Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15 (36 page)

 
          
But
as her hands moved daintily among the fruit in serving us, the bracelet often
fell with a soft clash about her slender wrist, and each time she thrust it
back, till her white arm was reddened with the marks of its slight links.

 
          
It
seemed a most unfitting ornament, and as I watched her closely, I fancied some
sad memory was connected with it, for the sight of it seemed painful, and all
notice irksome to her. Ah, I little knew to what a fate it fettered her!

 
          
As
we stood upon the terrace, awaiting the carriage, I turned from the chateau
with its airy balconies without, and its inviting apartments within, to the
blooming scene before me, exclaiming with enthusiasm, “This is the loveliest
spot in
France
!
A perfect picture of a peaceful, happy home.
Ah, madame, many must envy you this tranquil retreat from the cares and sorrows
of the world.”

 
          
Mme.
Arnheims dark eyes wandered over the fair home I admired, and again I saw that
strange expression flit across her face, but now more vividly than before.
Pain, abhorrence, and despair seemed to sit for an instant on those lovely
features; a swift paroxysm of mute anguish seemed to thrill through her whole
figure; and I saw the half-hidden hands clenched as if controlling some wild
impulse with an iron will. Like a flash it came and went, and with a long, deep
sigh she answered slowly, “Do not envy me, for you have
all
the
world before, free to choose a home where fancy leads. This is my
world, and is often wearisome for all its loveliness.”

 
          
There
was a mournful cadence in her voice that saddened me, and a black shadow seemed
to fall across the sunny landscape as I listened. The carriage came, and when
she turned to say adieu, no trace of gloom marred the sweet serenity of her
pale countenance.

 
          
“Come
often and come freely, Monsieur Novaire,” she said, adding, with a smile that
would have won from me any boon I had the power to bestow, “My books, my organ,
and my gardens are most sincerely at your service, and I only claim the right
to listen when you fill my little chapel with the melody I love so well.”

 
          
I
could only thank her in words that sounded very poor and cold, remembering the
sweetness of her own, and we drove away, leaving her in the shadow of the hall,
still smiling her adieu.

 
          
Frankly
as the favor had been granted, I accepted it, and went often to the chateau
which soon became a “Castle Dangerous,” and its fair mistress the one beloved
object in the world to me. Day after day I went to muse in the quiet library,
or to soothe my restless spirit with the music of the chapel organ. Mme.
Arnheim I but seldom saw until I learned the spell which had power to lure her
to my longing eyes. At the chateau she was the stately hostess, always
courteous and calm, but when I sat alone in the chapel, filling the air with
the plaintive or triumphal melody, I never failed to see a shadow gliding past
the open door, or hear the light fall of a step along the echoing aisles, and
with an altered mien she came to listen as I spoke to her in the tenderest
strains heart could devise or hand execute.

 
          
This
filled me with a sense of power I exulted in, for, remembering Mme. Moreau's
warning words, “If you desire Mathilde’s friendship, beware of love,” I
concealed my growing passion, and only gave it vent in the music that lured her
to my side, and spoke to her in accents that never could offend. Slowly the
coldness of her manner vanished, and though still chary of her presence, she
came at last to treat me as a friend. At rare intervals some sudden interest in
the book I read, some softened mood produced by the song I sang, the strain I
played, gave me glimpses of a nature so frank and innocent, and a heart so deep
and tender, that the hope of winning it seemed vain, and I reproached myself
with treachery in accepting thus the hospitalities of her home and the blessing
of her friendship, while so strong a love burned like a hidden fire in my
breast.

 
          
Calmly
the days flowed by, and nothing marred my peace till a slight incident filled
me with restless doubts and fears. Wandering one day among the gardens, led by
the desire of meeting Mathilde, I struck into an unfrequented path which wound
homeward round a wing of the chateau which I had never visited and which I had
believed unused. Pausing on the hillside to examine it, my eye fell on an open
window opposite the spot where I was standing, and just within it I beheld
Mathilde sitting with bent head and averted face. Hager to catch a glimpse of
that beloved countenance, I stood motionless, screened by a drooping tree. As I
peered further into the shaded room a jealous pang shot through me and my heart
stood still, for in the high carved chair beside Mathilde I saw the arm and
shoulder of a man. With straining eyes I watched it, and set my teeth fiercely
when I saw the arm encircle her graceful neck, while the hand played idly with
a tress of sunny hair I would have given worlds to touch. The arm was clothed
in the sleeve of a damask robe de chambre, somber yet
rich,
and the hand seemed delicate and white; its motions were languid and I heard
the murmur of a low voice often broken by faint laughter.

 
          
I
could not move, but stood rooted to the spot till Mathilde dropped the curtain,
and a moment after her voice
rose
soft and sweet,
singing to that unknown guest, then I turned and dashed into the wood like one
possessed.

 
          
From
that day my peace was gone, for though Mathilde was unchanged, between us there
always seemed to rise the specter of that hidden friend or lover, and I could
not banish the jealous fears that tortured me. I knew from Mme. Moreau that
Mathilde had no relatives in
France
, and few friends beside the general and his
wife. The unknown was no cousin, no brother then, and I brooded over the
mystery in vain. A careless inquiry of a servant if there were any guests at
the chateau received a negative reply, given with respectful brevity and a
quick, scrutinizing glance—while, as he spoke, down through hall and corridor
floated the sound of Mathilde’s voice singing in that far-off room.

