Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 14 (19 page)

 
          
           
"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 tune, 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.

 
          
           
All the next day, Jean was in a state of the most intense anxiety, as every
hour brought the crisis nearer, and every hour might bring defeat, for the
subtlest human skill is often thwarted by some unforeseen accident. She longed
to assure herself that Sir John was gone, but no servants came or went that
day, and she could devise no pretext for sending to glean intelligence. She
dared not go herself, lest the unusual act should excite suspicion, for she
never went till evening. Even had she determined to venture, there was no time,
for Mrs. Coventry was in one of her nervous states, and no one but Miss Muir
could amuse her; Lucia was ill, and Miss Muir must give orders; Bella had a
studious fit, and Jean must help her.
Coventry
lingered about the house for several hours,
but Jean dared not send him, lest some hint of the truth might reach him. He
had ridden away to his new duties when Jean did not appear, and the day dragged
on wearisomely. Night came at last, and as Jean dressed for the late dinner,
she hardly knew herself when she stood before her
mirror,
excitement lent such color and brilliancy to her countenance. Remembering the
wedding which was to take place that evening, she put on a simple white dress
and added a cluster of white roses in bosom and hair. She often wore flowers,
but in spite of her desire to look and seem as usual, Bella's first words as
she entered the drawing room were "Why, Jean, how like a bride you look; a
veil and gloves would make you quite complete!"

 
          
           
"You forget one other trifle,
Bell
," said Gerald, with eyes that
brightened as they rested on Miss Muir.

 
          
           
"What is that?" asked his sister.

 
          
           
"A bridegroom."

 
          
           
Bella looked to see how Jean received this, but she seemed quite composed as
she smiled one of her sudden smiles, and merely said, "That trifle will
doubtless be found when the time comes. Is Miss Beaufort too ill for
dinner?"

 
          
           
"She begs to be excused, and said you would be willing to take her place,
she thought."

 
          
           
As innocent Bella delivered this message, Jean glanced at
Coventry
, who evaded her eye and looked ill at ease.

 
          
           
A little remorse will do him good, and prepare him for repentance after the
grand
coup
, she said to herself, and
was particularly gay at dinnertime, though Coventry looked often at Lucia's
empty seat, as if he missed her. As soon as they left the table, Miss Muir sent
Bella to her mother; and, knowing that
Coventry
would not linger long at his wine, she
hurried away to the Hall. A servant was lounging at the door, and of him she
asked, in a tone which was eager in spite of all efforts to be calm, "Is
Sir John at home?"

 
          
           
"No, miss, he's just gone to town."

 
          
           
"Just gone!
When do you mean?" cried Jean,
forgetting the relief she felt in hearing of his absence in surprise at his
late departure.

 
          
           
"He went half an hour ago, in the last train, miss."

 
          
           
"I thought he was going early this morning; he told me he should be
back
this evening."

 
          
           
"I believe he did mean to go, but was delayed by company. The steward came
up on business, and a load of gentlemen called, so Sir John could not get off
till night, when he wasn't fit to go, being worn out, and far from well."

 
          
           
"Do you think he will be ill? Did he look so?" And as Jean spoke, a
thrill of fear passed over her, lest death should rob her of her prize.

 
          
           
"Well, you know, miss, hurry of any kind is bad for elderly gentlemen
inclined to apoplexy. Sir John was in a worry all day, and not like himself. I
wanted him to take his man, but he wouldn't; and drove off looking flushed and
excited like. I'm anxious about him, for I know something is amiss to hurry him
off in this way."

 
          
           
"When will he be back, Ralph?"

 
          
           
"Tomorrow
noon
, if
possible; at night, certainly, he bid me tell anyone that called."

 
          
           
"Did he leave no note or message for Miss Coventry, or someone of the
family?"

 
          
           
"No, miss, nothing."

 
          
           
"Thank you." And Jean walked back to spend a restless night and rise
to meet renewed suspense.

 
          
           
The morning seemed endless, but
noon
came at last, and under the pretense of
seeking coolness in the grotto, Jean stole away to a slope whence the gate to
the Hall
park
was visible. For two long hours she
watched, and no one came. She was just turning away when a horseman dashed
through the gate and came galloping toward the Hall. Heedless of everything but
the uncontrollable longing to gain some tidings, she ran to meet
him,
feeling assured that he brought ill news. It was a
young man from the station, and as he caught sight of her, he drew bridle,
looking agitated and undecided.

 
          
           
"Has anything happened?" she cried breathlessly.

 
          
           
"A dreadful accident on the railroad, just the other
side of Croydon.
News telegraphed half an hour ago," answered the
man, wiping his hot face.

