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Behind a Mask, or a Woman's Power

<h2> Chapter II A GOOD BEGINNING </h2> Only the housemaids were astir when Miss Muir left her room next morning and quietly found her way into the garden. As she walked, apparently intent upon the flowers, her quick eye scrutinized the fine old house and its picturesque surroundings. “Not bad,” she said to herself, adding, as she passed into the adjoining park, “but the other may be better, and I will have the best.” Walking rapidly, she came out at length upon the wide green lawn which lay before the ancient hall where Sir John Coventry lived in solitary splendor. A stately old place, rich in oaks, well-kept shrubberies, gay gardens, sunny terraces, carved gables, spacious rooms, liveried servants, and every luxury befitting the ancestral home of a rich and honorable race. Miss Muir’s eyes brightened as she looked, her step grew firmer, her carriage prouder, and a smile broke over her face; the smile of one well pleased at the prospect of the success of some cherished hope. Suddenly her whole air changed, she pushed back her hat, clasped her hands loosely before her, and seemed absorbed in girlish admiration of the fair scene that could not fail to charm any beauty-loving eye. The cause of this rapid change soon appeared. A hale, handsome man, between fifty and sixty, came through the little gate leading to the park, and, seeing the young stranger, paused to examine her. He had only time for a glance, however; she seemed conscious of his presence in a moment, turned with a startled look, uttered an exclamation of surprise, and looked as if hesitating whether to speak or run away. Gallant Sir John took off his hat and said, with the old-fashioned courtesy which became him well, “I beg your pardon for disturbing you, young lady. Allow me to atone for it by inviting you to walk where you will, and gather what flowers you like. I see you love them, so pray make free with those about you.” With a charming air of maidenly timidity and artlessness, Miss Muir replied, “Oh, thank you, sir! But it is I who should ask pardon for trespassing. I never should have dared if I had not known that Sir John was absent. I always wanted to see this fine old place, and ran over the first thing, to satisfy myself.” “And are you satisfied?” he asked, with a smile. “More than satisfied—I’m charmed; for it is the most beautiful spot I ever saw, and I’ve seen many famous seats, both at home and abroad,” she answered enthusiastically. “The Hall is much flattered, and so would its master be if he heard you,” began the gentleman, with an odd expression. “I should not praise it to him—at least, not as freely as I have to you, sir,” said the girl, with eyes still turned away. “Why not?” asked her companion, looking much amused. “I should be afraid. Not that I dread Sir John; but I’ve heard so many beautiful and noble things about him, and respect him so highly, that I should not dare to say much, lest he should see how I admire and—” “And what, young lady? Finish, if you please.” “I was going to say, love him. I will say it, for he is an old man, and one cannot help loving virtue and bravery.” Miss Muir looked very earnest and pretty as she spoke, standing there with the sunshine glinting on her yellow hair, delicate face, and downcast eyes. Sir John was not a vain man, but he found it pleasant to hear himself commended by this unknown girl, and felt redoubled curiosity to learn who she was. Too well-bred to ask, or to abash her by avowing what she seemed unconscious of, he left both discoveries to chance; and when she turned, as if to retrace her steps, he offered her the handful of hothouse flowers which he held, saying, with a gallant bow, “In Sir John’s name let me give you my little nosegay, with thanks for your good opinion, which, I assure you, is not entirely deserved, for I know him well.” Miss Muir looked up quickly, eyed him an instant, then dropped her eyes, and, coloring deeply, stammered out, “I did not know—I beg your pardon—you are too kind, Sir John.” He laughed like a boy, asking, mischievously, “Why call me Sir John? How do you know that I am not the gardener or the butler?” “I did not see your face before, and no one but yourself would say that any praise was undeserved,” murmured Miss Muir, still overcome with girlish confusion. “Well, well, we will let that pass, and the next time you come we will be properly introduced. Bella always brings her friends to the Hall, for I am fond of young people.” “I am not a friend. I am only Miss Coventry’s governess.” And Miss Muir dropped a meek curtsy. A slight change passed over Sir John’s manner. Few would have perceived it, but Miss Muir felt it at once, and bit her lips with an angry feeling at her heart. With a curious air of pride, mingled with respect, she accepted the still offered bouquet, returned Sir John’s parting bow, and tripped away, leaving the old gentleman to wonder where Mrs. Coventry found such a piquant little governess. “That is done, and very well for a beginning,” she said to herself as she approached the house. In a green paddock close by fed a fine horse, who lifted up his head and eyed her inquiringly, like one who expected a greeting. Following a sudden impulse, she entered the paddock and, pulling a handful of clover, invited the creature to come and eat. This was evidently a new proceeding on the part of a lady, and the horse careered about as if bent on frightening