“Better for me if I had; then I could chop and change from one to another as you would have me. No, mother; I dare say if I had never seen Grace I should have loved Jael. As it is, I have a great affection and respect for her, but that is all.”
“And those would ripen into love if once you were married.”
“They might. If it came to her flinging that great arm round my neck in kindness she once saved my life with by brute force, I suppose a man's heart could not resist her. But it will never come to that while my darling lives. She is my lover, and Jael my sister and my dear friend. God bless her, and may she be as happy as she deserves. I wish I could get a word with her, but that seems out of the question to-night. I shall slip away to bed and my own sad thoughts.”
With this he retired unobserved.
In the morning he asked Jael if she would speak to him alone.
“Why not?” said she calmly.
They took a walk in the shrubbery.
“I tried hard to get a word with you yesterday, but you were so taken up with that puppy.”
“He is very good company.”
“I have seen the time when I was as good; but it is not so easy to chatter with a broken heart.”
“That is true. Please come to the point, and tell me what you want of me now.”
This was said in such a curious tone, that Henry felt quite discouraged.
He hesitated a moment and then said, “What is the matter with you? You are a changed girl to me. There's something about you so cold and severe; it makes me fear I have worn out my friend as well as lost my love; if it is so, tell me, and I will not intrude my sorrow any more on you.”
There was a noble and manly sadness in the way he said this, and Jael seemed touched a little by it.
“Mr. Henry,” said she, “I'll be frank with you. I can't forgive you leaving the factory that night without saying a word to me; and if you consider what I had done before you used me so, and what I suffered in consequence of your using me so—not that you will ever know all I suffered, at least I hope not—no, I have tried to forgive you; for, if you are a sinner, you are a sufferer—but it is no use, I can't. I never shall forgive you to my dying day.”
Henry Little hung his head dejectedly. “That is bad news,” he faltered. “I told you why I did not bid you good-by except by letter: it was out of kindness. I have begged your pardon for it all the same. I thought you were an angel; but I see you are only a woman; you think the time to hit a man is when he is down. Well, I can but submit. Good-by. Stay one moment, let me take your hand, you won't refuse me that.” She did not deign a word; he took her hand and held it. “This is the hand and arm that worked with me like a good master: this is the hand and arm that overpowered a blackguard and saved me: this is the hand and arm that saved my Grace from a prison and public shame. I must give them both one kiss, if they knock me down for it. There—there—good-by, dear Jael, good-by! I seem to be letting go the last thing I have to cling to in the deep waters of trouble.”
Melted by this sad thought, he held his best friend's hand till a warm tear dropped on it. That softened her; the hand to which he owed so much closed on his and detained him.
“Stay where you are. I have told you my mind, but I shall ACT just as I used to do. I'm not proud of this spite I have taken against you, don't you fancy that. There—there, don't let us fret about what can't be helped; but just tell me what I can DO for you.”
Young Little felt rather humiliated at assistance being offered on these terms. He did not disguise his mortification.
“Well,” said he, rather sullenly, “beggars must not be choosers. Of course I wanted you to tell me where I am likely to find her.”
“I don't know.”
“But you left Hillsborough with her?”
“Yes, and went to York. But there I left her, and she told me she should travel hundreds of miles from York. I have no notion where she is.”
Little sighed. “She could not trust even you.”
“The fewer one trusts with a secret the better.”
“Will she never return? Will she give up her father as well as me? Did she fix no time? Did she give you no hint?”
“No, not that I remember. She said that depended on you.”
“On me?”
“Yes.”
Here was an enigma.
They puzzled over it a long time. At last Jael said, “She wrote a letter to you before she left: did she say nothing in that? Have you got the letter?”
“Have I got it?—the last letter my darling ever wrote to me! Do you think it ever leaves me night or day?”
He undid one of his studs, put his hand inside, and drew the letter out warm from his breast. He kissed it and gave it to Jael. She read it carefully and looked surprised. “Why, you are making your own difficulties. You have only got to do what you are told. Promise not to fall foul of that Coventry, and not to tempt her again, and you will hear of her. You have her own word for it.”
“But how am I to let her know I promise?”
“I don't know; how does everybody let everybody know things nowadays? They advertise.”
“Of course they do—in the second column of 'The Times.'”
“You know best.” Then, after a moment's reflection, “Wherever she is, she takes in the Hillsborough papers to see if there's anything about you in them.”
“Oh, do you think so?”
“Think so? I am sure of it. I put myself in her place.”
“Then I will advertise in 'The Times' and the Hillsborough papers.”
He went into the library and wrote several advertisements. This is the one Jael preferred:
“H. L. to G. C. I see you are right. There shall be no vengeance except what the law may give me, nor will I ever renew that request which offended you so justly. I will be patient.”
He had added an entreaty that she would communicate with him, but this Jael made him strike out. She thought that might make Grace suspect his sincerity. “Time enough to put that in a month hence, if you don't hear from her.”
This was all I think worth recording in the interview between Jael and Henry, except that at parting he thanked her warmly, and said, “May I give you one piece of advice in return? Mr. Richard Raby has fallen in love with you, and no wonder. If my heart was not full of Grace I should have fallen in love with you myself, you are so good and so beautiful; but he bears a bad character. You are wise in other people's affairs, pray don't be foolish in your own.”
“Thank you,” said Jael, a little dryly. “I shall think twice before I give my affections to any young man.”
