Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 14 (17 page)

 
          
           
"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,
far 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.

 
          
           
"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."