry, told him to fling an arm round each of their necks: he did so, and up he went; he was no more than a feather to this pair, the strongest man and woman in Cairnhope.
 
As they went along, he told them his adventure in the stream, and, when they heard it, they ejaculated to each other, and condoled⁹⁶ with him kindly⁹⁷, and assured him he was alive by a miracle.
 
They reached Raby, and, in the great hall, the Squire collected his people and gave his orders. “Stop the bell. Broach⁹⁸ a barrel of ale, and keep open house, so long as malt, and bacon, and cheese last. Turn neither body nor beast from my door this night, or may God shut His gate in your faces. Here are two guineas, George, to ring the church-bells, you and your fellows; but sup here first. Cans of hot water upstairs, for us. Lay supper, instead of dinner; brew⁹⁹ a bowl of punch. Light all the Yule candles, as if it was Christmas eve. But first down on your knees, all of ye, whilst I thank God, who has baffled those Gabriel Hell-hounds for once, and saved a good man and a bonny lass from a dog's death.”
 
They all went down on their knees, on the marble floor, directly, and the Squire uttered a few words of hearty¹⁰⁰ thanksgiving, and there was scarcely a dry eye.
 
Then the guests went upstairs, and had their hot baths, and changed their clothes, and came down to supper in the blazing room.
 
Whilst they were at supper, the old servant who waited on them said something in a low voice to his master. He replied that he would speak to the man in the hall.
 
As soon as he was gone, Miss Carden said in French, “Did you hear that?”
 
“No.”
 
“Well, I did. Now, mind your promise. We shall have to fib. You had better say nothing. Let me speak for you; ladies fib so much better than gentlemen.”
 
Mr. Raby came back, and Grace waited to see if he would tell her. I don't think he intended to, at first: but he observed her eyes inquiring, and said, “One of the men, who was out after you tonight, has brought in word there is a light in Cairnhope old church.”
 
“Do you believe it?”
 
“No. But it is a curious thing; a fortnight ago (I think, I told you) a shepherd brought me the same story. He had seen the church on fire; at least he said so. But mark the paralyzing effect of superstition¹⁰¹. My present informant no sooner saw this light—probably a reflection from one of the distant torches—than he coolly gave up searching for you. 'They are dead,' says he, 'and the spirits in the old church are saying mass for their souls. I'll go to supper.' So he came here to drink my ale, and tell his cock-and-bull story.”
 
Grace put in her word with a sweet, candid¹⁰² face. “Sir, if there had been a light in that church, should we not have seen it?”
 
“Why, of course you would: you must have been within a hundred yards of it in your wanderings. I never thought of that.”
 
Grace breathed again.
 
“However, we shall soon know. I have sent George and another man right up to the church to look. It is quite clear now.”
 
Grace felt very anxious, but she forced on a careless air. “And suppose, after all, there should be a light?”
 
“Then George has his orders to come back and tell me; if there is a light, it is no ghost nor spirit, but some smuggler¹⁰³, or poacher, or vagrant¹⁰⁴, who is desecrating¹⁰⁵ that sacred place; and I shall turn out with fifty men, and surround the church, and capture the scoundrel, and make an example of him.”
 
Grace turned cold and looked at Mr. Coventry. She surprised a twinkle of satisfaction in his eye. She never forgot it.
 
She sat on thorns, and was so distraite she could hardly answer the simplest question.
 
At last, after an hour of cruel suspense¹⁰⁶, the servant came in, and said, “George is come back, sir.”
 
“Oh, please let him come in here, and tell us.”
 
“By all means. Send him in.”
 
George appeared, the next moment, in the doorway¹⁰⁷. “Well?” said Mr. Raby.
 
“Well?” said Grace, pale, but self-possessed.
 
“Well,” said George, sulkily, “it is all a lie. Th' old church is as black as my hat.”
 
“I thought as much,” said Mr. Raby. “There, go and get your supper.”
 
Soon after this Grace went up to bed, and Jael came to her, and they talked by the fire while she was curling her hair. She was in high spirits, and Jael eyed her with wonder and curiosity.
 
“But, miss,” said Jael, “the magpie¹⁰⁸ was right. Oh, the foul¹⁰⁹ bird! That's the only bird that wouldn't go into the ark with Noah and his folk.”
 
“Indeed! I was not aware of the circumstance.”
 
“'Twas so, miss; and I know the reason. A very old woman told me.”
 
“She must have been very old indeed, to be an authority on that subject. Well, what was the reason?”
 
“She liked better to perch¹¹⁰ on the roof of th' ark, and jabber¹¹¹ over the drowning world; that was why. So, ever after that, when a magpie flies across, turn back, or look to meet ill-luck.”
 
“That is to say the worst creatures are stronger than their Creator, and can bring us bad luck against His will. And you call yourself a Christian¹¹²? Why this is Paganism. They were frightened at ravens¹¹³, and you at magpies¹¹⁴. A fig³² for your magpies! and another for your Gabriel hounds! God is high above them all.”
 
