Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15 (17 page)

 
          
“It
will not; and the knowledge that I detest and despise you is to add bitterness
to your threefold punishment; the memory of Allan, Victor, and Diana is another
part of it; and here is the heaviest blow which heaven inflicts as a
retribution that will come home to you.”

 
          
As
he spoke,
Douglas
held to her a crumpled paper, stained with
a red stain, and torn with the passage of a bullet that ended Victor’s life.
She knew the writing, sprang up to seize it, read the few lines, and when the
paper fluttered to the ground, the white anguish of her face betrayed that the
last blow had crushed her as no other could have done. She dropped into a seat,
with the wail of tearless woe that breaks from a bereaved mother’s heart as she
looks on the dead face of the child who has been her idol, and finds no loving
answer.

 
          
“My baby gone—and I not there to say good-bye!
Oh, my
darling, I could have borne anything but this!”

 
          
So
utterly broken did she seem, so wild and woeful did she look, that Douglas had
not the heart to add another pang to her sharp grief by any word of explanation
or compassion. Silently he poured out a glass of wine and placed it nearer,
then resumed his seat and waited till she spoke. Soon she lifted up her head,
and showed him the swift and subtle blight that an hour had brought upon her.
Life, light, and beauty seemed to have passed away, and a pale shadow of her former
self alone remained. Some hope or some resolve had brought her an unnatural
calmness, for her eyes were tearless, her face expressionless, her voice
tranquil, as if she had done with life, and neither pain nor passion could
afflict her now.

 
          
“What
next?” she said, and laid her hand upon the glass, but did not lift it to her
lips, as if the former were too tremulous, or the latter incapable of receiving
the draft.

 
          
“Only
this,” he answered, with a touch of pity in his voice. “I will not have my name
handed from mouth to mouth, in connection with an infamous history like this.
For Allan’s sake, and for Diana’s, I shall keep it secret, and take your
punishment into my hands. Victor I leave to a wiser judge than any human one;
the innocent child is safe from shame and sorrow; but you must atone for the
past with the loss of liberty and your whole future. It is a more merciful
penalty than the law would exact, were the truth known, for you are spared
public contempt, allowed time for repentance, and deprived of nothing but the
liberty which you have so cruelly abused.”

 
          
“I
thank you. Where is my prison to be?”

 
          
She
took the glass into her hand, yet still held it suspended, as she waited for
his answer, with an aspect of stony immobility which troubled him.

 
          
“Far
away in
Scotland
I own a gray old tower, all that now
remains of an ancient stronghold. It is built on the barren rock, where it
stands like a solitary eagle’s eyrie, with no life near it but the sound of the
wind, the scream of the gulls, the roll of the sea that foams about it. There
with my faithful old servants you shall live, cut off from
all
the
world, but not from God, and when death comes to you, may it find
you ready and glad to go, a humble penitent, more fit to meet your little child
than now.”

 
          
A
long slow tremor shook her from head to foot, as word by word her merciful yet
miserable doom was pronounced, leaving no hope, no help but the submission and
repentance which it was not in her nature to give. For a moment she bowed her
head, while her pale lips moved, and her hands, folded above the glass, were
seen to tremble as if some fear mingled even in her prayers. Then she sat
erect, and fixing on him a glance in which love, despair, and defiance mingled,
she said, with all her former pride and spirit, as she slowly drank the wine,
“Death cannot come too soon; I go to meet it.”

 
          
Her
look, her tone, awed
Douglas
, and for a moment he regarded her in
silence, as she sat there, leaning her bright head against the dark velvet of
the cushioned chair. Her eyes were on him still brilliant and brave, in spite
of all that had just passed; a disdainful smile curved her lips, and one fair
arm lay half extended on the table, as it fell when she put the glass away. On
this arm the bracelet shone; he pointed to it, saying, with a meaning glance,
“I know that secret, as I know all the rest.”

 
          
“Not
all; there is one more you have not discovered—yet.”

 
          
She
spoke very slowly, and her lips seemed to move reluctantly, while a strange
pallor fell on her face, and the fire began to die out of her eyes, leaving
them dim, but tender.

