Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15 (21 page)

 
          
Cecil
spoke with a bashful eagerness, burning cheeks, and downcast eyes, unconscious
of the look of relief that passed over her companion's face as she explained.

 
          
“A
thousand pardons; my mistake was natural, and may prove a prophecy. Now let me
atone for it by asking how the Psyche prospers. Is it worthy of its maker and
its model?”

 
          
“It
is done, and very beautiful; everyone who sees it thinks it worthy of its
maker, except me. I know he will do nobler things than that. He had no model
but his own design; you have seen that, perhaps?”

 
          
“I
see it now,” he answered, bowing.

 
          
“Indeed,
I am not; he never makes a model of me now, except for a moment. He has had
none since you left.”

 
          
A
curious expression swept over Germain’s face, and he exclaimed, with
ill-disguised satisfaction, “You recognize me then? I was not sure that you had
ever seen me, though I used to haunt the house like a restless spirit, as I
am.”

 
          
“Yes,
I knew you at once, because I never could forget the fright you gave me years
ago, peeping in, the night I came. Since then I’ve seen you several times, but
never heard your name until yesterday.” “That is like Yorke. He hides his good
deeds, and when I was most unfortunate, he befriended me, and more than once
has kept me from what fate seems bent on making me, a solitary vagabond. The
world goes better with me now, and one day I hope to take my proper place
again; till then, I must wait to pay the debt I owe him.”

 
          
This
impulsive speech went straight to Cecil’s heart, and banished the last trace of
distrust. In the little pause that followed, she found time to wonder why Yorke
did-not come, and thinking of him, she asked if he would approve all she had
been saying. A moment’s recollection showed her that she had unconsciously
given her companion many hints of the purpose, pursuits, and prospects of her
life, during that seemingly careless conversation. She felt uncomfortable, and
hoping Yorke had not heard her, sat silent until Germain spoke again.

 
          
“I
see an instrument yonder. Let me lead you to it, for having owned that you love
music, you cannot deny me the pleasure of listening to it.”

 
          
Fearing
to commit
herself
again, if she continued to talk,
Cecil complied, but as they crossed the room together, she saw Yorke standing
in the shadow of a curtained window. He made a warning
sign,
that
caused her to hesitate an instant, trying to understand it;
Germain’s quick eye followed hers like a flash, and kindled with sudden fire;
but before either could speak, Yorke advanced, saying gravely, “Will you
venture, Cecil? Germain is a connoisseur in music.”

 
          
“Then
I dare not try; please let me refuse,” she answered, drawing back, for now she
comprehended that she was not to sing.

 
          
But
Germain led her on, saying, with his most persuasive air, “You will not refuse
me presently, when I have given you courage by doing my part first.”

 
          
He
sat down as he spoke, and began to sing; Cecil was stealing back to her seat,
but paused in the act to listen; for a moment stood undecided, then turned, and
slowly, step by step, drew nearer, like a fascinated bird, till she was again
beside him, forgetful now of everything but the wonderful voice that filled the
room with its mellow music. As it ceased, she gave a long sigh of pleasure, and
exclaimed like a delighted child, “Oh! Sing again; it is so beautiful!”

 
          
Germain
flashed a meaning glance over his shoulder at Yorke, who stood apart, gloomily
watching them.

 
          
“Sit
then, and let me do my best to earn a song from you.” And placing a chair for her,
he gave her music such as she had never dreamed of, as song after song poured
from his lips, stirring her with varying emotions, as the airs were plaintive,
passionate, or gay.

 
          
“Now
may I claim my reward?” he said at length, and Cecil, without a thought of
Yorke, gladly obeyed him.

 
          
Why
she chose a little song her mother used to sing she could not tell; it came to
her, and she sang it with all her heart, giving the tender words with unwonted
spirit and sweetness. Sitting in his seat, Germain leaned his arm upon the
instrument and watched her with absorbing interest. Unconsciously, she had
pushed away the heavy bands that annoyed her, and now showed again the fair
forehead with the delicate brow; her cheeks were rosy with excitement, her eyes
shone, her lips smiled as she sang, and in spite of the gray gown with no
ornament but a little knot of pansies, Cecil had never looked more beautiful
than now. When she ended, she was surprised to see that this strange man’s eyes
were full of tears, and instead of compliments, he only pressed her hand,
saying with lowered voice, “I cannot thank you as I would for this.” Yorke
called the girl to him, and Germain slowly followed. At dinner he had led the
conversation, now he left it to his host, saying little, but sitting with his
eyes on Cecil, who, to her own surprise and Yorke’s visible disquiet, did not
feel abashed or offended by the pertinacious gaze. He lingered long, and went
with evident reluctance, bidding Cecil good night in a tone so like the
mysterious “my darling” that she retreated hastily, convinced that it must have
been uttered by himself alone.

