Behind a Mask

of Lucia’s love, and though no man, in her eyes, was worthy of her mistress, still, having honored him with her regard, Dean felt bound to like him, and the late change in his manner disturbed the maid almost as much as it did the mistress. She watched Jean narrowly, causing that amiable creature much amusement but little annoyance, as yet, for Dean’s slow English wit was no match for the subtle mind of the governess. On the preceding night, Dean had been sent up to the Hall with costumes and had there seen something which much disturbed her. She began to speak of it while undressing her mistress, but Lucia, being in an unhappy mood, had so sternly ordered her not to gossip that the tale remained untold, and she was forced to bide her tune.

Now I’ll see how she looks after it; though there’s not much to be got out of her face, the deceitful hussy, thought Dean, marching down the corridor and knitting her black brows as she went.

“Good morning, Mrs. Dean. I hope you are none the worse for last night’s frolic. You had the work and we the play,” said a blithe voice behind her; and turning sharply, she confronted Miss Muir. Fresh and smiling, the governess nodded with an air of cordiality which would have been irresistible with anyone but Dean.

“I’m quite well, thank you, miss,” she returned coldly, as her keen eye fastened on the girl as if to watch the effect of her words. “I had a good rest when the young ladies and gentlemen were at supper, for while the maids cleared up, I sat in the ‘little anteroom.’ ”

“Yes, I saw you, and feared you’d take cold. Very glad you didn’t. How is Miss Beaufort? She seemed rather poorly last night,” was the tranquil reply, as Jean settled the little frills about her delicate wrists. The cool question was a return shot for Dean’s hint that she had been where she could oversee the interview between Coventry and Miss Muir.

“She is a bit tired, as any lady would be after such an evening. People who are used to playacting wouldn’t mind it, perhaps, but Miss Beaufort don’t enjoy romps as much as some do.”

The emphasis upon certain words made Dean’s speech as impertinent as she desired. But Jean only laughed, and as Coventry’s step was heard behind them, she ran downstairs, saying blandly, but with a wicked look, “I won’t stop to thank you now, lest Mr. Coventry should bid me good morning, and so increase Miss Beaufort’s indisposition.”

Dean’s eyes flashed as she looked after the girl with a wrathful face, and went her way, saying grimly, “I’ll bide my time, but I’ll get the better of her yet.”

Fancying himself quite removed from “last night’s absurdity,” yet curious to see how Jean would meet him, Coventry lounged into the breakfast room with his usual air of listless indifference. A languid nod and murmur was all the reply he vouchsafed to the greetings of cousin, sister, and governess as he sat down and took up his paper.

“Have you had a letter from Ned?” asked Bella, looking at the note which her brother still held.

“No,” was the brief answer.

“Who then? You look as if you had received bad news.”

There was no reply, and, peeping over his arm, Bella caught sight of the seal and exclaimed, in a disappointed tone, “It is the Sydney crest. I don’t care about the note now. Men’s letters to each other are not interesting.”

Miss Muir had been quietly feeding one of Edward’s dogs, but at the name she looked up and met Coventry’s eyes, coloring so distressfully that he pitied her. Why he should take the trouble to cover her confusion, he did not stop to ask himself, but seeing the curl of Lucia’s lip, he suddenly addressed her with an air of displeasure, “Do you know that Dean is getting impertinent? She presumes too much on her age and your indulgence, and forgets her place.”

“What has she done?” asked Lucia coldly.

“She troubles herself about my affairs and takes it upon herself to keep Benson in order.”

Here Coventry told about the letter and the woman’s evident curiosity.

“Poor Dean, she gets no thanks for reminding you of what you had forgotten. Next time she will leave your letters to their fate, and perhaps it will be as well, if they have such a bad effect upon your temper, Gerald.”

Lucia spoke calmly, but there was an angry color in her cheek as she rose and left the room. Coventry looked much annoyed, for on Jean’s face he detected a faint smile, half pitiful, half satirical, which disturbed him more than his cousin’s insinuation. Bella broke the awkward silence by saying, with a sigh, “Poor Ned! I do so long to hear again from him. I thought a letter had come for some of us. Dean said she saw one bearing his writing on the hall table yesterday.”

“She seems to have a mania for inspecting letters. I won’t allow it. Who was the letter for, Bella?” said Coventry, putting down his paper.

“She wouldn’t or couldn’t tell, but looked very cross and told me to ask you.”

“Very odd! I’ve had none,” began Coventry.

“But I had one several days ago. Will you please read it, and my reply?” And as she spoke, Jean laid two letters before him.

“Certainly not. It would be dishonorable to read what Ned intended for no eyes but your own. You are too scrupulous in one way, and not enough so in another, Miss Muir.” And Coventry offered both the letters with an air of grave decision, which could not conceal the interest and surprise he felt.

“You are right. Mr. Edward’s note should be kept sacred, for in it the poor boy has laid bare his heart to me. But mine I beg you will read, that you may see how well I try to keep my word to you. Oblige me in this, Mr. Coventry; I have a