Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15 (27 page)

 
          
Yorke
stood motionless an instant, then seemed to take some sudden resolution, for
drawing her gently aside, he said with a mildness that was as new as winning,
“You are right; he does need comfort, and he shall have it. Go on alone, Cecil;
I will follow soon.”

 
          
She
obeyed him, but glancing backward as she went, she saw him turn his face to the
cliff behind him, and lay his head down on his arm in an attitude of deep
dejection or of doubt. He stood so till the last sound of her light step died
away, then he stopped and touched the sleeper, with a low-spoken “August, it is
I.”

 
          
Germain
leaped to his feet as if the slight touch had been a blow, the quiet call a
pistol shot, and his hand went to his breast with an instinctive motion that
half revealed a hidden weapon. A single glance seemed to reassure him, for
though his heart beat audibly, and his very lips were white, he laughed and
offered the hand that had just been ready to deal death to some imaginary
captor. Yorke did not take it, and, as if the discourtesy reminded him of
something, Germain drew back, bowed with the grace that was habitual to him,
and said coolly, “Pardon me; your sudden waking makes me forgetful. I was
dreaming of you, and in the dream we were friends as of old.”

 
          
“Never
again, August; it is impossible. But I will do my best for you now, as before,
if I may trust you.”

 
          
“Have
I not kept my word this time? Have I not left you in peace for nearly a year?
Did I not obey you today when you bade me shun you, though the merest accident
betrayed your presence to me?”

 
          
“You
have done well for one so tempted and so impetuous; but you forget the letters
written to Cecil in my
absence,
and lying down to
sleep in our very path is not putting the bay between us as I bade you.”

 
          
“Forgive
the letters; they did no harm, for she never read them, I suspect. Ah, you
smile! Then I am right. As for finding me here, it was no plot of mine. I
thought you always walked on the beach, so I crept up to catch one glimpse of
her unseen, before I went away for another year, perhaps. Be generous, Bazil.
You have made her all your own; do not deny me this poor boon.”

 
          
“I
will not. Promise me to keep our secret sacredly, and you shall see her when
you will. But you must control yourself, eye, tongue, voice, and
manner,
else I must banish you again. Remember your life is
in my hands, and I will give you up rather than let harm come to her.”

 
          
“I
swear it, Bazil. You may safely indulge me now, for I shall not haunt you long;
my wanderings are almost over, and you may hear Death knocking at my heart.”

 
          
Real
solicitude appeared in Yorke’s face as the other spoke with a melancholy smile,
and obeying a kindly impulse, he laid his hand on Germain’s shoulder.

 
          
“I
hope not, for it is a very tender heart, in spite of all its waywardness and
past offenses. But if it be so, you shall not be denied the one happiness that
I can give you. Come home with me, and for an hour sun yourself in Cecil’s
presence. I do not fear you in this mood, and there is no danger of disturbing
her; I wish there was!”

 
          
“God
bless you, Bazil! Trust me freely. The wild devil is cast out, and all I ask is
a quiet time in which to repent before I die. Take me to her; I will not mar
her peace or yours. May I keep this? It is my only relic.”

 
          
He
showed the ribbon with a beseeching look, and remembering Cecil’s words, Yorke
bowed a mute assent as he led the way down the rude path and along the beach
where slender footprints were still visible in the damp sand.

 
          
She
was waiting in the softly lighted room, with no sign of impatience as she sat
singing at the instrument. It was the air Germain had sung, and pausing behind
her, he blended the music of his voice with hers in the last strains of the
song. She turned then, and put out her hand, but caught it back and glanced at
Yorke, for the recollection of the struggle in the dark returned to check the
impulse that prompted her to welcome this man whom she could not dislike, in
spite of mystery, violence, and unmistakable traces of a turbulent life. Yorke
saw her doubt and answered it instantly.

 
          
“Give
him your hand, Cecil, and forgive the past; there is no ill will between us
now, and he will not forget himself again.”

 
          
Germain
bowed low over the little hand, saying in the tone that always won its way,
“Rest assured of that, Mrs. Yorke, and permit me to offer my best wishes, now
that my prophecy has been fulfilled.”

 
          
In
half an hour Yorke saw the desired change, for Germain worked the
miracle,
and Cecil began to look as she had done a year ago.
Sitting a little apart, he watched them intently, as if longing to learn the
secret, for he had failed to animate his statue since the night when for a time
he believed he had some power over her, but soon learned that it was to opium,
not to love, that he owed his brief success. Cecil paid no heed to him, but
seemed forgetful of his presence, as Germain entertained her with an animation
that increased the fascination of his manner. An irresistible mingling of
interest, curiosity, and compassion attracted her to him. Yorke’s assurance, as
well as his own altered demeanor, soon removed all misgivings from her mind,
and the indescribable charm of his presence made the interview delightful, for
he was
both gay
and gentle, devoted and respectful.
The moment the hour struck, he rose and went, with a grateful glance at Yorke,
a regretful one at Cecil. She did not ask now as before, “Will he come againY*
but her eyes looked the question.

 
          
“Yes,
he will come tomorrow, if you like. He is ill and lonely, and not long for this
world; so do your best for him while you may.”

 
          
“I
will, with all my heart, for indeed I pity him. It is very generous of you to
forget his wrongdoing, and give me this pleasure.”

