“The man is mad!” ejaculated Coventry, staring at the letter while an
angry flush rose to his face. “What the deuce does he mean by writing to
me in that style? Join him--not I! And as for the threat, I laugh at it.
Poor Jean! This headstrong fool seems bent on tormenting her. Well,
Dean, what are you waiting for?” he demanded, as if suddenly conscious
of her presence.
“Nothing, sir; I only stopped to see if you found the letter. Beg
pardon, sir.”
And she was moving on when Coventry asked, with a suspicious look, “What
made you think it was lost? You seem to take an uncommon interest in my
affairs today.”
“Oh dear, no, sir. I felt a bit anxious, Benson is so forgetful, and it
was me who sent him after you, for I happened to see you go out, so I
felt responsible. Being marked that way, I thought it might be important
so I asked about it.”
“Very well, you can go, Dean. It’s all right, you see.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” muttered the woman, as she curtsied
respectfully and went away, looking as if the letter had _not_
been found.
Dean was Miss Beaufort’s maid, a grave, middle-aged woman with keen eyes
and a somewhat grim air. Having been long in the family, she enjoyed all
the privileges of a faithful and favorite servant. She loved her young
mistress with an almost jealous affection. She watched over her with the
vigilant care of a mother and resented any attempt at interference on
the part of others. At first she had pitied and liked Jean Muir, then
distrusted her, and now heartily hated her, as the cause of the
increased indifference of Coventry toward his cousin. Dean knew the
depth of Lucia’s love, and though no man, in her eyes, was worthy of her
mistress, still, having honored him with her regard, Dean felt bound to
like him, and the late change in his manner disturbed the maid almost as
much as it did the mistress. She watched Jean narrowly, causing that
amiable creature much amusement but little annoyance, as yet, for Dean’s
slow English wit was no match for the subtle mind of the governess. On
the preceding night, Dean had been sent up to the Hall with costumes and
had there seen something which much disturbed her. She began to speak of
it while undressing her mistress, but Lucia, being in an unhappy mood,
had so sternly ordered her not to gossip that the tale remained untold,
and she was forced to bide her tune.
Now I’ll see how _she_ looks after it; though there’s not much to be got
out of _her_ face, the deceitful hussy, thought Dean, marching down the
corridor and knitting her black brows as she went.
“Good morning, Mrs. Dean. I hope you are none the worse for last night’s
frolic. You had the work and we the play,” said a blithe voice behind
her; and turning sharply, she confronted Miss Muir. Fresh and smiling,
the governess nodded with an air of cordiality which would have been
irresistible with anyone but Dean.
“I’m quite well, thank you, miss,” she returned coldly, as her keen eye
fastened on the girl as if to watch the effect of her words. “I had a
good rest when the young ladies and gentlemen were at supper, for while
the maids cleared up, I sat in the ‘little anteroom.’”
“Yes, I saw you, and feared you’d take cold. Very glad you didn’t. How
is Miss Beaufort? She seemed rather poorly last night” was the tranquil
reply, as Jean settled the little frills about her delicate wrists. The
cool question was a return shot for Dean’s hint that she had been where
she could oversee the interview between Coventry and Miss Muir.
“She is a bit tired, as any _lady_ would be after such an evening.
People who are _used_ to _play-acting_ wouldn’t mind it, perhaps, but
Miss Beaufort don’t enjoy _romps_ as much as _some_ do.”
The emphasis upon certain words made Dean’s speech as impertinent as she
desired. But Jean only laughed, and as Coventry’s step was heard behind
them, she ran downstairs, saying blandly, but with a wicked look, “I
won’t stop to thank you now, lest Mr. Coventry should bid me
good-morning, and so increase Miss Beaufort’s indisposition.”
Dean’s eyes flashed as she looked after the girl with a wrathful face,
and went her way, saying grimly, “I’ll bide my time, but I’ll get the
better of her yet.”
Fancying himself quite removed from “last night’s absurdity,” yet
curious to see how Jean would meet him, Coventry lounged into the
breakfast room with his usual air of listless indifference. A languid
nod and murmur was all the reply he vouchsafed to the greetings of
cousin, sister, and governess as he sat down and took up his paper.