 
          
“You
mean the mystery of the iron ring; but I learned that last night, when, with an
expert companion, I entered your room, where you lay buried in the deep sleep
produced by the drugged coffee which I gave you. I saw my portrait on your
neck, as I wear Allan’s, ever since we gave them to each other, long ago, and
beside the miniature, the silver key that opened your quaint treasure casket. I
found the wax impression of my signet, taken, doubtless, on the night when, as
a ghost, you haunted my room; I found the marriage record, stamped with that
counterfeit seal, to impose upon Diana; I found relics of Vane, and of your
child; and when Hyde called me, I saw and examined the two letters on your arm,
which he had uncovered by removing the bracelet from it.”

 
          
He
paused there, expecting some demonstration. None appeared; she leaned and
listened, with the same utter stillness of face and figure, the same fixed look
and deathly pallor. He thought her faint and spent with the excitement of the
hour, and hastened to close the interview, which had been so full of contending
emotions to them both.

 
          
“Go
now, and rest,” he said. “I shall make all necessary arrangements here, all
proper explanations to Lady Leigh. Gabrielle will prepare for your departure in
the morning; but let me warn you not to attempt to bribe her, or to deceive me
by any new ruse, for now escape is impossible.”

 
          
“I
have escaped!”

 
          
The
words were scarcely audible, but a glance of exultation flashed from her eyes,
then faded, and the white lids fell, as if sleep weighed them down. A slight
motion of the nerveless hand that lay upon the table drew Earl’s attention, and
with a single look those last words were explained. The opal ring was turned
inward on her finger, and some unsuspected spring had been touched when she
laid her hands together; for now in the deep setting appeared a tiny cavity,
which had evidently contained some deadly poison. The quick and painless death
that was to have been Victor’s had fallen to herself, and, unable to endure the
fate prepared for her, she had escaped, when the net seemed most securely drawn
about her. Horror-stricken,
Douglas
called for help; but all human aid was useless, and nothing of the fair, false
Virginie remained but a beautiful, pale image of repose.

LITTLE CECIL

 
          
“WHAT
do you mean by pulling the bell fit to bring the house down?” demanded gruff
old Anthony, as he flung the door open and found himself confronted with a
large trunk and a small girl holding a letter in her hand.

 
          
“It
was the coachman, please, sir” was the composed answer.

 
          
“Well,
what do you want, child?”

 
          
“I
wish to come in. This is my luggage; I’ll help you with it.”

 
          
The
small personage laid hold of one handle with such perfect good faith in her own
strength that it produced a chuckle from the old servant as he drew the trunk
in with one hand, the child with the other, and shut the door, saying more
respectfully, “Now, ma’am, what next?”

 
          
Smoothing
her disordered dress with dignity, the little girl replied, as if repeating a
carefully learned lesson, “You are to give this letter to Mr. Bazil Yorke, and
say Miss Stein has come. Then I am to wait till he tells me what to do.”

 
          
“Are
you Miss Stein?” asked Anthony, bewildered by the appearance of a child in that
lonely house.

 
          
“Yes,
sir; and I’ve come to live here if Mr. Yorke will keep me,” said the little
girl, glancing wistfully about her as if waiting for a welcome.

 
          
“Are
you a relation of Master’s?” questioned Anthony, still more mystified.

 
          
“No, sir.
He knew my papa and mamma, but he never saw me.
That’s all I know about it.”

 
          
The
old man shook his head with an air of resignation as he muttered to himself,
“Some whim of Master’s; it’s just like him.” Then aloud, “I’ll take up the
letter, but you’d better play out here till you’re wanted; for when Master gets
busy up aloft, it’s no use trying to fetch him down before the time.”

 
          
Leading
her through the hall, he opened a glass door and ushered her into a city
garden, where a few pale shrubs and vines rustled in the wind. The child
glanced listlessly about her as she walked, for nothing was in bloom, and the
place had a neglected air. Suddenly a splendid, full-blown rose softly brushed
her cheek and fell at her feet. With an exclamation of pleasure she caught it
up and looked skyward to see what friendly fairy had divined her wish and
granted it.

