Part 4

The tender touch and name seemed to rob her of her courage and calmness, for, leaning on her lover, she hid her face and sobbed audibly.

“Now don’t make a scene, for heaven’s sake,” began Coventry impatiently, as his brother eyed him fiercely, divining at once what had passed, for his letter was still in Gerald’s hand and Jean’s last words had reached her lover’s ear.

“Who gave you the right to read that, and to interfere in my affairs?” demanded Edward hotly.

“Miss Muir” was the reply, as Coventry threw away the paper.

“And you add to the insult by ordering her out of the house,” cried Ned with increasing wrath.

“On the contrary, I beg her to remain.”

“The deuce you do! And why?”

“Because she is useful and happy here, and I am unwilling that your folly should rob her of a home which she likes.”

“You are very thoughtful and devoted all at once, but I beg you will not trouble yourself. Jean’s happiness and home will be my care now.”

“My dear boy, do be reasonable. The thing is impossible. Miss Muir sees it herself; she came to tell me, to ask how best to arrange matters without troubling my mother. I’ve been to town to attend to your affairs, and you may be off now very soon.”

“I have no desire to go. Last month it was the wish of my heart. Now I’ll accept nothing from you.” And Edward turned moodily away from his brother.

“What folly! Ned, you _must_ leave home. It is all arranged and cannot be given up now. A change is what you need, and it will make a man of you. We shall miss you, of course, but you will be where you’ll see something of life, and that is better for you than getting into mischief here.”

“Are you going away, Jean?” asked Edward, ignoring his brother entirely and bending over the girl, who still hid her face and wept. She did not speak, and Gerald answered for her.

“No, why should she if you are gone?”

“Do you mean to stay?” asked the lover eagerly of Jean.

“I wish to remain, but--” She paused and looked up. Her eyes went from one face to the other, and she added, decidedly, “Yes, I must go, it is not wise to stay even when you are gone.”

Neither of the young men could have explained why that hurried glance affected them as it did, but each felt conscious of a willful desire to oppose the other. Edward suddenly felt that his brother loved Miss Muir, and was bent on removing her from his way. Gerald had a vague idea that Miss Muir feared to remain on his account, and he longed to show her that he was quite safe. Each felt angry, and each showed it in a different way, one being violent, the other satirical.

“You are right, Jean, this is not the place for you; and you must let me see you in a safer home before I go,” said Ned, significantly.

“It strikes me that this will be a particularly safe home when your dangerous self is removed,” began Coventry, with an aggravating smile of calm superiority.

“And _I_ think that I leave a more dangerous person than myself behind me, as poor Lucia can testify.”

“Be careful what you say, Ned, or I shall be forced to remind you that I am master here. Leave Lucia’s name out of this disagreeable affair, if you please.”

“You _are_ master here, but not of me, or my actions, and you have no right to expect obedience or respect, for you inspire neither. Jean, I asked you to go with me secretly; now I ask you openly to share my fortune. In my brother’s presence I ask, and _will_ have an answer.”

He caught her hand impetuously, with a defiant look at Coventry, who still smiled, as if at boy’s play, though his eyes were kindling and his face changing with the still, white wrath which is more terrible than any sudden outburst. Miss Muir looked frightened; she shrank away from her passionate young lover, cast an appealing glance at Gerald, and seemed as if she longed to claim his protection yet dared not.

“Speak!” cried Edward, desperately. “Don’t look to him, tell me truly, with your own lips, do you, can you love me, Jean?”

“I have told you once. Why pain me by forcing another hard reply,” she said pitifully, still shrinking from his grasp and seeming to appeal to his brother.

“You wrote a few lines, but I’ll not be satisfied with that. You shall answer; I’ve seen love in your eyes, heard it in your voice, and I know it is hidden in your heart. You fear to own it; do not hesitate, no one can part us--speak, Jean, and satisfy me.”

Drawing her hand decidedly away, she went a step nearer Coventry, and answered, slowly, distinctly, though her lips trembled, and she evidently dreaded the effect of her words, “I will speak, and speak truly. You have seen love in my face; it is in my heart, and I do not hesitate to own it, cruel as it is to force the truth from me, but this love is not for you. Are you satisfied?”

He looked at her with a despairing glance and stretched his hand toward her beseechingly. She seemed to fear a blow, for suddenly she clung to Gerald with a faint cry. The act, the look of fear, the protecting gesture Coventry involuntarily made were too much for Edward, already excited by conflicting passions. In a paroxysm of blind wrath, he caught up a large pruning knife left there by the gardener, and would have dealt his brother a fatal blow had he not warded it off with his arm. The stroke fell, and another might have followed had not Miss Muir with unexpected courage and strength wrested the knife from Edward and flung it into the little pond near by. Coventry dropped down upon the seat, for the blood poured from a deep wound in his arm, showing by its rapid flow that an artery had been severed. Edward stood aghast, for with the blow his fury passed, leaving him overwhelmed with remorse and shame.

