Behind a Mask; or, a Woman's Power. Луиза Мэй Олкотт

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      “Better than I thought I should. She is well-bred, unassuming, and very entertaining when she likes. She has told us some of the wittiest stories I’ve heard for a long time. Didn’t our laughter wake you?” replied Lucia.

      “Yes. Now atone for it by amusing me with a repetition of these witty tales.”

      “That is impossible; her accent and manner are half the charm,” said Ned. “I wish you had kept away ten minutes longer, for your appearance spoilt the best story of all.”

      “Why didn’t she go on?” asked Coventry, with a ray of curiosity.

      “You forget that she overheard us last night, and must feel that you consider her a bore. She has pride, and no woman forgets speeches like those you made,” answered Lucia.

      “Or forgives them, either, I believe. Well, I must be resigned to languish under her displeasure then. On Sydney’s account I take a slight interest in her; not that I expect to learn anything from her, for a woman with a mouth like that never confides or confesses anything. But I have a fancy to see what captivated him; for captivated he was, beyond a doubt, and by no lady whom he met in society. Did you ever hear anything of it, Ned?” asked Gerald.

      “I’m not fond of scandal or gossip, and never listen to either.” With which remark Edward left the room.

      Lucia was called out by the housekeeper a moment after, and Coventry left to the society most wearisome to him, namely his own. As he entered, he had caught a part of the story which Miss Muir had been telling, and it had excited his curiosity so much that he found himself wondering what the end could be and wishing that he might hear it.

      What the deuce did she run away for, when I came in? he thought. If she is amusing, she must make herself useful; for it’s intensely dull, I own, here, in spite of Lucia. Hey, what’s that?

      It was a rich, sweet voice, singing a brilliant Italian air, and singing it with an expression that made the music doubly delicious. Stepping out of the French window, Coventry strolled along the sunny terrace, enjoying the song with the relish of a connoisseur. Others followed, and still he walked and listened, forgetful of weariness or tune. As one exquisite air ended, he involuntarily applauded. Miss Muir’s face appeared for an instant, then vanished, and no more music followed, though Coventry lingered, hoping to hear the voice again. For music was the one thing of which he never wearied, and neither Lucia nor Bella possessed skill enough to charm him. For an hour he loitered on the terrace or the lawn, basking in the sunshine, too indolent to seek occupation or society. At length Bella came out, hat in hand, and nearly stumbled over her brother, who lay on the grass.

      “You lazy man, have you been dawdling here all this time?” she said, looking down at him.

      “No, I’ve been very busy. Come and tell me how you’ve got on with the little dragon.”

      “Can’t stop. She bade me take a run after my French, so that I might be ready for my drawing, and so I must.”

      “It’s too warm to run. Sit down and amuse your deserted brother, who has had no society but bees and lizards for an hour.”

      He drew her down as he spoke, and Bella obeyed; for, in spite of his indolence, he was one to whom all submitted without dreaming of refusal.

      “What have you been doing? Muddling your poor little brains with all manner of elegant rubbish?”

      “No, I’ve been enjoying myself immensely. Jean is so interesting, so kind and clever. She didn’t bore me with stupid grammar, but just talked to me in such pretty French that I got on capitally, and like it as I never expected to, after Lucia’s dull way of teaching it.”

      “What did you talk about?”

      “Oh, all manner of things. She asked questions, and I answered, and she corrected me.”

      “Questions about our affairs, I suppose?”

      “Not one. She don’t care two sous for us or our affairs. I thought she might like to know what sort of people we were, so I told her about Papa’s sudden death, Uncle John, and you, and Ned; but in the midst of it she said, in her quiet way, ‘You are getting too confidential, my dear. It is not best to talk too freely of one’s affairs to strangers. Let us speak of something else.’ ”

      “What were you talking of when she said that, Bell?”

      “You.”

      “Ah, then no wonder she was bored.”

      “She was tired of my chatter, and didn’t hear half I said; for she was busy sketching something for me to copy, and thinking of something more interesting than the Coventrys.”

      “How do you know?”

      “By the expression of her face. Did you like her music, Gerald?”

      “Yes. Was she angry when I clapped?”

      “She looked surprised, then rather proud, and shut the piano at once, though I begged her to go on. Isn’t Jean a pretty name?”

      “Not bad; but why don’t you call her Miss Muir?”

      “She begged me not. She hates it, and loves to be called Jean, alone. I’ve imagined such a nice little romance about her, and someday I shall tell her, for I’m sure she has had a love trouble.”

      “Don’t get such nonsense into your head, but follow Miss Muir’s well-bred example and don’t be curious about other people’s affairs. Ask her to sing tonight; it amuses me.”

      “She won’t come down, I think. We’ve planned to read and work in my boudoir, which is to be our study now. Mamma will stay in her room, so you and Lucia can have the drawing room all to yourselves.”

      “Thank you. What will Ned do?”

      “He will amuse Mamma, he says. Dear old Ned! I wish you’d stir about and get him his commission. He is so impatient to be doing something and yet so proud he won’t ask again, after you have neglected it so many times and refused Uncle’s help.”

      “I’ll attend to it very soon; don’t worry me, child. He will do very well for a time, quietly here with us.”

      “You always say that, yet you know he chafes and is unhappy at being dependent on you. Mamma and I don’t mind; but he is a man, and it frets him. He said he’d take matters into his own hands soon, and then you may be sorry you were so slow in helping him.”

      “Miss Muir is looking out of the window. You’d better go and take your run, else she will scold.”

      “Not she. I’m not a bit afraid of her, she’s so gentle and sweet. I’m fond of her already. You’ll get as brown as Ned, lying here in the sun. By the way, Miss Muir agrees with me in thinking him handsomer than you.”

      “I admire her taste and quite agree with her.”

      “She said he was manly, and that was more attractive than beauty in a man. She does express things so nicely. Now I’m off.” And away danced Bella, humming the burden of Miss Muir’s sweetest song.

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