Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15 (24 page)

 
          
“Are
you worn out with the bustle of the
day,
and so come
here to rest and find yourself, as I do?” he asked, stroking the soft waves of
her hair.

 
          
“Yes,
I am tired, but I was never more myself than I have been today,” she answered,
turning a leaf, as if waiting to read on.

 
          
“What
did it all seem like, Cecil?”

 
          
“A
pretty play, but I was glad to have it over.”

 
          
“It
was a pretty play, though Germain might have spoiled it if I had not warned him
away. But it is not quite over, as I was reminded on my way up. We must
remember that before others I am your husband, and you my little wife, else I
shall call you ‘Miss Cecil' again, and you say master,' as you did half an hour
ago.”

 
          
“What
would you have me do? I know I shall forget, for there is nothing to remind me
but this,” and she turned the ring to and fro upon her finger, adding, as he
thought, regretfully, “It begins to make a difference already, and you said
nothing would be changed.”

 
          
“Nothing
shall be changed, except that,” he answered, chilled by her coldness, and
turning sharply round, he seized chisel and mallet, and fell to work,
regardless of bridal broadcloth and fine linen.

CECIL’S SECRET

 
          
IT
was easy to say that nothing should be changed, but they soon found it very
hard to prevent decided alterations in the lives of both. Yorke’s friends,
rejoicing in the new tie that seemed about to give him back to the world he had
shunned so long, did everything in their power to help on the restoration by
all manner of festivities after the wedding. Having yielded once or twice by
Mrs. Norton’s advice, Yorke found it both difficult and irksome to seclude
himself
again, for it seemed as if a taste of the social
pleasures neglected for so many years had effectually roused him from his gloom
and given him back his youth again. But the chief cause of the change was
Cecil. Wherever she went she won such admiration that his pride was fostered by
the praise it fed on, and regarding her as his best work, he could not deny
himself the satisfaction of beholding the homage paid his beautiful young wife.
She submitted with her usual docility, yet expressed so little interest in
anything but her art that he soon grew jealous of it, and often urged her to go
pleasuring lest she should grow old and gray before her time, as he had done.

 
          
“Look
your loveliest tonight, Cecil, for there will be many strangers at Coventry’s,
and I have promised him that my handsome wife would come,” he said, as he came
into the drawing room one tempestuous afternoon and found her looking out into
the deserted street where the rain fell in torrents and the wind blew gustily.

 
          
“It
is so stormy, need we go?”

 
          
“We
must. The wind will fall at dark, and one does not mind rain in a closed
carriage. You wonder at me, I dare say, and so do I at myself; but I think I’m
waking up and growing young again. Now I shall be old Yorke and read studiously
for an hour.”

 
          
He
laughed as he spoke and laid himself on the couch, book in hand. But he read
little, for Cecil’s unusual restlessness distracted his attention, and he had
fallen into a way of observing her lately while she worked or studied and he
sat idle. She too opened a book, but soon put it down; she made a sketch, but
seemed ill pleased with it, and threw it in the fire; she worked half a flower
at her embroidery frame, turned over two or three portfolios with a listless
air, then began to wander up and down the room so noiselessly that it would not
have disturbed him had he been as absorbed as he seemed. Watching her covertly,
he saw her steps grow
rapid,
her eyes wistful, her
whole face and figure betray impatience and an intense desire for something beyond
her reach. Several times she seemed about to follow an almost uncontrollable
impulse, but checked herself on the way to the door and resumed her restless
march, pausing with each turn to look out into the storm.

 
          
“What
is it, Cecil? You want something. Can I get it for you?” he said at last,
unable to restrain the question.

 
          
“I
do want something, but you cannot get it for me,” she answered, pausing with an
expression of mingled doubt and desire infinitely more becoming than her usual
immobility.

 
          
“Come
here and tell me what it is; you so seldom ask anything of me I am curious to
know what this may be.”

 
          
Drawing
her down upon the couch where he still lay, he waited for her request with an
amused smile, expecting some girlish demand. But she delayed so long that he
turned her face to his, saying, as he studied its new aspect, “Is it to stay at
home tonight, little girl?”

 
          
“No,
it is to go out now, and alone.”

 
          
“Alone, and in this raging storm?
You are crazy, child.”

 
          
“I
like the storm; I'm tired of the house. Please let me go for just half an
hour.”

 
          
“Why
do you wish to be alone, and where are you so eager to go?” “I cannot tell you.
Be kind and don’t ask me, Yorke.”

 
          
“A secret from me!
That’s something new. When shall I know
it?”
“Never, if I can help it.”

 
          
He
lay looking at her with a curious feeling of wonder and admiration, for this
sudden earnestness made her very charming, and he found it extremely pleasant
to while away an idle hour discovering the cause of this new waywardness in
Cecil.

 
          
“I
think you will tell me like an obedient little wife, and ask me prettily to go
with or for you.”

 
          
“I
cannot tell you, and you must not come with me. Dear
Yorke,
let me go, please let me go!”

 
          
She
folded her hands, dropped on her knees before him, and pleaded so earnestly
with voice, and eyes, and outstretched hands, that he sat up amazed.

 
          
“What
does it mean, Cecil? You have no right to keep a secret from me, and I cannot
let you go out in such a storm on such a mysterious errand as this. A month ago
you promised to obey me. Will you rebel so soon, and risk your health if
nothing else by this strange freak?”

 
          
There
was a sudden kindling of the eye as she rose and turned away with a resolute,
white face, saying, in a tone that startled him, “I have the same right to my
secret as you have to yours, and I shall keep it as carefully. A month ago I
did promise to love, honor, and obey; but the promises meant nothing, and your
will is not my law, because though my husband before the world, you are only my
guardian here. I harm no one but myself in doing this, and I must go.”

