So with a sweet smile Jean tripped away, and to Lucia’s dismay Coventry followed.
“I want you, Gerald; please stay,” she cried.
“I’ve done my part—no more tragedy for me tonight.” And he was gone before she could entreat or command.
There was no help for it; she must stay and do her duty, or expose her jealousy to the quick eyes about her. For a time she bore it; but the sight of her cousin leaning over the chair she had left and chatting with the governess, who now filled it, grew unbearable, and she dispatched a little girl with a message to Miss Muir.
“Please, Miss Beaufort wants you for Queen Bess, as you are the only lady with red hair. Will you come?” whispered the child, quite unconscious of any hidden sting in her words.
“Yes, dear, willingly though I’m not stately enough for Her Majesty, nor handsome enough,” said Jean, rising with an untroubled face, though she resented the feminine insult.
“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,
