For several weeks the most monotonous tranquillity seemed to reign at Coventry House, and yet, unseen, unsuspected, a storm was gathering. The arrival of Miss Muir seemed to produce a change in everyone, though no one could have explained how or why. Nothing could be more unobtrusive and retiring than her manners. She was devoted to Bella, who soon adored her, and was only happy when in her society. She ministered in many ways to Mrs. Coventry’s comfort, and that lady declared there never was such a nurse. She amused, interested and won Edward with her wit and womanly sympathy. She made Lucia respect and envy her for her accomplishments, and piqued indolent Gerald by her persistent avoidance of him, while Sir John was charmed with her respectful deference and the graceful little attentions she paid him in a frank and artless way, very winning to the lonely old man. The very servants liked her; and instead of being, what most governesses are, a forlorn creature hovering between superiors and inferiors, Jean Muir was the life of the house, and the friend of all but two.
Lucia disliked her, and Coventry distrusted her; neither could exactly say why, and neither owned the feeling, even to themselves. Both watched her covertly yet found no shortcoming anywhere. Meek, modest, faithful, and invariably sweet-tempered—they could complain of nothing and wondered at their own doubts, though they could not banish them.
It soon came to pass that the family was divided, or rather that two members were left very much to themselves. Pleading timidity, Jean Muir kept much in Bella’s study and soon made it such a pleasant little nook that Ned and his mother, and often Sir John, came in to enjoy the music, reading, or cheerful chat which made the evenings so gay. Lucia at first was only too glad to have her cousin to herself, and he too lazy to care what went on about him. But presently he wearied of her society, for she was not a brilliant girl, and possessed few of those winning arts which charm a man and steal into his heart. Rumors of the merry-makings that went on reached him and made him curious to share them; echoes of fine music went sounding through the house, as he lounged about the empty drawing room; and peals of laughter reached him while listening to Lucia’s grave discourse.
She soon discovered that her society had lost its charm, and the more eagerly she tried to please him, the more signally she failed. Before long Coventry fell into a habit of strolling out upon the terrace of an evening, and amusing himself by passing and repassing the window of Bella’s room, catching glimpses of what was going on and reporting the result of his observations to Lucia, who was too proud to ask admission to the happy circle or to seem to desire it.
“I shall go to London tomorrow, Lucia,” Gerald said one evening, as he came back from what he called “a survey,” looking very much annoyed.
“To London?” exclaimed his cousin, surprised.
“Yes, I must bestir myself and get Ned his commission, or it will be all over with him.”
“How do you mean?”
“He is falling in love as fast as it is possible for a boy to do it. That girl has bewitched him, and he will make a fool of himself very soon, unless I put a stop to it.”
“I was afraid she would attempt a flirtation. These persons always do, they are such a mischief-making race.”
“Ah, but there you are wrong, as far as little Muir is concerned. She does not flirt, and Ned has too much sense and spirit to be caught by a silly coquette. She treats him like an elder sister, and mingles the most attractive friendliness with a quiet dignity that captivates the boy. I’ve been watching them, and there he is, devouring her with his eyes, while she reads a fascinating novel in the most fascinating style. Bella and Mamma are absorbed in the tale, and see nothing; but Ned makes himself the hero, Miss Muir the heroine, and lives the love scene with all the ardor of a man whose heart has just waked up. Poor lad! Poor lad!”
Lucia looked at her cousin, amazed by the energy with which he spoke, the anxiety in his usually listless face. The change became him, for it showed what he might be, making one regret still more what he was. Before she could speak, he was gone again, to return presently, laughing, yet looking a little angry.
“What now?” she asked.
“‘Listeners never hear any good of themselves’ is the truest of proverbs. I stopped a moment to look at Ned, and heard the following flattering remarks. Mamma is gone, and Ned was asking little Muir to sing that delicious barcarole she gave us the other evening.
“‘Not now, not here,’ she said.
“‘Why not? You sang it in the drawing room readily enough,’ said Ned, imploringly.
“‘That is a very different thing,’ and she looked at him with a little shake of the head, for he was folding his hands and doing the passionate pathetic.
“‘Come and sing it there then,’ said innocent Bella. ‘Gerald likes your voice so much, and complains that you will never sing to him.’
“‘He never asks me,’ said Muir, with an odd smile.
“‘He is too lazy, but he wants to hear you.’
“‘When he asks me, I will sing—if I feel like it.’ And she shrugged her shoulders with a provoking gesture of indifference.
“‘But it amuses him, and he gets so bored down here,’ began stupid little Bella. ‘Don’t be shy or proud, Jean, but come and entertain the poor old fellow.’
“‘No, thank you. I engaged to teach Miss Coventry, not to amuse Mr. Coventry’ was all the answer she got.
