“She will tell Sir John, will she? Then I must be before her, and hasten
events. It will be as well to have all sure before there can be any
danger. My poor Dean, you are no match for me, but you may prove
annoying, nevertheless.”
These thoughts passed through Miss Muir’s mind as she went down the
hall, pausing an instant at the library door, for the murmur of voices
was heard. She caught no word, and had only time for an instant’s
pause as Dean’s heavy step followed her. Turning, Jean drew a chair
before the door, and, beckoning to the woman, she said, smiling still,
“Sit here and play watchdog. I am going to Miss Bella, so you can nod
if you will.”
“Thank you, miss. I will wait for my young lady. She may need me when
this hard time is over.” And Dean seated herself with a resolute face.
Jean laughed and went on; but her eyes gleamed with sudden malice, and
she glanced over her shoulder with an expression which boded ill for the
faithful old servant.
“I’ve got a letter from Ned, and here is a tiny note for you,” cried
Bella as Jean entered the boudoir. “Mine is a very odd, hasty letter,
with no news in it, but his meeting with Sydney. I hope yours is better,
or it won’t be very satisfactory.”
As Sydney’s name passed Bella’s lips, all the color died out of Miss
Muir’s face, and the note shook with the tremor of her hand. Her very
lips were white, but she said calmly, “Thank you. As you are busy,
I’ll go and read my letter on the lawn.” And before Bella could speak,
she was gone.
Hurrying to a quiet nook, Jean tore open the note and read the few
blotted lines it contained.
_I have seen Sydney; he has told me all; and, hard as I found it to
believe, it was impossible to doubt, for he has discovered proofs which
cannot be denied. I make no reproaches, shall demand no confession or
atonement, for I cannot forget that I once loved you. I give you three
days to find another home, before I return to tell the family who you
are. Go at once, I beseech you, and spare me the pain of seeing your
disgrace._
Slowly, steadily she read it twice over, then sat motionless, knitting
her brows in deep thought. Presently she drew a long breath, tore up the
note, and rising, went slowly toward the Hall, saying to herself, “Three
days, only three days! Can it be accomplished in so short a time? It
shall be, if wit and will can do it, for it is my last chance. If this
fails, I’ll not go back to my old life, but end all at once.”
Setting her teeth and clenching her hands, as if some memory stung her,
she went on through the twilight, to find Sir John waiting to give her a
hearty welcome.
“You look tired, my dear. Never mind the reading tonight; rest yourself,
and let the book go,” he said kindly, observing her worn look.
“Thank you, sir. I am tired, but I’d rather read, else the book will not
be finished before I go.”
“Go, child! Where are you going?” demanded Sir John, looking anxiously
at her as she sat down.
“I will tell you by-and-by, sir.” And opening the book, Jean read for a
little while.
But the usual charm was gone; there was no spirit in the voice of the
reader, no interest in the face of the listener, and soon he said,
abruptly, “My dear, pray stop! I cannot listen with a divided mind. What
troubles you? Tell your friend, and let him comfort you.”
As if the kind words overcame her, Jean dropped the book, covered up her
face, and wept so bitterly that Sir John was much alarmed; for such a
demonstration was doubly touching in one who usually was all gaiety and
smiles. As he tried to soothe her, his words grew tender, his solicitude
full of a more than paternal anxiety, and his kind heart overflowed with
pity and affection for the weeping girl. As she grew calmer, he urged
her to be frank, promising to help and counsel her, whatever the
affliction or fault might be.
“Ah, you are too kind, too generous! How can I go away and leave my one
friend?” sighed Jean, wiping the tears away and looking up at him with
grateful eyes.
“Then you do care a little for the old man?” said Sir John with an eager
look, an involuntary pressure of the hand he held.
Jean turned her face away, and answered, very low, “No one ever was
so kind to me as you have been. Can I help caring for you more than I
can express?”
Sir John was a little deaf at times, but he heard that, and looked well
pleased. He had been rather thoughtful of late, had dressed with unusual
care, been particularly gallant and gay when the young ladies visited
him, and more than once, when Jean paused in the reading to ask a
question, he had been forced to confess that he had not been listening;
though, as she well knew, his eyes had been fixed upon her. Since the
discovery of her birth, his manner had been peculiarly benignant, and
many little acts had proved his interest and goodwill. Now, when Jean
spoke of going, a panic seized him, and desolation seemed about to fall
upon the old Hall. Something in her unusual agitation struck him as
peculiar and excited his curiosity. Never had she seemed so interesting
as now, when she sat beside him with tearful eyes, and some soft trouble
in her heart which she dared not confess.
