Grace accompanied them to the door. On her return she was startled by the condition of young Little.
This sudden appearance of his uncle, whom he hated, had agitated him not a little, and that uncle's interference had blasted his last hope. He recognized this lover, and had sided with him: was going to shut the pair up, in a country house, together. It was too much. He groaned, and sank back in his chair, almost fainting, and his hands began to shake in the air, as if he was in an ague.
Both the women darted simultaneously toward him. “Oh! he's fainting!” cried Grace. “Wine! wine! Fly.” Jael ran out to fetch some, in spite of a despairing gesture, by which the young man tried to convey to her it was no use.
“Wine can do me no good, nor death no harm. Why did I ever enter this house?”
“Oh, Mr. Little, don't look so; don't talk so,” said Grace, turning pale, in her turn. “Are you ill? What is the matter?”
“Oh, nothing. What should ail me? I'm only a workman. What business have I with a heart? I loved you dearly. I was working for you, fighting for you, thinking for you, living for you. And you love that Coventry, and never showed it.”
Jael came in with a glass of wine for him, but he waved her off with all the grandeur of despair.
“You tell me this to my face!” said Grace, haughtily; but her bosom panted.
“Yes; I tell you so to your face. I love you, with all my soul.”
“How dare you? What have I ever done, to justify—Oh, if you weren't so pale, I'd give you a lesson. What could possess you? It's not my fault, thank heaven. You have insulted me, sir. No; why should I? You must be unhappy enough. There, I'll say but one word, and that, of course, is 'good morning.'”