The short interval previous to the wedding-day passed, to all appearance, as that period generally does. Settlements were drawn, and only awaited signature. The bride seemed occupied with dress, and receiving visits and presents, and reading and writing letters of that sort which ought to be done by machinery.
The bridegroom hovered about the house, running in and out on this or that pretext.
She received his presence graciously, read him the letters of her female friends, and forced herself to wear a look of languid complacency, especially before others.
Under all this routine she had paroxysms of secret misery, and he was in tortures.
These continued until the eve of the wedding, and then he breathed freely. No letter had come from the United States, and to-morrow was the wedding-day. The chances were six to one no letter came that day, and, even if one should, he had now an excuse ready for keeping Lally on the premises that particular morning. At one o'clock he would be flying south with his bride.
He left the villa to dress for dinner. During this interval Jael Dence called.
The housemaid knocked at Grace's door--she was dressing--and told her Jael wished to see her.
Grace was surprised, and much disturbed. It flashed on her in a moment that this true and constant lover of Henry Little had come to enjoy her superiority. She herself had greatly desired this meeting once, but now it could only serve to mortify her. The very thought that this young woman was near her set her trembling; but she forced herself to appear calm, and, turning to her maid, said, "Tell her I can see no one to-day."
The lady's maid gave this message to the other servant, and she went down-stairs with it.
The message, however, had not been gone long when the desire to put a question to Jael Dence returned strongly upon Grace Carden.
She yielded to an uncontrollable impulse, and sent her maid down to say that she would speak to Jael Dence, in her bedroom, the last thing at night.
"The last thing at night!" said Jael, coloring with indignation;
"and where am I to find a bed after that?"
"Oh," said the late footman, now butler, "you shall not leave the house. I'll manage that for you with the housekeeper."
At half-past eleven o'clock that night Grace dismissed her maid, and told her to bring Jael Dence to her.
Jael came, and they confronted each other once more.
"You can go," said Grace to the maid.
They were alone, and eyed each other strangely.
"Sit down," said Grace, coldly.
"No, thank you," said Jael, firmly. "I shall not stay long after the way I have been received."
"And how do you expect to be received?"
"As I used to be. As a poor girl who once saved HIS life, and nearly lost her own, through being his true and faithful servant."
"Faithful to him, but not to me."
Jael's face showed she did not understand this.
"Yes," said Grace, bitterly, "you are the real cause of my marrying Mr. Coventry, whom I don't love, and never can love. There, read that. I can't speak to you. You look all candor and truth, but I know what you are: all the women in that factory knew about you and him--read that." She handed her the anonymous letter, and watched her like an eagle.
Jael read the poison, and colored a little, but was not confounded.
"Do you believe this, Miss Carden?"
"I did not believe it at first, but too many people have confirmed it. Your own conduct has confirmed it, my poor girl. This is cruel of me."
"Never mind," said Jael, resolutely. "We have gone too far to stop.
My conduct! What conduct, if you please?"
"They all say that, when you found he was no more, you attempted self-destruction."
"Ah," cried Jael, like a wounded hare; "they must tell you that!" and she buried her face in her hands.
Now this was a young woman endowed by nature with great composure, and a certain sobriety and weight; so, when she gave way like that, it produced a great effect on those who knew her.
Grace sighed, and was distressed. But there was no help for it now.
She awaited Jael's reply, and Jael could not speak for some time.
She conquered her agitation, however, at last, and said, in a low voice, "Suppose you had a sister, whom you loved dearly--and then you had a quarrel with her, and neither of you much to blame, the fault lay with a third person; and suppose you came home suddenly and found that sister had left England in trouble, and gone to the other end of the world--would not that cut you to the heart?"
"Indeed it would. How correctly you speak. Now who has been teaching you?"
"Mrs. Little."
"Ah!"
"You HAVE a father. Suppose you left him for a month, and then came back and found him dead and buried--think of that--buried!"
"Poor girl!"
"And all this to fall on a poor creature just off a sick-bed, and scarcely right in her head. When I found poor Mr. Henry was dead, and you at death's door, I crawled home for comfort, and there I found desolation: my sister gone across the sea, my father in the churchyard. I wandered about all night, with my heavy heart and distraught brain, and at last they found me in the river. They may say I threw myself in, but it is my belief I swooned away and fell in. I wouldn't swear, though, for I remember nothing of it. What does it prove against me?"
"Not much, indeed, by itself. But they all say you were shut up with him for hours."
"And that is true; ten hours, every day. He was at war with these trades, and his own workmen had betrayed him. He knew I was as strong as a man at some kinds of work--of course I can't strike blows, and hurt people like a man--so he asked me, would I help him grind saws with his machine on the sly--clandestinely, I mean.