“Tell me everything, child, and let your friend help you if he can.”
Formerly he said “father” or “the old man,” but lately he always spoke
of himself as her “friend.”
“I will tell you, for I have no one else to turn to. I must go away
because Mr. Coventry has been weak enough to love me.”
“What, Gerald?” cried Sir John, amazed.
“Yes; today he told me this, and left me to break with Lucia; so I ran
to you to help me prevent him from disappointing his mother’s hopes
and plans.”
Sir John had started up and paced down the room, but as Jean paused he
turned toward her, saying, with an altered face, “Then you do not love
him? Is it possible?”
“No, I do not love him,” she answered promptly.
“Yet he is all that women usually find attractive. How is it that you
have escaped, Jean?”
“I love someone else” was the scarcely audible reply.
Sir John resumed his seat with the air of a man bent on getting at a
mystery, if possible.
“It will be unjust to let you suffer for the folly of these boys, my
little girl. Ned is gone, and I was sure that Gerald was safe; but now
that his turn has come, I am perplexed, for he cannot be sent away.”
“No, it is I who must go; but it seems so hard to leave this safe and
happy home, and wander away into the wide, cold world again. You have
all been too kind to me, and now separation breaks my heart.”
A sob ended the speech, and Jean’s head went down upon her hands again.
Sir John looked at her a moment, and his fine old face was full of
genuine emotion, as he said slowly, “Jean, will you stay and be a
daughter to the solitary old man?”
“No, sir” was the unexpected answer.
“And why not?” asked Sir John, looking surprised, but rather pleased
than angry.
“Because I could not be a daughter to you; and even if I could, it would
not be wise, for the gossips would say you were not old enough to be the
adopted father of a girl like me. Sir John, young as I am, I know much
of the world, and am sure that this kind plan is impractical; but I
thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
“Where will you go, Jean?” asked Sir John, after a pause.
“To London, and try to find another situation where I can do no harm.”
“Will it be difficult to find another home?”
“Yes. I cannot ask Mrs. Coventry to recommend me, when I have innocently
brought so much trouble into her family; and Lady Sydney is gone, so I
have no friend.”
“Except John Coventry. I will arrange all that. When will you go, Jean?”
“Tomorrow.”
“So soon!” And the old man’s voice betrayed the trouble he was trying
to conceal.
Jean had grown very calm, but it was the calmness of desperation. She
had hoped that the first tears would produce the avowal for which she
waited. It had not, and she began to fear that her last chance was
slipping from her. Did the old man love her? If so, why did he not
speak? Eager to profit by each moment, she was on the alert for any
hopeful hint, any propitious word, look, or act, and every nerve was
strung to the utmost.
“Jean, may I ask one question?” said Sir John.
“Anything of me, sir.”
“This man whom you love--can he not help you?”
“He could if he knew, but he must not.”
“If he knew what? Your present trouble?”
“No. My love.”
“He does not know this, then?”
“No, thank heaven! And he never will.”
“Why not?”
“Because I am too proud to own it.”
“He loves you, my child?”
“I do not know--I dare not hope it,” murmured Jean.
“Can I not help you here? Believe me, I desire to see you safe and
happy. Is there nothing I can do?”
“Nothing, nothing.”
“May I know the name?”
“No! No! Let me go; I cannot bear this questioning!” And Jean’s
distressful face warned him to ask no more.
“Forgive me, and let me do what I may. Rest here quietly. I’ll write a
letter to a good friend of mine, who will find you a home, if you
leave us.”
As Sir John passed into his inner study, Jean watched him with
despairing eyes and wrung her hands, saying to herself, Has all my
skill deserted me when I need it most? How can I make him understand,
yet not overstep the bounds of maiden modesty? He is so blind, so
timid, or so dull he will not see, and time is going fast. What shall I
do to open his eyes?
Her own eyes roved about the room, seeking for some aid from inanimate
things, and soon she found it. Close behind the couch where she sat hung
a fine miniature of Sir John. At first her eye rested on it as she
contrasted its placid comeliness with the unusual pallor and disquiet of
the living face seen through the open door, as the old man sat at his
desk trying to write and casting covert glances at the girlish figure he
had left behind him. Affecting unconsciousness of this, Jean gazed on as
if forgetful of everything but the picture, and suddenly, as if obeying
an irresistible impulse, she took it down, looked long and fondly at it,
then, shaking her curls about her face, as if to hide the act, pressed
it to her lips and seemed to weep over it in an uncontrollable paroxysm
of tender grief. A sound startled her, and like a guilty thing, she
turned to replace the picture; but it dropped from her hand as she
uttered a faint cry and hid her face, for Sir John stood before her,
with an expression which she could not mistake.