“Have you had a letter from Ned?” asked Bella, looking at the note which
her brother still held.
“No” was the brief answer.
“Who then? You look as if you had received bad news.”
There was no reply, and, peeping over his arm, Bella caught sight of the
seal and exclaimed, in a disappointed tone, “It is the Sydney crest. I
don’t care about the note now. Men’s letters to each other are not
interesting.”
Miss Muir had been quietly feeding one of Edward’s dogs, but at the name
she looked up and met Coventry’s eyes, coloring so distressfully that he
pitied her. Why he should take the trouble to cover her confusion, he
did not stop to ask himself, but seeing the curl of Lucia’s lip, he
suddenly addressed her with an air of displeasure, “Do you know that
Dean is getting impertinent? She presumes too much on her age and your
indulgence, and forgets her place.”
“What has she done?” asked Lucia coldly.
“She troubles herself about my affairs and takes it upon herself to keep
Benson in order.”
Here Coventry told about the letter and the woman’s evident curiosity.
“Poor Dean, she gets no thanks for reminding you of what you had
forgotten. Next time she will leave your letters to their fate, and
perhaps it will be as well, if they have such a bad effect upon your
temper, Gerald.”
Lucia spoke calmly, but there was an angry color in her cheek as she
rose and left the room. Coventry looked much annoyed, for on Jean’s face
he detected a faint smile, half pitiful, half satirical, which disturbed
him more than his cousin’s insinuation. Bella broke the awkward silence
by saying, with a sigh, “Poor Ned! I do so long to hear again from him.
I thought a letter had come for some of us. Dean said she saw one
bearing his writing on the hall table yesterday.”
“She seems to have a mania for inspecting letters. I won’t allow it. Who
was the letter for, Bella?” said Coventry, putting down his paper.
“She wouldn’t or couldn’t tell, but looked very cross and told me
to ask you.”
“Very odd! I’ve had none,” began Coventry.
“But I had one several days ago. Will you please read it, and my reply?”
And as she spoke, Jean laid two letters before him.
“Certainly not. It would be dishonorable to read what Ned intended for
no eyes but your own. You are too scrupulous in one way, and not enough
so in another, Miss Muir.” And Coventry offered both the letters with
an air of grave decision, which could not conceal the interest and
surprise he felt.
“You are right. Mr. Edward’s note _should_ be kept sacred, for in it the
poor boy has laid bare his heart to me. But mine I beg you will read,
that you may see how well I try to keep my word to you. Oblige me in
this, Mr. Coventry; I have a right to ask it of you.”
So urgently she spoke, so wistfully she looked, that he could not refuse
and, going to the window, read the letter. It was evidently an answer to
a passionate appeal from the young lover, and was written with
consummate skill. As he read, Gerald could not help thinking, If this
girl writes in this way to a man whom she does _not_ love, with what a
world of power and passion would she write to one whom she _did_ love.
And this thought kept returning to him as his eye went over line after
line of wise argument, gentle reproof, good counsel, and friendly
regard. Here and there a word, a phrase, betrayed what she had already
confessed, and Coventry forgot to return the letter, as he stood
wondering who was the man whom Jean loved.
The sound of Bella’s voice recalled him, for she was saying, half
kindly, half petulantly, “Don’t look so sad, Jean. Ned will outlive it,
I dare say. You remember you said once men never died of love, though
women might. In his one note to me, he spoke so beautifully of you, and
begged me to be kind to you for his sake, that I try to be with all my
heart, though if it was anyone but you, I really think I should hate
them for making my dear boy so unhappy.”
“You are too kind, Bella, and I often think I’ll go away to relieve you
of my presence; but unwise and dangerous as it is to stay, I haven’t the
courage to go. I’ve been so happy here.” And as she spoke, Jean’s head
dropped lower over the dog as it nestled to her affectionately.
Before Bella could utter half the loving words that sprang to her lips,
Coventry came to them with all languor gone from face and mien, and
laying Jean’s letter before her, he said, with an undertone of deep
feeling in his usually emotionless voice, “A right womanly and eloquent
letter, but I fear it will only increase the fire it was meant to
quench. I pity my brother more than ever now.”
“Shall I send it?” asked Jean, looking straight up at him, like one who
had entire reliance on his judgment.
