For several weeks the most monotonous tranquillity seemed to reign at
Coventry House, and yet, unseen, unsuspected, a storm was gathering.
The arrival of Miss Muir seemed to produce a change in everyone, though
no one could have explained how or why. Nothing could be more
unobtrusive and retiring than her manners. She was devoted to Bella,
who soon adored her, and was only happy when in her society. She
ministered in many ways to Mrs. Coventry’s comfort, and that lady
declared there never was such a nurse. She amused, interested and won
Edward with her wit and womanly sympathy. She made Lucia respect and
envy her for her accomplishments, and piqued indolent Gerald by her
persistent avoidance of him, while Sir John was charmed with her
respectful deference and the graceful little attentions she paid him in
a frank and artless way, very winning to the lonely old man. The very
servants liked her; and instead of being, what most governesses are, a
forlorn creature hovering between superiors and inferiors, Jean Muir
was the life of the house, and the friend of all but two.
Lucia disliked her, and Coventry distrusted her; neither could exactly
say why, and neither owned the feeling, even to themselves. Both watched
her covertly yet found no shortcoming anywhere. Meek, modest, faithful,
and invariably sweet-tempered--they could complain of nothing and
wondered at their own doubts, though they could not banish them.
It soon came to pass that the family was divided, or rather that two
members were left very much to themselves. Pleading timidity, Jean Muir
kept much in Bella’s study and soon made it such a pleasant little nook
that Ned and his mother, and often Sir John, came in to enjoy the music,
reading, or cheerful chat which made the evenings so gay. Lucia at first
was only too glad to have her cousin to herself, and he too lazy to care
what went on about him. But presently he wearied of her society, for she
was not a brilliant girl, and possessed few of those winning arts which
charm a man and steal into his heart. Rumors of the merry-makings that
went on reached him and made him curious to share them; echoes of fine
music went sounding through the house, as he lounged about the empty
drawing room; and peals of laughter reached him while listening to
Lucia’s grave discourse.
She soon discovered that her society had lost its charm, and the more
eagerly she tried to please him, the more signally she failed. Before
long Coventry fell into a habit of strolling out upon the terrace of an
evening, and amusing himself by passing and repassing the window of
Bella’s room, catching glimpses of what was going on and reporting the
result of his observations to Lucia, who was too proud to ask admission
to the happy circle or to seem to desire it.
“I shall go to London tomorrow, Lucia,” Gerald said one evening, as he
came back from what he called “a survey,” looking very much annoyed.
“To London?” exclaimed his cousin, surprised.
“Yes, I must bestir myself and get Ned his commission, or it will be all
over with him.”
“How do you mean?”
“He is falling in love as fast as it is possible for a boy to do it.
That girl has bewitched him, and he will make a fool of himself very
soon, unless I put a stop to it.”
“I was afraid she would attempt a flirtation. These persons always do,
they are such a mischief-making race.”
“Ah, but there you are wrong, as far as little Muir is concerned. She
does not flirt, and Ned has too much sense and spirit to be caught by a
silly coquette. She treats him like an elder sister, and mingles the
most attractive friendliness with a quiet dignity that captivates the
boy. I’ve been watching them, and there he is, devouring her with his
eyes, while she reads a fascinating novel in the most fascinating
style. Bella and Mamma are absorbed in the tale, and see nothing; but
Ned makes himself the hero, Miss Muir the heroine, and lives the love
scene with all the ardor of a man whose heart has just waked up. Poor
lad! Poor lad!”
Lucia looked at her cousin, amazed by the energy with which he spoke,
the anxiety in his usually listless face. The change became him, for it
showed what he might be, making one regret still more what he was.
Before she could speak, he was gone again, to return presently,
laughing, yet looking a little angry.
“What now?” she asked.
“‘Listeners never hear any good of themselves’ is the truest of
proverbs. I stopped a moment to look at Ned, and heard the following
flattering remarks. Mamma is gone, and Ned was asking little Muir to
sing that delicious barcarole she gave us the other evening.