“‘You amuse Ned, why not Gerald? Are you afraid of him?’ asked Bella.
“Miss Muir laughed, such a scornful laugh, and said, in that peculiar tone of hers, ‘I cannot fancy anyone being afraid of your elder brother.’
“‘I am, very often, and so would you be, if you ever saw him angry,’ And Bella looked as if I’d beaten her.
“‘Does he ever wake up enough to be angry?’ asked that girl, with an air of surprise. Here Ned broke into a fit of laughter, and they are at it now, I fancy, by the sound.”
“Their foolish gossip is not worth getting excited about, but I certainly would send Ned away. It’s no use trying to get rid of ‘that girl,’ as you say, for my aunt is as deluded about her as Ned and Bella, and she really does get the child along splendidly. Dispatch Ned, and then she can do no harm,” said Lucia, watching Coventry’s altered face as he stood in the moonlight, just outside the window where she sat.
“Have you no fears for me?” he asked smiling, as if ashamed of his momentary petulance.
“No, have you for yourself?” And a shade of anxiety passed over her face.
“I defy the Scotch witch to enchant me, except with her music,” he added, moving down the terrace again, for Jean was singing like a nightingale.
As the song ended, he put aside the curtain, and said, abruptly, “Has anyone any commands for London? I am going there tomorrow.”
“A pleasant trip to you,” said Ned carelessly, though usually his brother’s movements interested him extremely.
“I want quantities of things, but I must ask Mamma first.” And Bella began to make a list.
“May I trouble you with a letter, Mr. Coventry?”
Jean Muir turned around on the music stool and looked at him with the cold keen glance which always puzzled him.
He bowed, saying, as if to them all, “I shall be off by the early train, so you must give me your orders tonight.”
“Then come away, Ned, and leave Jean to write her letter.”
And Bella took her reluctant brother from the room.
“I will give you the letter in the morning,” said Miss Muir, with a curious quiver in her voice, and the look of one who forcibly suppressed some strong emotion.
“As you please.” And Coventry went back to Lucia, wondering who Miss Muir was going to write to. He said nothing to his brother of the purpose which took him to town, lest a word should produce the catastrophe which he hoped to prevent; and Ned, who now lived in a sort of dream, seemed to forget Gerald’s existence altogether.
With unwonted energy Coventry was astir seven next morning. Lucia gave him his breakfast, and as he left the room to order the carriage, Miss Muir came gliding downstairs, very pale and heavy-eyed (with a sleepless, tearful night, he thought) and, putting a delicate little letter into his hand, said hurriedly, “Please leave this at Lady Sydney’s, and if you see her, say ‘I have remembered.’”
Her peculiar manner and peculiar message struck him. His eye involuntarily glanced at the address of the letter and read young Sydney’s name. Then, conscious of his mistake, he thrust it into his pocket with a hasty “Good morning,” and left Miss Muir standing with one hand pressed on her heart, the other half extended as if to recall the letter.
All the way to London, Coventry found it impossible to forget the almost tragical expression of the girl’s face, and it haunted him through the bustle of two busy days. Ned’s affair was put in the way of being speedily accomplished, Bella’s commissions were executed, his mother’s pet delicacies provided for her, and a gift for Lucia, whom the family had given him for his future mate, as he was too lazy to choose for himself.
Jean Muir’s letter he had not delivered, for Lady Sydney was in the country and her townhouse closed. Curious to see how she would receive his tidings, he went quietly in on his arrival at home. Everyone had dispersed to dress for dinner except Miss Muir, who was in the garden, the servant said.
“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.
“And I think that I leave a more dangerous person than myself behind me, as poor Lucia can testify.”
“Be careful what you say, Ned, or I shall be forced to remind you that I am master here. Leave Lucia’s name out of this disagreeable affair, if you please.”
“You are master here, but not of me, or my actions, and you have no right to expect obedience or respect, for you inspire neither. Jean, I asked you to go with me secretly; now I ask you openly to share my fortune. In my brother’s presence I ask, and will have an answer.”
He caught her hand impetuously, with a defiant look at Coventry, who still smiled, as if at boy’s play, though his eyes were kindling and his face changing with the still, white wrath which is more terrible than any sudden outburst. Miss Muir looked frightened; she shrank away from her passionate young lover, cast an appealing glance at Gerald, and seemed as if she longed to claim his protection yet dared not.
“Speak!” cried Edward, desperately. “Don’t look to him, tell me truly, with your own lips, do you, can you love me, Jean?”
“I have told you once. Why pain me by forcing another hard reply,” she said pitifully, still shrinking from his grasp and seeming to appeal to his brother.