“Yes, I have not the heart to rob him of such a sweet sermon upon
self-sacrifice. Shall I post it for you?”
“Thank you; in a moment.” And with a grateful look, Jean dropped her
eyes. Producing her little purse, she selected a penny, folded it in a
bit of paper, and then offered both letter and coin to Coventry, with
such a pretty air of business, that he could not control a laugh.
“So you won’t be indebted to me for a penny? What a proud woman you are,
Miss Muir.”
“I am; it’s a family failing.” And she gave him a significant glance,
which recalled to him the memory of who she was. He understood her
feeling, and liked her the better for it, knowing that he would have
done the same had he been in her place. It was a little thing, but if
done for effect, it answered admirably, for it showed a quick insight
into his character on her part, and betrayed to him the existence of a
pride in which he sympathized heartily. He stood by Jean a moment,
watching her as she burnt Edward’s letter in the blaze of the spirit
lamp under the urn.
“Why do you do that?” he asked involuntarily.
“Because it is my duty to forget” was all her answer.
“Can you always forget when it becomes a duty?”
“I wish I could! I wish I could!”
She spoke passionately, as if the words broke from her against her will,
and, rising hastily, she went into the garden, as if afraid to stay.
“Poor, dear Jean is very unhappy about something, but I can’t discover
what it is. Last night I found her crying over a rose, and now she runs
away, looking as if her heart was broken. I’m glad I’ve got no lessons.”
“What kind of a rose?” asked Coventry from behind his paper as
Bella paused.
“A lovely white one. It must have come from the Hall; we have none like
it. I wonder if Jean was ever going to be married, and lost her lover,
and felt sad because the flower reminded her of bridal roses.”
Coventry made no reply, but felt himself change countenance as he
recalled the little scene behind the rose hedge, where he gave Jean the
flower which she had refused yet taken. Presently, to Bella’s surprise,
he flung down the paper, tore Sydney’s note to atoms, and rang for his
horse with an energy which amazed her.
“Why, Gerald, what has come over you? One would think Ned’s restless
spirit had suddenly taken possession of you. What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to work” was the unexpected answer, as Coventry turned toward
her with an expression so rarely seen on his fine face.
“What has waked you up all at once?” asked Bella, looking more and
more amazed.
“You did,” he said, drawing her toward him.
“I! When? How?”
“Do you remember saying once that energy was better than beauty in a
man, and that no one could respect an idler?”
“I never said anything half so sensible as that. Jean said something
like it once, I believe, but I forgot. Are you tired of doing nothing,
at last, Gerald?”
“Yes, I neglected my duty to Ned, till he got into trouble, and now I
reproach myself for it. It’s not too late to do other neglected tasks,
so I’m going at them with a will. Don’t say anything about it to anyone,
and don’t laugh at me, for I’m in earnest, Bell.”
“I know you are, and I admire and love you for it, my dear old boy,”
cried Bella enthusiastically, as she threw her arms about his neck and
kissed him heartily. “What will you do first?” she asked, as he stood
thoughtfully smoothing the bright head that leaned upon his shoulder,
with that new expression still clear and steady in his face.
“I’m going to ride over the whole estate, and attend to things as a
master should; not leave it all to Bent, of whom I’ve heard many
complaints, but have been too idle to inquire about them. I shall
consult Uncle, and endeavor to be all that my father was in his time. Is
that a worthy ambition, dear?”
“Oh, Gerald, let me tell Mamma. It will make her so happy. You are her
idol, and to hear you say these things, to see you look so like dear
Papa, would do more for her spirits than all the doctors in England.”
“Wait till I prove what my resolution is worth. When I have really done
something, then I’ll surprise Mamma with a sample of my work.”
“Of course you’ll tell Lucia?”
“Not on any account. It is a little secret between us, so keep it till I
give you leave to tell it.”
“But Jean will see it at once; she knows everything that happens, she is
so quick and wise. Do you mind her knowing?”
“I don’t see that I can help it if she is so wonderfully gifted. Let her
see what she can, I don’t mind her. Now I’m off.” And with a kiss to his
sister, a sudden smile on his face, Coventry sprang upon his horse and
rode away at a pace which caused the groom to stare after him in blank
amazement.