“‘Not now, not here,’ she said.
“‘Why not? You sang it in the drawing room readily enough,’ said Ned,
imploringly.
“‘That is a very different thing,’ and she looked at him with a little
shake of the head, for he was folding his hands and doing the
passionate pathetic.
“‘Come and sing it there then,’ said innocent Bella. ‘Gerald likes your
voice so much, and complains that you will never sing to him.’
“‘He never asks me,’ said Muir, with an odd smile.
“‘He is too lazy, but he wants to hear you.’
“‘When he asks me, I will sing--if I feel like it.’ And she shrugged her
shoulders with a provoking gesture of indifference.
“‘But it amuses him, and he gets so bored down here,’ began stupid
little Bella. ‘Don’t be shy or proud, Jean, but come and entertain the
poor old fellow.’
“‘No, thank you. I engaged to teach Miss Coventry, not to amuse Mr.
Coventry’ was all the answer she got.
“‘You amuse Ned, why not Gerald? Are you afraid of him?’ asked Bella.
“Miss Muir laughed, such a scornful laugh, and said, in that
peculiar tone of hers, ‘I cannot fancy anyone being _afraid_ of your
elder brother.’
“‘I am, very often, and so would you be, if you ever saw him angry,’ And
Bella looked as if I’d beaten her.
“‘Does he ever wake up enough to be angry?’ asked that girl, with an air
of surprise. Here Ned broke into a fit of laughter, and they are at it
now, I fancy, by the sound.”
“Their foolish gossip is not worth getting excited about, but I
certainly would send Ned away. It’s no use trying to get rid of ‘that
girl,’ as you say, for my aunt is as deluded about her as Ned and Bella,
and she really does get the child along splendidly. Dispatch Ned, and
then she can do no harm,” said Lucia, watching Coventry’s altered face
as he stood in the moonlight, just outside the window where she sat.
“Have you no fears for me?” he asked smiling, as if ashamed of his
momentary petulance.
“No, have you for yourself?” And a shade of anxiety passed over her
face.
“I defy the Scotch witch to enchant me, except with her music,” he
added, moving down the terrace again, for Jean was singing like a
nightingale.
As the song ended, he put aside the curtain, and said, abruptly, “Has
anyone any commands for London? I am going there tomorrow.”
“A pleasant trip to you,” said Ned carelessly, though usually his
brother’s movements interested him extremely.
“I want quantities of things, but I must ask Mamma first.” And Bella
began to make a list.
“May I trouble you with a letter, Mr. Coventry?”
Jean Muir turned around on the music stool and looked at him with the
cold keen glance which always puzzled him.
He bowed, saying, as if to them all, “I shall be off by the early train,
so you must give me your orders tonight.”
“Then come away, Ned, and leave Jean to write her letter.”
And Bella took her reluctant brother from the room.
“I will give you the letter in the morning,” said Miss Muir, with a
curious quiver in her voice, and the look of one who forcibly suppressed
some strong emotion.
“As you please.” And Coventry went back to Lucia, wondering who Miss
Muir was going to write to. He said nothing to his brother of the
purpose which took him to town, lest a word should produce the
catastrophe which he hoped to prevent; and Ned, who now lived in a sort
of dream, seemed to forget Gerald’s existence altogether.
With unwonted energy Coventry was astir seven next morning. Lucia gave
him his breakfast, and as he left the room to order the carriage, Miss
Muir came gliding downstairs, very pale and heavy-eyed (with a
sleepless, tearful night, he thought) and, putting a delicate little
letter into his hand, said hurriedly, “Please leave this at Lady
Sydney’s, and if you see her, say ‘I have remembered.’”
Her peculiar manner and peculiar message struck him. His eye
involuntarily glanced at the address of the letter and read young
Sydney’s name. Then, conscious of his mistake, he thrust it into his
pocket with a hasty “Good morning,” and left Miss Muir standing with
one hand pressed on her heart, the other half extended as if to recall
the letter.
