"I never said that!" cried Jean indignantly.

"Not in those words, perhaps; but you looked it and thought it, though

you phrased it more mildly. I deserved it, but I shall deserve it no

longer. I am beginning to wake from my disgraceful idleness, and long

for some work that shall make a man of me. Why do you go? I annoy you

with my confessions. Pardon me. They are the first I ever made; they

shall be the last."

"No, oh no! I am too much honored by your confidence; but is it wise, is

it loyal to tell me your hopes and aims? Has not Miss Beaufort the

first right to be your confidante?"

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Coventry drew back, looking intensely annoyed, for the name recalled

much that he would gladly have forgotten in the novel excitement of the

hour. Lucia's love, Edward's parting words, his own reserve so strangely

thrown aside, so difficult to resume. What he would have said was

checked by the sight of a half-open letter which fell from Jean's dress

as she moved away. Mechanically he took it up to return it, and, as he

did so, he recognized Sydney's handwriting. Jean snatched it from him,

turning pale to the lips as she cried, "Did you read it? What did you

see? Tell me, tell me, on your honor!"

"On my honor, I saw nothing but this single sentence, 'By the love I

bear you, believe what I say.' No more, as I am a gentleman. I know the

hand, I guess the purport of the letter, and as a friend of Sydney, I

earnestly desire to help you, if I can. Is this the matter upon which

you want advice?"

"Yes."

"Then let me give it?"

"You cannot, without knowing all, and it is so hard to tell!"

"Let me guess it, and spare you the pain of telling. May I?" And

Coventry waited eagerly for her reply, for the spell was still upon him.

Holding the letter fast, she beckoned him to follow, and glided before

him to a secluded little nook, half boudoir, half conservatory. There

she paused, stood an instant as if in doubt, then looked up at him with

confiding eyes and said decidedly, "I will do it; for, strange as it may

seem, you are the only person to whom I can speak. You know Sydney,

you have discovered that I am an equal, you have offered your help. I

accept it; but oh, do not think me unwomanly! Remember how alone I am,

how young, and how much I rely upon your sincerity, your sympathy!"

"Speak freely. I am indeed your friend." And Coventry sat down beside

her, forgetful of everything but the soft-eyed girl who confided in him

so entirely.

Speaking rapidly, Jean went on, "You know that Sydney loved me, that I

refused him and went away. But you do not know that his importunities

nearly drove me wild, that he threatened to rob me of my only treasure,

my good name, and that, in desperation, I tried to kill myself. Yes,

mad, wicked as it was, I did long to end the life which was, at best, a

burden, and under his persecution had become a torment. You are shocked,

yet what I say is the living truth. Lady Sydney will confirm it, the

nurses at the hospital will confess that it was not a fever which

brought me there; and here, though the external wound is healed, my

heart still aches and burns with the shame and indignation which only a

proud woman can feel."




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