 
          
“How
do you like this gentleman?” asked Yorke, returning from a somewhat protracted
farewell in the hall.

 
          
“Very much.
But why didn’t you tell me who I was to see?”

 
          
“I
had a fancy to test your powers of self-control, and I was satisfied.” “I will
take care that you shall be, sir,” she answered, with set lips and a flash of
the eye.

 
          
“You
seem to have quite outlived your old dislike, and quite forgotten his last
offense,” continued Yorke, as if ill pleased.

 
          
“I
am no longer a silly child, and I have not forgotten his offense; but as you
overlooked the insult, I could not refuse to meet your guest when you bade me
to bear with him for your sake.”

 
          
There
was an air of dignity about her, and a touch of sarcasm in her tone, that was
both new and becoming, yet it ruffled Yorke, though he disdained to show it.

 
          
“Of
one thing I am satisfied. Seclude a woman as you may; when an opportunity
comes, she will find her tongue. I did not know my silent girl tonight.”

 
          
“You
heard me, then? I am sorry, but I did not know what I was doing till it was
done. You gave me a part to play, and I am no actress, as you see. Is the
masquerade over now?”

 
          
“Yes,
and it has not proved as successful as I hoped, yet I am glad it was no worse.”

 
          
“So
am I,” and Cecil shook down her hair with an aspect of relief.

 
          
“Where
are your pansies?” Yorke asked suddenly.

 
          
“They
fell out as I was singing, they must have dropped just here,” and she looked
all about, but no pansies were visible.

 
          
“I
thought so,” muttered Yorke. “I shall repent this night’s experiment, I fear,
but God knows I did it for the best.”

 
          
Cecil
stood, thoughtfully coiling a dark lock around her finger for a moment,
then
she asked wistfully, “Will Mr. Germain come again? He
said he hoped to do so, when he went.”

 
          
“He
will
not, rest assured of that,” answered Yorke
grimly, adding, as if against his will, “he is a treacherous and dangerous man,
in spite of his handsome face and charming manners. Beware of him, child, and
shun him, if you would preserve your peace; mine is already lost.”

 
          
“Then
why do you—” There she checked herself, remembering that she was not to ask
questions.

 
          
“Why
do I bring him here?
you
would ask. That I shall never
tell you, and it will never happen again, for the old spell is as strong as
ever, I find.”

 
          
He
spoke bitterly, because in the girl’s face he saw the first sign of distrust,
and it wounded him deeply. It had been a hard evening for him, and he had hoped
for a different result, but his failure was made manifest, as Cecil bowed her
mute good-night, and went away fhore perplexed than ever.

IN THE DARK

 
          
DAYS
passed and Germain did not reappear, though Cecil strongly suspected that he
had endeavored to do so more than once; for now the door was always locked.
Anthony often mounted guard in the hall; Yorke seldom went out, and when they
walked together chose a new route each day, while his face wore a vigilant
expression as if he were perpetually on the watch. These changes kept the
subject continually before the girl’s mind, though not a word was spoken. More
than once she caught glimpses of a familiar figure haunting the street, more
than once she heard the mellow voice singing underneath her window, and more
than once she longed to see this strange Germain again.

 
          
Standing
at the window one somber afternoon, she thought of these things as she watched
her guardian giving orders to Anthony, who was working in the garden. As Yorke
turned to enter the house, she remembered that the studio was not lighted as he
liked to find it, and hurried away to have it ready for his coming. Halfway up
the first flight she stopped a moment, for a gust of fresh air blew up from
below as if from some newly opened door or window. The hall was dusky with
early twilight, and looking downward she saw nothing.

