Behind A Mask, Louisa May Alcott [rosie project txt] 📗

ON THE WATCH

“If you please, Mr. Coventry, did you get the letter last night?” were the first words that greeted the “young master” as he left his room next morning.

“What letter, Dean? I don’t remember any,” he answered, pausing, for something in the maid’s manner struck him as peculiar.

“It came just as you left for the Hall, sir. Benson ran after you with it, as it was marked ‘Haste.’ Didn’t you get it, sir?” asked the woman, anxiously.

“Yes, but upon my life, I forgot all about it till this minute. It’s in my other coat, I suppose, if I’ve not lost it. That absurd masquerading put everything else out of my head.” And speaking more to himself than to the maid, Coventry turned back to look for the missing letter.

Dean remained where she was, apparently busy about the arrangement of the curtains at the hall window, but furtively watching meanwhile with a most unwonted air of curiosity.

“Not there, I thought so!” she muttered, as Coventry impatiently thrust his hand into one pocket after another. But as she spoke, an expression of amazement appeared in her face, for suddenly the letter was discovered.

“I’d have sworn it wasn’t there! I don’t understand it, but she’s a deep one, or I’m much deceived.” And Dean shook her head like one perplexed, but not convinced.

Coventry uttered an exclamation of satisfaction on glancing at the address and, standing where he was, tore open the letter.

_Dear C:

I’m off to Baden. Come and join me, then you’ll be out of harm’s way; for if you fall in love with J.M. (and you can’t escape if you stay where she is), you will incur the trifling inconvenience of having your brains blown out by

Yours truly, F.R. Sydney_

“The man is mad!” ejaculated Coventry, staring at the letter while an angry flush rose to his face. “What the deuce does he mean by writing to me in that style? Join him—not I! And as for the threat, I laugh at it. Poor Jean! This headstrong fool seems bent on tormenting her. Well, Dean, what are you waiting for?” he demanded, as if suddenly conscious of her presence.

“Nothing, sir; I only stopped to see if you found the letter. Beg pardon, sir.”

And she was moving on when Coventry asked, with a suspicious look, “What made you think it was lost? You seem to take an uncommon interest in my affairs today.”

“Oh dear, no, sir. I felt a bit anxious, Benson is so forgetful, and it was me who sent him after you, for I happened to see you go out, so I felt responsible. Being marked that way, I thought it might be important so I asked about it.”

“Very well, you can go, Dean. It’s all right, you see.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” muttered the woman, as she curtsied respectfully and went away, looking as if the letter had not been found.

Dean was Miss Beaufort’s maid, a grave, middle-aged woman with keen eyes and a somewhat grim air. Having been long in the family, she enjoyed all the privileges of a faithful and favorite servant. She loved her young mistress with an almost jealous affection. She watched over her with the vigilant care of a mother and resented any attempt at interference on the part of others. At first she had pitied and liked Jean Muir, then distrusted her, and now heartily hated her, as the cause of the increased indifference of Coventry toward his cousin. Dean knew the depth 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 play-acting 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 right to ask it of you.”

So urgently she spoke, so wistfully she looked, that he could not refuse and, going to the window, read the letter. It was evidently an answer to a passionate appeal from the young lover, and was written with consummate skill. As he read, Gerald could not help thinking, If this girl writes in this way to a man whom she does not love, with what a world of power and passion would she write to one whom she did love. And this thought kept returning to him as his eye went over line after line of wise argument, gentle reproof, good counsel, and friendly regard. Here and there a word, a phrase, betrayed what she had already confessed, and Coventry forgot to return the letter, as he stood wondering who was the man whom Jean loved.

The sound of Bella’s voice recalled him, for she was saying, half kindly, half petulantly, “Don’t look so sad, Jean. Ned will outlive it, I dare say. You remember you said once men never died of love, though women might. In his one note to me, he spoke so beautifully of you, and begged me to be kind to you for his sake, that I try to be with all my heart, though if it was anyone but you, I really think I should hate them for making my dear boy so unhappy.”

“You are too kind, Bella, and I often think I’ll go away to relieve you of my presence; but unwise and dangerous as it is to stay, I haven’t the courage to go. I’ve been so happy here.” And as she spoke, Jean’s head dropped lower over the dog as it nestled to her affectionately.

Before Bella could utter half the loving words that sprang to her lips, Coventry came to them with all languor gone from face and mien, and laying Jean’s