All the way to London, Coventry found it impossible to forget the
almost tragical expression of the girl’s face, and it haunted him
through the bustle of two busy days. Ned’s affair was put in the way of
being speedily accomplished, Bella’s commissions were executed, his
mother’s pet delicacies provided for her, and a gift for Lucia, whom
the family had given him for his future mate, as he was too lazy to
choose for himself.
Jean Muir’s letter he had not delivered, for Lady Sydney was in the
country and her townhouse closed. Curious to see how she would receive
his tidings, he went quietly in on his arrival at home. Everyone had
dispersed to dress for dinner except Miss Muir, who was in the garden,
the servant said.
“Very well, I have a message for her”; and, turning, the “young master,”
as they called him, went to seek her. In a remote corner he saw her
sitting alone, buried in thought. As his step roused her, a look of
surprise, followed by one of satisfaction, passed over her face, and,
rising, she beckoned to him with an almost eager gesture. Much amazed,
he went to her and offered the letter, saying kindly, “I regret that I
could not deliver it. Lady Sydney is in the country, and I did not like
to post it without your leave. Did I do right?”
“Quite right, thank you very much--it is better so.” And with an air of
relief, she tore the letter to atoms, and scattered them to the wind.
More amazed than ever, the young man was about to leave her when she
said, with a mixture of entreaty and command, “Please stay a moment. I
want to speak to you.”
He paused, eyeing her with visible surprise, for a sudden color dyed her
cheeks, and her lips trembled. Only for a moment, then she was quite
self-possessed again. Motioning him to the seat she had left, she
remained standing while she said, in a low, rapid tone full of pain and
of decision:
“Mr. Coventry, as the head of the house I want to speak to you, rather
than to your mother, of a most unhappy affair which has occurred during
your absence. My month of probation ends today; your mother wishes me to
remain; I, too, wish it sincerely, for I am happy here, but I ought not.
Read this, and you will see why.”
She put a hastily written note into his hand and watched him intently
while he read it. She saw him flush with anger, bite his lips, and knit
his brows, then assume his haughtiest look, as he lifted his eyes and
said in his most sarcastic tone, “Very well for a beginning. The boy has
eloquence. Pity that it should be wasted. May I ask if you have replied
to this rhapsody?”
“I have.”
“And what follows? He begs you ‘to fly with him, to share his fortunes,
and be the good angel of his life.’ Of course you consent?”
There was no answer, for, standing erect before him, Miss Muir regarded
him with an expression of proud patience, like one who expected
reproaches, yet was too generous to resent them. Her manner had its
effect. Dropping his bitter tone, Coventry asked briefly, “Why do you
show me this? What can I do?”
“I show it that you may see how much in earnest ‘the boy’ is, and how
open I desire to be. You can control, advise, and comfort your brother,
and help me to see what is my duty.”
“You love him?” demanded Coventry bluntly.
“No!” was the quick, decided answer.
“Then why make him love you?”
“I never tried to do it. Your sister will testify that I have endeavored
to avoid him as I--” And he finished the sentence with an unconscious
tone of pique, “As you have avoided me.”
She bowed silently, and he went on:
“I will do you the justice to say that nothing can be more blameless
than your conduct toward myself; but why allow Ned to haunt you evening
after evening? What could you expect of a romantic boy who had nothing
to do but lose his heart to the first attractive woman he met?”
A momentary glisten shone in Jean Muir’s steel-blue eyes as the last
words left the young man’s lips; but it was gone instantly, and her
voice was full of reproach, as she said, steadily, impulsively, “If the
‘romantic boy’ had been allowed to lead the life of a man, as he longed
to do, he would have had no time to lose his heart to the first
sorrowful girl whom he pitied. Mr. Coventry, the fault is yours. Do not
blame your brother, but generously own your mistake and retrieve it in
the speediest, kindest manner.”