Nothing more was seen of him till dinnertime, when he came in so
exhilarated by his brisk ride and busy morning that he found some
difficulty in assuming his customary manner, and more than once
astonished the family by talking animatedly on various subjects which
till now had always seemed utterly uninteresting to him. Lucia was
amazed, his mother delighted, and Bella could hardly control her desire
to explain the mystery; but Jean took it very calmly and regarded him
with the air of one who said, “I understand, but you will soon tire of
it.” This nettled him more than he would confess, and he exerted himself
to silently contradict that prophecy.
“Have you answered Mr. Sydney’s letter?” asked Bella, when they were all
scattered about the drawing room after dinner.
“No,” answered her brother, who was pacing up and down with restless
steps, instead of lounging near his beautiful cousin.
“I ask because I remembered that Ned sent a message for him in my last
note, as he thought you would know Sydney’s address. Here it is,
something about a horse. Please put it in when you write,” and Bella
laid the note on the writing table nearby.
“I’ll send it at once and have done with it,” muttered Coventry and,
seating himself, he dashed off a few lines, sealed and sent the letter,
and then resumed his march, eyeing the three young ladies with three
different expressions, as he passed and repassed. Lucia sat apart,
feigning to be intent upon a book, and her handsome face looked almost
stern in its haughty composure, for though her heart ached, she was too
proud to own it. Bella now lay on the sofa, half asleep, a rosy little
creature, as unconsciously pretty as a child. Miss Muir sat in the
recess of a deep window, in a low lounging chair, working at an
embroidery frame with a graceful industry pleasant to see. Of late she
had worn colors, for Bella had been generous in gifts, and the pale blue
muslin which flowed in soft waves about her was very becoming to her
fair skin and golden hair. The close braids were gone, and loose curls
dropped here and there from the heavy coil wound around her well-shaped
head. The tip of one dainty foot was visible, and a petulant little
gesture which now and then shook back the falling sleeve gave glimpses
of a round white arm. Ned’s great hound lay nearby, the sunshine
flickered on her through the leaves, and as she sat smiling to herself,
while the dexterous hands shaped leaf and flower, she made a charming
picture of all that is most womanly and winning; a picture which few
men’s eyes would not have liked to rest upon.
Another chair stood near her, and as Coventry went up and down, a strong
desire to take it possessed him. He was tired of his thoughts and wished
to be amused by watching the changes of the girl’s expressive face,
listening to the varying tones of her voice, and trying to discover the
spell which so strongly attracted him in spite of himself. More than
once he swerved from his course to gratify his whim, but Lucia’s
presence always restrained him, and with a word to the dog, or a glance
from the window, as pretext for a pause, he resumed his walk again.
Something in his cousin’s face reproached him, but her manner of late
was so repellent that he felt no desire to resume their former
familiarity, and, wishing to show that he did not consider himself
bound, he kept aloof. It was a quiet test of the power of each woman
over this man; they instinctively felt it, and both tried to conquer.
Lucia spoke several times, and tried to speak frankly and affably; but
her manner was constrained, and Coventry, having answered politely,
relapsed into silence. Jean said nothing, but silently appealed to eye
and ear by the pretty picture she made of herself, the snatches of song
she softly sang, as if forgetting that she was not alone, and a shy
glance now and then, half wistful, half merry, which was more alluring
than graceful figure or sweet voice. When she had tormented Lucia and
tempted Coventry long enough, she quietly asserted her supremacy in a
way which astonished her rival, who knew nothing of the secret of her
birth, which knowledge did much to attract and charm the young man.
Letting a ball of silk escape from her lap, she watched it roll toward
the promenader, who caught and returned it with an alacrity which added
grace to the trifling service. As she took it, she said, in the frank
way that never failed to win him, “I think you must be tired; but if
exercise is necessary, employ your energies to some purpose and put your
mother’s basket of silks in order. They are in a tangle, and it will
please her to know that you did it, as your brother used to do.”