Gerald looked up at him, smiled faintly, and said, with no sign of reproach or anger, “Never mind, Ned. Forgive and forget. Lend me a hand to the house, and don’t disturb anyone. It’s not much, I dare say.” But his lips whitened as he spoke, and his strength failed him. Edward sprang to support him, and Miss Muir, forgetting her terrors, proved herself a girl of uncommon skill and courage.

“Quick! Lay him down. Give me your handkerchief, and bring some water,” she said, in a tone of quiet command. Poor Ned obeyed and watched her with breathless suspense while she tied the handkerchief tightly around the arm, thrust the handle of his riding whip underneath, and pressed it firmly above the severed artery to stop the dangerous flow of blood.

“Dr. Scott is with your mother, I think. Go and bring him here” was the next order; and Edward darted away, thankful to do anything to ease the terror which possessed him. He was gone some minutes, and while they waited Coventry watched the girl as she knelt beside him, bathing his face with one hand while with the other she held the bandage firmly in its place. She was pale, but quite steady and self-possessed, and her eyes shone with a strange brilliancy as she looked down at him. Once, meeting his look of grateful wonder, she smiled a reassuring smile that made her lovely, and said, in a soft, sweet tone never used to him before, “Be quiet. There is no danger. I will stay by you till help comes.”

Help did come speedily, and the doctor’s first words were “Who improvised that tourniquet?”

“She did,” murmured Coventry.

“Then you may thank her for saving your life. By Jove! It was capitally done”; and the old doctor looked at the girl with as much admiration as curiosity in his face.

“Never mind that. See to the wound, please, while I ran for bandages, and salts, and wine.”

Miss Muir was gone as she spoke, so fleetly that it was in vain to call her back or catch her. During her brief absence, the story was told by repentant Ned and the wound examined.

“Fortunately I have my case of instruments with me,” said the doctor, spreading on the bench a long array of tiny, glittering implements of torture. “Now, Mr. Ned, come here, and hold the arm in that way, while I tie the artery. Hey! That will never do. Don’t tremble so, man, look away and hold it steadily.”

“I can’t!” And poor Ned turned faint and white, not at the sight but with the bitter thought that he had longed to kill his brother.

“I will hold it,” and a slender white hand lifted the bare and bloody arm so firmly, steadily, that Coventry sighed a sigh of relief, and Dr. Scott fell to work with an emphatic nod of approval.

It was soon over, and while Edward ran in to bid the servants beware of alarming their mistress, Dr. Scott put up his instruments and Miss Muir used salts, water, and wine so skillfully that Gerald was able to walk to his room, leaning on the old man, while the girl supported the wounded arm, as no sling could be made on the spot. As he entered the chamber, Coventry turned, put out his left hand, and with much feeling in his fine eyes said simply, “Miss Muir, I thank you.”

The color came up beautifully in her pale cheeks as she pressed the hand and without a word vanished from the room. Lucia and the housekeeper came bustling in, and there was no lack of attendance on the invalid. He soon wearied of it, and sent them all away but Ned, who remorsefully haunted the chamber, looking like a comely young Cain and feeling like an outcast.

“Come here, lad, and tell me all about it. I was wrong to be domineering. Forgive me, and believe that I care for your happiness more sincerely than for my own.”

These frank and friendly words healed the breach between the two brothers and completely conquered Ned. Gladly did he relate his love passages, for no young lover ever tires of that amusement if he has a sympathizing auditor, and Gerald _was_ sympathetic now. For an hour did he lie listening patiently to the history of the growth of his brother’s passion. Emotion gave the narrator eloquence, and Jean Muir’s character was painted in glowing colors. All her unsuspected kindness to those about her was dwelt upon; all her faithful care, her sisterly interest in Bella, her gentle attentions to their mother, her sweet forbearance with Lucia, who plainly showed her dislike, and most of all, her friendly counsel, sympathy, and regard for Ned himself.

“She would make a man of me. She puts strength and courage into me as no one else can. She is unlike any girl I ever saw; there’s no sentimentality about her; she is wise, and kind, and sweet. She says what she means, looks you straight in the eye, and is as true as steel. I’ve tried her, I know her, and--ah, Gerald, I love her so!”

Here the poor lad leaned his face into his hands and sighed a sigh that made his brother’s heart ache.

