Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15 (25 page)

 
          
“Now
to my eye,” said Dent, “that rosy, sweet-faced little woman sitting near her is
far lovelier than this expressionless, heartless-looking beauty. See how young
Mrs. Vivian kindles and glows with every passing emotion; look at her smile,
hear her laugh, see her meet her husband's eye with a world of love in her own,
and then contrast her with your statuesque Mrs. Yorke.”

 
          
“Every man to his taste.
I admire the sculptor’s, but I
don't envy him his handsome wife unless he possesses the art of warming and
waking his Galatea. I doubt it, however, for he hasn't the look of a Pygmalion,
though a very personable man. Come and introduce me to charming Mrs. Vivian;
I’ve looked at the snow image till I'm positively chilled.”

 
          
They
passed on, and Yorke sent a glance after them that might have hastened their
going had they met it. He had heard nothing but praise before, and this was
quite a revelation to him. He was hurt and angry, yet ashamed of being so, and
drawing back into his corner, began to contrast Cecil with her neighbor. The
gentlemen were right; that indefinable something which she had once possessed
was gone now, and her beauty had lost its magic. The woman near her was all
they had said, young, blooming, blithe, and tender, with her new happiness
shining in her face, and making her far more winsome than her fairer neighbor.
He watched her look up at her husband with her heart in her eyes, and felt a
sense of wrong because he had never met a glance like that in the dark eyes he
knew so well. He saw the young pair dance together, and as they floated by,
forgetful of everything but one another, he sighed involuntarily, remembering
that he had done with love. He looked long at Cecil, and began to wonder if he
did possess the power to animate his statue. For the first time he forgot his
purpose, and yielding to the impulse of the moment, crossed the room, bent over
her, and asked, “Cecil, can you waltz?”

 
          
“Yes;
poor Alf taught me.”

 
          
The
tone in which the name was uttered roused the old jealous feeling, for she
never spoke his name in that softened voice.

 
          
“Come,
then, and waltz with me,” he said, with a masterful air as novel as the
request.

 
          
“With you?
I thought you never danced.”

 
          
“I
will show you that I do. Lean on my
arm,
and let me
see if I can bring some color into those white cheeks of yours.”

 
          
She
glanced up at him with a curious smile, for he looked both melancholy and
excited; the next minute she forgot his face to wonder at his skill, for with a
strong arm and steady foot he bore her round and round with a delightsome sense
of ease and motion as the music rose and fell and their flying feet kept time.
Yorke often looked down to mark the effect of this on Cecil, and was satisfied,
for soon she glowed with the soft excitement of exercise and pleasure; the
mysterious brightness returned to her eyes again and shone upon her face. Once
he paused purposely before Dent and
Ascot
, and
as he waited as if to catch the time, he heard the young man whisper, “Look at
her now and own that she is beautiful.”

 
          
“That
she is, for this is nature and not art. The man can animate his statue and I
envy him,” returned the other, drawing nearer to watch the brilliant creature
swaying on her husband’s arm as Yorke swept her away, wearing an expression
that caused more than one friend to smile and rejoice.

 
          
“Rest
a little, then we will dance again,” he said, when he seated her, and leaning
on her chair began to ply the fan, still bent on trying his power, for the test
interested him.

 
          
“Do
you see Mrs. Vivian yonder, Cecil? Tell me what you think of her.”

 
          
“I
think she is very pretty, and that her husband loves her very much.”

 
          
“Don’t
you envy her?”

 
          
“No.”

 
          
“Now
that you have seen something of the world, and tasted many of its pleasures, do
you never regret that you tied yourself to me so young, never reproach me for
asking you to do it?” He leaned nearer as he spoke and looked deep into her
eyes; they looked back at him as if they read his heart, and something in their
lustrous depths stirred him strangely; but he saw no love there, and she
answered in that undemonstrative voice of hers, “I am contented, Yorke.”

 
          
“Call
me Bazil; I am tired of the other, and it is too ugly for your lips.”

 
          
She
smiled to herself, remembering a time when Bazil was forbidden, and asked a
question in her turn.

 
          
“Who
are the gentlemen just passing?”

 
          
“Dent
and
Ascot
, artists, I believe. Why do you ask?”

 
          
“I
thought they were friends of yours, they seem to take so much interest in us.”

 
          
“They
are no friends of mine. Shall I tell you what they say of us?”

 
          
“Yes,
Bazil, if you like.”

 
          
He
did not answer for a moment, because the long unused name came very sweetly
from her lips, and he paused to enjoy it. Then he told her; but she only
smoothed the ruffled plumage of the fan he had been using, and looked about her
undisturbed.

 
          
“Mrs.
Vivian tries to please her husband by being fond and gay; I try to please mine
by being calm and cool. If both are satisfied, why care for what people say?”

 
          
“But
I do care, and it displeases me to have you criticized in that way. Be what you
like at home, but in public try to look as if you cared for me a little,
because I will not have it said that I married you for your beauty alone.”

 
          
“Shall
I imitate Mrs. Vivian? You are hard to please, but I can try.”

 
          
He
laughed a sudden and irrepressible laugh, partly at her suggestion, partly at
his own request, and she smiled for sympathy, so blithe and pleasant was the
sound.