 
          
“Is
that you, Yorke?” she asked, but no one answered, and she went on her way. At
the top of the second flight she paused again, fancying that she heard steps
behind her. The sound ceased as she stopped, and thinking to herself, “It’s
Judas,” she ran up the spiral stairs leading to the tower. These were
uncarpeted, and in a moment the sound of steps was distinctly audible behind
her; neither the slow tread of Yorke, nor the quick patter of the dog, but soft
and stealthy footfalls as of someone anxious to follow unsuspected. She paused,
and the steps paused also; she went on and the quick sound began again; she
peered downward through the gloom, but the stairs wound abruptly round and
round,
and nothing could be seen. She called to Yorke and
the dog again, but there was no reply except the rustle of garments brushing
against the wall, and the rapid breathing of a human creature. A nervous thrill
passed over her; the thought of Germain flashed into her mind, and the early
terror woke again, for time and place suggested the forbidding figure she had
seen lurking there so long ago. Fearing to descend and meet him, she sprang on,
hoping to reach the studio in time to call Yorke from the window and lock the
door. As she darted upward, the quick tread of
a mans
foot was plainly heard, and when she flung the door behind her, a strong hand
prevented it from closing, a tall figure entered, the key was turned, and
Germain’s well-remembered voice exclaimed:

 
          
“Do
not cry out. I have risked my life by entering at a window, for I must speak to
you, and Yorke guards you like a dragon.”

 
          
“Why
do you come if he forbids it, following and frightening me in the dark?” cried
Cecil, grasping vainly for a lamp as Germain placed himself between her and the
window.

 
          
“Because
he keeps you from me, and he has no right to do it. I love you as he never can,
yet though I plead day and night, and promise anything, he will not let me see
you, even for an hour. Do not fear or shun me, but come to me, little Cecil,
come to me, and let me feel that you are mine.”

 
          
With
voice and gesture of intensest love and longing, he advanced as if to claim
her, but Cecil, terrified by this impetuous wooing, fled before him to an inner
room, bolted the door, and rang the bell until it broke. Vainly Germain shook
the door and implored her to hear him; she neither answered nor listened, but
called for help till the room rang again.

 
          
Soon,
very soon, Yorke’s familiar step came leaping up the stairs, and his voice
demanded, in tones of wonder and alarm, “Cecil, where are you? Speak to me, and
open instantly.”

 
          
“I
cannot come—it is Germain—”

 
          
More
she could not say, for with the arrival of help her strength deserted her, and
she dropped down upon the floor, faint but not unconscious. Lying thus, she
heard the outer door give way, heard a wrathful exclamation from Yorke, an
exultant laugh from Germain,
then
hurried conversation
too low for her to catch a word, till suddenly both voices rose, one defiant,
the other determined.

 
          
“I
tell you, Bazil, I will see her!”

 
          
“Not
if I can prevent it.”

 
          
“Then
I swear I will use force!”

 
          
“I
swear you shall not!”

 
          
A
quick movement followed, and the terrified listener heard unmistakable sounds
of a fierce but brief struggle in the darkened room, the stamp of feet, the
hard breathing of men wrestling near at hand, the crash of a falling statue and
a human body, a low groan, then sudden silence. In that silence Cecil lost her
consciousness, for her quiet life had ill prepared her for such scenes. Only
for a moment, however; the sound of retreating footsteps recalled her, and
trying to control the frightened flutter of her heart, she listened
breathlessly. What had happened? Where was Yorke? These questions roused her,
and the longing to answer them gave her courage to venture from her refuge.

 
          
Softly
drawing the bolt, she looked out. Nothing could be seen but the pale glimmer of
stars through the western window; all near at hand was hidden by the deep
shadow of a tall screen that divided the studio. A moment she stood trembling
with apprehension lest Germain had not gone, then stole a few steps forward,
whispering, “Yorke, are you here?”

 
          
There
was no answer, but as the words left her lips she stumbled over something at
her feet, something that stirred and faintly sighed. Losing fear in an
all-absorbing anxiety, Cecil sprang boldly forward, groped for a match, lighted
the lamp with trembling hands, and looked about her. The beautiful Psyche lay
headless on the ground, but the girl scarcely saw it, for half underneath it
lay Yorke, pale and senseless. How she dragged him out she never knew;
superhuman strength seemed given her, and self-possession to think and do her best
for him. Throwing up the window, she called to Anthony still busy in the
garden, then bathed the white face, fanned the breathless lips, chafed the cold
hands, and soon had the joy of seeing Yorke’s eyes open with a conscious look.

 
          
“It
is I. Where are you hurt? What shall I do for you, dear master?” “Tell them the
Psyche fell, nothing more,” he answered, painfully, but with a clear mind and a
commanding glance.

 
          
She
understood and obeyed him when the old man arrived. With many exclamations of
concern and much wonderment as to how the accident could have occurred, Anthony
laid his master on the couch, gave him such restoratives as were at hand, and
then went to fetch a surgeon and find Hester, who was gossiping in a neighbor’s
kitchen, according to her wont.

