“You can do this, you are tempted to do it. Is Ned the man who can protect you?”
“No,” was the soft reply.
“Who then?”
“Do not ask me. A good and honorable man; one who loves me well, and would devote his life to me; one whom once it would have been happiness to marry, but now—”
There her voice ended in a sigh, and all her fair hair fell down about her face, hiding it in a shining veil.
“Why not now? This is a sure and speedy way of ending your distress. Is it impossible?”
In spite of himself, Gerald leaned nearer, took one of the little hands in his, and pressed it as he spoke, urgently, compassionately, nay, almost tenderly. From behind the veil came a heavy sigh, and the brief answer, “It is impossible.”
“Why, Jean?”
She flung her hair back with a sudden gesture, drew away her hand, and answered, almost fiercely, “Because I do not love him! Why do you torment me with such questions? I tell you I am in a sore strait and cannot see my way. Shall I deceive the good man, and secure peace at the price of liberty and truth? Or shall I defy Sydney and lead a life of dread? If he menaced my life, I should not fear; but he menaces that which is dearer than life—my good name. A look, a word can tarnish it; a scornful smile, a significant shrug can do me more harm than any blow; for I am a woman—friendless, poor, and at the mercy of his tongue. Ah, better to have died, and so have been saved the bitter pain that has come now!”
She sprang up, clasped her hands over her head, and paced despairingly through the little room, not weeping, but wearing an expression more tragical than tears. Still feeling as if he had suddenly stepped into a romance, yet finding a keen pleasure in the part assigned him, Coventry threw himself into it with spirit, and heartily did his best to console the poor girl who needed help so much. Going to her, he said as impetuously as Ned ever did, “Miss Muir—nay, I will say Jean, if that will comfort you—listen, and rest assured that no harm shall touch you if I can ward it off. You are needlessly alarmed. Indignant you may well be, but, upon my life, I think you wrong Sydney. He is violent, I know, but he is too honorable a man to injure you by a light word, an unjust act. He did but threaten, hoping to soften you. Let me see him, or write to him. He is my friend; he will listen to me. Of that I am sure.”
“Be sure of nothing. When a man like Sydney loves and is thwarted in his love, nothing can control his headstrong will. Promise me you will not see or write to him. Much as I fear and despise him, I will submit, rather than any harm should befall you—or your brother. You promise me, Mr. Coventry?”
He hesitated. She clung to his arm with unfeigned solicitude in her eager, pleading face, and he could not resist it.
“I promise; but in return you must promise to let me give what help I can; and, Jean, never say again that you are friendless.”
“You are so kind! God bless you for it. But I dare not accept your friendship; she will not permit it, and I have no right to mar her peace.”
“Who will not permit it?” he demanded hotly.
“Miss Beaufort.”
“Hang Miss Beaufort!” exclaimed Coventry, with such energy that Jean broke into a musical laugh, despite her trouble. He joined in it, and, for an instant they stood looking at one another as if the last barrier were down, and they were friends indeed. Jean paused suddenly, with the smile on her lips, the tears still on her cheek, and made a warning gesture. He listened: the sound of feet mingled with calls and laughter proved that they were missed and sought.
“That laugh betrayed us. Stay and meet them. I cannot.” And Jean darted out upon the lawn. Coventry followed; for the thought of confronting so many eyes, so many questions, daunted him, and he fled like a coward. The sound of Jean’s flying footsteps guided him, and he overtook her just as she paused behind a rose thicket to take breath.
“Fainthearted knight! You should have stayed and covered my retreat. Hark! they are coming! Hide! Hide!” she panted, half in fear, half in merriment, as the gay pursuers rapidly drew nearer.
“Kneel down; the moon is coming out and the glitter of your embroidery will betray you,” whispered Jean, as they cowered behind the roses.
“Your arms and hair will betray you. ‘Come under my plaiddie,’ as the song says.” And Coventry tried to make his velvet cloak cover the white shoulders and fair locks.
“We are acting our parts in reality now. How Bella will enjoy the thing when I tell her!” said Jean as the noises died away.
“Do not tell her,” whispered Coventry.
“And why not?” she asked, looking up into the face so near her own, with an artless glance.
“Can you not guess why?”
“Ah, you are so proud you cannot bear to be laughed at.”
“It is not that. It is because I do not want you to be annoyed by silly tongues; you have enough to pain you without that. I am your friend, now, and I do my best to prove it.”
“So kind, so kind! How can I thank