“Upon my soul, Ned, I feel for you; and if there was no obstacle on her part, I’d do my best for you. She loves Sydney, and so there is nothing for it but to bear your fate like a man.”

“Are you sure about Sydney? May it not be some one else?” and Ned eyed his brother with a suspicious look.

Coventry told him all he knew and surmised concerning his friend, not forgetting the letter. Edward mused a moment, then seemed relieved, and said frankly, “I’m glad it’s Sydney and not you. I can bear it better.”

“Me!” ejaculated Gerald, with a laugh.

“Yes, you; I’ve been tormented lately with a fear that you cared for her, or rather, she for you.”

“You jealous young fool! We never see or speak to one another scarcely, so how could we get up a tender interest?”

“What do you lounge about on that terrace for every evening? And why does she get fluttered when your shadow begins to come and go?” demanded Edward.

“I like the music and don’t care for the society of the singer, that’s why I walk there. The fluttering is all your imagination; Miss Muir isn’t a woman to be fluttered by a man’s shadow.” And Coventry glanced at his useless arm.

“Thank you for that, and for not saying ‘little Muir,’ as you generally do. Perhaps it was my imagination. But she never makes fun of you now, and so I fancied she might have lost her heart to the ‘young master.’ Women often do, you know.”

“She used to ridicule me, did she?” asked Coventry, taking no notice of the latter part of his brother’s speech, which was quite true nevertheless.

“Not exactly, she was too well-bred for that. But sometimes when Bella and I joked about you, she’d say something so odd or witty that it was irresistible. You’re used to being laughed at, so you don’t mind, I know, just among ourselves.”

“Not I. Laugh away as much as you like,” said Gerald. But he did mind, and wanted exceedingly to know what Miss Muir had said, yet was too proud to ask. He turned restlessly and uttered a sigh of pain.

“I’m talking too much; it’s bad for you. Dr. Scott said you must be quiet. Now go to sleep, if you can.”

Edward left the bedside but not the room, for he would let no one take his place. Coventry tried to sleep, found it impossible, and after a restless hour called his brother back.

“If the bandage was loosened a bit, it would ease my arm and then I could sleep. Can you do it, Ned?”

“I dare not touch it. The doctor gave orders to leave it till he came in the morning, and I shall only do harm if I try.”

“But I tell you it’s too tight. My arm is swelling and the pain is intense. It can’t be right to leave it so. Dr. Scott dressed it in a hurry and did it too tight. Common sense will tell you that,” said Coventry impatiently.

“I’ll call Mrs. Morris; she will understand what’s best to be done.” And Edward moved toward the door, looking anxious.

“Not she, she’ll only make a stir and torment me with her chatter. I’ll bear it as long as I can, and perhaps Dr. Scott will come tonight. He said he would if possible. Go to your dinner, Ned. I can ring for Neal if I need anything. I shall sleep if I’m alone, perhaps.”

Edward reluctantly obeyed, and his brother was left to himself. Little rest did he find, however, for the pain of the wounded arm grew unbearable, and, taking a sudden resolution, he rang for his servant.

“Neal, go to Miss Coventry’s study, and if Miss Muir is there, ask her to be kind enough to come to me. I’m in great pain, and she understand wounds better than anyone else in the house.”

With much surprise in his face, the man departed and a few moments after the door noiselessly opened and Miss Muir came in. It had been a very warm day, and for the first time she had left off her plain black dress. All in white, with no ornament but her fair hair, and a fragrant posy of violets in her belt, she looked a different woman from the meek, nunlike creature one usually saw about the house. Her face was as altered as her dress, for now a soft color glowed in her cheeks, her eyes smiled shyly, and her lips no longer wore the firm look of one who forcibly repressed every emotion. A fresh, gentle, and charming woman she seemed, and Coventry found the dull room suddenly brightened by her presence. Going straight to him, she said simply, and with a happy, helpful look very comforting to see, “I’m glad you sent for me. What can I do for you?”

He told her, and before the complaint was ended, she began loosening the bandages with the decision of one who understood what was to be done and had faith in herself.

“Ah, that’s relief, that’s comfort!” ejaculated Coventry, as the last tight fold fell away. “Ned was afraid I should bleed to death if he touched me. What will the doctor say to us?”

“I neither know nor care. I shall say to him that he is a bad surgeon to bind it so closely, and not leave orders to have it untied if necessary. Now I shall make it easy and put you to sleep, for that is what you need. Shall I? May I?”

“I wish you would, if you can.”

And while she deftly rearranged the bandages, the young man watched her curiously. Presently he asked, “How came you to know so much about these things?”

“In the hospital where I was ill, I saw much that interested me, and when I got better, I used to sing to the patients sometimes.”