the newcomer away. “I see,” she said aloud, laughing to herself. “I am not your master, and you rebel. Nevertheless, I’ll conquer you, my fine brute.” Seating herself in the grass, she began to pull daisies, singing idly the while, as if unconscious of the spirited prancings of the horse. Presently he drew nearer, sniffing curiously and eyeing her with surprise. She took no notice, but plaited the daisies and sang on as if he was not there. This seemed to pique the petted creature, for, slowly approaching, he came at length so close that he could smell her little foot and nibble at her dress. Then she offered the clover, uttering caressing words and making soothing sounds, till by degrees and with much coquetting, the horse permitted her to stroke his glossy neck and smooth his mane. It was a pretty sight—the slender figure in the grass, the high-spirited horse bending his proud head to her hand. Edward Coventry, who had watched the scene, found it impossible to restrain himself any longer and, leaping the wall, came to join the group, saying, with mingled admiration and wonder in countenance and voice, “Good morning, Miss Muir. If I had not seen your skill and courage proved before my eyes, I should be alarmed for your safety. Hector is a wild, wayward beast, and has damaged more than one groom who tried to conquer him.” “Good morning, Mr. Coventry. Don’t tell tales of this noble creature, who has not deceived my faith in him. Your grooms did not know how to win his heart, and so subdue his spirit without breaking it.” Miss Muir rose as she spoke, and stood with her hand on Hector’s neck while he ate the grass which she had gathered in the skirt of her dress. “You have the secret, and Hector is your subject now, though heretofore he has rejected all friends but his master. Will you give him his morning feast? I always bring him bread and play with him before breakfast.” “Then you are not jealous?” And she looked up at him with eyes so bright and beautiful in expression that the young man wondered he had not observed them before. “Not I. Pet him as much as you will; it will do him good. He is a solitary fellow, for he scorns his own kind and lives alone, like his master,” he added, half to himself. “Alone, with such a happy home, Mr. Coventry?” And a softly compassionate glance stole from the bright eyes. “That was an ungrateful speech, and I retract it for Bella’s sake. Younger sons have no position but such as they can make for themselves, you know, and I’ve had no chance yet.” “Younger sons! I thought—I beg pardon.” And Miss Muir paused, as if remembering that she had no right to question. Edward smiled and answered frankly, “Nay, don’t mind me. You thought I was the heir, perhaps. Whom did you take my brother for last night?” “For some guest who admired Miss Beaufort. I did not hear his name, nor observe him enough to discover who he was. I saw only your kind mother, your charming little sister, and—” She stopped there, with a half-shy, half-grateful look at the young man which finished the sentence better than any words. He was still a boy, in spite of his one-and-twenty years, and a little color came into his brown cheek as the eloquent eyes met his and fell before them. “Yes, Bella is a capital girl, and one can’t help loving her. I know you’ll get her on, for, really, she is the most delightful little dunce. My mother’s ill health and Bella’s devotion to her have prevented our attending to her education before. Next winter, when we go to town, she is to come out, and must be prepared for that great event, you know,” he said, choosing a safe subject. “I shall do my best. And that reminds me that I should report myself to her, instead of enjoying myself here. When one has been ill and shut up a long time, the country is so lovely one is apt to forget duty for pleasure. Please remind me if I am negligent, Mr. Coventry.” “That name belongs to Gerald. I’m only Mr. Ned here,” he said as they walked toward the house, while Hector followed to the wall and sent a sonorous farewell after them. Bella came running to meet them, and greeted Miss Muir as if she had made up her mind to like her heartily. “What a lovely bouquet you have got! I never can arrange flowers prettily, which vexes me, for Mamma is so fond of them and cannot go out herself. You have charming taste,” she said, examining the graceful posy which Miss Muir had much improved by adding feathery grasses, delicate ferns, and fragrant wild flowers to Sir John’s exotics. Putting them into Bella’s hand, she said, in a winning way, “Take them to your mother, then, and ask her if I may have the pleasure of making her a daily nosegay; for I should find real delight in doing it, if it would please her.” “How kind you are! Of course it would please her. I’ll take them to her while the dew is still on them.” And away flew Bella, eager to give both the flowers and the pretty message to the poor invalid. Edward stopped to speak to the gardener, and Miss Muir went up the steps alone. The long hall was lined with portraits, and pacing slowly down it she examined them with interest. One caught her eye, and, pausing before it, she scrutinized it carefully. A young, beautiful, but very haughty female face. Miss Muir suspected at once who it was, and gave a decided nod, as if she saw and caught at some unexpected chance. A soft rustle behind her made her look around, and, seeing Lucia, she bowed, half turned, as if for another glance at the picture, and said, as if involuntarily, “How beautiful it is! May I ask if it is an ancestor, Miss Beaufort?” “It is the likeness of my mother” was the reply, given with a softened voice and eyes that looked up tenderly. “Ah, I might have known, from the resemblance, but I scarcely saw you last night. Excuse my freedom, but Lady Sydney treated me as a friend, and I forget my position. Allow me.” 