 
          
Once
more, and only once, I watched that window, waiting long in vain, but the
curtain was thrown back at length, and then I saw

 
          
Mathilde
pacing to and fro with clasped hands and streaming eyes, as if full of some
passionate despair; while the low laughter, I remember well, seemed mocking her
great sorrow.

 
          
She
came to the casement and flung it wide, leaning far out, as if to seek
consolation in the caressing breath of the balmy air and the soft sighing of
the pines. As she stood thus, I saw her strike her fettered arm a cruel blow
upon the strong stone balcony enclosing the window—a blow which left it
bruised; though she never heeded it, but turned again into the room, as if in
answer to some quick command.

 
          
I
never looked again—for whatever secret sin or sorrow was there concealed, I had
no right to know it, for by no look or word did Mathilde ever seek my sympathy
or aid; but with a growing paleness on her cheek, a deepening sadness in her
eye, she met me with unaltered kindness, and listened when I played as if she
found her only solace there.

 
          
So
the summer passed, and silently the hidden passion that possessed me did its
work, till the wan shadow that once mocked me from my mirror was changed into
the likeness of an ardent, healthful man, clear of eye, strong of arm, and
light of foot. They said it was the fresh air of the hills; I knew it was the
healing power of a beloved presence and the magic of an earnest love.

 
          
One
soft September day, I had wandered with Mathilde into the deep ravine that
cleft a green hill not far from the chateau. We had sat listening to the music
of the waterfall as it mingled pleasantly with our conversation, till a sudden
peal of thunder warned us home. Shut in by the steep cliffs, the gathering
clouds had been unobserved until the tempest was close at hand. We hastily
wound our way up from below, and paused a moment to look out upon the wildly
beautiful scene.

 
          
Standing
thus, there came a sudden glare before my eyes, followed by a deafening crash
that brought me faint and dizzy to the ground. A flood of rain revived me, and
on recovering I was conscious that Mathilde’s arms encircled me, and my head
was pillowed on her bosom; I felt the rapid beating of her heart, and heard the
prayers she was murmuring as she held me thus. Her mantle was thrown about me,
as if to shield me from the storm, and shrouded in its silken folds I lay as if
in a dream, with no fear of thunderbolt or lightning flash—conscious only of
the soft arms enfolding me, the faint perfume of her falling hair, and the face
so near my own that every whispered word fell clearly on my ear.

 
          
How
long I should have remained thus I cannot tell, for warmer drops than rain fell
on my cheek and recalled me to myself. Putting aside the frail screen she had
placed between me and the sudden danger, I staggered to my feet, unmindful of
my dizzy brain and still half-blinded eyes.

 
          
“Not
dead! Not dead! Thank God for that” was the glad cry that broke from Mathilde’s
lips, as I stood wild-eyed and pale before her. “O Gustave, are you unscathed
by that awful bolt which I thought had murdered you before me?”

 
          
I
reassured her, and felt that it was now my turn to shelter and protect, for she
clung to me trembling and tearful, so changed that the calm, cold Mme. Arnheim
of the fair chateau and the brave, tenderhearted creature on the cliff seemed
two different women, but both lovely and beloved.

 
          
Swiftly
and silently we hurried home, and when I would have quitted her she detained me
with gentle force, saying, “You must remain my guest
tonight,
I cannot suffer you to leave my roof in such a storm as this.”

 
          
Old Mile.
D’Aubigny bustled to and fro, and after refreshment
and repose left us together by the cheerful firelight on the library hearth.

 
          
Mathilde
sat silent, as if wrapped in thought, her head bent on her hand. I sat and
looked at her till I forgot all but my love, and casting prudence to the winds,
spoke out fervently and fast.

 
          
“Mathilde,”
I said, “deal frankly with me, and tell me was it fear or love that stirred
this quiet heart of yours, and spoke in words of prayerful tenderness when you
believed me dead? Forgive me if I pain you, but remembering that moment of
unlooked-for bliss, I can no longer keep the stern silence I have imposed upon
myself so long. I have loved you very truly all these months of seeming
coldness, have haunted this house not in search of selfish ease, but to be near
you, to breathe the air you breathed, to tread the ground you trod, and to sun
myself in the light of your beloved presence. I should have been silent still,
knowing my unworthiness, but as I lay pillowed on your bosom, through the
tumult of the storm, a low voice from your heart seemed to speak to mine,
saying ‘I love you.’ Tell me, dearest Mathilde, did I hear aright?”

 
          
An
unwonted color dawned upon her cheek, a world of love and longing shone upon me
in her glance, while a change as beautiful as it was brief passed over her,
leaving in the stately woman’s place a tender girl, whose heart looked from her
eyes, and made her broken words more full of music than the sweetest song.

 
          
“Gustave,
you heard aright; it was not
fear
that spoke.” She
stretched her hand to me, and clasping it in both my own I bent to kiss it with
a lover’s ardor—when between my eager lips and that fair hand dropped the steel
bracelet with a sharp metallic sound.

 
          
With
a bitter cry, Mathilde tore herself from my hold, and covering up her face
shrank away, as if between us there had risen up a barrier visible to her
alone.

 
          
“Mathilde,
what is it? What power has this bauble, to work such a change as this? See! It
is off and gone forever; for this hand is mine now, and shall wear no fetter
but the golden one I give it,” I cried, as kneeling on the cushion at her feet
I repossessed myself of her passive hand, and unlocking the hateful bracelet,
flung it far away across the room.