Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 14 (7 page)

 
          
           
"Not bad! It will be a good field for me to work in, and the harder the
task the better I shall like it.
Merci
, old friend.
You put heart and courage into me when
nothing else will. Come, the curtain is down, so I may be myself for a few
hours, if actresses ever are themselves."

 
          
           
Still sitting on the floor she unbound and removed the long abundant braids
from her head, wiped the pink from her face, took out several pearly teeth, and
slipping off her dress appeared
herself
indeed, a
haggard, worn, and moody woman of thirty at least. The metamorphosis was
wonderful, but the disguise was more in the expression she assumed than in any
art of costume or false adornment. Now she was alone, and her mobile features
settled into their natural expression, weary, hard,
bitter
.
She had been lovely once, happy, innocent, and tender; but nothing of all this
remained to the gloomy woman who leaned there brooding over some wrong, or
loss, or disappointment which had darkened all her life. For an hour she sat
so, sometimes playing absently with the scanty locks that hung about her face,
sometimes lifting the glass to her lips as if the fiery draught warmed her cold
blood; and once she half uncovered her breast to eye with a terrible glance the
scar of a newly healed wound. At last she rose and crept to bed, like one worn
out with weariness and mental pain.

 
          
           
Only the housemaids were astir when Miss Muir left her room next morning and
quietly found her way into the garden. As she walked, apparently intent upon
the flowers, her quick eye scrutinized the fine old house and its picturesque
surroundings.

 
          
           
"Not bad," she said to herself, adding, as she passed into the
adjoining park, "but the other may be better, and I will have the
best."

 
          
           
Walking rapidly, she came out at length upon the wide green lawn which lay
before the ancient hall where Sir John Coventry lived in solitary splendor. A
stately old place, rich in oaks, well-kept shrubberies, gay gardens, sunny
terraces, carved gables, spacious rooms, liveried servants, and every luxury
befitting the ancestral home of a rich and honorable race. Miss Muir's eyes
brightened as she looked, her step grew firmer, her carriage prouder, and a
smile broke over her face; the smile of one well pleased at the prospect of the
success of some cherished hope. Suddenly her whole air changed, she pushed back
her hat, clasped her hands loosely before her, and seemed absorbed in girlish
admiration of the fair scene that could not fail to charm any beauty-loving
eye. The cause of this rapid change soon appeared. A hale, handsome man,
between fifty and sixty, came through the little gate leading to the park, and,
seeing the young stranger, paused to examine her. He had only time for a
glance, however; she seemed conscious of his presence in a moment, turned with
a startled look, uttered an exclamation of surprise, and looked as if
hesitating whether to speak or run away. Gallant Sir John took off his hat and
said, with the old-fashioned courtesy which became him well, "I beg your
pardon for disturbing you, young lady. Allow me to atone for it by inviting you
to walk where you will, and gather what flowers you like. I see you love them,
so pray make free with those about you."

 
          
           
With a charming air of maidenly timidity and artlessness, Miss Muir replied,
"Oh, thank you, sir! But it is I who should ask pardon for trespassing. I
never should have dared if I had not known that Sir John was absent. I always
wanted to see this fine old place, and ran over the first thing, to satisfy
myself."

 
          
           
"And
are
you satisfied?" he
asked, with a smile.

 
          
           
"More than satisfied—I'm charmed; for it is the most beautiful spot I ever
saw, and I've seen many famous seats, both at home and abroad," she
answered enthusiastically.

 
          
           
"The Hall is much flattered, and so would its master be if he heard
you," began the gentleman, with an odd expression.

 
          
           
"I should not praise it to him—at least, not as freely as I have to you,
sir," said the girl, with eyes still turned away.

 
          
           
"Why not?" asked her companion, looking much amused.

 
          
           
"I should be afraid. Not that I dread Sir John; but I've heard so many
beautiful and noble things about him, and respect him so highly, that I should
not dare to say much, lest he should see how I admire and—"

 
          
           
"And what, young lady?
Finish, if you
please."

 
          
           
"I was going to say, love him. I will say it, for he is an old man, and
one cannot help loving virtue and bravery."

 
          
           
Miss Muir looked very earnest and pretty as she spoke, standing there with the
sunshine glinting on her yellow hair, delicate face, and downcast eyes. Sir
John was not a vain man, but he found it pleasant to hear himself commended by
this unknown girl, and felt redoubled curiosity to learn who she was. Too
well-bred to ask, or to abash her by avowing what she seemed unconscious of, he
left both discoveries to chance; and when she turned, as if to retrace her
steps, he offered her the handful of hothouse flowers which he held, saying,
with a gallant bow, "In Sir John's name let me give you my little nosegay,
with thanks for your good opinion, which, I assure you, is not entirely
deserved, for I know him well."

 
          
           
Miss Muir looked up quickly, eyed him an instant, then dropped her eyes, and,
coloring deeply, stammered out, "I did not know—I beg your pardon—you are
too kind, Sir John."

 
          
           
He laughed like a boy, asking, mischievously, "Why call me Sir John? How
do you know that I am not the gardener or the butler?"

 
          
           
"I did not see your face before, and no one but yourself would say that
any praise was undeserved," murmured Miss Muir, still overcome with
girlish confusion.

 
          
           
"Well, well, we will let that pass, and the next time you come we will be
properly introduced. Bella always brings her friends to the Hall, for I am fond
of young people."