“You wrote a few lines, but I’ll not be satisfied with that. You shall answer; I’ve seen love in your eyes, heard it in your voice, and I know it is hidden in your heart. You fear to own it; do not hesitate, no one can part us—speak, Jean, and satisfy me.”
Drawing her hand decidedly away, she went a step nearer Coventry, and answered, slowly, distinctly, though her lips trembled, and she evidently dreaded the effect of her words, “I will speak, and speak truly. You have seen love in my face; it is in my heart, and I do not hesitate to own it, cruel as it is to force the truth from me, but this love is not for you. Are you satisfied?”
He looked at her with a despairing glance and stretched his hand toward her beseechingly. She seemed to fear a blow, for suddenly she clung to Gerald with a faint cry. The act, the look of fear, the protecting gesture Coventry involuntarily made were too much for Edward, already excited by conflicting passions. In a paroxysm of blind wrath, he caught up a large pruning knife left there by the gardener, and would have dealt his brother a fatal blow had he not warded it off with his arm. The stroke fell, and another might have followed had not Miss Muir with unexpected courage and strength wrested the knife from Edward and flung it into the little pond near by. Coventry dropped down upon the seat, for the blood poured from a deep wound in his arm, showing by its rapid flow that an artery had been severed. Edward stood aghast, for with the blow his fury passed, leaving him overwhelmed with remorse and shame.
Gerald looked up at him, smiled faintly, and said, with no sign of reproach or anger, “Never mind, Ned. Forgive and forget. Lend me a hand to the house, and don’t disturb anyone. It’s not much, I dare say.” But his lips whitened as he spoke, and his strength failed him. Edward sprang to support him, and Miss Muir, forgetting her terrors, proved herself a girl of uncommon skill and courage.
“Quick! Lay him down. Give me your handkerchief, and bring some water,” she said, in a tone of quiet command. Poor Ned obeyed and watched her with breathless suspense while she tied the handkerchief tightly around the arm, thrust the handle of his riding whip underneath, and pressed it firmly above the severed artery to stop the dangerous flow of blood.
“Dr. Scott is with your mother, I think. Go and bring him here” was the next order; and Edward darted away, thankful to do anything to ease the terror which possessed him. He was gone some minutes, and while they waited Coventry watched the girl as she knelt beside him, bathing his face with one hand while with the other she held the bandage firmly in its place. She was pale, but quite steady and self-possessed, and her eyes shone with a strange brilliancy as she looked down at him. Once, meeting his look of grateful wonder, she smiled a reassuring smile that made her lovely, and said, in a soft, sweet tone never used to him before, “Be quiet. There is no danger. I will stay by you till help comes.”
Help did come speedily, and the doctor’s first words were “Who improvised that tourniquet?”
“She did,” murmured Coventry.
“Then you may thank her for saving your life. By Jove! It was capitally done”; and the old doctor looked at the girl with as much admiration as curiosity in his face.
“Never mind that. See to the wound, please, while I ran for bandages, and salts, and wine.”
Miss Muir was gone as she spoke, so fleetly that it was in vain to call her back or catch her. During her brief absence, the story was told by repentant Ned and the wound examined.
“Fortunately I have my case of instruments with me,” said the doctor, spreading on the bench a long array of tiny, glittering implements of torture. “Now, Mr. Ned, come here, and hold the arm in that way, while I tie the artery. Hey! That will never do. Don’t tremble so, man, look away and hold it steadily.”
“I can’t!” And poor Ned turned faint and white, not at the sight but with the bitter thought that he had longed to kill his brother.
“I will hold it,” and a slender white hand lifted the bare and bloody arm so firmly, steadily, that Coventry sighed a sigh of relief, and Dr. Scott fell to work with an emphatic nod of approval.
It was soon over, and while Edward ran in to bid the servants beware of alarming their mistress, Dr. Scott put up his instruments and Miss Muir used salts, water, and wine so skillfully that Gerald was able to walk to his room, leaning on the old man, while the girl supported the wounded arm, as no sling could be made on the spot. As he entered the chamber, Coventry turned, put out his left hand, and with much feeling in his fine eyes said simply, “Miss Muir, I thank you.”
The color came up beautifully in her pale cheeks as she pressed the hand and without a word vanished from the room. Lucia and the housekeeper came bustling in, and there was no lack of attendance on the invalid. He soon wearied of it, and sent them all away but Ned, who remorsefully haunted the chamber, looking like a comely young Cain and feeling like an outcast.
“Come here, lad, and tell me all about it. I was wrong to be domineering. Forgive me, and believe that I care for your happiness more sincerely than for my own.”
