They got her to say she would marry him some day or other.

Coventry intercepted several letters, but he took care not to read them with Grace’s sad face in sight.  He would not give conscience such a power to torment him.  The earlier letters gave him a cruel satisfaction.  They were written each from a different city in the United States, and all tended to show that the writer had a year or two to travel yet, before he could hope to return home in triumph and marry his Grace.

In all these letters she was requested to send her answers to New York (and, now I think of it, there was a postscript to that effect in the very letter I have given in extenso).

But at last came a letter that disturbed this delightful dream.  It was written from the western extremity of the States, but the writer was in high spirits; he had sold his patents in two great cities, and had established them in two more on a royalty; he had also met with an unexpected piece of good fortune:  his railway clip had been appreciated, a man of large capital and enterprise had taken it up with spirit, and was about to purchase the American and Canadian right for a large sum down and a percentage.  As soon as this contract should be signed he should come home and claim Mr. Carden’s promise.  He complained a little that he got no letters, but concluded the post-office authorities were in fault, for he had written to New York to have them forwarded.  However, he soon should be in that city and revel in them.

This troubled Coventry, and drove him to extremities.  He went on his knees to Grace, and implored her to name the day.

She drew back with horror and repugnance; said, with a burst of tears, she was a widow, and would not marry till a decent time had elapsed since—­; then, with sudden doggedness, “I will never marry at all.”

And so she left him to repent his precipitation.

He was at his wits’ end, and could do nothing but look unhappy, and temporize, and hope the wind might change.

The wind did not change, and he passed a week or two of outward sorrow, but inward rage.

He fell ill, and Mr. Carden pitied him openly.

Grace maintained a sullen silence.

One day, as he was in bed, an envelope was brought him, with a large
“L.”  He opened it slowly, fearing the worst.

The letter was full of love, and joy, and triumph that made the reader’s heart faint within him till he came to this sentence: 

“The gentleman who treats with me for the railway clip makes it an express stipulation that I shall spend a month in his works at Chicago, superintending the forging and perfecting of the clip.  As he intends to be there himself, and to buy it out-and-out if it answers his expectations, I shall certainly go, and wear a smith’s apron once more for your sake.  He is even half inclined to go into another of my projects—­the forging of large axes by machinery.  It was tried at Hillsborough two years ago, but the Union sent a bullet through the manufacturer’s hat, and he dropped it.”