“Hercules at the distaff,” said Coventry gaily, and down he sat in the
long-desired seat. Jean put the basket on his knee, and as he surveyed
it, as if daunted at his task, she leaned back, and indulged in a
musical little peal of laughter charming to hear. Lucia sat dumb with
surprise, to see her proud, indolent cousin obeying the commands of a
governess, and looking as if he heartily enjoyed it. In ten minutes she
was as entirely forgotten as if she had been miles away; for Jean seemed
in her wittiest, gayest mood, and as she now treated the “young master”
like an equal, there was none of the former meek timidity. Yet often her
eyes fell, her color changed, and the piquant sallies faltered on her
tongue, as Coventry involuntarily looked deep into the fine eyes which
had once shone on him so tenderly in that mimic tragedy. He could not
forget it, and though neither alluded to it, the memory of the previous
evening seemed to haunt both and lend a secret charm to the present
moment. Lucia bore this as long as she could, and then left the room
with the air of an insulted princess; but Coventry did not, and Jean
feigned not to see her go. Bella was fast asleep, and before he knew how
it came to pass, the young man was listening to the story of his
companion’s life. A sad tale, told with wonderful skill, for soon he was
absorbed in it. The basket slid unobserved from his knee, the dog was
pushed away, and, leaning forward, he listened eagerly as the girl’s low
voice recounted all the hardships, loneliness, and grief of her short
life. In the midst of a touching episode she started, stopped, and
looked straight before her, with an intent expression which changed to
one of intense contempt, and her eye turned to Coventry’s, as she said,
pointing to the window behind him, “We are watched.”
“By whom?” he demanded, starting up angrily.
“Hush, say nothing, let it pass. I am used to it.”
“But _I_ am not, and I’ll not submit to it. Who was it, Jean?” he
answered hotly.
She smiled significantly at a knot of rose-colored ribbon, which a
little gust was blowing toward them along the terrace. A black frown
darkened the young man’s face as he sprang out of the long window and
went rapidly out of sight, scrutinizing each green nook as he passed.
Jean laughed quietly as she watched him, and said softly to herself,
with her eyes on the fluttering ribbon, “That was a fortunate accident,
and a happy inspiration. Yes, my dear Mrs. Dean, you will find that
playing the spy will only get your mistress as well as yourself into
trouble. You would not be warned, and you must take the consequences,
reluctant as I am to injure a worthy creature like yourself.”
Soon Coventry was heard returning. Jean listened with suspended breath
to catch his first words, for he was not alone.
“Since you insist that it was you and not your mistress, I let it pass,
although I still have my suspicions. Tell Miss Beaufort I desire to see
her for a few moments in the library. Now go, Dean, and be careful for
the future, if you wish to stay in my house.”
The maid retired, and the young man came in looking both ireful
and stern.
“I wish I had said nothing, but I was startled, and spoke involuntarily.
Now you are angry, and I have made fresh trouble for poor Miss Lucia.
Forgive me as I forgive her, and let it pass. I have learned to bear
this surveillance, and pity her causeless jealousy,” said Jean, with a
self-reproachful air.
“I will forgive the dishonorable act, but I cannot forget it, and I
intend to put a stop to it. I am not betrothed to my cousin, as I told
you once, but you, like all the rest, seem bent on believing that I am.
Hitherto I have cared too little about the matter to settle it, but now
I shall prove beyond all doubt that I am free.”
As he uttered the last word, Coventry cast on Jean a look that affected
her strangely. She grew pale, her work dropped on her lap, and her eyes
rose to his, with an eager, questioning expression, which slowly changed
to one of mingled pain and pity, as she turned her face away, murmuring
in a tone of tender sorrow, “Poor Lucia, who will comfort her?”
For a moment Coventry stood silent, as if weighing some fateful purpose
in his mind. As Jean’s rapt sigh of compassion reached his ear, he had
echoed it within himself, and half repented of his resolution; then his
eye rested on the girl before him looking so lonely in her sweet
sympathy for another that his heart yearned toward her. Sudden fire shot
into his eye, sudden warmth replaced the cold sternness of his face, and
his steady voice faltered suddenly, as he said, very low, yet very
earnestly, “Jean, I have tried to love her, but I cannot. Ought I to
deceive her, and make myself miserable to please my family?”
“She is beautiful and good, and loves you tenderly; is there no hope for
her?” asked Jean, still pale, but very quiet, though she held one hand
against her heart, as if to still or hide its rapid beating.