These frank and friendly words healed the breach between the two brothers and completely conquered Ned. Gladly did he relate his love passages, for no young lover ever tires of that amusement if he has a sympathizing auditor, and Gerald was sympathetic now. For an hour did he lie listening patiently to the history of the growth of his brother’s passion. Emotion gave the narrator eloquence, and Jean Muir’s character was painted in glowing colors. All her unsuspected kindness to those about her was dwelt upon; all her faithful care, her sisterly interest in Bella, her gentle attentions to their mother, her sweet forbearance with Lucia, who plainly showed her dislike, and most of all, her friendly counsel, sympathy, and regard for Ned himself.
“She would make a man of me. She puts strength and courage into me as no one else can. She is unlike any girl I ever saw; there’s no sentimentality about her; she is wise, and kind, and sweet. She says what she means, looks you straight in the eye, and is as true as steel. I’ve tried her, I know her, and—ah, Gerald, I love her so!”
Here the poor lad leaned his face into his hands and sighed a sigh that made his brother’s heart ache.
“Upon my soul, Ned, I feel for you; and if there was no obstacle on her part, I’d do my best for you. She loves Sydney, and so there is nothing for it but to bear your fate like a man.”
“Are you sure about Sydney? May it not be some one else?” and Ned eyed his brother with a suspicious look.
Coventry told him all he knew and surmised concerning his friend, not forgetting the letter. Edward mused a moment, then seemed relieved, and said frankly, “I’m glad it’s Sydney and not you. I can bear it better.”
“Me!” ejaculated Gerald, with a laugh.
“Yes, you; I’ve been tormented lately with a fear that you cared for her, or rather, she for you.”
“You jealous young fool! We never see or speak to one another scarcely, so how could we get up a tender interest?”
“What do you lounge about on that terrace for every evening? And why does she get fluttered when your shadow begins to come and go?” demanded Edward.
“I like the music and don’t care for the society of the singer, that’s why I walk there. The fluttering is all your imagination; Miss Muir isn’t a woman to be fluttered by a man’s shadow.” And Coventry glanced at his useless arm.
“Thank you for that, and for not saying ‘little Muir,’ as you generally do. Perhaps it was my imagination. But she never makes fun of you now, and so I fancied she might have lost her heart to the ‘young master.’ Women often do, you know.”
“She used to ridicule me, did she?” asked Coventry, taking no notice of the latter part of his brother’s speech, which was quite true nevertheless.
“Not exactly, she was too well-bred for that. But sometimes when Bella and I joked about you, she’d say something so odd or witty that it was irresistible. You’re used to being laughed at, so you don’t mind, I know, just among ourselves.”
“Not I. Laugh away as much as you like,” said Gerald. But he did mind, and wanted exceedingly to know what Miss Muir had said, yet was too proud to ask. He turned restlessly and uttered a sigh of pain.
“I’m talking too much; it’s bad for you. Dr. Scott said you must be quiet. Now go to sleep, if you can.”
Edward left the bedside but not the room, for he would let no one take his place. Coventry tried to sleep, found it impossible, and after a restless hour called his brother back.
“If the bandage was loosened a bit, it would ease my arm and then I could sleep. Can you do it, Ned?”
“I dare not touch it. The doctor gave orders to leave it till he came in the morning, and I shall only do harm if I try.”
“But I tell you it’s too tight. My arm is swelling and the pain is intense. It can’t be right to leave it so. Dr. Scott dressed it in a hurry and did it too tight. Common sense will tell you that,” said Coventry impatiently.
“I’ll call Mrs. Morris; she will understand what’s best to be done.” And Edward moved toward the door, looking anxious.
“Not she, she’ll only make a stir and torment me with her chatter. I’ll bear it as long as I can, and perhaps Dr. Scott will come tonight. He said he would if possible. Go to your dinner, Ned. I can ring for Neal if I need anything. I shall sleep if I’m alone, perhaps.”
Edward reluctantly obeyed, and his brother was left to himself. Little rest did he find, however, for the pain of the wounded arm grew unbearable, and, taking a sudden resolution, he rang for his servant.
“Neal, go to Miss Coventry’s study, and if Miss Muir is there, ask her to be kind enough to come to me. I’m in great pain, and she understand wounds better than anyone else in the house.”
With much surprise in his face, the man departed and a few moments after the door noiselessly opened and Miss Muir came in. It had been a very warm day, and for the first time she had left off her plain black dress. All in white, with no ornament but her fair hair, and a fragrant posy of violets in her belt, she looked a different woman from the meek, nunlike creature one usually saw about the house. Her face was as altered as her dress, for now a soft color glowed in her cheeks, her eyes smiled shyly, and her lips no longer wore the firm look of one who forcibly repressed every emotion. A fresh, gentle, and charming woman she seemed, and Coventry found the dull room suddenly brightened by her presence. Going straight to him, she said simply, and with a happy, helpful look very comforting to see, “I’m glad you sent for me. What can I do for you?”
