Touched and flattered by her tender solicitude, Sir John promised
everything, even while he laughed at her fears. Love blinded the good
gentleman to the peculiarity of the request; the novelty, romance, and
secrecy of the affair rather bewildered though it charmed him; and the
knowledge that he had outrivaled three young and ardent lovers
gratified his vanity more than he would confess. Parting from the girl
at the garden gate, he turned homeward, feeling like a boy again, and
loitered back, humming a love lay, quite forgetful of evening damps,
gout, and the five-and-fifty years which lay so lightly on his
shoulders since Jean's arms had rested there. She hurried toward the
house, anxious to escape Coventry; but he was waiting for her, and she
was forced to meet him.
"How could you linger so long, and keep me in suspense?" he said
reproachfully, as he took her hand and tried to catch a glimpse of her
face in the shadow of her hat brim. "Come and rest in the grotto. I have
so much to say, to hear and enjoy."
"Not now; I am too tired. Let me go in and sleep. Tomorrow we will talk.
It is damp and chilly, and my head aches with all this worry." Jean
spoke wearily, yet with a touch of petulance, and Coventry, fancying
that she was piqued at his not coming for her, hastened to explain with
eager tenderness.
"My poor little Jean, you do need rest. We wear you out, among us, and
you never complain. I should have come to bring you home, but Lucia
detained me, and when I got away I saw my uncle had forestalled me. I
shall be jealous of the old gentleman, if he is so devoted. Jean, tell
me one thing before we part; I am free as air, now, and have a right to
speak. Do you love me? Am I the happy man who has won your heart? I
dare to think so, to believe that this telltale face of yours has
betrayed you, and to hope that I have gained what poor Ned and wild
Sydney have lost."
"Before I answer, tell me of your interview with Lucia. I have a right
to know," said Jean.
Coventry hesitated, for pity and remorse were busy at his heart when he
recalled poor Lucia's grief. Jean was bent on hearing the humiliation of
her rival. As the young man paused, she frowned, then lifted up her face
wreathed in softest smiles, and laying her hand on his arm, she said,
with most effective emphasis, half shy, half fond, upon his name,
"Please tell me, Gerald!"
He could not resist the look, the touch, the tone, and taking the little
hand in his, he said rapidly, as if the task was distasteful to him, "I
told her that I did not, could not love her; that I had submitted to my
mother's wish, and, for a time, had felt tacitly bound to her, though no
words had passed between us. But now I demanded my liberty, regretting
that the separation was not mutually desired."