For an instant Gerald sat dumb. Never since his father died had anyone
reproved him; seldom in his life had he been blamed. It was a new
experience, and the very novelty added to the effect. He saw his fault,
regretted it, and admired the brave sincerity of the girl in telling him
of it. But he did not know how to deal with the case, and was forced to
confess not only past negligence but present incapacity. He was as
honorable as he was proud, and with an effort he said frankly, “You are
right, Miss Muir. I _am_ to blame, yet as soon as I saw the danger, I
tried to avert it. My visit to town was on Ned’s account; he will have
his commission very soon, and then he will be sent out of harm’s way.
Can I do more?”
“No, it is too late to send him away with a free and happy heart. He
must bear his pain as he can, and it may help to make a man of him,” she
said sadly.
“He’ll soon forget,” began Coventry, who found the thought of gay Ned
suffering an uncomfortable one.
“Yes, thank heaven, that is possible, for men.”
Miss Muir pressed her hands together, with a dark expression on her
half-averted face. Something in her tone, her manner, touched Coventry;
he fancied that some old wound bled, some bitter memory awoke at the
approach of a new lover. He was young, heart-whole, and romantic, under
all his cool nonchalance of manner. This girl, who he fancied loved his
friend and who was beloved by his brother, became an object of interest
to him. He pitied her, desired to help her, and regretted his past
distrust, as a chivalrous man always regrets injustice to a woman. She
was happy here, poor, homeless soul, and she should stay. Bella loved
her, his mother took comfort in her, and when Ned was gone, no one’s
peace would be endangered by her winning ways, her rich accomplishments.
These thoughts swept through his mind during a brief pause, and when he
spoke, it was to say gently:
“Miss Muir, I thank you for the frankness which must have been painful
to you, and I will do my best to be worthy of the confidence which you
repose in me. You were both discreet and kind to speak only to me. This
thing would have troubled my mother extremely, and have done no good. I
shall see Ned, and try and repair my long neglect as promptly as
possible. I know you will help me, and in return let me beg of you to
remain, for he will soon be gone.”
She looked at him with eyes full of tears, and there was no coolness in
the voice that answered softly, “You are too kind, but I had better go;
it is not wise to stay.”
“Why not?”
She colored beautifully, hesitated, then spoke out in the clear, steady
voice which was her greatest charm, “If I had known there were sons in
this family, I never should have come. Lady Sydney spoke only of your
sister, and when I found two gentlemen, I was troubled, because--I am so
unfortunate--or rather, people are so kind as to like me more than I
deserve. I thought I could stay a month, at least, as your brother spoke
of going away, and you were already affianced, but--”
“I am not affianced.”
Why he said that, Coventry could not tell, but the words passed his lips
hastily and could not be recalled. Jean Muir took the announcement oddly
enough. She shrugged her shoulders with an air of extreme annoyance, and
said almost rudely, “Then you should be; you will be soon. But that is
nothing to me. Miss Beaufort wishes me gone, and I am too proud to
remain and become the cause of disunion in a happy family. No, I will
go, and go at once.”
She turned away impetuously, but Edward’s arm detained her, and Edward’s
voice demanded, tenderly, “Where will you go, my Jean?”
The tender touch and name seemed to rob her of her courage and calmness,
for, leaning on her lover, she hid her face and sobbed audibly.
“Now don’t make a scene, for heaven’s sake,” began Coventry impatiently,
as his brother eyed him fiercely, divining at once what had passed, for
his letter was still in Gerald’s hand and Jean’s last words had reached
her lover’s ear.
“Who gave you the right to read that, and to interfere in my affairs?”
demanded Edward hotly.
“Miss Muir” was the reply, as Coventry threw away the paper.
“And you add to the insult by ordering her out of the house,” cried Ned
with increasing wrath.
“On the contrary, I beg her to remain.”
“The deuce you do! And why?”
“Because she is useful and happy here, and I am unwilling that your
folly should rob her of a home which she likes.”
“You are very thoughtful and devoted all at once, but I beg you will not
trouble yourself. Jean’s happiness and home will be my care now.”
