CHAPTER XLII.

“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.”