Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15 (18 page)

 
          
“Here
in
America
. We were in
England
before that, because Mamma did not like
Germany
since Papa died, and we were tired of going
about.”

 
          
“Your
father died when you were a baby, I think. Have you been with your mother ever
since?” asked Mr. Yorke with a half-smile, as the little creature spoke of
these countries as composedly as if they were neighboring towns.

 
          
“Yes,
I was always with her, and we were very happy staying in all sorts of new and
pleasant places. But Mamma wished to save up some money for me, so we came here
and lived very plainly in the country till
she
—”

 
          
The
child stopped there, for her lips trembled and she did not wish to disgrace
herself by crying twice in one hour. He saw that she controlled herself, and
the little trait of character pleased him as did the pretty mixture of innocent
frankness and good breeding betrayed by her manner and appearance.

 
          
“When
did she leave you?” he ventured to ask, carefully avoiding the hard word “die.”

 
          
“Three
weeks ago.”

 
          
“How
old are you, Cecil?” he said presently, in order to change the current of her
thoughts, although the question was an unnecessary one.

 
          
“Nearly twelve, sir.”

 
          
“Twelve
years, twelve long years since I saw her last, and then gave up the world.”

 
          
He
spoke low to himself, and his thoughts seemed to wander from the present to the
past, as, bending his head upon his breast, he stood mute and motionless till
Anthony announced, “Tea is ready, master.”

 
          
Looking
up with the melancholy shadow gloomier than ever in his eyes, Yorke led the
child to the table, filled her cup, put everything within her reach, and
opening a book, read more than he ate. Twilight was deepening in the room; the
oppressive silence made the meal unsocial, and Cecil’s heart was heavy, for she
felt doubly forlorn, bereft of the protection she had hoped to find and the
familiar name her mother’s voice had endeared to her. She ate a few morsels,
then
leaned back in her chair, looking drearily about and
wondering what would happen next. She did not wait long before a somewhat
startling incident occurred.

 
          
As
her eye roved to and fro it was arrested by the sudden appearance of a face at
one of the windows. A strange, uncanny face, half concealed by a black beard that
made the pallor of the upper part more striking. It was gone again instantly,
but Cecil had only time to catch her breath and experience a thrill of alarm,
when the long curtains that hung before the other half-open window stirred as
if a hand grasped them, and through the narrow aperture between the folds the
glitter of an eye was plainly visible. Fascinated by fear, the child sat
motionless, longing to cry out, yet restrained by timidity and the hope that
her companion would look up and see the intruder for
himself
.

 
          
He
seemed absorbed in his book, and utterly unconscious of the hidden watcher,
till an involuntary gesture caused another movement of the curtains, as if the
hand loosened its grasp, for the eye vanished and Cecil covered her face with a
long sigh of relief. Mr. Yorke glanced up, mistook the gesture for one of
weariness, and evidently glad of an excuse to dispose of the child, he said
abruptly, “You have come a long way today, and must be tired. Will you go to
bed?”

 
          
“Oh,
yes, I shall be glad to go,” cried Cecil, eager to leave what to her was now a
haunted room.

 
          
Taking
a lamp, he led her along dimly lighted halls, up wide staircases, into a
chamber that seemed immense to its small occupant, while the darkly curtained
bed was so like a hearse she instantly decided that it would be impossible to
sleep in it. Mr. Yorke glanced about as if desirous of making her comfortable,
but quite ignorant how to set about it.

 
          
“The
old woman who would have attended you is sick, but if you want anything, ring
for Anthony. Good night.”

 
          
Cecil
was on the point of lifting her face for the good-night kiss she had been
accustomed to receive from other lips, but remembering the careless pressure of
his hand, the cold welcome he had given her, she restrained the impulse, and
let him leave her with no answer but a quiet echo of his own “Good night.”

 
          
The
moment his steps died away, she opened the door again and watched the light
mount higher and higher as he wound his way up a spiral flight of stairs that
evidently led to the tower. Cecil longed to follow, for she was sleepless with
the excitement of novelty and a lingering touch of fear (for the face still
haunted her), and she now reproached herself for not having spoken to Mr.
Yorke. She was about to make this an excuse for following him, when the sound
of noises from above made her hesitate.

 
          
“I’ll
wait till he comes down, or till the person goes, for he ought to know about
the man I saw, because it might be a thief,” she thought.

 
          
After
lingering on the threshold till she was tired, Cecil seated
herself
in an easy chair beside the door, and amused herself by examining the pictures
on the wall. But she was
more weary
than she knew; the
chair was luxuriously cushioned, the steady murmur of voices very soothing, and
she soon lapsed away into a drowse.

 
          
The
certainty that someone had touched her suddenly startled her wide awake. An
instant’s thought recalled her purpose, and fearing to be up too late, she ran
into the upper hall, hoping to find Mr. Yorke descending. No one was in sight,
however, yet so sure was she that a hand had touched her and a footstep sounded
in the room that she looked over the balustrade, intending to call. Not a word
left her lips, however, for neither Mr. Yorke nor Anthony appeared; but a man
was going slowly down, wrapped in a cloak, with a shadowy hat drawn low over
his brows. A slender hand shone white against the dark cloak, and as he reached
the hall below he glanced over his shoulder, showing Cecil the same colorless
face with its black beard and glittering eyes that had frightened her before,
though he evidently did not see her now.