 
          
           
"The
noon
train?
Was Sir John in it? Quick, tell me
all!"

 
          
           
"It was that train, miss, but whether Sir John was in it or not, we don't
know; for the guard is killed, and everything
is
in
such confusion that nothing can be certain. They are at work getting out the
dead and wounded. We heard that Sir John was expected, and I came up to tell
Mr. Coventry, thinking he would wish to go down. A train leaves in fifteen
minutes; where shall I find him? I was told he was at the Hall."

 
          
           
"Ride on, ride on! And find him if he is there. I'll run home and look for
him. Lose no time. Ride!
Ride!"
And turning, Jean
sped back like a deer, while the man tore up the avenue to rouse the Hall.

 
          
           
Coventry
was there, and went off at once, leaving
both Hall and house in dismay. Fearing to betray the horrible anxiety that
possessed her, Jean shut herself up in her room and suffered untold agonies as
the day wore on and no news came. At dark a sudden cry rang through the house,
and Jean rushed down to learn the cause. Bella was standing in the hall,
holding a letter, while a group of excited servants hovered near her.

 
          
           
"What is it?" demanded Miss Muir, pale and steady, though her heart
died within her as she recognized Gerald's handwriting. Bella gave her the
note, and hushed her sobbing to hear again the heavy tidings that had come.

 
          
           
 Dear Bella:

 
          
           
 Uncle is safe; he did not go in the
noon
train. But several persons are sure that
Ned was there. No trace of him as yet, but many bodies are in the river, under
the ruins of the bridge, and I am doing my best to find the poor lad, if he is
there. I have sent to all his haunts in town, and as he has not been seen, I
hope it is a false report and he is safe with his regiment. Keep this from my
mother till we are sure. I write you, because Lucia is ill. Miss Muir will
comfort and sustain you. Hope for the best, dear.

 
          
           
 
Yours, G.C.

 
          
           
Those who watched Miss Muir as she read these words wondered at the strange
expressions which passed over her face, for the joy which appeared there as Sir
John's safety was made known did not change to grief or horror at poor Edward's
possible fate. The smile died on her lips, but her voice did not falter, and in
her downcast eyes shone an inexplicable look of something like triumph. No
wonder, for if this was true, the danger which menaced her was averted for a
time, and the marriage might be consummated without such desperate haste. This
sad and sudden event seemed to her the mysterious fulfilment of a secret wish;
and though startled she was not daunted but inspirited, for fate seemed to
favor her designs. She did comfort Bella, control the excited household, and
keep the rumors from Mrs. Coventry all that dreadful night.

 
          
           
At dawn Gerald came home exhausted, and bringing no tiding of the missing man.
He had telegraphed to the headquarters of the regiment and received a reply,
stating that Edward had left for
London
the previous day, meaning to go home before
returning. The fact of his having been at the
London
station was also established, but whether
he left by the train or not was still uncertain. The ruins were still being
searched, and the body might yet appear.

 
          
           
"Is Sir John coming at
noon
?" asked Jean, as the three sat
together in the rosy hush of dawn, trying to hope against hope.

 
          
           
"No, he had been ill, I learned from young Gower, who is just from town,
and so had not completed his business. I sent him word to wait till night, for
the bridge won't be passable till then. Now I must try and rest an hour; I've
worked all night and have no strength left. Call me the instant any messenger
arrives."

 
          
           
With that
Coventry
went to his room, Bella followed to wait on
him, and Jean roamed through house and grounds, unable to rest. The morning was
far spent when the messenger arrived. Jean went to receive his tidings, with
the wicked hope still lurking at her heart.

 
          
           
"Is he found?" she asked calmly, as the man hesitated to speak.

 
          
           
"Yes, ma'am."

 
          
           
"You are sure?"

 
          
           
"I am certain, ma'am, though some won't say till Mr. Coventry comes to
look."

 
          
           
"Is he alive?" And Jean's white lips trembled as she put the
question.

 
          
           
"Oh no, ma'am, that warn't possible, under all them stones and water. The
poor young gentleman is so wet, and crushed, and torn, no one would know him,
except for the uniform, and the white hand with the ring on it."

 
          
           
Jean sat down, very pale, and the man described the finding of the poor
shattered body. As he finished,
Coventry
appeared, and with one look of mingled
remorse, shame, and sorrow, the elder brother went away, to find and bring the
younger home. Jean crept into the garden like a guilty thing, trying to hide
the satisfaction which struggled with a woman's natural pity, for so sad an end
for this brave young life.