 
          
“Will
you go if I forbid it?” he asked, rising in real perplexity and astonishment.

 
          
“Yes,”
she answered, steadily.

 
          
“How if I follow you?”

 
          
“I
shall do something desperate, Im afraid.”

 
          
She
looked as if she might, and he dared not insist. Entreaties and commands had
failed; perhaps submission might succeed, and he tried it.

 
          
“Go,
then; I shall not follow. I trust you in this, as you have trusted
me more than once, and hope you will be as worthy of confidence
as I try to be.”

 
          
He
thought he had conquered, for as he spoke, gravely yet kindly, she covered up
her face as if subdued, and expecting a few tears, an explanation, and
penitence, he stood waiting and recalling scenes of childish waywardness which
had always ended so. No, not so; for to his unspeakable surprise Cecil left the
room without a word. Five minutes later the hall door closed, and
he saw her fighting her way against wind and rain with     
the same intense longing, the same fixed resolution in her face.

 
          
For
an hour he watched and waited, racking his brain to discover some clue to this
mysterious outbreak. Several trifling events now returned to his memory and
deepened his perplexity. Just before they were married he brought her home a
pretty bonbonniere to hold the comfits for which she still had a childish
fancy. Having filled it for her, he was about to drop it into one of the
ornamented pockets of the little apron she wore, but as he touched it a paper
rustled, and as if the sound recalled some forgotten secret, she had clutched
the pocket in a sudden panic and begged him to stop. He had accused her of
having love letters from Alfred hidden there, and she had indignantly denied
it, but hurried away as if to put her secret under lock and key. Later she had
ventured out alone once or twice, always asking pardon when reproved for these
short flights, but repeating them till strictly forbidden. Since then she had
grown more taciturn than
ever,
and often went away to
her own room to read or rest, she said. How she did spend the long hours passed
there, Yorke was too proud to ask either mistress or maid, though he had felt
much curiosity to know. The present mystery recalled these lesser ones, but
gave no help in explaining anything, and he could only roam about the room and
watch the storm more restlessly than Cecil.

 
          
Another
hour passed and he began to feel anxious, for twilight gathered fast and still
she did not come. A third hour rolled slowly by; the streetlamps glimmered
through the mist, but among the passing figures no familiar one appeared, and
he was fast reaching that state of excitement which makes passive waiting
impossible when, as he stood peering out into the wild, wet night, a slight
rustle was heard behind him, and a soft voice broke the long silence.

 
          
“I
am ready, Yorke.”

 
          
Turning
with a start, he saw that all his fears had been in vain, for no storm-beaten
figure stood before him, but Cecil shining in festival array.

 
          
“Thank
heaven you are safe! IVe been watching for you, but I did not see you come,” he
said, eyeing her with renewed wonder.

 
          
“No,
I took care that you should not, and have been busy for an hour making myself
pretty, as you bade me. Are you satisfied?”

 
          
He
would have been hard to please if he was not satisfied with the fair apparition
standing in the light of the newly kindled chandelier. A rosy cloud seemed to
envelop her, bridal pearls gathered up the dark hair, shone on graceful neck
and arms, and glimmered here and there among the soft-hued drapery. A plumy fan
stirred in her hand, and a white down-trimmed cloak half covered shoulders
almost as fair, for Yorke adorned his living statue with a prodigal hand. He could
not but smile delightedly and forgive her, though she asked no pardon, for he
was too glad to have her back to think of questions or reproaches.

 
          
“I
am more than satisfied. Now come and let me play hostess among the teapots, for
you are too splendid for anything but to be looked at, and you must need
refreshment after your wild walk.”

 
          
“No,
I want nothing; let Hester fill my place. IT1 wait for you here, and enjoy the
pleasant fire you have made for me.”

 
          
She
knelt down before it, and he went slowly away, looking backward at the pretty
picture the firelight showed him. When he rejoined her after tea and toilet,
she was lying in a deep chair looking straight before her with a singular
expression, dreamy, yet intense, blissfully calm, yet full of a mysterious
brightness that made her face strangely beautiful. He examined her keenly, but
she did not see him, he spoke, but she did not hear him, and not until he
touched her did she seem conscious of his presence. Then the rapt look passed
away, and she roused herself with an effort.

 
          
But
Yorke could not forget it, and later in the evening when
Coventry
's rooms were full of friends and strangers,
he stepped aside into a corner to observe Cecil from a distance and receive the
compliments that now were so welcome to him. Two gentlemen paused nearby and,
unconscious who was overhearing them, spoke freely of his ward.

 
          
“Where
is Yorke's statue as they call her? A dozen people are waiting for my opinion,
and I must not disappoint them,” said the elder of the two, with the air of an
experienced connoisseur.

 
          
“She
is sitting yonder. Do you see her, Dent? The dark-haired angel with the
splendid eyes,” returned the younger, speaking with artistic enthusiasm.

 
          
Dent
took a survey, and Yorke waited for his opinion, feeling sure that it would be
one of entire and flattering approval.

 
          
“As
a work of art she is exquisite, but as a woman she is a dead failure. Why in
heaven's name didn't Yorke marry one of his marble goddesses and done with it?”

 
          
“They
say he has,” laughed
Ascot
, as Dent put down his glass with a shake of
the head. “He fell in love with her beauty, and is as proud of it as if he had
carved the fine curves of her figure and cut the clear outline of her face. If
it were not for color and costume, she might be mounted on a pedestal as a mate
for that serenely classical Pallas just behind her.”