Henry had a word with his mother before he went, and begged her not to prepare disappointment for herself by trying to bring Jael and him together. “Besides, she has taken a spite against me. To be sure it is not very deep; for she gave me good advice; and I advised her not to throw herself away on Dissolute Dick.”
Mrs. Little smiled knowingly and looked very much pleased, but she said nothing more just then. Henry Little returned to Hillsborough, and put his advertisement in “The Times” and the Hillsborough journals.
Two days afterward Ransome called on him with the “Hillsborough Liberal.” “Is this yours?” said Ransome.
“Yes. I have reason to think she will write to me, if she sees it.”
“Would you mind giving me your reason?”
Little gave it, but with so much reticence, that no other man in Hillsborough but Ransome would have understood.
“Hum!” said he, “I think I can do something with this.” A period of expectation succeeded, hopeful at first, and full of excitement; but weeks rolled on without a word from the fugitive, and Little's heart sickened with hope deferred. He often wished to consult Jael Dence again; he had a superstitious belief in her sagacity. But the recollection of her cold manner deterred him. At last, however, impatience and the sense of desolation conquered, and he rode over to Raby Hall.
He found his uncle and his mother in the dining-room. Mr. Raby was walking about looking vexed, and even irritable.
The cause soon transpired. Dissolute Dick was at that moment in the drawing-room, making hot love to Jael Dence. He had wooed her ever since that fatal evening when she burst on society full-blown. Raby, too proud and generous to forbid his addresses, had nevertheless been always bitterly averse to them, and was now in a downright rage; for Mrs. Little had just told him she felt sure he was actually proposing.
“Confound him!” said Henry, “and I wanted so to speak to her.”
Raby gave him a most singular look, that struck him as odd at the time, and recurred to him afterward.
At last steps were heard overhead, and Dissolute Dick came down-stairs.
Mrs. Little slipped out, and soon after put her head into the dining-room to the gentlemen, and whispered to them “YES.” Then she retired to talk it all over with Jael.
At that monosyllable Mr. Raby was very much discomposed.
“There goes a friend out of this house; more fools we. You have lost her by your confounded folly. What is the use spooning all your days after another man's wife? I wouldn't have had this happen for ten thousand pounds. Dissolute Dick! he will break her heart in a twelvemouth.”
“Then why, in heaven's name, didn't you marry her yourself?”
“Me! at my age? No; why didn't YOU marry her? You know she fancies you. The moment you found Grace married, you ought to have secured this girl, and lived with me; the house is big enough for you all.”
“It is not so big as your heart, sir,” said Henry. “But pray don't speak to me of love or marriage either.”
“Why should I? The milk is spilt; it is no use crying now. Let us go and dress for dinner. Curse the world—it is one disappointment.”
Little himself was vexed, but he determined to put a good face on it, and to be very kind to his good friend Jael.
She did not appear at dinner, and when the servants had retired, he said, “Come now, let us make the best of it. Mother, if you don't mind, I will settle five thousand pounds upon her and her children. He is a spendthrift, I hear, and as poor as Job.”
Mrs. Little stared at her son. “Why, she has refused him!”
Loud exclamations of surprise and satisfaction.
“A fine fright you have given us. You said 'Yes.'”
“Well, that meant he had proposed. You know, Guy, I had told you he would: I saw it in his eye. So I observed, in a moment, he HAD, and I said 'Yes.'”
“Then why doesn't she come down to dinner?”
“He has upset her. It is the old story: he cried to her, and told her he had been wild, and misconducted himself, all because he had never met a woman he could really love and respect; and then he begged her, and implored her, and said his fate depended on her.”
“But she was not caught with that chaff; so why does she not come and receive the congratulations of the company on her escape?”
“Because she is far too delicate;” then, turning to her son, “and perhaps, because she can't help comparing the manly warmth and loving appreciation of Mr. Richard Raby, with the cold indifference and ingratitude of others.”
“Oh,” said Henry, coloring, “if that is her feeling, she will accept him next time.”
“Next time!” roared Raby. “There shall be no next time. I have given the scamp fair play, quite against my own judgment. He has got his answer now, and I won't have the girl tormented with him any more. I trust that to you, Edith.”
Mrs. Little promised him Dick and Jael should not meet again, in Raby Hall at least.
That evening she drew her son apart and made an earnest appeal to him.
“So much for her spite against you, Henry. You told her to decline Richard Raby, and so she declined him. Spite, indeed! The gentle pique of a lovely, good girl, who knows her value, though she is too modest to show it openly. Well, Henry, you have lost her a husband, and she has given you one more proof of affection. Don't build the mountain of ingratitude any higher: do pray take the cure that offers, and make your mother happy, as well as yourself, my son.” In this strain she continued, and used all her art, her influence, her affection, till at last, with a weary, heart-broken sigh, he yielded as far as this: he said that, if it could once be made clear to him there was no hope of his ever marrying Grace Carden he would wed Jael Dence at once.
Then he ordered his trap, and drove sullenly home, while Mrs. Little, full of delight, communicated her triumph to Jael Dence, and told her about the five thousand pounds, and was as enthusiastic in praise of Henry to Jael, as she had been of Jael to Henry.
Meantime he drove back to Hillsborough, more unhappy than ever, and bitter against himself for yielding, even so far, to gratitude and maternal influence.
It was late when he reached home. He let himself in with a latch-key, and went into his room for a moment.
A letter lay on the table, with no stamp on it: he took it up. It contained but one line; that line made his heart leap:
“News of G. C. RANSOME.”
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