 
          
It
alarmed her again, for it was a singularly sinister face in spite of its
beauty. Never pausing to see what became of him, and conscious of nothing but
an uncontrollable longing to be near Mr. Yorke, Cecil climbed the winding
stairs without a pause till she reached an arched doorway, and seemed to see a
gathering of ghosts beyond. The long, large room was filled with busts,
statues, uncut blocks, tools, dust, and disorder, in the midst of which stood
Mr. Yorke, dressed in a suit of gray linen, and intent on modeling something
from a handful of clay. Many children would have been more alarmed at these
inanimate figures than at the other, but Cecil found so much that was inviting,
she forgot fear in delight, and boldly entered. A smiling woman seemed to
beckon to her, a winged child to offer flowers, and all about the room pale
gods and goddesses looked down upon her from their pedestals with what to her
beauty-loving eye seemed varying expressions of welcome. Judas, the great dog,
lay like a black statue on a tawny tiger skin, and the strong glow from a
chandelier shone on his master as he worked with a swift dexterity that charmed
Cecil.

 
          
Eager
to ask questions, she began her explanations with a sudden “Bazil, I came up
to—”

 
          
But
got no further, for with a start that sent the model crumbling to the floor, he
turned upon her almost angrily, demanding, “Who calls me by that name?”

 
          
“
Its
me; Mamma always said Bazil, and so I got used to it.
What can I call you, sir?”

 
          
“Simply
Yorke, as others do. I forbid that hateful name. Why are you here?”

 
          
“Indeed,
I could not help it. I was so lonely and so frightened down there. I saw a face
at the window, and wanted to tell you, but heard someone talking up here and I
waited. But when I waked I saw the same face going down the stairs, and so I
ran to you.”

 
          
Yorke
listened with curious intentness to her story, asked a question or two, mused a
moment, then said, pointing to a half-finished athlete, “The man is my model
for that. He is a strange person, and does odd things, but you need not fear
him.”

 
          
A
quick-witted woman would have seen at a glance that dust lay thick on the clay
figure, and have known that the slender hand grasping the cloak could never
have belonged to the arm that served as a model for the brawny athlete. But
Cecils
childish eyes saw no discrepancy between the two, and
she believed the explanation at once. With a sigh of mingled satisfaction and
relief, she looked about her, and said beseechingly, “Please let me stop and
see your work. I like it so much, so very much!”

 
          
“What
do you know about it, child?” Yorke answered, wondering at her interest and
sudden animation.

 
          
“Why,
I used to do it; Mamma taught me as you taught her, with wax first, then pretty
brown clay like this; and I was very happy doing it, because I liked it best of
all my plays.”

 
          
“Your
mother taught you! Why, Cecil?” And Yorke’s grave face kindled with an
expression that won the child to franker speech at once.

 
          
“She
liked it as well as I, and always called me little Bazil when I made pretty
things. She was fond of it because she used to be very happy doing it a long
time ago. She often told me about you when you lived in her
fathers
house; how you hated lessons, and loved to make splendid things in wax and wood
and clay; how you didn’t care to eat or sleep when you were busy, and how you
made an image of her, but broke it when she was unkind to you. She didn’t tell
me what she did, but I wish you would, so that I may be careful not to do it
while I’m here.”

 
          
He
laughed such a bitter laugh, it both touched and troubled her, as he answered
harshly, “No fear of that; I never can be hurt again as she hurt me thirteen
years ago.” Then with a sudden change in countenance and manner, he sat down on
a block of marble with a half-finished angel’s head looking out of it, drew
Cecil toward him, and looked at her with hungry eyes as he said eagerly, “Tell
me more. Did she talk of me? Did she teach you to care for me? Child, speak
fast—I vowed I would ask no questions, but I must!”

 
          
His
voice rose, his glance searched her face, his stern mouth grew tremulous, and
the whole man seemed to wake and glow with an unconquerable desire. Reassured
by this sudden thaw in the frosty aspect of her guardian, Cecil leaned
confidingly against his knee and softly answered, with her hand upon his
shoulder, “Yes, Mamma often spoke of you; she wished me to love you dearly—and
the last thing she said was that about the keepsake. I think she will be sorry
if you send me away, because she thought you’d care for me as you once did for
her.”

 
          
Some
strange emotion rushed warm and tender over Bazil Yorke, and as if the words,
the gentle touch, had broken down some barrier set up by pride or will, he took
the child into his arms with an impetuous gesture, saying brokenly, “She
remembered me—and she sent me her all. Surely I may keep the gift and put one
drop of sweetness into this bitter life of mine.”

 
          
Bewildered,
yet glad, Cecil clung to him, drawn by an attraction that she could not
understand. For a moment Yorke hid his face in her long hair, then put her away
as abruptly as he had embraced her, and returned to his work as if unused to
such betrayals of feeling and ashamed of them. He merely said, as he took up
his tools, “Amuse yourself as you please; I must work.”

 
          
Quite
contented, Cecil roved about the room till curiosity was satisfied; made timid
advances toward the great dog, which were graciously received; and at length
gathering up the crumbled clay that fell from Yorke’s hand, she sat down beside
Judas and began to mold as busily as the master.