Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15 (23 page)

 
          
She
spoke so confidingly, and smiled so contentedly, as she stood folding up his
gloves, that Yorke felt his purpose strengthening every instant. The letters
confirmed it, for as he flung the last into the fire, he said to himself,
“There is no way but this; there will be peace for neither of us while Alfred
and Germain have hopes of her. Once mine, and I shall have a legal right to
defy and banish both
.,,

 
          
Turning
with decision, he drew her down to a seat beside him, saying, in a tone he had
not used since the Cupid was broken, “Sit here and listen, for I’ve many things
to tell you, my little girl. You are eighteen tomorrow, and according to your
mother’s desire may choose what guardian you will. I leave you free, having no
right to influence you, but while I have a home it always will be yours, if you
are happy here.” She turned her face away, and for an instant some inward
agitation marred its habitual repose, but she answered steadily, though there
was an undertone of pain in her voice, “I know it, Yorke, and you are very
kind. I am happy here, but I cannot stay, because hard things are said of us,
things that wrong you and wound me, more than tongue can tell.” “Who told you
this?” he demanded, angrily.

 
          
“Alfred;
he said I ought to know it, and if you would not follow his mother’s advice, I
should choose another guardian.”

 
          
“And
will you, Cecil?”

 
          
“Yes,
for your sake as well as my own.”

 
          
The
tone of resolution made her soft voice jar upon his ear, and convinced him that
she would keep her word.

 
          
“Whom
will you choose?” he gravely asked.

 
          
“It
is hard to tell; I have made no friends in all these years, and now I have
nowhere to go, unless I turn to Mrs. Norton. She will be a mother to me, Alfred
a very gentle guardian, and in time I may learn to love him.”

 
          
Yorke
felt
both reproached
and satisfied; reproached,
because it was his fault that the girl had made no friends, and satisfied
because there was as much regret as resolution in her voice, and his task grew
easier as he thought of Alfred, whom she should never learn to love.

 
          
“But
you promised to stay with me, and I want you, Cecil.”

 
          
“I
did promise, but then I knew nothing of all this. I want to stay, but now I
cannot, unless you do something to make it safe and best.” “Something shall be
done. Will you have another governess or an elderly companion?” he asked,
wishing to assure himself of her real feeling before he spoke more plainly.

 
          
She
sighed, and looked all the repugnance that she felt, but answered sorrowfully,
“I dread it more than you do, but there is no other way.”

 
          
“One other way.
Shall I name it?”

 
          
“Oh,
yes, anything is better than another Miss Ulster.”

 
          
“If
my ward becomes my wife, gossip will be silenced, and we may still keep
together all our lives.”

 
          
He
spoke very quietly, lest he should startle her, but his voice was eager, and
his glance wistful in spite of himself. The eager eyes that had been lifted
to his own
fell slowly, a faint color came up to her cheek,
and she answered with a slight shake of the head, as if more perplexed than
startled, “How can I, when we don’t care for one another?”

 
          
“But
we do care for one another. I love you as if you were a child of my own, and I
think if nothing had disturbed us that you would have chosen me to be your
guardian for another year, at least, would you not?” “Yes, you are my one
friend, and this is home.”

 
          
“Then
stay, Cecil, and keep both. Nothing need be changed between us; to the world we
can be husband and wife, here guardian and ward, as we have been for six
pleasant years. No one can reproach or misjudge us then; I shall have the right
to protect my little pupil, she to cling to her teacher and her friend. We are
both solitary in the world. Why can we not go on together in the old way, with
the work we love and live for?”

 
          
“It
sounds very pleasant, but I am so ignorant I cannot tell if it is best. Perhaps
you will regret it if I stay, perhaps I shall become a burden when it is too
late to put me away, and you may tire of the old life, with no one but a girl
to share it with you.”

 
          
Her
face was downcast, and he did not see her eyes fill, her lips tremble, or the
folded hands, pressed tight together, as she listened to the proposition which
gave her a husband’s name, but not a husband’s heart. He saw that she thought
only of him, forgetful of herself—knew that he offered very little in exchange
for the liberty of this young life, and began to think that he had been
mistaken in supposing that she loved him, because she showed so little emotion
now; but in spite of all this, the purpose formed so long ago was still
indomitable, and though forced by circumstances to modify it, he would not
relinquish his design. The relentless look replaced all others, as he rose to
leave her, though he said, “Do not answer yet, think well of this, be assured
that I desire it, shall be happy in it, and see no other course open, unless
you choose to leave me. Decide for yourself, my child, and when we meet
tomorrow morning, tell me which guardian you have chosen.”

 
          
“I
will.”

 
          
Cecil
was usually earliest down, but when the morrow came, Yorke waited for her with
an impatience that he could not control, and when she entered, he went to meet
her, with an inquiring eye, an extended hand. She put her own into it without a
word, and he grasped the little hand with a thrill of joy that surprised him as
much as did the sudden impulse which caused him to stoop and kiss the
beautiful, uplifted face that made the sunshine of his life.

 
          
Ashamed
of this betrayal of his satisfaction, he controlled himself, and said, with as
much of his usual composure as he could assume, “Thank you, Cecil; now all is
decided, and you never shall regret this step, if I can help it. We will be
married privately, and at once,
then
let the gossips
tattle as they please.”

 
          
“Are
you quite satisfied with me for choosing as I have done?” she asked, as he led
her to her place.

 
          
“Quite satisfied, quite proud and happy that my ward is to be mine
forever.
Is she content?”