“Jean, why did you do that?” he asked, in an eager, agitated voice.
No answer, as the girl sank lower, like one overwhelmed with shame.
Laying his hand on the bent head, and bending his own, he whispered,
“Tell me, is the name John Coventry?”
Still no answer, but a stifled sound betrayed that his words had
gone home.
“Jean, shall I go back and write the letter, or may I stay and tell you
that the old man loves you better than a daughter?”
She did not speak, but a little hand stole out from under the falling
hair, as if to keep him. With a broken exclamation he seized it, drew
her up into his arms, and laid his gray head on her fair one, too happy
for words. For a moment Jean Muir enjoyed her success; then, fearing
lest some sudden mishap should destroy it, she hastened to make all
secure. Looking up with well-feigned timidity and half-confessed
affection, she said softly, “Forgive me that I could not hide this
better. I meant to go away and never tell it, but you were so kind it
made the parting doubly hard. Why did you ask such dangerous questions?
Why did you look, when you should have been writing my dismissal?”
“How could I dream that you loved me, Jean, when you refused the only
offer I dared make? Could I be presumptuous enough to fancy you would
reject young lovers for an old man like me?” asked Sir John,
caressing her.
“You are not old, to me, but everything I love and honor!” interrupted
Jean, with a touch of genuine remorse, as this generous, honorable
gentleman gave her both heart and home, unconscious of deceit. “It is I
who am presumptuous, to dare to love one so far above me. But I did not
know how dear you were to me till I felt that I must go. I ought not to
accept this happiness. I am not worthy of it; and you will regret your
kindness when the world blames you for giving a home to one so poor, and
plain, and humble as I.”
“Hush, my darling. I care nothing for the idle gossip of the world. If
you are happy here, let tongues wag as they will. I shall be too busy
enjoying the sunshine of your presence to heed anything that goes on
about me. But, Jean, you are sure you love me? It seems incredible
that I should win the heart that has been so cold to younger, better
men than I.”
“Dear Sir John, be sure of this, I love you truly. I will do my best to
be a good wife to you, and prove that, in spite of my many faults, I
possess the virtue of gratitude.”
If he had known the strait she was in, he would have understood the
cause of the sudden fervor of her words, the intense thankfulness that
shone in her face, the real humility that made her stoop and kiss the
generous hand that gave so much. For a few moments she enjoyed and let
him enjoy the happy present, undisturbed. But the anxiety which devoured
her, the danger which menaced her, soon recalled her, and forced her to
wring yet more from the unsuspicious heart she had conquered.
“No need of letters now,” said Sir John, as they sat side by side, with
the summer moonlight glorifying all the room. “You have found a home for
life; may it prove a happy one.”
“It is not mine yet, and I have a strange foreboding that it never will
be,” she answered sadly.
“Why, my child?”
“Because I have an enemy who will try to destroy my peace, to poison
your mind against me, and to drive me out from my paradise, to suffer
again all I have suffered this last year.”
“You mean that mad Sydney of whom you told me?”
“Yes. As soon as he hears of this good fortune to poor little Jean, he
will hasten to mar it. He is my fate; I cannot escape him, and wherever
he goes my friends desert me; for he has the power and uses it for my
destruction. Let me go away and hide before he comes, for, having shared
your confidence, it will break my heart to see you distrust and turn
from me, instead of loving and protecting.”
“My poor child, you are superstitious. Be easy. No one can harm you now,
no one would dare attempt it. And as for my deserting you, that will
soon be out of my power, if I have my way.”
“How, dear Sir John?” asked Jean, with a flutter of intense relief at
her heart, for the way seemed smoothing before her.
“I will make you my wife at once, if I may. This will free you from
Gerald’s love, protect you from Sydney’s persecution, give you a safe
home, and me the right to cherish and defend with heart and hand. Shall
it be so, my child?”
“Yes; but oh, remember that I have no friend but you! Promise me to be
faithful to the last--to believe in me, to trust me, protect and love
me, in spite of all misfortunes, faults, and follies. I will be true as
steel to you, and make your life as happy as it deserves to be. Let us
promise these things now, and keep the promises unbroken to the end.”
