Behind A Mask by Louisa May Alcott (the little red hen read aloud TXT) 📖

days! Can it be accomplished in so short a time? It shall be, if wit and will can do it, for it is my last chance. If this fails, I’ll not go back to my old life, but end all at once.”

Setting her teeth and clenching her hands, as if some memory stung her, she went on through the twilight, to find Sir John waiting to give her a hearty welcome.

“You look tired, my dear. Never mind the reading tonight; rest yourself, and let the book go,” he said kindly, observing her worn look.

“Thank you, sir. I am tired, but I’d rather read, else the book will not be finished before I go.”

“Go, child! Where are you going?” demanded Sir John, looking anxiously at her as she sat down.

“I will tell you by-and-by, sir.” And opening the book, Jean read for a little while.

But the usual charm was gone; there was no spirit in the voice of the reader, no interest in the face of the listener, and soon he said, abruptly, “My dear, pray stop! I cannot listen with a divided mind. What troubles you? Tell your friend, and let him comfort you.”

As if the kind words overcame her, Jean dropped the book, covered up her face, and wept so bitterly that Sir John was much alarmed; for such a demonstration was doubly touching in one who usually was all gaiety and smiles. As he tried to soothe her, his words grew tender, his solicitude full of a more than paternal anxiety, and his kind heart overflowed with pity and affection for the weeping girl. As she grew calmer, he urged her to be frank, promising to help and counsel her, whatever the affliction or fault might be.

“Ah, you are too kind, too generous! How can I go away and leave my one friend?” sighed Jean, wiping the tears away and looking up at him with grateful eyes.

“Then you do care a little for the old man?” said Sir John with an eager look, an involuntary pressure of the hand he held.

Jean turned her face away, and answered, very low, “No one ever was so kind to me as you have been. Can I help caring for you more than I can express?”

Sir John was a little deaf at times, but he heard that, and looked well pleased. He had been rather thoughtful of late, had dressed with unusual care, been particularly gallant and gay when the young ladies visited him, and more than once, when Jean paused in the reading to ask a question, he had been forced to confess that he had not been listening; though, as she well knew, his eyes had been fixed upon her. Since the discovery of her birth, his manner had been peculiarly benignant, and many little acts had proved his interest and goodwill. Now, when Jean spoke of going, a panic seized him, and desolation seemed about to fall upon the old Hall. Something in her unusual agitation struck him as peculiar and excited his curiosity. Never had she seemed so interesting as now, when she sat beside him with tearful eyes, and some soft trouble in her heart which she dared not confess.

“Tell me everything, child, and let your friend help you if he can.” Formerly he said “father” or “the old man,” but lately he always spoke of himself as her “friend.”

“I will tell you, for I have no one else to turn to. I must go away because Mr. Coventry has been weak enough to love me.”

“What, Gerald?” cried Sir John, amazed.

“Yes; today he told me this, and left me to break with Lucia; so I ran to you to help me prevent him from disappointing his mother’s hopes and plans.”

Sir John had started up and paced down the room, but as Jean paused he turned toward her, saying, with an altered face, “Then you do not love him? Is it possible?”

“No, I do not love him,” she answered promptly.

“Yet he is all that women usually find attractive. How is it that you have escaped, Jean?”

“I love someone else” was the scarcely audible reply.

Sir John resumed his seat with the air of a man bent on getting at a mystery, if possible.

“It will be unjust to let you suffer for the folly of these boys, my little girl. Ned is gone, and I was sure that Gerald was safe; but now that his turn has come, I am perplexed, for he cannot be sent away.”

“No, it is I who must go; but it seems so hard to leave this safe and happy home, and wander away into the wide, cold world again. You have all been too kind to me, and now separation breaks my heart.”

A sob ended the speech, and Jean’s head went down upon her hands again. Sir John looked at her a moment, and his fine old face was full of genuine emotion, as he said slowly, “Jean, will you stay and be a daughter to the solitary old man?”

“No, sir” was the unexpected answer.

“And why not?” asked Sir John, looking surprised, but rather pleased than angry.

“Because I could not be a daughter to you; and even if I could, it would not be wise, for the gossips would say you were not old enough to be the adopted father of a girl like me. Sir John, young as I am, I know much of the world, and am sure that this kind plan is impractical; but I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

“Where will you go, Jean?” asked Sir John, after a pause.

“To London, and try to find another situation where I can do no harm.”

“Will it be difficult to find another home?”

“Yes. I cannot ask Mrs. Coventry to recommend me, when I have innocently brought so much trouble into her family; and Lady Sydney is gone, so I have no friend.”

“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.

“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