 
          
“Here
I am,” called a laughing voice, and turning about she saw a boy leaning on the
low wall that divided Mr. Yorke’s garden from an adjoining one. A rosy,
bright-eyed boy about her own age he seemed, full of the pleasant audacity
which makes boyhood so charming, and in a neighborly mood just then; for as she
looked up wondering, he nodded, smiled, and said merrily, “How are you? Do you
like the rose?”

 
          
“Oh,
yes! Did you mean it for me?”

 
          
“I
thought you looked as if you needed one, so I tossed it over. It’s very dismal
down there. Suppose you come up here, and then you can see my garden while we
talk a bit. Don’t be afraid of me; just give me your hand and there you are.”

 
          
There
was something so winning in voice, face, and gesture that little Miss Stein
could not resist the invitation. She gave her hand, and soon sat on the wide
coping of the wall, regarding her new friend with a shy yet confiding look as
he did the honors of the place with well-bred eagerness. Neither asked the
other’s name, but making the rose their master of ceremonies, introduced
themselves through that pretty medium, and soon forgot that they had been
entire strangers five minutes before.

 
          
“Do
you like my garden?” asked the boy, as the girl smelled her flower and smiled
down upon the blooming plot below her.

 
          
“Very
much; I wish Mr. Yorke would have one like it.”

 
          
“He
don’t
care for such things; he’s odd and busy, and a
genius, you know.”

 
          
“I
hope that’s nothing bad, because I’m going to live with him. Tell me all about
him, for I never saw him in my life.”

 
          
“He’s
a sculptor and makes splendid statues up in that tower where nothing but the
sun and sparrows can see him. He never shows them, and no one would ever see
them if they didn’t beg and tease and give him no peace till they do.”

 
          
“Is
he kind and pleasant?” asked the girl.

 
          
“He
looks precious grim with his long hair and beard, but he’s got kind eyes,
though his face is dark and strange.”

 
          
“Has
he got a wife and any little children?”

 
          
“Oh, dear, no!
He lives here with old Tony and Mrs. Hester,
the maid. I heard my mother tell a lady that Mr. Yorke had a love trouble and
can’t bear women, so none dare go near him. He’s got a splendid great dog, but
he’s as fierce as a wolf to everyone but his master and 1 ony.

 
          
“I
wish I hadn’t come. I don’t like odd people, and I’m afraid of dogs,”
sighed
Miss Stein.

 
          
“Mr.
Yorke will be kind to such a little thing as you, and make old Judas like you,
I dare say. Perhaps you won’t have to stay long if you don’t like it. Is your
home far away?”

 
          
“I’ve
got no home now. Oh, Mamma!
Mamma!”
And covering her
face with her little black frock, the child broke into such sudden, bitter sobs
that the boy was stricken with remorse. Finding words vain, he sprang
impetuously off the wall, and filling his hands with his choicest flowers,
heaped them into the child’s lap with such demonstrations of penitence and
goodwill that she could not refuse to be comforted.

 
          
Just
then Anthony called her, and with a hasty good-bye she turned to obey, but the
boy detained her for a moment to say, “Don’t forget to ask Mr. Yorke if you may
play with me, because you’ll be very dull all by yourself, and I should like
you for my little sweetheart.”

 
          
“Alfred!
Alfred! It is rather too soon for that,” called a smiling lady from a window of
the adjoining house, whereat the boy sprang down, laughing at the unexpected
publicity of his declaration, and Miss Stein walked away, looking much
disturbed by Anthony’s chuckles.

 
          
“The
master will be down to his tea directly, so you can look out a winder and not
meddle till he comes,” said the old man as he left her.

 
          
The
memory of the pretty lad warmed the child’s heart and seemed to shed a ray of
cheerfulness over the somber room. A table was spread with care, and beside one
plate
lay
a book, as if “the master” was in the habit
of enlivening his solitary meals with such society as the full shelves about
afforded him. The furniture was ancient, the window hangings dark, the pictures
weird or gloomy, and the deep silence that reigned through the house oppressed
the lonely child. Approaching the table she ventured to examine the book. It
proved intelligible and picturesque; so establishing herself in the armchair,
she spread the volume before her, and soon became happily forgetful of
orphanage and solitude.