“None,” answered Coventry.
“But can you not learn to love her? Your will is strong, and most men
would not find it a hard task.”
“I cannot, for something stronger than my own will controls me.”
“What is that?” And Jean’s dark eyes were fixed upon him, full of
innocent wonder.
His fell, and he said hastily, “I dare not tell you yet.”
“Pardon! I should not have asked. Do not consult me in this matter; I am
not the person to advise you. I can only say that it seems to me as if
any man with an empty heart would be glad to have so beautiful a woman
as your cousin.”
“My heart is not empty,” began Coventry, drawing a step nearer, and
speaking in a passionate voice. “Jean, I _must_ speak; hear me. I cannot
love my cousin, because I love you.”
“Stop!” And Jean sprang up with a commanding gesture. “I will not hear
you while any promise binds you to another. Remember your mother’s
wishes, Lucia’s hopes, Edward’s last words, your own pride, my humble
lot. You forget yourself, Mr. Coventry. Think well before you speak,
weigh the cost of this act, and recollect who I am before you insult me
by any transient passion, any false vows.”
“I have thought, I do weigh the cost, and I swear that I desire to woo
you as humbly, honestly as I would any lady in the land. You speak of my
pride. Do I stoop in loving my equal in rank? You speak of your lowly
lot, but poverty is no disgrace, and the courage with which you bear it
makes it beautiful. I should have broken with Lucia before I spoke, but
I could not control myself. My mother loves you, and will be happy in my
happiness. Edward must forgive me, for I have tried to do my best, but
love is irresistible. Tell me, Jean, is there any hope for me?”
He had seized her hand and was speaking impetuously, with ardent face
and tender tone, but no answer came, for as Jean turned her eloquent
countenance toward him, full of maiden shame and timid love, Dean’s prim
figure appeared at the door, and her harsh voice broke the momentary
silence, saying, sternly, “Miss Beaufort is waiting for you, sir.”
“Go, go at once, and be kind, for my sake, Gerald,” whispered Jean, for
he stood as if deaf and blind to everything but her voice, her face.
As she drew his head down to whisper, her cheek touched his, and
regardless of Dean, he kissed it, passionately, whispering back, “My
little Jean! For your sake I can be anything.”
“Miss Beaufort is waiting. Shall I say you will come, sir?” demanded
Dean, pale and grim with indignation.
“Yes, yes, I’ll come. Wait for me in the garden, Jean.” And Coventry
hurried away, in no mood for the interview but anxious to have it over.
As the door closed behind him, Dean walked up to Miss Muir, trembling
with anger, and laying a heavy hand on her arm, she said below her
breath, “I’ve been expecting this, you artful creature. I saw your game
and did my best to spoil it, but you are too quick for me. You think
you’ve got him. There you are mistaken; for as sure as my name is Hester
Dean, I’ll prevent it, or Sir John shall.”
“Take your hand away and treat me with proper respect, or you will be
dismissed from this house. Do you know who I am?” And Jean drew herself
up with a haughty air, which impressed the woman more deeply than her
words. “I am the daughter of Lady Howard and, if I choose it, can be the
wife of Mr. Coventry.”
Dean drew back amazed, yet not convinced. Being a well-trained servant,
as well as a prudent woman, she feared to overstep the bounds of
respect, to go too far, and get her mistress as well as herself into
trouble. So, though she still doubted Jean, and hated her more than
ever, she controlled herself. Dropping a curtsy, she assumed her usual
air of deference, and said, meekly, “I beg pardon, miss. If I’d known, I
should have conducted myself differently, of course, but ordinary
governesses make so much mischief in a house, one can’t help mistrusting
them. I don’t wish to meddle or be overbold, but being fond of my dear
young lady, I naturally take her part, and must say that Mr. Coventry
has not acted like a gentleman.”
“Think what you please, Dean, but I advise you to say as little as
possible if you wish to remain. I have not accepted Mr. Coventry yet,
and if he chooses to set aside the engagement his family made for him, I
think he has a right to do so. Miss Beaufort would hardly care to marry
him against his will, because he pities her for her unhappy love,” and
with a tranquil smile, Miss Muir walked away.
_Chapter VII_