Behind A Mask - Louisa May Alcott (books you need to read .txt) 📗
- Author: Louisa May Alcott
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Here a servant came running after him and gave him a letter, which he thrust into his pocket without examining it. When he reached the Hall, he went quietly to his uncle’s study. The door was ajar, and looking in, he saw a scene of tranquil comfort, very pleasant to watch. Sir John leaned in his easy chair with one foot on a cushion. He was dressed with his usual care and, in spite of the gout, looked like a handsome, well-preserved old gentleman. He was smiling as he listened, and his eyes rested complacently on Jean Muir, who sat near him reading in her musical voice, while the sunshine glittered on her hair and the soft rose of her cheek. She read well, yet Coventry thought her heart was not in her task, for once when she paused, while Sir John spoke, her eyes had an absent expression, and she leaned her head upon her hand, with an air of patient weariness.
Poor girl! I did her great injustice; she has no thought of captivating the old man, but amuses him from simple kindness. She is tired. I’ll put an end to her task; and Coventry entered without knocking.
Sir John received him with an air of polite resignation, Miss Muir with a perfectly expressionless face.
“Mother’s love, and how are you today, sir?”
“Comfortable, but dull, so I want you to bring the girls over this evening, to amuse the old gentleman. Mrs. King has got out the antique costumes and trumpery, as I promised Bella she should have them, and tonight we are to have a merrymaking, as we used to do when Ned was here.”
“Very well, sir, I’ll bring them. We’ve all been out of sorts since the lad left, and a little jollity will do us good. Are you going back, Miss Muir?” asked Coventry.
“No, I shall keep her to give me my tea and get things ready. Don’t read anymore, my dear, but go and amuse yourself with the pictures, or whatever you like,” said Sir John; and like a dutiful daughter she obeyed, as if glad to get away.
“That’s a very charming girl, Gerald,” began Sir John as she left the room. “I’m much interested in her, both on her own account and on her mother’s.”
“Her mother’s! What do you know of her mother?” asked Coventry, much surprised.
“Her mother was Lady Grace Howard, who ran away with a poor Scotch minister twenty years ago. The family cast her off, and she lived and died so obscurely that very little is known of her except that she left an orphan girl at some small French pension. This is the girl, and a fine girl, too. I’m surprised that you did not know this.”
“So am I, but it is like her not to tell. She is a strange, proud creature. Lady Howard’s daughter! Upon my word, that is a discovery,” and Coventry felt his interest in his sister’s governess much increased by this fact; for, like all wellborn Englishmen, he valued rank and gentle blood even more than he cared to own.
“She has had a hard life of it, this poor little girl, but she has a brave spirit, and will make her way anywhere,” said Sir John admiringly.
“Did Ned know this?” asked Gerald suddenly.
“No, she only told me yesterday. I was looking in the Peerage and chanced to speak of the Howards. She forgot herself and called Lady Grace her mother. Then I got the whole story, for the lonely little thing was glad to make a confidant of someone.”
“That accounts for her rejection of Sydney and Ned: she knows she is their equal and will not snatch at the rank which is hers by right. No, she’s not mercenary or ambitious.”
“What do you say?” asked Sir John, for Coventry had spoken more to himself than to his uncle.
“I wonder if Lady Sydney was aware of this?” was all Gerald’s answer.
“No, Jean said she did not wish to be pitied, and so told nothing to the mother. I think the son knew, but that was a delicate point, and I asked no questions.”
“I shall write to him as soon as I discover his address. We have been so intimate I can venture to make a few inquiries about Miss Muir, and prove the truth of her story.”
“Do you mean to say that you doubt it?” demanded Sir John angrily.
“I beg your pardon, Uncle, but I must confess I have an instinctive distrust of that young person. It is unjust, I dare say, yet I cannot banish it.”
“Don’t annoy me by expressing it, if you please. I have some penetration and experience, and I respect and pity Miss Muir heartily. This dislike of yours may be the cause of her late melancholy, hey, Gerald?” And Sir John looked suspiciously at his nephew.
Anxious to avert the rising storm, Coventry said hastily as he turned away, “I’ve neither time nor inclination to discuss the matter now, sir, but will be careful not to offend again. I’ll take your message to Bella, so good-bye for an hour, Uncle.”
And Coventry went his way through the park, thinking within himself, The dear old gentleman is getting fascinated, like poor Ned. How the deuce does the girl do it? Lady Howard’s daughter, yet never told us; I don’t understand that.
HOW THE GIRL DID IT
At home he found a party of young friends, who hailed with delight the prospect of a revel at the Hall. An hour later, the blithe company trooped into the great saloon, where preparations had already been made for a dramatic evening.
