Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 14 (14 page)

 
          
           
"Do you want an
Essex
? I'm all dressed for it," said
Coventry
, following to the door with a wistful look.

 
          
           
"No, Miss Beaufort said
you
were
not to come. She doesn't want you both together," said the child
decidedly.

 
          
           
Jean gave him a significant look, shrugged her shoulders, and went away smiling
her odd smile, while
Coventry
paced up and down the hall in a curious state of unrest, which made him
forgetful of everything till the young people came gaily out to supper.

 
          
           
"Come, bonny Prince Charlie,
take
me down, and
play the lover as charmingly as you did an hour ago. I never thought you had so
much warmth in you," said Bella, taking his arm and drawing him on against
his will.

 
          
           
"Don't be foolish, child. Where is—Lucia?"

 
          
           
Why he checked Jean's name on his lips and substituted another's, he could not
tell; but a sudden shyness in speaking of her possessed him, and though he saw
her nowhere, he would not ask for her. His cousin came down looking lovely in a
classical costume; but Gerald scarcely saw her, and, when the merriment was at
its height, he slipped away to discover what had become of Miss Muir.

 
          
           
Alone in the deserted drawing room he found her, and paused to watch her a
moment before he spoke; for something in her attitude and face struck him. She
was leaning wearily back in the great chair which had served for a throne. Her
royal robes were still unchanged, though the crown was off and all her fair
hair hung about her shoulders. Excitement and exertion made her brilliant, the
rich dress became her wonderfully, and an air of luxurious indolence changed
the meek governess into a charming woman. She leaned on the velvet cushions as
if she were used to such support; she played with the jewels which had crowned
her as carelessly as if she were born to wear them; her attitude was full of
negligent grace, and the expression of her face half proud, half pensive, as if
her thoughts were bittersweet.

 
          
           
One would know she was wellborn to see her now. Poor girl, what a burden a life
of dependence must be to a spirit like hers! I wonder what she is thinking of
so intently. And
Coventry
indulged in another look before he spoke.

 
          
           
"Shall I bring you some supper, Miss Muir?"

 
          
           
"Supper!" she ejaculated, with a start. "Who thinks of one's
body when one's soul is—" She stopped there, knit her brows, and laughed
faintly as she added, "No, thank you. I want nothing but advice, and that
I dare not ask of anyone."

 
          
           
"Why not?"

 
          
           
"Because I have no right."

 
          
           
"Everyone has a right to ask help, especially the weak of the strong.
 
 Can I help you? Believe me, I most
heartily offer my poor services."
 
 

 
          
           
"Ah, you forget! This dress, the borrowed splendor of these jewels, the
freedom of this gay evening, the romance of the part you played, all blind you
to the reality. For a moment I cease to be a servant, and for a moment you
treat me as an equal."

 
          
           
It was true; he
had
forgotten. That
soft, reproachful glance touched him, his distrust melted under the new charm,
and he answered with real feeling in voice and face, "I treat you as an
equal because you
are
one; and when I
offered help, it is not to my sister's governess alone, but to Lady Howard's
daughter."

 
          
           
"Who told you that?" she demanded, sitting erect.

 
          
           
"My uncle.
Do not reproach him. It shall go no
further, if you forbid it. Are you sorry that I know it?"

 
          
           
"Yes."

 
          
           
"Why?"

 
          
           
"Because I will not be pitied!"
And her eyes
flashed as she made a half-defiant gesture.

 
          
           
"Then, if I may not pity the hard fate which has befallen an innocent
life, may I admire the courage which meets adverse fortune so bravely, and
conquers the world by winning the respect and regard of all who see and honor
it?"

 
          
           
Miss Muir averted her face, put up her hand, and answered hastily, "No,
no, not that! Do not be kind; it destroys the only barrier now left between us.
Be cold to me as before, forget what I am, and let me go on my way, unknown,
unpitied, and unloved!"

 
          
           
Her voice faltered and failed as the last word was uttered, and she bent her
face upon her hand. Something jarred upon Coventry in this speech, and moved
him to say, almost rudely, "You need have no fears for me. Lucia will tell
you what an iceberg I am."

 
          
           
"Then Lucia would tell me wrong. I have the fatal power of reading
character; I know you better than she does, and I see—" There she stopped
abruptly.

 
          
           
"What? Tell me and prove your skill," he said eagerly.

 
          
           
Turning, she fixed her eyes on him with a penetrating power that made him
shrink as she said slowly, "Under the ice I see fire, and warn you to
beware lest it prove a volcano."

 
          
           
For a moment he sat dumb, wondering at the insight of the girl; for she was the
first to discover the hidden warmth of a nature too proud to confess its tender
impulses, or the ambitions that slept till some potent voice awoke them. The
blunt, almost stern manner in which she warned him away from her only made her
more attractive; for there was no conceit or arrogance in it, only a foreboding
fear emboldened by past suffering to be frank. Suddenly he spoke impetuously:

 
          
           
"You are right! I am not what I seem, and my indolent indifference is but
the mask under which I conceal my real self. I could be as passionate, as
energetic and aspiring as Ned, if I had any aim in life. I have none, and so I
am what you once called me, a thing to pity and despise."