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 the voice again. For music was the one thing of which he never wearied, and neither Lucia nor Bella possessed skill enough to charm him. For an hour he loitered on the terrace or the lawn, basking in the sunshine, too indolent to seek occupation or society. At length Bella came out, hat in hand, and nearly stumbled over her brother, who lay on the grass. “You lazy man, have you been dawdling here all this time?” she said, looking down at him. “No, I’ve been very busy. Come and tell me how you’ve got on with the little dragon.” “Can’t stop. She bade me take a run after my French, so that I might be ready for my drawing, and so I must.” “It’s too warm to run. Sit down and amuse your deserted brother, who has had no society but bees and lizards for an hour.” He drew her down as he spoke, and Bella obeyed; for, in spite of his indolence, he was one to whom all submitted without dreaming of refusal. “What have you been doing? Muddling your poor little brains with all manner of elegant rubbish?” “No, I’ve been enjoying myself immensely. Jean is so interesting, so kind and clever. She didn’t bore me with stupid grammar, but just talked to me in such pretty French that I got on capitally, and like it as I never expected to, after Lucia’s dull way of teaching it.” “What did you talk about?” “Oh, all manner of things. She asked questions, and I answered, and she corrected me.” “Questions about our affairs, I suppose?” “Not one. She don’t care two sous for us or our affairs. I thought she might like to know what sort of people we were, so I told her about Papa’s sudden death, Uncle John, and you, and Ned; but in the midst of it she said, in her quiet way, ‘You are getting too confidential, my dear. It is not best to talk too freely of one’s affairs to strangers. Let us speak of something else.’” “What were you talking of when she said that, Bell?” “You.” “Ah, then no wonder she was bored.” “She was tired of my chatter, and didn’t hear half I said; for she was busy sketching something for me to copy, and thinking of something more interesting than the Coventrys.” “How do you know?” “By the expression of her face. Did you like her music, Gerald?” “Yes. Was she angry when I clapped?” “She looked surprised, then rather proud, and shut the piano at once, though I begged her to go on. Isn’t Jean a pretty name?” “Not bad; but why don’t you call her Miss Muir?” “She begged me not. She hates it, and loves to be called Jean, alone. I’ve imagined such a nice little romance about her, and someday I shall tell her, for I’m sure she has had a love trouble.” “Don’t get such nonsense into your head, but follow Miss Muir’s well-bred example and don’t be curious about other people’s affairs. Ask her to sing tonight; it amuses me.” “She won’t come down, I think. We’ve planned to read and work in my boudoir, which is to be our study now. Mamma will stay in her room, so you and Lucia can have the drawing room all to yourselves.” “Thank you. What will Ned do?” “He will amuse Mamma, he says. Dear old Ned! I wish you’d stir about and get him his commission. He is so impatient to be doing something and yet so proud he won’t ask again, after you have neglected it so many times and refused Uncle’s help.” “I’ll attend to it very soon; don’t worry me, child. He will do very well for a time, quietly here with us.” “You always say that, yet you know he chafes and is unhappy at being dependent on you. Mamma and I don’t mind; but he is a man, and it frets him. He said he’d take matters into his own hands soon, and then you may be sorry you were so slow in helping him.” “Miss Muir is looking out of the window. You’d better go and take your run, else she will scold.” “Not she. I’m not a bit afraid of her, she’s so gentle and sweet. I’m fond of her already. You’ll get as brown as Ned, lying here in the sun. By the way, Miss Muir agrees with me in thinking him handsomer than you.” “I admire her taste and quite agree with her.” “She said he was manly, and that was more attractive than beauty in a man. She does express things so nicely. Now I’m off.” And away danced Bella, humming the burden of Miss Muir’s sweetest song. “‘Energy is more attractive than beauty in a man.’ She is right, but how the deuce can a man be energetic, with nothing to expend his energies upon?” mused Coventry, with his hat over his eyes. A few moments later, the sweep of a dress caught his ear. Without stirring, a sidelong glance showed him Miss Muir coming across the terrace, as if to join Bella. Two stone steps led down to the lawn. He lay near them, and Miss Muir did not see him till close upon him. She started and slipped on the last step, recovered herself, and glided on, with a glance of unmistakable contempt as she passed the recumbent figure of the apparent sleeper. Several things in Bella’s report had nettled him, but this look made him angry, though he would not own it, even to himself. “Gerald, come here, quick!” presently called Bella, from the rustic seat where she stood beside her governess, who sat with her hand over her face as if in pain. Gathering