“My dear boy, do be reasonable. The thing is impossible. Miss Muir sees
it herself; she came to tell me, to ask how best to arrange matters
without troubling my mother. I’ve been to town to attend to your
affairs, and you may be off now very soon.”
“I have no desire to go. Last month it was the wish of my heart. Now
I’ll accept nothing from you.” And Edward turned moodily away from
his brother.
“What folly! Ned, you _must_ leave home. It is all arranged and cannot
be given up now. A change is what you need, and it will make a man of
you. We shall miss you, of course, but you will be where you’ll see
something of life, and that is better for you than getting into
mischief here.”
“Are you going away, Jean?” asked Edward, ignoring his brother entirely
and bending over the girl, who still hid her face and wept. She did not
speak, and Gerald answered for her.
“No, why should she if you are gone?”
“Do you mean to stay?” asked the lover eagerly of Jean.
“I wish to remain, but--” She paused and looked up. Her eyes went from
one face to the other, and she added, decidedly, “Yes, I must go, it is
not wise to stay even when you are gone.”
Neither of the young men could have explained why that hurried glance
affected them as it did, but each felt conscious of a willful desire to
oppose the other. Edward suddenly felt that his brother loved Miss Muir,
and was bent on removing her from his way. Gerald had a vague idea that
Miss Muir feared to remain on his account, and he longed to show her
that he was quite safe. Each felt angry, and each showed it in a
different way, one being violent, the other satirical.
“You are right, Jean, this is not the place for you; and you must let me
see you in a safer home before I go,” said Ned, significantly.
“It strikes me that this will be a particularly safe home when your
dangerous self is removed,” began Coventry, with an aggravating smile of
calm superiority.
“And _I_ think that I leave a more dangerous person than myself behind
me, as poor Lucia can testify.”
“Be careful what you say, Ned, or I shall be forced to remind you that I
am master here. Leave Lucia’s name out of this disagreeable affair, if
you please.”
“You _are_ master here, but not of me, or my actions, and you have no
right to expect obedience or respect, for you inspire neither. Jean, I
asked you to go with me secretly; now I ask you openly to share my
fortune. In my brother’s presence I ask, and _will_ have an answer.”
He caught her hand impetuously, with a defiant look at Coventry, who
still smiled, as if at boy’s play, though his eyes were kindling and his
face changing with the still, white wrath which is more terrible than
any sudden outburst. Miss Muir looked frightened; she shrank away from
her passionate young lover, cast an appealing glance at Gerald, and
seemed as if she longed to claim his protection yet dared not.
“Speak!” cried Edward, desperately. “Don’t look to him, tell me truly,
with your own lips, do you, can you love me, Jean?”
“I have told you once. Why pain me by forcing another hard reply,” she
said pitifully, still shrinking from his grasp and seeming to appeal to
his brother.
“You wrote a few lines, but I’ll not be satisfied with that. You shall
answer; I’ve seen love in your eyes, heard it in your voice, and I know
it is hidden in your heart. You fear to own it; do not hesitate, no one
can part us--speak, Jean, and satisfy me.”
Drawing her hand decidedly away, she went a step nearer Coventry, and
answered, slowly, distinctly, though her lips trembled, and she
evidently dreaded the effect of her words, “I will speak, and speak
truly. You have seen love in my face; it is in my heart, and I do not
hesitate to own it, cruel as it is to force the truth from me, but this
love is not for you. Are you satisfied?”
He looked at her with a despairing glance and stretched his hand toward
her beseechingly. She seemed to fear a blow, for suddenly she clung to
Gerald with a faint cry. The act, the look of fear, the protecting
gesture Coventry involuntarily made were too much for Edward, already
excited by conflicting passions. In a paroxysm of blind wrath, he caught
up a large pruning knife left there by the gardener, and would have
dealt his brother a fatal blow had he not warded it off with his arm.
The stroke fell, and another might have followed had not Miss Muir with
unexpected courage and strength wrested the knife from Edward and flung
it into the little pond near by. Coventry dropped down upon the seat,
for the blood poured from a deep wound in his arm, showing by its rapid
flow that an artery had been severed. Edward stood aghast, for with the
blow his fury passed, leaving him overwhelmed with remorse and shame.