 
          
“Then
come and thank me for it a la Mrs. Vivian.”

 
          
He
spoke impulsively and held his hands to her, but she drew back, swept him a stately
little curtsy, and answered with her coolest air, “We are not in public now,
so, thank you, guardian, and good night.”

 
          
She
smiled as she spoke, but he turned as if he had been struck, and springing out
of the low window, paced the sands until the young moon set.

 
          
They
had come to the seaside before the season had begun, but now the great hotel
was filling fast, and solitude was at an end. Cecil regretted this, and so did
Yorke, for the admiration which she always excited no longer pleased but pained
him, because pride had changed to a jealous longing to keep her to
himself
. In public she was the brilliant, winning wife, in
private, the cold, quiet ward, and nothing but Germain’s presence had power to
warm her then. He came daily, seeming to grow calmer and better in the friendly
atmosphere about him. Cecil enjoyed his society with unabated pleasure, and
Yorke left them free after being absent for hours and apparently intent upon
some purpose of his own. Of course, there were many eyes to watch, many tongues
to comment upon the actions of the peculiar sculptor and his lovely wife.
Germain was known to be a friend; it was evident that he was an invalid, and no
longer young; but flirting young ladies and gossiping old ones would make
romances, while the idle gentlemen listened and looked on. Cecil soon felt that
something was amiss, for though her secluded life had made her singularly
childlike in some things, she was fast learning to know herself, and understand
her relations to the world. She wondered if Yorke heard what was said, and
hoped he would speak if anything displeased him; but till he did, she went on
her way as if untroubled, walking, sailing, singing, and driving with Germain,
who never forgot his promise, and who daily won from her fresh confidence and
regard. So the days passed till the month was gone, and with a heavy heart
Cecil heard her husband give orders to prepare for home.

 
          
“Are
you ready?” he asked, coming in as she stood recalling the pleasant hours spent
with Germain, and wondering if he would come to say farewell.

 
          
“Yes,
Bazil, I am ready.”

 
          
“But
not glad to go?”

 
          
“No,
for I have been very happy here.”

 
          
“And
home is not made pleasanter by absence?”

 
          
“I
shall try to think it is pleasanter.”

 
          
“And
I shall try to make it so. Here is the carriage. Shall we go?” As they rolled
away, Cecil looked back, half suspecting to see some signal of adieu from
window, cliff, or shore, but there was none, and Yorke said, interpreting the
look aright, “It is in vain to look for him; he has already gone.”

 
          
“It
is much better so. I am glad of it,” she said decidedly, as she drew down her
veil, and leaning back, seemed to decline all further conversation. Her
companion consoled himself with Judas, but something evidently filled him with
a pleasant excitement, for often he smiled unconsciously, and several times
sang softly to himself, as if well pleased at some fancy of his own. Cecil
thought her disappointment amused him, and much offended, sat with her eyes
closed behind her veil, careless of all about her, till the sudden stopping of
the carriage roused her, and looking up, she saw Yorke waiting to hand her out.

 
          
“Why
stop here? This is not home,” she said, looking at the lovely scene about with
wondering eyes.

 
          
“Yes,
this is home,” he answered, as leading her between blooming parterres and up
the wide
steps,
he brought her into a place so
beautiful that she stood like one bewildered.
A long, lofty
hall, softly lighted by the sunshine that crept in through screens of flowers
and vines.
A carpet, green and thick as forest moss, lay underfoot;
warm-hued pictures leaned from the walls, and all about in graceful alcoves
stood Yorke’s fairest statues, like fit inhabitants of this artist’s home.
Before three wide windows airy draperies swayed in the wind, showing glimpses
of a balcony that overhung the sea, whose ever-varying loveliness was a
perpetual joy, and on this balcony a man sat, singing.

 
          
“Does
it please you, Cecil? I have done my best to make home more attractive by
bringing to it all that you most love.”

 
          
Yorke
spoke with repressed eagerness, for his heart was full, and try as he might, he
could not quite conceal it. Cecil saw this, and a little tremor of delight went
through her; but she only took his hand in both her own, exclaiming gratefully,
“It is too beautiful for me! How shall I thank you? This is the work you have
been doing secretly, and this is why you sent Germain before us to give me a
sweet welcome. How
thoughtful,
and how beautiful it
was of you.”

 
          
He
looked pleased but not satisfied, and led her up and down, showing all the
wonders of the little summer palace by the sea. Everywhere she found her tastes
remembered, her comfort consulted, her least whim gratified, and sometimes felt
as if she had found something dearer than all these. Still no words passed her
lips warmer than gratitude, and when they returned to the hall of statues, she
only pressed the generous hand that gave so much, and said again, “It is too
beautiful for me. How can I thank you for such kindness to your little ward?”

 
          
“Say
wife, Cecil, and I
am
satisfied.”

 
          
“Pardon
me, I forgot that, and like the other best because it is truer. Now let me go
and thank Germain.”

 
          
She
went on before him, and coming out into the wide balcony, saw nothing for a
moment but the scene before her. Below, the waves broke musically on the shore,
the green islands slept in the sunshine, the bay was white with sails, the city
spires glittered in the distance, and beyond, the blue sea rolled to meet the
far horizon.