Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 14 (10 page)

 
          
           
"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.