Her solemn air touched Sir John. Too honorable and upright himself to
suspect falsehood in others, he saw only the natural impulse of a lovely
girl in Jean’s words, and, taking the hand she gave him in both of his,
he promised all she asked, and kept that promise to the end. She paused
an instant, with a pale, absent expression, as if she searched herself,
then looked up clearly in the confiding face above her, and promised
what she faithfully performed in afteryears.
“When shall it be, little sweetheart? I leave all to you, only let it be
soon, else some gay young lover will appear, and take you from me,” said
Sir John, playfully, anxious to chase away the dark expression which had
stolen over Jean’s face.
“Can you keep a secret?” asked the girl, smiling up at him, all her
charming self again.
“Try me.”
“I will. Edward is coming home in three days. I must be gone before he
comes. Tell no one of this; he wishes to surprise them. And if you love
me, tell nobody of your approaching marriage. Do not betray that you
care for me until I am really yours. There will be such a stir, such
remonstrances, explanations, and reproaches that I shall be worn out,
and run away from you all to escape the trial. If I could have my wish,
I would go to some quiet place tomorrow and wait till you come for me. I
know so little of such things, I cannot tell how soon we may be married;
not for some weeks, I think.”
“Tomorrow, if we like. A special license permits people to marry when
and where they please. My plan is better than yours. Listen, and tell me
if it can be carried out. I will go to town tomorrow, get the license,
invite my friend, the Reverend Paul Fairfax, to return with me, and
tomorrow evening you come at your usual time, and, in the presence of my
discreet old servants, make me the happiest man in England. How does
this suit you, my little Lady Coventry?”
The plan which seemed made to meet her ends, the name which was the
height of her ambition, and the blessed sense of safety which came to
her filled Jean Muir with such intense satisfaction that tears of real
feeling stood in her eyes, and the glad assent she gave was the truest
word that had passed her lips for months.
“We will go abroad or to Scotland for our honeymoon, till the storm
blows over,” said Sir John, well knowing that this hasty marriage would
surprise or offend all his relations, and feeling as glad as Jean to
escape the first excitement.
“To Scotland, please. I long to see my father’s home,” said Jean, who
dreaded to meet Sydney on the continent.
They talked a little longer, arranging all things, Sir John so intent on
hurrying the event that Jean had nothing to do but give a ready assent
to all his suggestions. One fear alone disturbed her. If Sir John went
to town, he might meet Edward, might hear and believe his statements.
Then all would be lost. Yet this risk must be incurred, if the marriage
was to be speedily and safely accomplished; and to guard against the
meeting was Jean’s sole care. As they went through the park--for Sir
John insisted upon taking her home--she said, clinging to his arm:
“Dear friend, bear one thing in mind, else we shall be much annoyed, and
all our plans disarranged. Avoid your nephews; you are so frank your
face will betray you. They both love me, are both hot-tempered, and in
the first excitement of the discovery might be violent. You must incur
no danger, no disrespect for my sake; so shun them both till we are
safe--particularly Edward. He will feel that his brother has wronged
him, and that you have succeeded where he failed. This will irritate
him, and I fear a stormy scene. Promise to avoid both for a day or two;
do not listen to them, do not see them, do not write to or receive
letters from them. It is foolish, I know; but you are all I have, and I
am haunted by a strange foreboding that I am to lose you.”
Touched and flattered by her tender solicitude, Sir John promised
everything, even while he laughed at her fears. Love blinded the good
gentleman to the peculiarity of the request; the novelty, romance, and
secrecy of the affair rather bewildered though it charmed him; and the
knowledge that he had outrivaled three young and ardent lovers
gratified his vanity more than he would confess. Parting from the girl
at the garden gate, he turned homeward, feeling like a boy again, and
loitered back, humming a love lay, quite forgetful of evening damps,
gout, and the five-and-fifty years which lay so lightly on his
shoulders since Jean’s arms had rested there. She hurried toward the
house, anxious to escape Coventry; but he was waiting for her, and she
was forced to meet him.
“How could you linger so long, and keep me in suspense?” he said
reproachfully, as he took her hand and tried to catch a glimpse of her
face in the shadow of her hat brim. “Come and rest in the grotto. I have
so much to say, to hear and enjoy.”
“Not now; I am too tired. Let me go in and sleep. Tomorrow we will talk.
It is damp and chilly, and my head aches with all this worry.” Jean
spoke wearily, yet with a touch of petulance, and Coventry, fancying
that she was piqued at his not coming for her, hastened to explain with
eager tenderness.