 
          
“What
a capricious fool I am becoming,” he said. “I no longer know myself, and shall
begin to think my gray hairs have come too soon if this goes on. Am I very old
and grave, Cecil?”

 
          
“Eight-and-thirty
is not old, Bazil, and if you always dressed as carefully as tonight, and
looked as happy, no one would call you my old husband, as a lady did just now.”

 
          
Yorke
glanced at a mirror opposite and fancied she was right; then his face clouded
over, and he shook his head as if reproaching himself for a young man’s folly.
But the reflection he saw was that of a stately- looking man, with fine eyes
and a thoughtful countenance which just then wore a smile that made it
singularly attractive. Here their host was seen approaching with the strangers,
and Yorke whispered suddenly, “Imitate Mrs. Vivian if you can; I want to try
the effect upon these gentlemen.”

 
          
She
bowed and held the fan above her eyes a moment, as if to screen them from the
light. When it dropped, as the newcomers were presented, they saw a blooming,
blushing face, with smiles on the lips, light in the eyes, and happiness in
every tone of the youthful voice. Amazed at the rapidity of the change, yet
touched by her obedience and charmed with her address, her husband could only
look and listen for the first few minutes, wondering what spirit possessed the
girl. So well did she act her part that he soon entered heartily into his own,
and taking young Vivian for his model, played the devoted husband so
successfully that Dent and
Ascot
lingered long, and went away at last to report that Mrs. Yorke was the most
charming woman in the room, and the sculptor the happiest man.

 
          
“Was
my imitation a good one? Is that what you wish me to be in public?” asked
Cecil, dropping back into her accustomed manner the instant they were alone,
though her face still wore its newly acquired charm.

 
          
“It
was done to the life, and you quite took my breath away with your ‘loves’ and
‘dears,’ and all manner of small fascinations. Where did you learn them? What
possesses you tonight, Cecil?”

 
          
“An evil spirit.
I have called it up, and now I cannot lay
it.”

 
          
She
laid her hands against her cheeks, where a color like the deep heart of a rose
burned steadily, while her eyes glittered and the flowers on her bosom trembled
with the rapid beating of her heart, and some inward excitement seemed to
kindle her into a life and loveliness that startled Yorke and half frightened
herself. She saw that her words bewildered him still more than her actions,
and, as if anxious to make him forget both, she rose, saying with an imperious
little gesture, “We have sat apart in this nook too long; it is ill-bred. Come
and dance with me.” He obeyed as if they had changed places, and for an hour
Cecil danced like a devotee, delighting and surprising those about by the
gaiety and grace with which she bore her part in the brilliant scene. When not
with her, Yorke lingered nearby, longing to take her home, for her spirits
seemed unnatural to him, and a half-painful, half-pleasurable sentiment of
tender anxiety replaced his former pride in her. She had blossomed so suddenly
he scarcely knew his quiet pupil, and while her secret perplexed him, this new
change both charmed and troubled him, and kept • him hovering about her till
she came to him flushed and breathless, saying in the same excited manner as
before, “Take me home, Bazil, or I shall dance myself to death. I want to be
quiet now, for my head aches and burns, and Im so tired I shall fall asleep
before I know it.”

 
          
Making
their adieus, he took her to a quiet anteroom and left her to rest while he
went to find his carriage. He was absent many minutes, being detained by the
way, and when he returned it was to find Cecil fast asleep. Her fan and gloves
had fallen from her hands, and she lay with her disordered hair scattered on
the pillow, her white arms folded under her head, looking as if an
unconquerable drowsiness had overpowered her. Wrapping her in her cloak Yorke
took her away half awake, let her sleep undisturbed on his shoulder during the
drive, and reluctantly gave her into the hands of her maid when they reached
home.

 
          
Very
little sleep did he get that night, for Cecil’s figure was continually dancing
before his eyes, sometimes as he first saw it that evening in the firelight,
then as it looked when she played Mrs. Vivian with such spirit, or when she
answered with that strange expression, “An evil spirit.

 
          
I
have called it up, and now I cannot lay it.” But oftenest as he watched it by
the light of the streetlamps, with a soft cheek against his own, and recollections
of that other Cecil curiously blended with thoughts of the one sleeping on his
shoulder. Calling himself a fool, with various adjectives attached, and
resolutely fixing his mind on other things, having failed to bring repose, he
lighted both lamp and meerschaum and read till dawn.

 
          
His
first question when he met Victorine in the morning was “How is Mrs. Yorke?”

 
          
“Still
asleep, sir, and I haven’t called her, for the only thing she said last night
was to bid me let her rest all day unless she woke.”

 
          
“Very
well, let her be quiet, and tell me when she rises.”

 
          
He
went to his studio, but could settle to nothing, and found the day wearisomely
long, for Cecil did not rise. He asked for her at dinner, but she was still
asleep, and hoping for a long evening with her, he resigned himself to a
solitary afternoon. The clock was on the stroke of six when Victorine came in,
looking frightened.

 
          
“I
think Mrs. Yorke is ill, sir.”

 
          
“Is
she awake?” he asked, starting up.