"Except John Coventry. I will arrange all that. When will you go, Jean?"
"Tomorrow."
"So soon!" And the old man's voice betrayed the trouble he was trying
to conceal.
Jean had grown very calm, but it was the calmness of desperation. She
had hoped that the first tears would produce the avowal for which she
waited. It had not, and she began to fear that her last chance was
slipping from her. Did the old man love her? If so, why did he not
speak? Eager to profit by each moment, she was on the alert for any
hopeful hint, any propitious word, look, or act, and every nerve was
strung to the utmost.
"Jean, may I ask one question?" said Sir John.
"Anything of me, sir."
"This man whom you love--can he not help you?"
"He could if he knew, but he must not."
"If he knew what? Your present trouble?"
"No. My love."
"He does not know this, then?"
"No, thank heaven! And he never will."
"Why not?"
"Because I am too proud to own it."
"He loves you, my child?"
"I do not know--I dare not hope it," murmured Jean.
"Can I not help you here? Believe me, I desire to see you safe and
happy. Is there nothing I can do?"
"Nothing, nothing."
"May I know the name?"
"No! No! Let me go; I cannot bear this questioning!" And Jean's
distressful face warned him to ask no more.
"Forgive me, and let me do what I may. Rest here quietly. I'll write a
letter to a good friend of mine, who will find you a home, if you
leave us."
As Sir John passed into his inner study, Jean watched him with
despairing eyes and wrung her hands, saying to herself, Has all my
skill deserted me when I need it most? How can I make him understand,
yet not overstep the bounds of maiden modesty? He is so blind, so
timid, or so dull he will not see, and time is going fast. What shall I
do to open his eyes?
Her own eyes roved about the room, seeking for some aid from inanimate
things, and soon she found it. Close behind the couch where she sat hung
a fine miniature of Sir John. At first her eye rested on it as she
contrasted its placid comeliness with the unusual pallor and disquiet of
the living face seen through the open door, as the old man sat at his
desk trying to write and casting covert glances at the girlish figure he
had left behind him. Affecting unconsciousness of this, Jean gazed on as
if forgetful of everything but the picture, and suddenly, as if obeying
an irresistible impulse, she took it down, looked long and fondly at it,
then, shaking her curls about her face, as if to hide the act, pressed
it to her lips and seemed to weep over it in an uncontrollable paroxysm
of tender grief. A sound startled her, and like a guilty thing, she
turned to replace the picture; but it dropped from her hand as she
uttered a faint cry and hid her face, for Sir John stood before her,
with an expression which she could not mistake.