           
“Tell me what happened, my poor
child,” whispered Yorke when they were alone, and Cecil sat beside him with a
face almost as pallid as his own.

 
          
“Not
now, you are not fit. Wait awhile,” she began.

 
          
But
he interrupted her, saying with a look she dared not disobey, “No, tell me
now—I must know it!”

 
          
She
told him, but he seemed too weak for indignation, and looked up at her with a
faint glimmer of his old sarcastic smile.

 
          
“Another
lover, Cecil, and a strange one; but you need not fear him, for though as rash
and headstrong as a boy, he will not harm you.” Then Yorke’s face changed and
darkened as he said, earnestly, “Promise me that you will never listen to him,
never meet him, or countenance his mad pursuit of you. No good can come of it
to you, and only the bitterest disappointment to me. Promise me this, I implore
you, Cecil.”

 
          
She
hesitated, but his face grew haggard with suspense, and something in her own
heart pleaded for him more persuasively than his anxious eyes or urgent words.

 
          
“I
promise this. Now rest and let me fan you, for your lips are white with pain.”

 
          
He
did not speak again till steps and voices were heard approaching; then he drew
her down to him, whispering, “Not a word of Germain to anyone; keep near me
till I am up again, then I will take measures to prevent the recurrence of a
scene like this.”

 
          
For
several days Yorke saw no one but the doctor and his servants, for the fall and
the heavy weight upon his chest had seriously injured him. He rebelled against
the order to be still, finding a single week’s confinement very irksome with no
society but Hester, no occupation but a book or his own thoughts. Cecil did not
come to nurse him as she used to do when slighter indispositions kept him in
his rooms. She sent no little gifts to tempt his appetite or enliven his
solitude; she made daily inquiries for his health, but nothing more. He missed
his familiar spirit and her gentle ministrations, but would not send for her,
thinking, with a mixture of satisfaction and regret, “She takes me at my word,
and perhaps it’s better so, for absence will soon cure any girlish pique my
frankness may have caused her.”

 
          
But
though he would not call her, he left his room sooner than was wise, and went
to find her in the studio. Everything was in its accustomed order, Cecil at her
place, and his first exclamation one of pleasant surprise.

 
          
“Why,
here’s my Psyche mended and mounted again! Many thanks, my little girl.”

 
          
She
went to take the hand he offered, saying very quietly, “I am glad to see you,
master, and to find you like what I have done.”

 
          
“I
never thought my Psyche would cause me so much suffering, but I forgive her for
her beauty’s sake,” answered Yorke, laughing, for an unusual cheerfulness
possessed him, and it was pleasant to be back in his old haunt again. “Well,
what
do you
see in it?” he asked, observing that the
girl stood with her eyes fixed on the statue.

 
          
“I
see my model.”

 
          
He
remembered his own words, and was glad to change the conversation by a question
or two.

 
          
“How
have you got on through these days that have been so wearisome to me? Have you
missed the old master?”

 
          
“I
have been busily at work, and I have missed you, for I often want help, and
Tony cannot always walk with me.”

 
          
Yorke
felt slightly disappointed both at the answer and her welcome, but showed no
sign of it as he said, “Nothing has been seen of Germain since his last freak,
I fancy?”

 
          
“He
has been here.”

 
          
“The
deuce he has!” ejaculated Yorke, looking amazed. “Did you see him, Cecil?”

 
          
“Yes;
I could not help it. I
Was
watching for the doctor one
day, and hearing a ring, I opened the door, for Tony and Hester were with you.
Germain stepped quickly in and asked, ‘Is Yorke alive?’ I said yes. ‘I thank
God for that!’ he cried. ‘Tell him to get well in peace; I’ll not disturb him
if I can keep away—’ Then Anthony appeared and he was gone as quickly as he
came.”

 
          
“That
was like him, reckless and generous, fierce and gentle by turns. Pity that so
fine a nature should be so early wrecked.”

 
          
Yorke
mused a moment, and Cecil, as if anxiety or pity made her forget her promise,
asked suddenly, “Shall you let him go unmolested after such an outrage as
this?”

 
          
“Yes,
even if he had half murdered me or maimed me for life, I would not lift a
finger against him. God knows I have my faults, and plenty of them, but I can
forgive blows like his easier than some that gentler hands have dealt me.”