“Do you mean to sing to me?” he asked, in the submissive tone men unconsciously adopt when ill and in a woman’s care.

“If you like it better than reading aloud in a dreamy tone,” she answered, as she tied the last knot.

“I do, much better,” he said decidedly.

“You are feverish. I shall wet your forehead, and then you will be quite comfortable.” She moved about the room in the quiet way which made it a pleasure to watch her, and, having mingled a little cologne with water, bathed his face as unconcernedly as if he had been a child. Her proceedings not only comforted but amused Coventry, who mentally contrasted her with the stout, beer-drinking matron who had ruled over him in his last illness.

“A clever, kindly little woman,” he thought, and felt quite at his ease, she was so perfectly easy herself.

“There, now you look more like yourself,” she said with an approving nod as she finished, and smoothed the dark locks off his forehead with a cool, soft hand. Then seating herself in a large chair near by, she began to sing, while tidily rolling up the fresh bandages which had been left for the morning. Coventry lay watching her by the dim light that burned in the room, and she sang on as easily as a bird, a dreamy, low-toned lullaby, which soothed the listener like a spell. Presently, looking up to see the effect of her song, she found the young man wide awake, and regarding her with a curious mixture of pleasure, interest, and admiration.

“Shut your eyes, Mr. Coventry,” she said, with a reproving shake of the head, and an odd little smile.

He laughed and obeyed, but could not resist an occasional covert glance from under his lashes at the slender white figure in the great velvet chair. She saw him and frowned.

“You are very disobedient; why won’t you sleep?”

“I can’t, I want to listen. I’m fond of nightingales.”

“Then I shall sing no more, but try something that has never failed yet. Give me your hand, please.”

Much amazed, he gave it, and, taking it in both her small ones, she sat down behind the curtain and remained as mute and motionless as a statue. Coventry smiled to himself at first, and wondered which would tire first. But soon a subtle warmth seemed to steal from the soft palms that enclosed his own, his heart beat quicker, his breath grew unequal, and a thousand fancies danced through his brain. He sighed, and said dreamily, as he turned his face toward her, “I like this.” And in the act of speaking, seemed to sink into a soft cloud which encompassed him about with an atmosphere of perfect repose. More than this he could not remember, for sleep, deep and dreamless, fell upon him, and when he woke, daylight was shining in between the curtains, his hand lay alone on the coverlet, and his fair-haired enchantress was gone.

_Chapter IV_

A DISCOVERY

For several days Coventry was confined to his room, much against his will, though everyone did their best to lighten his irksome captivity. His mother petted him, Bella sang, Lucia read, Edward was devoted, and all the household, with one exception, were eager to serve the young master. Jean Muir never came near him, and Jean Muir alone seemed to possess the power of amusing him. He soon tired of the others, wanted something new; recalled the piquant character of the girl and took a fancy into his head that she would lighten his ennui. After some hesitation, he carelessly spoke of her to Bella, but nothing came of it, for Bella only said Jean was well, and very busy doing something lovely to surprise Mamma with. Edward complained that he never saw her, and Lucia ignored her existence altogether. The only intelligence the invalid received was from the gossip of two housemaids over their work in the next room. From them he learned that the governess had been “scolded” by Miss Beaufort for going to Mr. Coventry’s room; that she had taken it very sweetly and kept herself carefully out of the way of both young gentlemen, though it was plain to see that Mr. Ned was dying for her.

Mr. Gerald amused himself by thinking over this gossip, and quite annoyed his sister by his absence of mind.

“Gerald, do you know Ned’s commission has come?”

“Very interesting. Read on, Bella.”

“You stupid boy! You don’t know a word I say,” and she put down the book to repeat her news.

“I’m glad of it; now we must get him off as soon as possible--that is, I suppose he will want to be off as soon as possible.” And Coventry woke up from his reverie.

“You needn’t check yourself, I know all about it. I think Ned was very foolish, and that Miss Muir has behaved beautifully. It’s quite impossible, of course, but I wish it wasn’t, I do so like to watch lovers. You and Lucia are so cold you are not a bit interesting.”

“You’ll do me a favor if you’ll stop all that nonsense about Lucia and me. We are not lovers, and never shall be, I fancy. At all events, I’m tired of the thing, and wish you and Mamma would let it drop, for the present at least.”

“Oh Gerald, you know Mamma has set her heart upon it, that Papa desired it, and poor Lucia loves you so much. How can you speak of dropping what will make us all so happy?”

“It won’t make me happy, and I take the liberty of thinking that this is of some importance. I’m not bound in any way, and don’t intend to be till I am ready. Now we’ll talk about Ned.”