He told her, and before the complaint was ended, she began loosening the bandages with the decision of one who understood what was to be done and had faith in herself.
“Ah, that’s relief, that’s comfort!” ejaculated Coventry, as the last tight fold fell away. “Ned was afraid I should bleed to death if he touched me. What will the doctor say to us?”
“I neither know nor care. I shall say to him that he is a bad surgeon to bind it so closely, and not leave orders to have it untied if necessary. Now I shall make it easy and put you to sleep, for that is what you need. Shall I? May I?”
“I wish you would, if you can.”
And while she deftly rearranged the bandages, the young man watched her curiously. Presently he asked, “How came you to know so much about these things?”
“In the hospital where I was ill, I saw much that interested me, and when I got better, I used to sing to the patients sometimes.”
“Do you mean to sing to me?” he asked, in the submissive tone men unconsciously adopt when ill and in a woman’s care.
“If you like it better than reading aloud in a dreamy tone,” she answered, as she tied the last knot.
“I do, much better,” he said decidedly.
“You are feverish. I shall wet your forehead, and then you will be quite comfortable.” She moved about the room in the quiet way which made it a pleasure to watch her, and, having mingled a little cologne with water, bathed his face as unconcernedly as if he had been a child. Her proceedings not only comforted but amused Coventry, who mentally contrasted her with the stout, beer-drinking matron who had ruled over him in his last illness.
“A clever, kindly little woman,” he thought, and felt quite at his ease, she was so perfectly easy herself.
“There, now you look more like yourself,” she said with an approving nod as she finished, and smoothed the dark locks off his forehead with a cool, soft hand. Then seating herself in a large chair near by, she began to sing, while tidily rolling up the fresh bandages which had been left for the morning. Coventry lay watching her by the dim light that burned in the room, and she sang on as easily as a bird, a dreamy, low-toned lullaby, which soothed the listener like a spell. Presently, looking up to see the effect of her song, she found the young man wide awake, and regarding her with a curious mixture of pleasure, interest, and admiration.
“Shut your eyes, Mr. Coventry,” she said, with a reproving shake of the head, and an odd little smile.
He laughed and obeyed, but could not resist an occasional covert glance from under his lashes at the slender white figure in the great velvet chair. She saw him and frowned.
“You are very disobedient; why won’t you sleep?”
“I can’t, I want to listen. I’m fond of nightingales.”
“Then I shall sing no more, but try something that has never failed yet. Give me your hand, please.”
Much amazed, he gave it, and, taking it in both her small ones, she sat down behind the curtain and remained as mute and motionless as a statue. Coventry smiled to himself at first, and wondered which would tire first. But soon a subtle warmth seemed to steal from the soft palms that enclosed his own, his heart beat quicker, his breath grew unequal, and a thousand fancies danced through his brain. He sighed, and said dreamily, as he turned his face toward her, “I like this.” And in the act of speaking, seemed to sink into a soft cloud which encompassed him about with an atmosphere of perfect repose. More than this he could not remember, for sleep, deep and dreamless, fell upon him, and when he woke, daylight was shining in between the curtains, his hand lay alone on the coverlet, and his fair-haired enchantress was gone.
For several days Coventry was confined to his room, much against his will, though everyone did their best to lighten his irksome captivity. His mother petted him, Bella sang, Lucia read, Edward was devoted, and all the household, with one exception, were eager to serve the young master. Jean Muir never came near him, and Jean Muir alone seemed to possess the power of amusing him. He soon tired of the others, wanted something new; recalled the piquant character of the girl and took a fancy into his head that she would lighten his ennui. After some hesitation, he carelessly spoke of her to Bella, but nothing came of it, for Bella only said Jean was well, and very busy doing something lovely to surprise Mamma with. Edward complained that he never saw her, and Lucia ignored her existence altogether. The only intelligence the invalid received was from the gossip of two housemaids over their work in the next room. From them he learned that the governess had been “scolded” by Miss Beaufort for going to Mr. Coventry’s room; that she had taken it very sweetly and kept herself carefully out of the way of both young gentlemen, though it was plain to see that Mr. Ned was dying for her.
Mr. Gerald amused himself by thinking over this gossip, and quite annoyed his sister by his absence of mind.
“Gerald, do you know Ned’s commission has come?”
“Very interesting. Read on, Bella.”
“You stupid boy! You don’t know a word I say,” and she put down the book to repeat her news.
“I’m glad of it; now we must get him off as soon as possible—that is, I suppose he will want to be off as soon as possible.” And Coventry woke up from his reverie.