“Ay, sure; but these are signs of His will. Trouble and all comes from God. And so, whenever you see a magpie, or hear those terrible hounds—”
 
“Then tremble! for it is all to end in a bowl of punch, and a roaring fire; and Mr. Raby, that passes for a Tartar, being so kind to me; and me being in better spirits than I have been for ever so long.”
 
“Oh, miss!”
 
“And oh, miss, to you. Why, what is the matter? I have been in danger! Very well; am I the first? I have had an adventure! All the better. Besides, it has shown me what good hearts there are in the world, yours amongst the rest.” (Kissing her.) “Now don't interrupt, but listen to the words of the wise and their dark sayings. Excitement is a blessing¹¹⁵. Young ladies need it more than anybody. Half the foolish things we do, it is because the old people are so stupid and don't provide us enough innocent excitement. Dancing till five is a good thing now and then; only that is too bodily, and ends in a headache, and feeling stupider than before. But to-night, what glorious excitement! Too late for dinner—drenched with snow—lost on a mountain—anxiety—fear—the Gabriel hounds—terror—despair—resignation—sudden relief—warm stockings—delightful sympathy—petted on every side—hungry—happy—fires—punch! I never lived till to-night—I never relished¹¹⁶ life till now. How could I? I never saw Death nor Danger near enough to be worth a straw.”
 
Jael made no attempt to arrest this flow of spirits. She waited quietly for a single pause, and then she laid her hand on the young lady's, and, fastening her eyes on her, she said quietly,—
 
“You have seen HIM.”
 
Grace Carden's face was scarlet¹¹⁷ in a moment, and she looked with a rueful imploring¹¹⁸ glance, into those great gray searching eyes of Jael Dence.
 
Her fine silvery tones of eloquence¹¹⁹ went off into a little piteous whine¹²⁰ “You are very cunning—to believe in a magpie.” And she hid her blushing face in her hands. She took an early opportunity of sending this too sagacious rustic¹²¹ to bed.
 
Next day Mr. Coventry was so stiff and sore he did not come down to breakfast. But Grace Carden, though very sleepy, made her appearance, and had a most affectionate conversation with Mr. Raby. She asked leave to christen him again. “I must call you something, you know, after all this. Mr. Raby is cold. Godpapa is childish. What do you say to—'Uncle'?”
 
He said he should be delighted. Then she dipped her forefinger¹²² in water. He drew back with horror.
 
“Come, young lady,” said he, “I know it is an age of burlesque¹²³. But let us spare the sacraments, and the altar, and such trifles.”
 
“I am not half so wicked as you think,” said Grace. Then she wrote “Uncle” on his brow, and so settled that matter.
 
Mr. Coventry came down about noon, and resumed his courtship. He was very tender, spoke¹²⁴ of the perils¹²⁵ they had endured together as an additional tie, and pressed his suit with ardor¹²⁶.
 
But he found a great change in the lady.
 
Yesterday, on Cairnhope Peak, she was passive, but soft and complying. To-day she was polite, but cool, and as slippery as an eel¹². There was no pinning her.
 
And, at last, she said, “The fact is I'm thinking of our great preservation¹²⁷, and more inclined to pray than flirt¹²⁸, for once.”
 
“And so am I,” said the man of tact; “but what I offer is a sacred and life-long affection.”
 
“Oh, of course.”
 
“A few hours ago you did me the honor to listen to me. You even hinted I might speak to your father.”
 
“No, no. I only asked if you HAD spoken to him.”
 
“I will not contradict you. I will trust to your own candor¹²⁹. Dear Grace, tell me, have I been so unfortunate as to offend you since then?”
 
“No.”
 
“Have I lost your respect?”
 
“Oh, no.”
 
“Have I forfeited¹³⁰ your good opinion?”
 
“Dear me, no.” (A little pettishly¹³¹.)
 
“Then how is it that I love you better, if possible, than yesterday, and you seem not to like me so well as yesterday?”
 
“One is not always in the same humor.”
 
“Then you don't like me to-day?”
 
“Oh yes, but I do. And I shall always like you: if you don't tease me, and urge me too much. It is hardly fair to hurry me so; I am only a girl, and girls make such mistakes sometimes.”
 
“That is true; they marry on too short an acquaintance. But you have known me more than two years, and, in all that time, have I once given you reason to think that you had a rival in my admiration, my love?”
 
“I never watched you to see. But all that time you have certainly honored me with your attention, and I do believe you love me more than I deserve. Please do not be angry: do not be mortified. There is no occasion; I am resolved not to marry until I am of age; that is all; and where's the harm of that?”
 
“I will wait your pleasure; all I ask you, at present, is to relieve me of my fears, by engaging yourself to me.”
 
“Ah! but I have always been warned against long engagements.”
 
“Long engagements! Why, how old are you, may I ask?”
 
“Only nineteen. Give me a little time to think.”
 
“If I wait till you are of age, THAT WILL BE TWO YEARS.”
 
“Just about. I was nineteen on the 12th of December. What is the matter?”
 
