She put a hastily written note into his hand and watched him intently
while he read it. She saw him flush with anger, bite his lips, and knit
his brows, then assume his haughtiest look, as he lifted his eyes and
said in his most sarcastic tone, "Very well for a beginning. The boy has
eloquence. Pity that it should be wasted. May I ask if you have replied
to this rhapsody?"
"I have."
"And what follows? He begs you 'to fly with him, to share his fortunes,
and be the good angel of his life.' Of course you consent?"
There was no answer, for, standing erect before him, Miss Muir regarded
him with an expression of proud patience, like one who expected
reproaches, yet was too generous to resent them. Her manner had its
effect. Dropping his bitter tone, Coventry asked briefly, "Why do you
show me this? What can I do?"
"I show it that you may see how much in earnest 'the boy' is, and how
open I desire to be. You can control, advise, and comfort your brother,
and help me to see what is my duty."
"You love him?" demanded Coventry bluntly.
"No!" was the quick, decided answer.
"Then why make him love you?"
"I never tried to do it. Your sister will testify that I have endeavored
to avoid him as I--" And he finished the sentence with an unconscious
tone of pique, "As you have avoided me."
She bowed silently, and he went on: "I will do you the justice to say that nothing can be more blameless
than your conduct toward myself; but why allow Ned to haunt you evening
after evening? What could you expect of a romantic boy who had nothing
to do but lose his heart to the first attractive woman he met?"
A momentary glisten shone in Jean Muir's steel-blue eyes as the last
words left the young man's lips; but it was gone instantly, and her
voice was full of reproach, as she said, steadily, impulsively, "If the
'romantic boy' had been allowed to lead the life of a man, as he longed
to do, he would have had no time to lose his heart to the first
sorrowful girl whom he pitied. Mr. Coventry, the fault is yours. Do not
blame your brother, but generously own your mistake and retrieve it in
the speediest, kindest manner."
For an instant Gerald sat dumb. Never since his father died had anyone
reproved him; seldom in his life had he been blamed. It was a new
experience, and the very novelty added to the effect. He saw his fault,
regretted it, and admired the brave sincerity of the girl in telling him
of it. But he did not know how to deal with the case, and was forced to
confess not only past negligence but present incapacity. He was as
honorable as he was proud, and with an effort he said frankly, "You are
right, Miss Muir. I am to blame, yet as soon as I saw the danger, I
tried to avert it. My visit to town was on Ned's account; he will have
his commission very soon, and then he will be sent out of harm's way.
Can I do more?"