Mr. Carden dropped the whole subject directly.
However, she returned to it herself, and said, listlessly, that Mr. Coventry, in her opinion, had shown more generosity than most people would in his case. She had no feeling against him; he was of no more importance in her eyes than that stool, and he might visit her if he pleased, but on one condition—that he should forget all the past, and never presume to speak to her of love. “Love! Men are all incapable of it.” She was thinking of Henry, even while she was speaking of his rival.
The permission, thus limited, was conveyed to Mr. Coventry by his friend Carden; but he showed no hurry to take advantage of it; and, as for Grace, she forgot she had given it.
But this coolness of Coventry's was merely apparent. He was only awaiting the arrival of Patrick Lally from Ireland. This Lally was an old and confidential servant, who had served him formerly in many intrigues, and with whom he had parted reluctantly some months ago, and allowed him a small pension for past services. He dared not leave the villa in charge of any person less devoted to him than this Lally.
The man arrived at last, received minute instructions, and then Mr. Coventry went to Eastbank.
He found what seemed the ghost of Grace Carden lying on the sofa, looking on the sea.
At the sight of her he started back in dismay.
“What have I done?”
Those strange words fell from him before he knew what he was saying.
Grace heard them, but did not take the trouble to inquire into their meaning. She said, doggedly, “I am alive, you see. Nothing kills. It is wonderful: we die of a fall, of a blow, of swallowing a pin; yet I am alive. But never mind me; you look unwell yourself. What is the matter?”