 
          
           
"I am not a friend. I am only Miss Coventry's governess." And Miss
Muir dropped a meek curtsy. A slight change passed over Sir John's manner. Few
would have perceived it, but Miss Muir felt it at once, and bit her lips with
an angry feeling at her heart. With a curious air of pride, mingled with
respect, she accepted the still offered bouquet, returned Sir John's parting
bow, and tripped away, leaving the old gentleman to wonder where Mrs. Coventry
found such a piquant little governess.

 
          
           
"That is done, and very well for a beginning," she said to herself as
she approached the house.

 
          
           
In a green paddock close by fed a fine horse,
who
lifted up his head and eyed her inquiringly, like one who expected a greeting.
Following a sudden impulse, she entered the paddock and, pulling a handful of
clover, invited the creature to come and eat. This was evidently a new
proceeding on the part of a lady, and the horse careered about as if bent on
frightening the newcomer away.

 
          
           
"I see," she said aloud, laughing to herself. "I am not your
master, and you rebel. Nevertheless, I'll conquer you, my fine brute."

 
          
           
Seating herself in the grass, she began to pull daisies, singing idly the
while, as if unconscious of the spirited prancings of the horse. Presently he
drew nearer, sniffing curiously and eyeing her with surprise. She took no
notice, but plaited the daisies and sang on as if he was not there. This seemed
to pique the petted creature, for, slowly approaching, he came at length so
close that he could smell her little foot and nibble at her dress. Then she
offered the clover, uttering caressing words and making soothing sounds, till
by degrees and with much coquetting, the horse permitted her to stroke his
glossy neck and smooth his mane.

 
          
           
It was a pretty sight—the slender figure in the grass, the high-spirited horse
bending his proud head to her hand. Edward Coventry, who had watched the scene,
found it impossible to restrain himself any longer and, leaping the wall, came
to join the group, saying, with mingled admiration and wonder in countenance
and voice, "Good morning, Miss Muir. If I had not seen your skill and
courage proved before my eyes, I should be alarmed for your safety. Hector is a
wild, wayward beast, and has damaged more than one groom who tried to conquer
him."

 
          
           
"Good morning, Mr. Coventry. Don't tell tales of this noble creature, who
has not deceived my faith in him. Your grooms did not know how to win his
heart, and so subdue his spirit without breaking it."

 
          
           
Miss Muir rose as she spoke, and stood with her hand on Hector's neck while he
ate the grass which she had gathered in the skirt of her dress.

 
          
           
"You have the secret, and Hector is your subject now, though heretofore he
has rejected all friends but his master. Will you give him his morning feast? I
always bring him bread and play with him before breakfast."

 
          
           
"Then you are not jealous?" And she looked up at him with eyes so
bright and beautiful in expression that the young man wondered he had not
observed them before.

 
          
           
"
Not
I.
Pet him as much as you will; it will do him good. He is a solitary fellow, for
he scorns his own kind and lives alone, like his master," he added, half
to himself.

 
          
           
"Alone, with such a happy home, Mr. Coventry?"
And a softly compassionate glance stole from the bright eyes.

 
          
           
"That was an ungrateful speech, and I retract it for Bella's sake. Younger
sons have no position but such as they can make for themselves, you know, and
I've had no chance yet."

 
          
           
"Younger sons!
I thought—I beg pardon." And
Miss Muir paused, as if remembering that she had no right to question.

 
          
           
Edward smiled and answered frankly, "Nay, don't mind me. You thought I was
the heir, perhaps. Whom did you take my brother for last night?"

 
          
           
"For some guest who admired Miss Beaufort.
I did
not hear his name, nor observe him enough to discover who he was. I saw only
your land mother, your charming little sister, and—"

 
          
           
She stopped there, with a half-shy, half-grateful look at the young man which
finished the sentence better than any words. He was still a boy, in spite of
his one-and-twenty years, and a little color came into his brown cheek as the
eloquent eyes met his and fell before them.

 
          
           
"Yes, Bella is a capital girl, and one can't help loving her. I know
you'll get her on, for, really, she is the most delightful little dunce. My
mother's ill health and Bella's devotion to her have prevented our attending to
her education before. Next winter, when we go to town, she is to come out, and
must be prepared for that great event, you know," he said, choosing a safe
subject.

 
          
           
"I shall do my best. And that reminds me that I should report myself to
her, instead of enjoying myself here. When one has been ill and shut up a long
time, the country is so lovely one is apt to forget duty for pleasure. Please
remind me if I am negligent, Mr. Coventry."

 
          
           
"That name belongs to Gerald. I'm only Mr. Ned here," he said as they
walked toward the house, while Hector followed to the wall and sent a sonorous
farewell after them.

 
          
           
Bella came running to meet them, and greeted Miss Muir as if she had made up
her mind to like her heartily. "What a lovely bouquet you have got! I
never can arrange flowers prettily, which vexes me, for Mamma is so fond of
them and cannot go out
herself
. You have charming
taste," she said, examining the graceful posy which Miss Muir had much
improved by adding feathery grasses, delicate ferns, and fragrant wild flowers
to Sir John's exotics.

 
          
           
Putting them into Bella's hand, she said, in a winning way, "Take them to
your mother, then, and ask her if I may have the pleasure of making her a daily
nosegay; for I should find real delight in doing it, if it would please
her."

 
          
           
"How kind you are! Of course it would please her. I'll take them to her
while the dew is still on them." And away flew Bella, eager to give both
the flowers and the pretty message to the poor invalid.