 
          
So
intent was she that a man came to the door unobserved, and pausing there,
scrutinized her from head to foot. Had she looked up she would have seen a
tall, athletic figure and a singularly attractive face, though it was neither
beautiful nor gentle. The dark, neglected hair was streaked with gray at
thirty; the forehead was marked with deep lines, and under the black brows were
magnificent yet melancholy
eyes, that
just then looked
as if some strong emotion had kindled an unwonted fire in their depths. The
lower part of the face gave flat contradiction to the upper, for the nose was
disdainful, the chin square and grim, the whole contour of the mouth
relentless, in spite of the softening effect of a becoming beard. Dressed in
velvet cap and paletot, and framed in the dark doorway, he looked like a
striking picture of some austere scholar aged with care or study, not with
years; yet searching closer, one would have seen traces of deep suffering,
latent passion, and a strange wistfulness, as if lonely eyes were forever
seeking something they had lost.

 
          
For
many minutes Bazil Yorke watched the unconscious child, as if there was some
strong attraction for him in the studious little figure poring over the book
with serious eyes, one hand turning the pictured pages, the other pushing back
the wavy hair from a blooming cheek and a forehead possessing delicate brows
and the harmonious lines about the temples which artists so love. The man’s
eyes softened as he looked, for the child’s patient trust made her
friendlessness the more pathetic. He put out his hand as if to draw her to him,
then checked the impulse, and the hard mouth grew grimmer as he swept off the
cap, saying coldly, “Miss Stein, I am ready now.”

 
          
His
guest started, shut the book, slipped down, and went to meet her host, offering
her hand as if anxious to atone for the offense of meddling.

 
          
Like
one unused to such acts, Mr. Yorke took the small hand, gave it a scarcely
perceptible pressure, and dropped it without a word. The action grieved the
child, yet nothing betrayed the pang of disappointment it gave her except a
slight tremor in the voice that timidly asked, “Did you get the letter, sir?”

 
          
“I
did. Your mother wished me to keep you till you were eighteen, when you were to
choose a guardian for yourself. Her family will not receive you, and your
father’s family is far away; but your mother and
myself
were old friends many years ago, and she hoped I would take you for a time.”

 
          
“Will
you, sir? I’ll try not to be a trouble.”

 
          
“No,
I cannot. This is no place for a child; nor
am
I a fit
guardian if it was. I will find some better home for you tomorrow. But as you
will remain here tonight, you may take off your hat and cloak, or whatever it
is.”

 
          
Half
pityingly, half impatiently he spoke, and eyed the child as if he longed to yet
dared not keep her. The little hat was taken off, but the ribbons of the mantle
were in a
knot,
and after pulling at it for a moment,
she turned to her companion for help. As he stooped to give it with a curious
reluctance in his manner, she scanned the face so near her own with innocent
freedom, and presently murmured, as if to
herself
,
“Yes, the boy was right; his eyes are kind.”

 
          
With
a wrench that tore the silk, and caused the child to start, Mr. Yorke broke the
knot, and turning away, rang the bell with vehemence.

 
          
“What
is your name?” he asked, carefully averting his eyes as the little girl sat
down.

 
          
“Cecilia
Bazil Stein.”

 
          
“What
an ominous conjunction!”

 
          
She
did not understand the scornful exclamation and proceeded to explain.

 
          
“Mamma’s
name was Cecilia, yours is Bazil, and Papa’s was Stein. You can call me Celia
as Mamma did, if you please, sir.”

 
          
“No,
I shall call you Cecil. I dislike the other name.”

 
          
Quick
tears sprang to the child’s eyes, but none fell, and lowering her voice she
said, with trembling lips, “Mamma wished me to tell you that she sent her love,
and the one precious thing she had as a keepsake, and hoped you’d take it in
memory of the happy days when you and she were friends.”

 
          
Mr.
Yorke turned his back upon her for several minutes,
then
asked abruptly, “Where have you been this last year?”