“You needn’t check yourself, I know all about it. I think Ned was very foolish, and that Miss Muir has behaved beautifully. It’s quite impossible, of course, but I wish it wasn’t, I do so like to watch lovers. You and Lucia are so cold you are not a bit interesting.”
“You’ll do me a favor if you’ll stop all that nonsense about Lucia and me. We are not lovers, and never shall be, I fancy. At all events, I’m tired of the thing, and wish you and Mamma would let it drop, for the present at least.”
“Oh Gerald, you know Mamma has set her heart upon it, that Papa desired it, and poor Lucia loves you so much. How can you speak of dropping what will make us all so happy?”
“It won’t make me happy, and I take the liberty of thinking that this is of some importance. I’m not bound in any way, and don’t intend to be till I am ready. Now we’ll talk about Ned.”
Much grieved and surprised, Bella obeyed, and devoted herself to Edward, who very wisely submitted to his fate and prepared to leave home for some months. For a week the house was in a state of excitement about his departure, and everyone but Jean was busied for him. She was scarcely seen; every morning she gave Bella her lessons, every afternoon drove out with Mrs. Coventry, and nearly every evening went up to the Hall to read to Sir John, who found his wish granted without exactly knowing how it had been done.
The day Edward left, he came down from bidding his mother good-bye, looking very pale, for he had lingered in his sister’s little room with Miss Muir as long as he dared.
“Good-bye, dear. Be kind to Jean,” he whispered as he kissed his sister.
“I will, I will,” returned Bella, with tearful eyes.
“Take care of Mamma, and remember Lucia,” he said again, as he touched his cousin’s beautiful cheek.
“Fear nothing. I will keep them apart,” she whispered back, and Coventry heard it.
Edward offered his hand to his brother, saying, significantly, as he looked him in the eye, “I trust you, Gerald.”
“You may, Ned.”
Then he went, and Coventry tired himself with wondering what Lucia meant. A few days later he understood.
Now Ned is gone, little Muir will appear, I fancy, he said to himself; but “little Muir” did not appear, and seemed to shun him more carefully than she had done her lover. If he went to the drawing room in the evening hoping for music, Lucia alone was there. If he tapped at Bella’s door, there was always a pause before she opened it, and no sign of Jean appeared though her voice had been audible when he knocked. If he went to the library, a hasty rustle and the sound of flying feet betrayed that the room was deserted at his approach. In the garden Miss Muir never failed to avoid him, and if by chance they met in hall or breakfast room, she passed him with downcast eyes and the briefest, coldest greeting. All this annoyed him intensely, and the more she eluded him, the more he desired to see her—from a spirit of opposition, he said, nothing more. It fretted and yet it entertained him, and he found a lazy sort of pleasure in thwarting the girl’s little maneuvers. His patience gave out at last, and he resolved to know what was the meaning of this peculiar conduct. Having locked and taken away the key of one door in the library, he waited till Miss Muir went in to get a book for his uncle. He had heard her speak to Bella of it, knew that she believed him with his mother, and smiled to himself as he stole after her. She was standing in a chair, reaching up, and he had time to see a slender waist, a pretty foot, before he spoke.
“Can I help you, Miss Muir?”
She started, dropped several books, and turned scarlet, as she said hurriedly, “Thank you, no; I can get the steps.”
“My long arm will be less trouble. I’ve got but one, and that is tired of being idle, so it is very much at your service. What will you have?”
“I—I—you startled me so I’ve forgotten.” And Jean laughed, nervously, as she looked about her as if planning to escape.
“I beg your pardon, wait till you remember, and let me thank you for the enchanted sleep you gave me ten days ago. I’ve had no chance yet, you’ve shunned me so pertinaciously.”
“Indeed I try not to be rude, but—” She checked herself, and turned her face away, adding, with an accent of pain in her voice, “It is not my fault, Mr. Coventry. I only obey orders.”
“Whose orders?” he demanded, still standing so that she could not escape.
“Don’t ask; it is one who has a right to command where you are concerned. Be sure that it is kindly meant, though it may seem folly to us. Nay, don’t be angry, laugh at it, as I do, and let me run away, please.”
She turned, and looked down at him with tears in her eyes, a smile on her lips, and an expression half sad, half arch, which was altogether charming. The frown passed from his face, but he still looked grave and said decidedly, “No one has a right to command in this house but my mother or myself. Was it she who bade you avoid me as if I was a madman or a pest?”
“Ah, don’t ask. I promised not to tell, and you would not have me break my word, I know.” And still smiling, she regarded him with a look of merry malice which made any other reply unnecessary. It was Lucia, he thought, and disliked his cousin intensely just then. Miss Muir moved as if to step down; he detained her, saying earnestly, yet with a smile, “Do you consider me the master here?”