 
          
“Yes,
I chose what was pleasantest, and will do my best to be all you would have me,
to thank you for giving me so much.”

 
          
No
more was said, and very soon all trace of any unusual emotion had vanished from
Cecil's face; not so with Yorke. A secret unrest possessed him, and did not
pass away. He thought it was doubt, anxiety, remorse, perhaps, for what he was
about to do, but try as he would, the inward excitement kept him from his usual
pursuits, and made him long to have all over without delay. Feeling that he
owed Mrs. Norton some explanation of his seeming caprice, he went to her,
frankly stated his reasons for the change, and took counsel with her upon many
matters. With the readiness of a generous nature, she put aside her own
disappointment, and freely did her best for her peculiar neighbor, glad that
she had served the girl so well.

 
          
She
soon convinced him that it would be better not to have a private wedding, but
openly to marry and give the young wife a gay welcome home, that nothing
mysterious or hasty should give fresh food for remark. He yielded, for Cecil's
sake, and the good lady, with a true woman’s love of such affairs, soon had
everything her own way, much to Yorke’s annoyance, and Cecil’s bewilderment.
Alfred was gone, and his mother wisely left him in ignorance of the approaching
marriage, and stifled many a sigh, as she gave her orders and prepared the
little bride.

 
          
Great
was the stir and intense the surprise among the sculptor’s few friends when it
was known what was afloat, and Yorke was driven half wild with questions,
congratulations, and praises of his betrothed. So much interest and goodwill
pleased even while it fretted him; and bent on righting both himself and Cecil,
in a manner that should preclude all further misconception, he asked friends
and neighbors from far and near to his wedding, thinking, with a half-sad,
half-scornful smile, “Let them come, they will see that she is lovely, will
think that I am happy, and never guess what a mockery it is to me.”

 
          
They
did come, did think the bride beautiful, the bridegroom happy; and would have
had no suspicion of the mockery, but for one little incident that had undue
effect upon the eager-eyed observers. Among the guests was one whom none of the
others knew; a singularly handsome man, who glided in unannounced, just before
the ceremony, and placed himself in the shadow of the draperies that hung
before a deep window in the drawing room. Two or three of the neighbors
whispered together, and nodded their heads significantly, as if they had
suspicions; but the entrance of the bridal pair hushed the whispers, and suspended
the nods for a time at least. As they took their places, Cecil was seen to
start and change color when her eye fell on the stranger, leaning in the purple
gloom of the recess; Yorke did the same, then he frowned; she drew her veil
about her, and stern bridegroom and pale bride appeared to compose themselves
for the task before them.

 
          
The
instant the ceremony was over, one gossip whispered to another, “I told you so,
it is the same person who used to sing under her window, and watch the house
for hours. A lover, without doubt, and why she preferred this gloomy Mr. Yorke
to that devoted creature passes my comprehension.”

 
          
“It’s
my opinion that she didn’t prefer him, but was persuaded into it. He’s far too
old and grave for such a young thing, and I suspect she agrees with me. Did you
see her turn as pale as her dress when she saw that fine-looking man in the
recess? Poor thing, it’s plain to see that she is marrying from gratitude, or
fear, or something of that sort.”

 
          
This
romantic fancy soon took wing, and flew from ear to ear, although the stranger
vanished as suddenly as he came. Yorke caught a hint of it, but only smiled
disdainfully, and watched Cecil with a keen sense of satisfaction, in the
knowledge that she was all his own. Not only was his eye gratified by her
beauty that day, but his pride also, for the admiration she excited would have
satisfied the most enamored bridegroom. She seemed to have grown a woman
suddenly, for gentle dignity replaced her former shyness, and she bore herself like
a queen; pale as the flowers in her bosom, calm as the marble Psyche that
adorned an alcove, and so like it that more than one enthusiastic gentleman
begged Yorke to part with the statue, now that he possessed the beautiful
model. All this flattered his pride as man and artist, enhanced his pleasure in
the events of the day, roused his ambition that had slept so long, and banished
his last doubt regarding the step he had so hastily taken.

 
          
When
all was over, and the house quiet again, he roamed through the empty rooms,
still odorous and bright with bridal decorations, looking for his wife, and
smiling, as he spoke the word low to himself, for the pleasant excitement of
the day was not yet gone. But nowhere did he see the slender white figure in
the misty veil; her little glove lay where she dropped it when the ring was put
on, her bouquet of roses and orange flowers was fading in the seat she left,
and an array of glittering gifts still stood unexamined by their new mistress.
Thinking she was worn out and had gone to rest, he went slowly toward the
studio, wondering if he should not feel more like his old self in that familiar
place.
Passing Cecil's room, he saw that the door was open,
and no one within but the newly hired maid, who was busy folding up the silvery
gown.

 
          
“Where
is Miss Cecil?” he asked.

 
          
“Mrs.
Yorke is in the tower, sir,” answered the woman, with a simper at his mistake.

 
          
He
bit his lip, and went on; but as he climbed the winding stairs, he passed his
hand across his eyes, remembering a happy time, nineteen years ago, when that
name had almost been another and a dearer woman's. Dressed in the plain gray
gown, and with no change about her but the ring on the hand that caressed the
dog's shaggy head, Cecil sat reading as if nothing had disturbed the usual
quiet routine of her day. If she had looked up with a word of welcome or a
smile of pleasure, it would have pleased him well, for his heart was very
tender just then, and she was very like her mother. But she seemed unconscious
of his presence till he stood before her, regarding her with the expression
that was so attractive and so rare.