Gerald looked up at him, smiled faintly, and said, with no sign of
reproach or anger, “Never mind, Ned. Forgive and forget. Lend me a hand
to the house, and don’t disturb anyone. It’s not much, I dare say.” But
his lips whitened as he spoke, and his strength failed him. Edward
sprang to support him, and Miss Muir, forgetting her terrors, proved
herself a girl of uncommon skill and courage.
“Quick! Lay him down. Give me your handkerchief, and bring some water,”
she said, in a tone of quiet command. Poor Ned obeyed and watched her
with breathless suspense while she tied the handkerchief tightly around
the arm, thrust the handle of his riding whip underneath, and pressed it
firmly above the severed artery to stop the dangerous flow of blood.
“Dr. Scott is with your mother, I think. Go and bring him here” was
the next order; and Edward darted away, thankful to do anything to
ease the terror which possessed him. He was gone some minutes, and
while they waited Coventry watched the girl as she knelt beside him,
bathing his face with one hand while with the other she held the
bandage firmly in its place. She was pale, but quite steady and
self-possessed, and her eyes shone with a strange brilliancy as she
looked down at him. Once, meeting his look of grateful wonder, she
smiled a reassuring smile that made her lovely, and said, in a soft,
sweet tone never used to him before, “Be quiet. There is no danger. I
will stay by you till help comes.”
Help did come speedily, and the doctor’s first words were “Who
improvised that tourniquet?”
“She did,” murmured Coventry.
“Then you may thank her for saving your life. By Jove! It was capitally
done”; and the old doctor looked at the girl with as much admiration as
curiosity in his face.
“Never mind that. See to the wound, please, while I ran for bandages,
and salts, and wine.”
Miss Muir was gone as she spoke, so fleetly that it was in vain to call
her back or catch her. During her brief absence, the story was told by
repentant Ned and the wound examined.
“Fortunately I have my case of instruments with me,” said the doctor,
spreading on the bench a long array of tiny, glittering implements of
torture. “Now, Mr. Ned, come here, and hold the arm in that way, while I
tie the artery. Hey! That will never do. Don’t tremble so, man, look
away and hold it steadily.”
“I can’t!” And poor Ned turned faint and white, not at the sight but
with the bitter thought that he had longed to kill his brother.
“I will hold it,” and a slender white hand lifted the bare and bloody
arm so firmly, steadily, that Coventry sighed a sigh of relief, and Dr.
Scott fell to work with an emphatic nod of approval.
It was soon over, and while Edward ran in to bid the servants beware of
alarming their mistress, Dr. Scott put up his instruments and Miss Muir
used salts, water, and wine so skillfully that Gerald was able to walk
to his room, leaning on the old man, while the girl supported the
wounded arm, as no sling could be made on the spot. As he entered the
chamber, Coventry turned, put out his left hand, and with much feeling
in his fine eyes said simply, “Miss Muir, I thank you.”
The color came up beautifully in her pale cheeks as she pressed the hand
and without a word vanished from the room. Lucia and the housekeeper
came bustling in, and there was no lack of attendance on the invalid. He
soon wearied of it, and sent them all away but Ned, who remorsefully
haunted the chamber, looking like a comely young Cain and feeling like
an outcast.
“Come here, lad, and tell me all about it. I was wrong to be
domineering. Forgive me, and believe that I care for your happiness more
sincerely than for my own.”
These frank and friendly words healed the breach between the two
brothers and completely conquered Ned. Gladly did he relate his love
passages, for no young lover ever tires of that amusement if he has a
sympathizing auditor, and Gerald _was_ sympathetic now. For an hour did
he lie listening patiently to the history of the growth of his brother’s
passion. Emotion gave the narrator eloquence, and Jean Muir’s character
was painted in glowing colors. All her unsuspected kindness to those
about her was dwelt upon; all her faithful care, her sisterly interest
in Bella, her gentle attentions to their mother, her sweet forbearance
with Lucia, who plainly showed her dislike, and most of all, her
friendly counsel, sympathy, and regard for Ned himself.