“My poor little Jean, you do need rest. We wear you out, among us, and
you never complain. I should have come to bring you home, but Lucia
detained me, and when I got away I saw my uncle had forestalled me. I
shall be jealous of the old gentleman, if he is so devoted. Jean, tell
me one thing before we part; I am free as air, now, and have a right to
speak. Do you love me? Am I the happy man who has won your heart? I
dare to think so, to believe that this telltale face of yours has
betrayed you, and to hope that I have gained what poor Ned and wild
Sydney have lost.”
“Before I answer, tell me of your interview with Lucia. I have a right
to know,” said Jean.
Coventry hesitated, for pity and remorse were busy at his heart when he
recalled poor Lucia’s grief. Jean was bent on hearing the humiliation of
her rival. As the young man paused, she frowned, then lifted up her face
wreathed in softest smiles, and laying her hand on his arm, she said,
with most effective emphasis, half shy, half fond, upon his name,
“Please tell me, Gerald!”
He could not resist the look, the touch, the tone, and taking the little
hand in his, he said rapidly, as if the task was distasteful to him, “I
told her that I did not, could not love her; that I had submitted to my
mother’s wish, and, for a time, had felt tacitly bound to her, though no
words had passed between us. But now I demanded my liberty, regretting
that the separation was not mutually desired.”
“And she--what did she say? How did she bear it?” asked Jean, feeling
in her own woman’s heart how deeply Lucia’s must have been wounded by
that avowal.
“Poor girl! It was hard to bear, but her pride sustained her to the end.
She owned that no pledge tied me, fully relinquished any claim my past
behavior had seemed to have given her, and prayed that I might find
another woman to love me as truly, tenderly as she had done. Jean, I
felt like a villain; and yet I never plighted my word to her, never
really loved her, and had a perfect right to leave her, if I would.”
“Did she speak of me?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“Must I tell you?”
“Yes, tell me everything. I know she hates me and I forgive her, knowing
that I should hate any woman whom _you_ loved.”
“Are you jealous, dear?”
“Of you, Gerald?” And the fine eyes glanced up at him, full of a
brilliancy that looked like the light of love.
“You make a slave of me already. How do you do it? I never obeyed a
woman before. Jean, I think you are a witch. Scotland is the home of
weird, uncanny creatures, who take lovely shapes for the bedevilment of
poor weak souls. Are you one of those fair deceivers?”
“You are complimentary,” laughed the girl. “I _am_ a witch, and one
day my disguise will drop away and you will see me as I am, old, ugly,
bad and lost. Beware of me in time. I’ve warned you. Now love me at
your peril.”
Coventry had paused as he spoke, and eyed her with an unquiet look,
conscious of some fascination which conquered yet brought no happiness.
A feverish yet pleasurable excitement possessed him; a reckless mood,
making him eager to obliterate the past by any rash act, any new
experience which his passion brought. Jean regarded him with a wistful,
almost woeful face, for one short moment; then a strange smile broke
over it, as she spoke in a tone of malicious mockery, under which lurked
the bitterness of a sad truth. Coventry looked half bewildered, and his
eye went from the girl’s mysterious face to a dimly lighted window,
behind whose curtains poor Lucia hid her aching heart, praying for him
the tender prayers that loving women give to those whose sins are all
forgiven for love’s sake. His heart smote him, and a momentary feeling
of repulsion came over him, as he looked at Jean. She saw it, felt
angry, yet conscious of a sense of relief; for now that her own safety
was so nearly secured, she felt no wish to do mischief, but rather a
desire to undo what was already done, and be at peace with all the
world. To recall him to his allegiance, she sighed and walked on, saying
gently yet coldly, “Will you tell me what I ask before I answer your
question, Mr. Coventry?”
“What Lucia said of you? Well, it was this. ‘Beware of Miss Muir. We
instinctively distrusted her when we had no cause. I believe in
instincts, and mine have never changed, for she has not tried to delude
me. Her art is wonderful; I feel yet cannot explain or detect it, except
in the working of events which her hand seems to guide. She has brought
sorrow and dissension into this hitherto happy family. We are all
changed, and this girl has done it. Me she can harm no further; you she
will ruin, if she can. Beware of her in time, or you win bitterly repent
your blind infatuation!’”
“And what answer did you make?” asked Jean, as the last words came
reluctantly from Coventry’s lips.
“I told her that I loved you in spite of myself, and would make you my
wife in the face of all opposition. Now, Jean, your answer.”
“Give me three days to think of it. Good night.” And gliding from him,
she vanished into the house, leaving him to roam about half the night,
tormented with remorse, suspense, and the old distrust which would
return when Jean was not there to banish it by her art.
_Chapter VIII_