“Yes,” and to the word she gave a sweet, submissive intonation which made it expressive of the respect, regard, and confidence which men find pleasantest when women feel and show it. Unconsciously his face softened, and he looked up at her with a different glance from any he had ever given her before.
“Well, then, will you consent to obey me if I am not tyrannical or unreasonable in my demands?”
“I’ll try.”
“Good! Now frankly, I want to say that all this sort of thing is very disagreeable to me. It annoys me to be a restraint upon anyone’s liberty or comfort, and I beg you will go and come as freely as you like, and not mind Lucia’s absurdities. She means well, but hasn’t a particle of penetration or tact. Will you promise this?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It is better as it is, perhaps.”
“But you called it folly just now.”
“Yes, it seems so, and yet—” She paused, looking both confused and distressed.
Coventry lost patience, and said hastily, “You women are such enigmas I never expect to understand you! Well, I’ve done my best to make you comfortable, but if you prefer to lead this sort of life, I beg you will do so.”
“I don’t prefer it; it is hateful to me. I like to be myself, to have my liberty, and the confidence of those about me. But I cannot think it kind to disturb the peace of anyone, and so I try to obey. I’ve promised Bella to remain, but I will go rather than have another scene with Miss Beaufort or with you.”
Miss Muir had burst out impetuously, and stood there with a sudden fire in her eyes, sudden warmth and spirit in her face and voice that amazed Coventry. She was angry, hurt, and haughty, and the change only made her more attractive, for not a trace of her former meek self remained. Coventry was electrified, and still more surprised when she added, imperiously, with a gesture as if to put him aside, “Hand me that book and move away. I wish to go.”
He obeyed, even offered his hand, but she refused it, stepped lightly down, and went to the door. There she turned, and with the same indignant voice, the same kindling eyes and glowing cheeks, she said rapidly, “I know I have no right to speak in this way. I restrain myself as long as I can, but when I can bear no more, my true self breaks loose, and I defy everything. I am tired of being a cold, calm machine; it is impossible with an ardent nature like mine, and I shall try no longer. I cannot help it if people love me. I don’t want their love. I only ask to be left in peace, and why I am tormented so I cannot see. I’ve neither beauty, money, nor rank, yet every foolish boy mistakes my frank interest for something warmer, and makes me miserable. It is my misfortune. Think of me what you will, but beware of me in time, for against my will I may do you harm.”
Almost fiercely she had spoken, and with a warning gesture she hurried from the room, leaving the young man feeling as if a sudden thunder-gust had swept through the house. For several minutes he sat in the chair she left, thinking deeply. Suddenly he rose, went to his sister, and said, in his usual tone of indolent good nature, “Bella, didn’t I hear Ned ask you to be kind to Miss Muir?”
“Yes, and I try to be, but she is so odd lately.”
“Odd! How do you mean?”
“Why, she is either as calm and cold as a statue, or restless and queer; she cries at night, I know, and sighs sadly when she thinks I don’t hear. Something is the matter.”
“She frets for Ned perhaps,” began Coventry.
“Oh dear, no; it’s a great relief to her that he is gone. I’m afraid that she likes someone very much, and someone don’t like her. Can it be Mr. Sydney?”
“She called him a ‘titled fool’ once, but perhaps that didn’t mean anything. Did you ever ask her about him?” said Coventry, feeling rather ashamed of his curiosity, yet unable to resist the temptation of questioning unsuspecting Bella.
“Yes, but she only looked at me in her tragical way, and said, so pitifully, ‘My little friend, I hope you will never have to pass through the scenes I’ve passed through, but keep your peace unbroken all your life.’ After that I dared say no more. I’m very fond of her, I want to make her happy, but I don’t know how. Can you propose anything?”
“I was going to propose that you make her come among us more, now Ned is gone. It must be dull for her, moping about alone. I’m sure it is for me. She is an entertaining little person, and I enjoy her music very much. It’s good for Mamma to have gay evenings; so you bestir yourself, and see what you can do for the general good of the family.”
“That’s all very charming, and I’ve proposed it more than once, but Lucia spoils all my plans. She is afraid you’ll follow Ned’s example, and that is so silly.”
“Lucia is a—no, I won’t say fool, because she has sense enough when she chooses; but I wish you’d just settle things with Mamma, and then Lucia can do nothing but submit,” said Gerald angrily.
“I’ll try, but she goes up to read to Uncle, you know, and since he has had the gout, she stays later, so I see little of her in the evening. There she goes now. I think she will captivate the old one as well as the young one, she is so devoted.”