“She would make a man of me. She puts strength and courage into me as no
one else can. She is unlike any girl I ever saw; there’s no
sentimentality about her; she is wise, and kind, and sweet. She says
what she means, looks you straight in the eye, and is as true as steel.
I’ve tried her, I know her, and--ah, Gerald, I love her so!”
Here the poor lad leaned his face into his hands and sighed a sigh that
made his brother’s heart ache.
“Upon my soul, Ned, I feel for you; and if there was no obstacle on her
part, I’d do my best for you. She loves Sydney, and so there is nothing
for it but to bear your fate like a man.”
“Are you sure about Sydney? May it not be some one else?” and Ned eyed
his brother with a suspicious look.
Coventry told him all he knew and surmised concerning his friend, not
forgetting the letter. Edward mused a moment, then seemed relieved, and
said frankly, “I’m glad it’s Sydney and not you. I can bear it better.”
“Me!” ejaculated Gerald, with a laugh.
“Yes, you; I’ve been tormented lately with a fear that you cared for
her, or rather, she for you.”
“You jealous young fool! We never see or speak to one another scarcely,
so how could we get up a tender interest?”
“What do you lounge about on that terrace for every evening? And why
does she get fluttered when your shadow begins to come and go?”
demanded Edward.
“I like the music and don’t care for the society of the singer, that’s
why I walk there. The fluttering is all your imagination; Miss Muir
isn’t a woman to be fluttered by a man’s shadow.” And Coventry glanced
at his useless arm.
“Thank you for that, and for not saying ‘little Muir,’ as you generally
do. Perhaps it was my imagination. But she never makes fun of you now,
and so I fancied she might have lost her heart to the ‘young master.’
Women often do, you know.”
“She used to ridicule me, did she?” asked Coventry, taking no notice of
the latter part of his brother’s speech, which was quite true
nevertheless.
“Not exactly, she was too well-bred for that. But sometimes when Bella
and I joked about you, she’d say something so odd or witty that it was
irresistible. You’re used to being laughed at, so you don’t mind, I
know, just among ourselves.”
“Not I. Laugh away as much as you like,” said Gerald. But he did mind,
and wanted exceedingly to know what Miss Muir had said, yet was too
proud to ask. He turned restlessly and uttered a sigh of pain.
“I’m talking too much; it’s bad for you. Dr. Scott said you must be
quiet. Now go to sleep, if you can.”
Edward left the bedside but not the room, for he would let no one take
his place. Coventry tried to sleep, found it impossible, and after a
restless hour called his brother back.
“If the bandage was loosened a bit, it would ease my arm and then I
could sleep. Can you do it, Ned?”
“I dare not touch it. The doctor gave orders to leave it till he came in
the morning, and I shall only do harm if I try.”
“But I tell you it’s too tight. My arm is swelling and the pain is
intense. It can’t be right to leave it so. Dr. Scott dressed it in a
hurry and did it too tight. Common sense will tell you that,” said
Coventry impatiently.
“I’ll call Mrs. Morris; she will understand what’s best to be done.” And
Edward moved toward the door, looking anxious.
“Not she, she’ll only make a stir and torment me with her chatter. I’ll
bear it as long as I can, and perhaps Dr. Scott will come tonight. He
said he would if possible. Go to your dinner, Ned. I can ring for Neal
if I need anything. I shall sleep if I’m alone, perhaps.”
Edward reluctantly obeyed, and his brother was left to himself. Little
rest did he find, however, for the pain of the wounded arm grew
unbearable, and, taking a sudden resolution, he rang for his servant.
“Neal, go to Miss Coventry’s study, and if Miss Muir is there, ask her
to be kind enough to come to me. I’m in great pain, and she understand
wounds better than anyone else in the house.”
