As she spoke, Miss Muir stooped to return the handkerchief which had fallen from Lucia’s hand, and did so with a humble mien which touched the other’s heart; for, though a proud, it was also a very generous one.
“Thank you. Are you better, this morning?” she said, graciously. And having received an affirmative reply, she added, as she walked on, “I will show you to the breakfast room, as Bella is not here. It is a very informal meal with us, for my aunt is never down and my cousins are very irregular in their hours. You can always have yours when you like, without waiting for us if you are an early riser.”
Bella and Edward appeared before the others were seated, and Miss Muir quietly ate her breakfast, feeling well satisfied with her hour’s work. Ned recounted her exploit with Hector, Bella delivered her mother’s thanks for the flowers, and Lucia more than once recalled, with pardonable vanity, that the governess had compared her to her lovely mother, expressing by a look as much admiration for the living likeness as for the painted one. All kindly did their best to make the pale girl feel at home, and their cordial manner seemed to warm and draw her out; for soon she put off her sad, meek air and entertained them with gay anecdotes of her life in Paris, her travels in Russia when governess in Prince Jermadoff’s family, and all manner of witty stories that kept them interested and merry long after the meal was over. In the middle of an absorbing adventure, Coventry came in, nodded lazily, lifted his brows, as if surprised at seeing the governess there, and began his breakfast as if the ennui of another day had already taken possession of him. Miss Muir stopped short, and no entreaties could induce her to go on.
“Another time I will finish it, if you like. Now Miss Bella and I should be at our books.” And she left the room, followed by her pupil, taking no notice of the young master of the house, beyond a graceful bow in answer to his careless nod.
“Merciful creature! she goes when I come, and does not make life unendurable by moping about before my eyes. Does she belong to the moral, the melancholy, the romantic, or the dashing class, Ned?” said Gerald, lounging over his coffee as he did over everything he attempted.
“To none of them; she is a capital little woman. I wish you had seen her tame Hector this morning.” And Edward repeated his story.
“Not a bad move on her part,” said Coventry in reply. “She must be an observing as well as an energetic young person, to discover your chief weakness and attack it so soon. First tame the horse, and then the master. It will be amusing to watch the game, only I shall be under the painful necessity of checkmating you both, if it gets serious.”
“You needn’t exert yourself, old fellow, on my account. If I was not above thinking ill of an inoffensive girl, I should say you were the prize best worth winning, and advise you to take care of your own heart, if you’ve got one, which I rather doubt.”
“I often doubt it, myself; but I fancy the little Scotchwoman will not be able to satisfy either of us upon that point. How does your highness like her?” asked Coventry of his cousin, who sat near him.
“Better than I thought I should. She is well-bred, unassuming, and very entertaining when she likes. She has told us some of the wittiest stories I’ve heard for a long time. Didn’t our laughter wake you?” replied Lucia.
“Yes. Now atone for it by amusing me with a repetition of these witty tales.”
“That is impossible; her accent and manner are half the charm,” said Ned. “I wish you had kept away ten minutes longer, for your appearance spoilt the best story of all.”
“Why didn’t she go on?” asked Coventry, with a ray of curiosity.
“You forget that she overheard us last night, and must feel that you consider her a bore. She has pride, and no woman forgets speeches like those you made,” answered Lucia.
“Or forgives them, either, I believe. Well, I must be resigned to languish under her displeasure then. On Sydney’s account I take a slight interest in her; not that I expect to learn anything from her, for a woman with a mouth like that never confides or confesses anything. But I have a fancy to see what captivated him; for captivated he was, beyond a doubt, and by no lady whom he met in society. Did you ever hear anything of it, Ned?” asked Gerald.
“I’m not fond of scandal or gossip, and never listen to either.” With which remark Edward left the room.
Lucia was called out by the housekeeper a moment after, and Coventry left to the society most wearisome to him, namely his own. As he entered, he had caught a part of the story which Miss Muir had been telling, and it had excited his curiosity so much that he found himself wondering what the end could be and wishing that he might hear it.
What the deuce did she run away for, when I came in?
he thought. If she is amusing, she must make herself useful; for it’s intensely dull, I own, here, in spite of Lucia. Hey, what’s that?
It was a rich, sweet voice, singing a brilliant Italian air, and singing it with an expression that made the music doubly delicious. Stepping out of the French window, Coventry strolled along the sunny terrace, enjoying the song with the relish of a connoisseur. Others followed, and still he walked and listened, forgetful of weariness or tune. As one exquisite air ended, he involuntarily applauded. Miss Muir’s face appeared for an instant, then vanished, and no more music followed, though Coventry lingered, hoping to hear