Good Sir John was in his element, for he was never so happy as when his house was full of young people. Several persons were chosen, and in a few moments the curtains were withdrawn from the first of these impromptu tableaux. A swarthy, darkly bearded man lay asleep on a tiger skin, in the shadow of a tent. Oriental arms and drapery surrounded him; an antique silver lamp burned dimly on a table where fruit lay heaped in costly dishes, and wine shone redly in half-emptied goblets. Bending over the sleeper was a woman robed with barbaric splendor. One hand turned back the embroidered sleeve from the arm which held a scimitar; one slender foot in a scarlet sandal was visible under the white tunic; her purple mantle swept down from snowy shoulders; fillets of gold bound her hair, and jewels shone on neck and arms. She was looking over her shoulder toward the entrance of the tent, with a steady yet stealthy look, so effective that for a moment the spectators held their breath, as if they also heard a passing footstep.
“Who is it?” whispered Lucia, for the face was new to her.
“Jean Muir,” answered Coventry, with an absorbed look.
“Impossible! She is small and fair,” began Lucia, but a hasty “Hush, let me look!” from her cousin silenced her.
Impossible as it seemed, he was right nevertheless; for Jean Muir it was. She had darkened her skin, painted her eyebrows, disposed some wild black locks over her fair hair, and thrown such an intensity of expression into her eyes that they darkened and dilated till they were as fierce as any southern eyes that ever flashed. Hatred, the deepest and bitterest, was written on her sternly beautiful face, courage glowed in her glance, power spoke in the nervous grip of the slender hand that held the weapon, and the indomitable will of the woman was expressed—even the firm pressure of the little foot half hidden in the tiger skin.
“Oh, isn’t she splendid?” cried Bella under her breath.
“She looks as if she’d use her sword well when the time comes,” said someone admiringly.
“Good night to Holofernes; his fate is certain,” added another.
“He is the image of Sydney, with that beard on.”
“Doesn’t she look as if she really hated him?”
“Perhaps she does.”
Coventry uttered the last exclamation, for the two which preceded it suggested an explanation of the marvelous change in Jean. It was not all art: the intense detestation mingled with a savage joy that the object of her hatred was in her power was too perfect to be feigned; and having the key to a part of her story, Coventry felt as if he caught a glimpse of the truth. It was but a glimpse, however, for the curtain dropped before he had half analyzed the significance of that strange face.
“Horrible! I’m glad it’s over,” said Lucia coldly.
“Magnificent! Encore! Encore!” cried Gerald enthusiastically.
But the scene was over, and no applause could recall the actress. Two or three graceful or gay pictures followed, but Jean was in none, and each lacked the charm which real talent lends to the simplest part.
“Coventry, you are wanted,” called a voice. And to everyone’s surprise, Coventry went, though heretofore he had always refused to exert himself when handsome actors were in demand.
“What part am I to spoil?” he asked, as he entered the green room, where several excited young gentlemen were costuming and attitudinizing.
“A fugitive cavalier. Put yourself into this suit, and lose no time asking questions. Miss Muir will tell you what to do. She is in the tableau, so no one will mind you,” said the manager pro tem, throwing a rich old suit toward Coventry and resuming the painting of a moustache on his own boyish face.
A gallant cavalier was the result of Gerald’s hasty toilet, and when he appeared before the ladies a general glance of admiration was bestowed upon him.
“Come along and be placed; Jean is ready on the stage.” And Bella ran before him, exclaiming to her governess, “Here he is, quite splendid. Wasn’t he good to do it?”
Miss Muir, in the charmingly prim and puritanical dress of a Roundhead damsel, was arranging some shrubs, but turned suddenly and dropped the green branch she held, as her eye met the glittering figure advancing toward her.
“You!” she said with a troubled look, adding low to Bella, “Why did you ask him? I begged you not.”
“He is the only handsome man here, and the best actor if he likes. He won’t play usually, so make the most of him.” And Bella was off to finish powdering her hair for “The Marriage � la Mode.”
“I was sent for and I came. Do you prefer some other person?” asked Coventry, at a loss to understand the half-anxious, half-eager expression of the face under the little cap.
It changed to one of mingled annoyance and resignation as she said, “It is too late. Please kneel here, half behind the shrubs; put down your hat, and—allow me—you are too elegant for a fugitive.”
As he knelt before her, she disheveled his hair, pulled his lace collar awry, threw away his gloves and sword, and half untied the cloak that hung about his shoulders.
“That is better; your paleness is excellent—nay, don’t spoil it. We are to represent the picture which hangs in the Hall. I need tell you no more. Now, Roundheads, place yourselves, and then ring up the curtain.”
With a smile, Coventry obeyed her; for the picture was of two lovers, the young cavalier kneeling, with his arm around the waist of the girl, who tries to hide him with her little mantle, and presses his head to her bosom in an ecstasy of fear, as she glances back at the
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