Coventry looked after her slender black figure, just vanishing through the great gate, and an uncomfortable fancy took possession of him, born of Bella’s careless words. He sauntered away, and after eluding his cousin, who seemed looking for him, he turned toward the Hall, saying to himself, I will see what is going on up here. Such things have happened. Uncle is the simplest soul alive, and if the girl is ambitious, she can do what she will with him.
Here a servant came running after him and gave him a letter, which he thrust into his pocket without examining it. When he reached the Hall, he went quietly to his uncle’s study. The door was ajar, and looking in, he saw a scene of tranquil comfort, very pleasant to watch. Sir John leaned in his easy chair with one foot on a cushion. He was dressed with his usual care and, in spite of the gout, looked like a handsome, well-preserved old gentleman. He was smiling as he listened, and his eyes rested complacently on Jean Muir, who sat near him reading in her musical voice, while the sunshine glittered on her hair and the soft rose of her cheek. She read well, yet Coventry thought her heart was not in her task, for once when she paused, while Sir John spoke, her eyes had an absent expression, and she leaned her head upon her hand, with an air of patient weariness.
Poor girl! I did her great injustice; she has no thought of captivating the old man, but amuses him from simple kindness. She is tired. I’ll put an end to her task; and Coventry entered without knocking.
Sir John received him with an air of polite resignation, Miss Muir with a perfectly expressionless face.
“Mother’s love, and how are you today, sir?”
“Comfortable, but dull, so I want you to bring the girls over this evening, to amuse the old gentleman. Mrs. King has got out the antique costumes and trumpery, as I promised Bella she should have them, and tonight we are to have a merrymaking, as we used to do when Ned was here.”
“Very well, sir, I’ll bring them. We’ve all been out of sorts since the lad left, and a little jollity will do us good. Are you going back, Miss Muir?” asked Coventry.
“No, I shall keep her to give me my tea and get things ready. Don’t read anymore, my dear, but go and amuse yourself with the pictures, or whatever you like,” said Sir John; and like a dutiful daughter she obeyed, as if glad to get away.
“That’s a very charming girl, Gerald,” began Sir John as she left the room. “I’m much interested in her, both on her own account and on her mother’s.”
“Her mother’s! What do you know of her mother?” asked Coventry, much surprised.
“Her mother was Lady Grace Howard, who ran away with a poor Scotch minister twenty years ago. The family cast her off, and she lived and died so obscurely that very little is known of her except that she left an orphan girl at some small French pension. This is the girl, and a fine girl, too. I’m surprised that you did not know this.”
“So am I, but it is like her not to tell. She is a strange, proud creature. Lady Howard’s daughter! Upon my word, that is a discovery,” and Coventry felt his interest in his sister’s governess much increased by this fact; for, like all wellborn Englishmen, he valued rank and gentle blood even more than he cared to own.
“She has had a hard life of it, this poor little girl, but she has a brave spirit, and will make her way anywhere,” said Sir John admiringly.
“Did Ned know this?” asked Gerald suddenly.
“No, she only told me yesterday. I was looking in the Peerage and chanced to speak of the Howards. She forgot herself and called Lady Grace her mother. Then I got the whole story, for the lonely little thing was glad to make a confidant of someone.”
“That accounts for her rejection of Sydney and Ned: she knows she is their equal and will not snatch at the rank which is hers by right. No, she’s not mercenary or ambitious.”
“What do you say?” asked Sir John, for Coventry had spoken more to himself than to his uncle.
“I wonder if Lady Sydney was aware of this?” was all Gerald’s answer.
“No, Jean said she did not wish to be pitied, and so told nothing to the mother. I think the son knew, but that was a delicate point, and I asked no questions.”
“I shall write to him as soon as I discover his address. We have been so intimate I can venture to make a few inquiries about Miss Muir, and prove the truth of her story.”
“Do you mean to say that you doubt it?” demanded Sir John angrily.
“I beg your pardon, Uncle, but I must confess I have an instinctive distrust of that young person. It is unjust, I dare say, yet I cannot banish it.”
“Don’t annoy me by expressing it, if you please. I have some penetration and experience, and I respect and pity Miss Muir heartily. This dislike of yours may be the cause of her late melancholy, hey, Gerald?” And Sir John looked suspiciously at his nephew.
Anxious to avert the rising storm, Coventry said hastily as he turned away, “I’ve neither time nor inclination to discuss the matter now, sir, but will be careful not to offend again. I’ll take your message to Bella, so good-bye for an hour, Uncle.”
And Coventry went his way through the park, thinking within himself, The dear old gentleman is getting fascinated, like poor Ned. How the deuce does the girl do it? Lady Howard’s daughter, yet never told us; I don’t understand that.