With much surprise in his face, the man departed and a few moments after
the door noiselessly opened and Miss Muir came in. It had been a very
warm day, and for the first time she had left off her plain black dress.
All in white, with no ornament but her fair hair, and a fragrant posy of
violets in her belt, she looked a different woman from the meek, nunlike
creature one usually saw about the house. Her face was as altered as her
dress, for now a soft color glowed in her cheeks, her eyes smiled shyly,
and her lips no longer wore the firm look of one who forcibly repressed
every emotion. A fresh, gentle, and charming woman she seemed, and
Coventry found the dull room suddenly brightened by her presence. Going
straight to him, she said simply, and with a happy, helpful look very
comforting to see, “I’m glad you sent for me. What can I do for you?”
He told her, and before the complaint was ended, she began loosening the
bandages with the decision of one who understood what was to be done and
had faith in herself.
“Ah, that’s relief, that’s comfort!” ejaculated Coventry, as the last
tight fold fell away. “Ned was afraid I should bleed to death if he
touched me. What will the doctor say to us?”
“I neither know nor care. I shall say to him that he is a bad surgeon to
bind it so closely, and not leave orders to have it untied if necessary.
Now I shall make it easy and put you to sleep, for that is what you
need. Shall I? May I?”
“I wish you would, if you can.”
And while she deftly rearranged the bandages, the young man watched her
curiously. Presently he asked, “How came you to know so much about
these things?”
“In the hospital where I was ill, I saw much that interested me, and
when I got better, I used to sing to the patients sometimes.”
“Do you mean to sing to me?” he asked, in the submissive tone men
unconsciously adopt when ill and in a woman’s care.
“If you like it better than reading aloud in a dreamy tone,” she
answered, as she tied the last knot.
“I do, much better,” he said decidedly.
“You are feverish. I shall wet your forehead, and then you will be quite
comfortable.” She moved about the room in the quiet way which made it a
pleasure to watch her, and, having mingled a little cologne with water,
bathed his face as unconcernedly as if he had been a child. Her
proceedings not only comforted but amused Coventry, who mentally
contrasted her with the stout, beer-drinking matron who had ruled over
him in his last illness.
“A clever, kindly little woman,” he thought, and felt quite at his ease,
she was so perfectly easy herself.
“There, now you look more like yourself,” she said with an approving nod
as she finished, and smoothed the dark locks off his forehead with a
cool, soft hand. Then seating herself in a large chair near by, she
began to sing, while tidily rolling up the fresh bandages which had been
left for the morning. Coventry lay watching her by the dim light that
burned in the room, and she sang on as easily as a bird, a dreamy,
low-toned lullaby, which soothed the listener like a spell. Presently,
looking up to see the effect of her song, she found the young man wide
awake, and regarding her with a curious mixture of pleasure, interest,
and admiration.
“Shut your eyes, Mr. Coventry,” she said, with a reproving shake of the
head, and an odd little smile.
He laughed and obeyed, but could not resist an occasional covert glance
from under his lashes at the slender white figure in the great velvet
chair. She saw him and frowned.
“You are very disobedient; why won’t you sleep?”
“I can’t, I want to listen. I’m fond of nightingales.”
“Then I shall sing no more, but try something that has never failed yet.
Give me your hand, please.”
Much amazed, he gave it, and, taking it in both her small ones, she sat
down behind the curtain and remained as mute and motionless as a statue.
Coventry smiled to himself at first, and wondered which would tire
first. But soon a subtle warmth seemed to steal from the soft palms that
enclosed his own, his heart beat quicker, his breath grew unequal, and a
thousand fancies danced through his brain. He sighed, and said dreamily,
as he turned his face toward her, “I like this.” And in the act of
speaking, seemed to sink into a soft cloud which encompassed him about
with an atmosphere of perfect repose. More than this he could not
remember, for sleep, deep and dreamless, fell upon him, and when he
woke, daylight was shining in between the curtains, his hand lay alone
on the coverlet, and his fair-haired enchantress was gone.
_Chapter IV_