himself up, Coventry slowly obeyed, but involuntarily quickened his pace as he heard Miss Muir say, “Don’t call him; he can do nothing”; for the emphasis on the word “he” was very significant. “What is it, Bella?” he asked, looking rather wider awake than usual. “You startled Miss Muir and made her turn her ankle. Now help her to the house, for she is in great pain; and don’t lie there anymore to frighten people like a snake in the grass,” said his sister petulantly. “I beg your pardon. Will you allow me?” And Coventry offered his arm. Miss Muir looked up with the expression which annoyed him and answered coldly, “Thank you, Miss Bella will do as well.” “Permit me to doubt that.” And with a gesture too decided to be resisted, Coventry drew her arm through his and led her into the house. She submitted quietly, said the pain would soon be over, and when settled on the couch in Bella’s room dismissed him with the briefest thanks. Considering the unwonted exertion he had made, he thought she might have been a little more grateful, and went away to Lucia, who always brightened when he came. No more was seen of Miss Muir till teatime; for now, while the family were in retirement, they dined early and saw no company. The governess had excused herself at dinner, but came down in the evening a little paler than usual and with a slight limp in her gait. Sir John was there, talking with his nephew, and they merely acknowledged her presence by the sort of bow which gentlemen bestow on governesses. As she slowly made her way to her place behind the urn, Coventry said to his brother, “Take her a footstool, and ask her how she is, Ned.” Then, as if necessary to account for his politeness to his uncle, he explained how he was the cause of the accident. “Yes, yes. I understand. Rather a nice little person, I fancy. Not exactly a beauty, but accomplished and well-bred, which is better for one of her class.” “Some tea, Sir John?” said a soft voice at his elbow, and there was Miss Muir, offering cups to the gentlemen. “Thank you, thank you,” said Sir John, sincerely hoping she had overheard him. As Coventry took his, he said graciously, “You are very forgiving, Miss Muir, to wait upon me, after I have caused you so much pain.” “It is my duty, sir” was her reply, in a tone which plainly said, “but not my pleasure.” And she returned to her place, to smile, and chat, and be charming, with Bella and her brother. Lucia, hovering near her uncle and Gerald, kept them to herself, but was disturbed to find that their eyes often wandered to the cheerful group about the table, and that their attention seemed distracted by the frequent bursts of laughter and fragments of animated conversation which reached them. In the midst of an account of a tragic affair which she endeavored to make as interesting and pathetic as possible, Sir John burst into a hearty laugh, which betrayed that he had been listening to a livelier story than her own. Much annoyed, she said hastily, “I knew it would be so! Bella has no idea of the proper manner in which to treat a governess. She and Ned will forget the difference of rank and spoil that person for her work. She is inclined to be presumptuous already, and if my aunt won’t trouble herself to give Miss Muir a hint in time, I shall.” “Wait until she has finished that story, I beg of you,” said Coventry, for Sir John was already off. “If you find that nonsense so entertaining, why don’t you follow Uncle’s example? I don’t need you.” “Thank you. I will.” And Lucia was deserted. But Miss Muir had ended and, beckoning to Bella, left the room, as if quite unconscious of the honor conferred upon her or the dullness she left behind her. Ned went up to his mother, Gerald returned to make his peace with Lucia, and, bidding them good-night, Sir John turned homeward. Strolling along the terrace, he came to the lighted window of Bella’s study, and wishing to say a word to her, he half pushed aside the curtain and looked in. A pleasant little scene. Bella working busily, and near her in a low chair, with the light falling on her fair hair and delicate profile, sat Miss Muir reading aloud. “Novels!” thought Sir John, and smiled at them for a pair of romantic girls. But pausing to listen a moment before he spoke, he found it was no novel, but history, read with a fluency which made every fact interesting, every sketch of character memorable, by the dramatic effect given to it. Sir John was fond of history, and failing eyesight often curtailed his favorite amusement. He had tried readers, but none suited him, and he had given up the plan. Now as he listened, he thought how pleasantly the smoothly flowing voice would wile away his evenings, and he envied Bella her new acquisition. A bell rang, and Bella sprang up, saying, “Wait for me a minute. I must run to Mamma, and then we will go on with this charming prince.” Away she went, and Sir John was about to retire as quietly as he came, when Miss Muir’s peculiar behavior arrested him for an instant. Dropping the book, she threw her arms across the table, laid her head down upon them, and broke into a passion of tears, like one who could bear restraint no longer. Shocked and amazed, Sir John stole away; but all that night the kindhearted gentleman puzzled his brains with conjectures about his niece’s interesting young governess, quite unconscious that she intended he should do so. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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