 
          
           
"I never said that!" cried Jean indignantly.

 
          
           
"Not in those words, perhaps; but you looked it and thought it, though you
phrased it more mildly. I deserved it, but I shall deserve it no longer. I am
beginning to wake from my disgraceful idleness, and long for some work that
shall make a man of me. Why do you go? I annoy you with my confessions. Pardon
me. They are the first I ever made; they shall be the last."

 
          
           
"No, oh no!
I am too much honored by your
confidence; but
is
it wise, is it loyal to tell
me
your hopes and aims? Has not Miss
Beaufort the first right to be your confidante?"

 
          
           
Coventry drew
back,
looking intensely annoyed, for the
name recalled much that he would gladly have forgotten in the novel excitement
of the hour. Lucia's love, Edward's parting words, his own reserve so strangely
thrown aside, so difficult to resume. What he would have said was checked by
the sight of a half-open letter which fell from Jean's dress as she moved away.
Mechanically he took it up to return it, and, as he did so, he recognized
Sydney
's handwriting. Jean snatched it from him,
turning pale to the lips as she cried, "Did you read it? What did you see?
Tell
me,
tell me, on your honor!"

 
          
           
"On my honor, I saw nothing but this single sentence, 'By the love I bear
you, believe what I say.' No more, as I am a gentleman. I know the hand, I
guess the purport of the
letter,
and as a friend of
Sydney
, I earnestly desire to help you, if I can.
Is this the matter upon which you want advice?"

 
          
           
"Yes."

 
          
           
"Then let me give it?"

 
          
           
"You cannot, without knowing all, and it is so hard to tell!"

 
          
           
"Let me guess it, and spare you the pain of telling. May I?"
And 
Coventry
waited eagerly for her reply, for the spell
was still upon him.  

 
          
           
Holding the letter fast, she beckoned him to follow, and glided before him to a
secluded little nook, half boudoir, half conservatory. There she paused, stood
an instant as if in doubt, then looked up at him with confiding eyes and said
decidedly, "I will do it; for, strange as it may seem, you are the only
person to whom I
can
speak. You know
Sydney
, you have discovered that I am an
equal,
you have offered your help. I accept it; but oh, do
not think me unwomanly! Remember how alone I am, how young, and how much I rely
upon your sincerity, your sympathy!"

 
          
           
"Speak freely. I am indeed your friend." And
Coventry
sat down beside her, forgetful of
everything but the soft-eyed girl who confided in him so entirely.

 
          
           
Speaking rapidly, Jean went on, "You know that
Sydney
loved me, that I refused him and went away.
But you do not know that his importunities nearly drove me wild, that he
threatened to rob me of my only treasure, my good name, and that, in
desperation, I tried to kill myself. Yes, mad, wicked as it was, I did long to
end the life which was, at best, a burden, and under his persecution had become
a torment. You are shocked, yet what I say is the living truth. Lady Sydney
will confirm it, the nurses at the hospital will confess that it was not a
fever which brought me there; and here, though the external wound is healed, my
heart still aches and burns with the shame and indignation which only a proud
woman can feel."

 
          
           
She paused and sat with kindling eyes, glowing cheeks, and both hands pressed
to her heaving bosom, as if the old insult roused her spirit anew.
Coventry
said not a word, for surprise, anger,
incredulity, and admiration mingled so confusedly in his mind that he forgot to
speak, and Jean went on, "That wild act of mine convinced him of my
indomitable dislike. He went away, and I believed that this stormy love of his
would be cured by absence. It is not, and I live in daily fear of fresh
entreaties, renewed persecution. His mother promised not to betray where I had
gone, but he found me out and wrote to me. The letter I asked you to take to
Lady Sydney was a reply to his, imploring him to leave me in peace. You failed
to deliver it, and I was glad, for I thought silence might quench hope. All in
vain; this is a more passionate appeal than ever, and he vows he will never
desist from his endeavors till I give another man the right to protect me. I
can
do this—I am sorely tempted to do
it, but I rebel against the cruelty. I love my
freedom,
I have no wish to marry at this man's bidding. What can I do? How cart
I
free myself? Be my friend, and help me!"

 
          
           
Tears streamed down her cheeks, sobs choked her words, and she clasped her
hands imploringly as she turned toward the young man in all the abandonment of
sorrow, fear, and supplication.
Coventry
found it hard to meet those eloquent eyes
and answer calmly, for he had no experience in such scenes and knew not how to
play his part. It is this absurd dress and that romantic nonsense which makes
me
feel
so unlike myself, he thought, quite
unconscious of the dangerous power which the dusky room, the midsummer warmth
and fragrance, the memory of the "romantic nonsense," and, most of
all, the presence of a beautiful, afflicted woman had over him. His usual
self-possession deserted him, and he could only echo the words which had made
the strongest impression upon him: