Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15 (20 page)

 
          
“Well,
well, stop blushing and speak out; I know nothing but this boy’s love and the
change in you.” Yorke spoke impatiently, and wore an anxious look, as if he
dreaded more tender confessions, for Cecil never lifted her eyes as she rapidly
went on:

 
          
“A
week ago, as we came in from our evening walk, you stopped at the corner to
call Judas, and I went on to open the door for you. Just as I put the key into
the latch, a hand took mine, as if to slip something into it, but I was so
startled I let the paper drop, and should have called to you if someone had not
wrapped me in a cloak so closely that I could not speak, though I was kissed
more than once and called my darling in a very tender voice. It all happened in
a minute, and before I knew what to do, the man was gone, and I ran in, too
frightened to wait for you.”

 
          
As
she paused, Cecil looked up, and was amazed to see no wonder on Yorke’s face,
but an expression of pain and indignation that she could not understand. “Back
again and I not know it,” he muttered to himself, then aloud, almost sternly,
“why did you not tell me this before?”

 
          
“You
were busy that night, and when I’d thought of it a little I did not like to
speak of it, because I remembered that you called me silly when I told you that
people made me uncomfortable by looking at me as I walked in the day. I thought
I’d wait, but it troubled me and made me seem unlike myself, I suppose.”

 
          
“Are
you sure it was not Alfred, playing some foolish prank in the twilight?” asked
Yorke.

 
          
“I
know it was not Alf; he wears no beard, and is not tall like this strange man.”

 
          
“It
could not have been Anthony?”

 
          
“Oh,
no, that is impossible. Old Tony’s hands are rough; these were soft though very
strong, and the voice was too low and kind for his.”

 
          
“Have
you no suspicion who it might have been?” asked Yorke, searching her thoughtful
face intently.

 
          
She
blushed deeper than before, but answered steadily, “I did think of you, master,
for you are tall and strong, you wear a beard and cloak, and your hand is soft.
But your voice never is like that voice, and you never say my darling’ in that
tender way.”

 
          
Yorke
knit his brows, saying, a little bitterly, “You seem to have forgiven this
insolent stranger already because of that, and to reproach me that I never use
such sentimental phrases, or embrace my ward upon my doorstep. Shall I tell you
who this interesting phantom probably was? The model,
whom
you disliked so much that I dismissed him when you came.”

 
          
Cecil
turned pale, for her childish terror had remained as fresh in her memory as the
events that wakened it; and though she had merely caught glimpses of the man as
he occasionally glided into Yorke’s private room during the past five years,
she still felt a curious mixture of interest and fear, and often longed to
break her promise and ask questions concerning him and his peculiar ways.

 
          
“Why
do you let him come?” she said, forgetting everything but surprise, as Yorke
spoke as he had never done before.

 
          
“I
wish I could prevent it!” he answered, eyeing her half sadly, half jealously.
“I’ve bidden him to go, but be will come back to harass me. Now I’ll end it at
any cost.”

 
          
“But
why does be care for me?” asked Cecil, finding that her first question had
received an answer.

 
          
“Because
you are beautiful and—” There Yorke caught back the coming words, and after a
pause said coldly, “Remember your promise- no more of this.”

 
          
For
several minutes he went to and fro, busied with anxious thoughts, while Cecil
mused over the mystery, and grieved for Alfred’s disappointment. Suddenly Yorke
paused before her.

 
          
“Do
you understand to what you pledge yourself when you say you will never leave
me, Cecil?”

 
          
“I
think I do” was the ready answer.

 
          
“Nothing
is to be changed, you know.”

 
          
“I
hope not.”

 
          
“No romances—no poetry to be allowed.”

 
          
“I
do not want them.”

 
          
“No
frivolities and follies like other women.”

 
          
“I
can be happy without.”

 
          
“No
more Cupids of any sort.”

 
          
“Shall
I break this one?”

 
          
“No,
leave it as a warning, or send it to poor Alf.”

 
          
“What
else, master?” she asked wistfully.

 
          
“Only
this: Can you be content year after year with study, solitude, steady progress,
and in time fame for yourself, but never any knowledge of love as Alfred paints
it?”

 
          
“Never, Yorke?”

 
          
“Never, Cecil!”

 
          
She
shivered, as if the words fell cold upon her heart, all the glad light and
color faded from her face, and she looked about her with longing eyes, as if
the sunshine had gone out of her life forever. Yorke saw the change, and a
momentary expression of pity softened the stern determination of his face.

 
          
“This
never would have happened but for that romantic boy,” he thought. “There shall
be no more of it, and a little pain now shall spare us all misunderstanding
hereafter.”

 
          
“Cecil,”
he said aloud, “love makes half the misery of the world; it has been the bane
of my life—it has made me what I am, a man without ambition, hope, or
happiness—and out of my own bitter experience I warn you to beware of it. You
know nothing of it yet, and if you are to stay with me you never will, unless
this
boys
folly has done more harm than I suspect.
Carving Cupid has filled your head with fancies that will do you no good;
banish them and be what I would have you.”

 
          
“A
marble woman like your Psyche, with no heart to love you, only grace and beauty
to please your eye and bring you honor; is that what you would have me?”

 
          
He
started, as if she had put some hidden purpose into words; his eye went from
the gleaming statue to the pale girl, and saw that he had worked out his design
in stone, but not yet in that finer material given him to mold well or ill. He
did not see the pain and passion throbbing in her heart; he only saw her steady
eyes; he only heard her low spoken question, and answered it, believing that he
served her better than she knew.

 
          
“Yes,
I would have you beautiful and passionless as Psyche, a creature to admire with
no fear of disturbing its quiet heart, no fear of endangering one's own. I am
kinder than I seem in saying this, for I desire to save you from the pain I
have known. Stay with me always, if you can, but remember, Cecil, I am done
with love.”

 
          
“I
shall remember, sir.”

 
          
Yorke
left her, glad to have the task over, for it had not been as easy as he
fancied. Cecil listened and answered with her usual submission, stood
motionless till the sound of a closing door assured her that he was gone, then
a look of sharp anguish banished the composure of her face, and a woman's
passionate pride trembled in her voice as she echoed his last words.

 
          
“I
am done with love!” And lifting the little Cupid let it drop broken at her
feet.

GERMAIN

 
          
FOR
a week Cecil saw little of Yorke, as, contrary to his custom, he was out a
greater part of each day, and when at home was so taciturn and absorbed that he
was scarcely more than a shadow in the house. She asked no questions, appeared
unconscious of any change, and worked busily upon a new design, thinking bitter
thoughts the while. Alfred never came, and Cecil missed him; but Yorke was well
satisfied, for the purpose formed so long ago had never changed; and though the
young mans love endangered its fulfillment, that cloud had passed by, leaving
the girl all his own again. She too seemed to cherish some purpose, that soon
showed its influence over her; for her face daily grew more cold and colorless,
her manner quieter, her smiles fewer, her words briefer, her life more nunlike
than ever, till unexpected events changed the current of her thoughts, and gave
her new mysteries to brood over.

 
          
One
evening, as Cecil sat drawing, while Yorke paced restlessly up and down, he
said suddenly, after watching her for several minutes, “Cecil, will you do me a
great favor?”

 
          
“With
pleasure, if I can and ought,” she answered, without pausing in her work.

 
          
“I
am sure you can, I think you ought, yet I cannot explain why I ask it, although
it will annoy and perplex you. Will you have faith in me, and believe that what
I do is done for the best?”

 
          
“I
trust you, sir; you have taught me to bear in silence many things that perplex
and annoy me, so I think I can promise to bear one more.” Something in her meek
answer seemed to touch him like a reproach, for his voice softened, as he said
regretfully, “I know I am not all I might be to you, but the day may come when
you will see that I have spared you greater troubles, and made my dull home a
safer shelter than it seems.”

 
          
He
took a turn or two,
then
stopped again, asking
abruptly, “A gentleman is to dine with me tomorrow; will you do the honors of
the house?”

 
          
It
was impossible to conceal the surprise which this unusual request produced, for
during all the years they had been together, few strangers had been admitted,
and Cecil, being shy, had gladly absented
herself
on
these rare occasions. Now she laid down her pencil and looked up at him, with
mingled reluctance and astonishment in her face.

 
          
“How
can I, when I know nothing of such things? Hester has always suited you till
now.”

 
          
“I
have neglected many womanly accomplishments which you should have acquired,
this among them; now you shall learn to be the little mistress of the house,
and leave Hester in her proper place. Will you oblige me, Cecil?”

 
          
Yorke
spoke as if discharging a painful duty which had been imposed upon him; Cecil
was quick to see this, and any pleasure she might have felt in the proposal was
destroyed by his uneasy manner.

 
          
“As
you please, sir” was all her answer.

 
          
“Thank you; now one thing more.
Haven’t you a plain gray
gown?”

 
          
“Yes.”

 
          
“Be
kind enough to wear it tomorrow, instead of that white one, which is
more
becoming, but too peculiar to appear in before
strangers. This, also, I want altered; let me show you how.”

 
          
He
untied the band that held her hair, and as it fell upon her shoulders, he
gathered the dark locks plainly back into a knot behind, smoothing away the
ripples on her forehead, and the curls that kept breaking from his hold.

 
          
“Wear
it so tomorrow. Look in the glass, and see how I mean,” he said, as he surveyed
the change he had effected.

 
          
She
looked, and smiled involuntarily, though a vainer girl would have frowned, for
the alteration added years to her age, apparently; destroyed the beautiful
outline of her face, and robbed her head of its most graceful ornament.

 
          
“You
wish me to look old and plain, I see. If you like it, I am satisfied.”

 
          
He
looked annoyed at her quickness in divining his purpose, and shook out the
curls again, as he said hastily, “I do wish it, for my guest worships beauty,
and I have no desire for more love passages at present/’

 
          
“No
fear of that till poor Alf’s forgotten.”

 
          
She
spoke proudly, and took up her pencil as if weary of the subject. Yorke stood
for a moment, wondering if she found it hard to forget “poor Alf,” but he said
no more, and sat down as if a load were off his mind. Opening a book, he seemed
to read, but Cecil heard no leaves turned, and a covert glance showed him
regarding the page with absent eyes and a melancholy expression that troubled
her. There had been a time when she would have gone to him with affectionate
solicitude, but not now; and though her heart was full of sympathy, she dared
not show it, so sat silent till the clock struck ten, then with a quiet “Good
night” she was gone.

 
          
“We
shall dine at six; I’ll ring for you when Germain comes,” said Yorke, as they
came in from their walk the following day.

 
          
“I
shall be ready, sir.”

 
          
Cecil
watched and waited for the stranger’s arrival, in a flutter of expectation,
which proved that in spite of Yorke’s severe training, feminine curiosity was
not yet dead. She heard Anthony admit the guest, heard Yorke receive him, and
heard the old woman who came to help Hester on such occasions ejaculate from
behind a door, “Bless me, what a handsome man!” But minute after minute passed,
and no bell rang, no summons came for her. The clock was on the stroke of six,
and she was thinking, sorrowfully, that he had forgotten her, when Yorke’s
voice was heard at the door, saying with unusual gentleness, “Come, Cecil; it
is time.”

 
          
“I
thought you were to ring for me,” she said, as they went down together.

 
          
“And
I thought it more respectful to come and wait upon the little mistress, than to
call her like a servant. How your heart beats! You need fear nothing. I shall
be near you, child.”

 
          
He
took her by the hand with a protecting gesture that surprised her, but a moment
later she understood both speech and action. A gentleman was standing at the
far end of the room, and as they noiselessly approached, Cecil had time to mark
the grace and strength of his tall figure, the ease of his attitude, the beauty
of the hands loosely locked together behind him, before Yorke spoke.

 
          
“Germain, my ward, Miss Stein.”

 
          
He
turned quickly, and the eyes that Cecil was shyly averting, dilated with
undisguised astonishment, for a single glance assured her that Germain was the
mysterious model. Her hand closed over Yorke’s, trembling visibly, as the
stranger, in a singularly musical voice and with an unmistakably highbred air,
paid his compliments to Miss Stein.

 
          
“Control
yourself, and bear with this man for my sake, Cecil,” whispered Yorke, as he
led her to a seat, and placed
himself
so as to screen
her for a moment.

 
          
She
did control herself, for that had been her earliest lesson, and she had learned
it well. She did bear with this man, 'for whom she felt such an aversion, and
when he offered his arm to lead her in to dinner, she took it, though her eyes
never met his, and she spoke not a word. It was long before she ventured to
steal a look at him, and when she did so, it was long before she looked away
again. The old woman was right, he was a handsome man; younger apparently than
his host, and dressed with an elegance that Yorke had never attempted. Black
hair and beard, carefully arranged, brilliant dark eyes, fine features, and
that persuasive voice, all helped to make a most attractive person, for now the
sinister expression was replaced by one of the serenest suavity, the stealthy
gait and gestures exchanged for a graceful carriage, and some agreeable change
seemed to have befallen both the man and his fortunes, as there was no longer
any appearance of mystery or poverty about him. Cecil observed these things
with a woman’s quickness, and smiled to think she had ever feared the gay and
gallant gentleman. Then she turned to examine Yorke, and saw that the
accustomed gravity of his face was often disturbed by varying emotions; for
sometimes it was sad, then stern, then tender, and more than once his eye met
hers with a grateful look, as if he thanked her for granting him a greater
favor than she knew.

 
          
Cecil
performed her duties gracefully and well, but said little, and listened
attentively to the conversation, which never strayed from general subjects.
Though interested, she was not sorry when Yorke gave her the signal to
withdraw, and went away into the drawing room. Here, leaning in an easy chair
before the fire, she hoped to enjoy a quiet half hour at least, but was disappointed.
Happening to lift her eyes to the mirror over the low chimneypiece, to study
the effect of the plain bands of hair, she saw another face beside her own, and
became aware that Mr. Germain was intently watching her in the glass, as he
leaned upon the high back of her chair. Meeting her eyes, he came and stood
upon the rug, which Judas yielded to him with a surly growl. Cecil arrested the
dog, feeling a sense of security while he was by, for the childish dread was
not yet quite gone, and despite his promise, Yorke did not appear. Germain
seemed to understand the meaning of her hasty glance about the room, and
answered it.

 
          
“Your
guardian will follow presently, and sent me on to chat with you, meantime.
Permit me.”

 
          
As
he spoke, Anthony entered, bringing coffee, but Germain brought Cecil's cup
himself, and served her with an air of devotion that both confused and pleased
her by its novelty. Drawing a chair to the other side of the tiny table between
them, he sat down, and before she knew it, Cecil found herself talking to this
dreaded person, shyly at first, then frankly and with pleasure.

 
          
“How
was the great Rachel last night, Miss Stein?”

 
          
“I
did not see her, sir.”

 
          
“Ah,
you prefer the opera, as I do, perhaps?”

 
          
“I
never went.”

 
          
“Then
Yorke should take you, if you love music.”

 
          
“I
do next to my art, but I seldom hear any.”

 
          
“Your
art—then you are to be a sculptor?”

 
          
“I
hope to be in time, but I have much to learn.”

 
          
“You
will go to
Italy
before long, I fancy? That's part of every artist's education.”

 
          
“No,
sir, I shall not go. Yorke has been, and can teach me all I need.”

 
          
“You
have no desire for it, then? Or do you wait till some younger guardian
appears,
who has not seen
Italy
, and can show it to you as it should be
shown?”

 
          
“I
shall never have any guardian but
Yorke,
we have
already settled that—”

 
          
Here
Cecil paused, for Germain looked at her keenly, smiled, and said significantly,
“Pardon me, I had not learned that he intended to end his romance in the good
old fashion, by making his fair ward his wife. I am an early friend, and have a
right to take an interest in his future, so I offer my best wishes.”

 
          
“You
mistake me, sir; I should not have said that. Yorke
is my
guardian, nothing more, nor will he ever be. I have no father, and he tries to
be one to me.”