“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 at 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
