"Jean, why did you do that?" he asked, in an eager, agitated voice.
No answer, as the girl sank lower, like one overwhelmed with shame.
Laying his hand on the bent head, and bending his own, he whispered,
"Tell me, is the name John Coventry?"
Still no answer, but a stifled sound betrayed that his words had
gone home.
"Jean, shall I go back and write the letter, or may I stay and tell you
that the old man loves you better than a daughter?"
She did not speak, but a little hand stole out from under the falling
hair, as if to keep him. With a broken exclamation he seized it, drew
her up into his arms, and laid his gray head on her fan: one, too happy
for words. For a moment Jean Muir enjoyed her success; then, fearing
lest some sudden mishap should destroy it, she hastened to make all
secure. Looking up with well-feigned timidity and half-confessed
affection, she said softly, "Forgive me that I could not hide this
better. I meant to go away and never tell it, but you were so kind it
made the parting doubly hard. Why did you ask such dangerous questions?
Why did you look, when you should have been writing my dismissal?"
"How could I dream that you loved me, Jean, when you refused the only
offer I dared make? Could I be presumptuous enough to fancy you would
reject young lovers for an old man like me?" asked Sir John,
caressing her.
"You are not old, to me, but everything I love and honor!" interrupted
Jean, with a touch of genuine remorse, as this generous, honorable
gentleman gave her both heart and home, unconscious of deceit. "It is I
who am presumptuous, to dare to love one so far above me. But I did not
know how dear you were to me till I felt that I must go. I ought not to
accept this happiness. I am not worthy of it; and you will regret your
kindness when the world blames you for giving a home to one so poor, and
plain, and humble as I."
"Hush, my darling. I care nothing for the idle gossip of the world. If
you are happy here, let tongues wag as they will. I shall be too busy
enjoying the sunshine of your presence to heed anything that goes on
about me. But, Jean, you are sure you love me? It seems incredible
that I should win the heart that has been so cold to younger, better
men than I."
"Dear Sir John, be sure of this, I love you truly. I will do my best to
be a good wife to you, and prove that, in spite of my many faults, I
possess the virtue of gratitude."