“Oh, nothing. A sudden twinge. A man does not get rolled over sharp rocks, by a mountain torrent¹³², for nothing.”
 
“No, indeed.”
 
“Never mind that, if I'm not to be punished in my heart as well. This resolution, not to marry for two years, is it your own idea? or has somebody put it into your head since we stood on Cairnhope, and looked at Bollinghope?”
 
“Please give me credit for it,” said Grace, turning very red: “it is the only sensible one I have had for a long time.”
 
Mr. Coventry groaned aloud, and turned very pale.
 
Grace said she wanted to go upstairs for her work, and so got away from him.
 
She turned at the door, and saw him sink into a chair, with an agony in his face that was quite new to him.
 
She fled to her own room, to think it all over, and she entered it so rapidly that she caught Jael crying, and rocking herself before the fire.
 
The moment she came in Jael got up, and affected¹³³ to be very busy, arranging things; but always kept her back turned to Grace.
 
The young lady sat down, and leaned her cheek on her hand, and reflected very sadly and seriously on the misery¹³⁴ she had left in the drawing-room, and the tears she had found here.
 
Accustomed to make others bright and happy by her bare presence, this beautiful and unselfish young creature was shocked at the misery she was sowing around her, and all for something her judgment¹³⁵ told her would prove a chimera¹³⁶. And again she asked herself was she brave enough, and selfish enough, to defy her father and her godfather, whose mind was written so clearly in that terrible inscription.
 
She sat there, cold at heart, a long time, and at last came to a desperate resolution.
 
“Give me my writing-desk.”
 
Jael brought it her.
 
“Sit down there where I can see you; and don't hide your tears from me. I want to see you cry. I want every help. I wasn't born to make everybody miserable: I am going to end it.”
 
She wrote a little, and then she stopped, and sighed; then she wrote a little more, and stopped, and sighed. Then she burned the letter, and began again; and as she wrote, she sighed; and as she wrote on, she moaned.
 
And, as she wrote on, the tears began to fall upon the paper.
 
It was piteous to see the struggle of this lovely girl, and the patient fortitude¹³⁷ that could sigh, and moan, and weep, yet go on doing the brave act that made her sigh, and moan, and weep.
 
At last, the letter was finished, and directed; and Grace put it in her bosom¹³⁸, and dismissed Jael abruptly¹³⁹, almost harshly, and sat down, cold and miserable, before the fire.
 
At dinner-time her eyes were so red she would not appear. She pleaded headache, and dined in her own room.
 
Meantime Mr. Coventry passed a bitter time.
 
He had heard young Little say, “Wait two years.” And now Grace was evading¹⁴⁰ and procrastinating¹⁴¹, and so, literally¹⁴², obeying that young man, with all manner of false pretenses¹⁴³. This was a revelation, and cast back a bright light on many suspicious things he had observed in the church.
 
He was tortured with jealous agony. And it added to his misery that he could not see his way to any hostilities¹⁴⁴.
 
Little could easily be driven out of the country, for that matter; he had himself told them both how certainly that would befall him if he was betrayed to the unions. But honor and gratitude forbade this line; and Coventry, in the midst of his jealous agony, resisted that temptation fiercely, would not allow his mind even to dwell upon it for a moment.
 
He recalled all his experiences; and, after a sore struggle of passion, he came to some such conclusion as this: that Grace would have married him if she had not unexpectedly fallen in with Little, under very peculiar¹⁴⁵ and moving circumstances; that an accident of this kind would never occur again, and he must patiently wear out the effect of it.
 
He had observed that in playing an uphill game of love the lover must constantly ask himself, “What should I do, were I to listen to my heart?” and having ascertained¹⁴⁶ that, must do the opposite. So now Mr. Coventry grimly resolved to control his wishes for a time, to hide his jealousy, to hide his knowledge of her deceit, to hide his own anger. He would wait some months before he again asked her to marry him, unless he saw a change in her; and, meantime, he would lay himself out to please her, trusting to this, that there could be no intercourse¹⁴⁸ by letter between her and a workman, and they were not likely to meet again in a hurry.
 
It required considerable fortitude to curb¹⁴⁹ his love and jealousy, and settle on this course. But he did conquer after a hard struggle, and prepared to meet Miss Carden at dinner with artificial gayety.
 
But she did not appear; and that set Mr. Coventry thinking again. Why should she have a headache? He had a rooted disbelief in women's headaches. His own head had far more reason to ache, and his heart too. He puzzled himself all dinner-time about this headache, and was very bad company.
 
Soon after dinner he took a leaf out of her book, pretended headache, and said he should like to take a turn by himself in the air.
 
What he really wanted to do was to watch Miss Carden's windows, for he had all manner of ugly suspicions.
 
There seemed to be a strong light in the room. He could see no more.
 
He walked moodily¹⁵⁰ up and down, very little satisfied with himself, and at last he got ashamed of his own thoughts.
 
“Oh, no!” he said, “she is in her room, sure enough.”
 
He turned his back, and strolled out into the road.
 
Presently he heard the rustle¹⁵¹ of a woman's dress. He stepped into th............