Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15 (28 page)

 
          
“Has
he not done well? Is it not a charming home to live and die in?” said Germain,
as she turned to greet him, with both hands extended, and something more than
gratitude in her face. That look, so confiding and affectionate, was too much
for Germain; he took the hands and bent to give her a tenderer greeting,
remembering his promise just in time, and with a half-audible apology, hurried
away, as if fearing to trust himself.

 
          
Cecil
looked after him sorrowfully, but when Yorke approached, asking in some
surprise, “Where is Germain?” she answered reproachfully, “He is gone, and he
must not come again.”

 
          
“Why not?”

 
          
“Because
he cannot forget, and others see it as well as
I
. You
might have spared him this, and for my sake have remembered that it is not
always wise to be kind.”

 
          
“Ah,
they gossip again, do they? Let them; I’ve done one rash and foolish thing to
appease Mrs. Grundy, and now I shall trouble myself no further about her or her
tongue.”

 
          
Leaning
on the balustrade, he did not look at her, though he held his breath to catch
her reply, but seemed intent on watching leaf after leaf float downward to the
sea. His careless tone, his negligent attitude wounded Cecil as deeply as his
words; her eyes kindled, and real resentment trembled in her voice.

 
          
“Who
should care, if not you? Do you know what is said of us?” “Only what is said of
every pretty woman at a watering place.” And he leaned over to watch the last
leaf fall.

 
          
“You
do not care, then? It gives you no pain to have it said that I am happier with
Germain than with you?”

 
          
He
clenched the hand she could not see, but shrugged his shoulders and looked far
off at sea, as if watching a distant sail.

 
          
“For
once, rumor tells the truth, and why should I deny it? My pride may be a little
hurt, but I’m not jealous of poor Germain.”

 
          
If
he had seen her hold her lips together with almost as grim a look as his own
often wore, and heard her say within
herself
, “I will
prove that,” he would have carried his experiment no further. But he never
turned his head, and Cecil asked, with a touch of contempt in her voice that
made him wince, “Do you wish this mysterious friend of yours to go and come as
freely as he has done of late?”

 
          
“Why not, if he is happy?
He has not long to enjoy either
life or love.”

 
          
“And
I am to receive him as before, am I?”

 
          
“As you please.
If his society is agreeable to you, I have
no desire to deprive you of it, since mine is burdensome and Alfred away.”

 
          
Something
in the emphasis unconsciously put upon the last name caused a smile to flit
over Cecils face, but it was gone instantly, and her voice was cold as ice.

 
          
“Thank
you; and you have no fear of the consequences of this unparalleled generosity
of yours?”

 
          
“None for myself or my snow image.
Has she for herself?”

 
          
“I
fear nothing for myself; I have no heart, you know.”

 
          
She
laughed a sudden laugh that made him start, and as she vanished behind the
floating curtains, he struck his hand on the iron bar before him with a force
that brought blood, saying, in an accent of despair, “And she will never know
that I have one, till she has broken it!”

MASKS

 
          
“CECIL,
the world begins to wonder why Mrs. Yorke does noi admit it to a glimpse of her
new home.”

 
          
“Mrs.
Yorke is supremely indifferent to the world’s wonder or its wishes.”

 
          
She
certainly looked so, as she sat in the couch comer singing to
herself
, and playing with a useless fan—for the room was
breezy with sea airs, though an August sun blazed without. Yorke was strolling
from alcove to alcove, as if studying the effects among his statues, and
Germain lounged on the wide step of the balcony window, with a guitar across
his knee,
for
he still came daily, as neither master
nor mistress had forbidden him.

 
          
“I
think I have proved my indifference, but people annoy me with questions, and I
suspect we shall have no peace till we give some sort of an entertainment, and
purchase freedom hereafter by the sacrifice of one evening now.”

 
          
“You
are right, Yorke; I, too, have been beset by curious inquirers, and I suggest
that you end their suspense at once. Why not
have a
masquerade
? These rooms are admirably fitted for it, there has been none
this season, and the moon is at the full next week. What does ‘my lady’ say?

 
          
Germain
spoke in his persuasive voice, and Cecil looked interested now.

 
          
“If
we must have anything let it be that. I like such things, and it is pleasant to
forget
oneself
sometimes. Does the fancy suit you,
Bazil?”

 
          
“Anything
you
please,
or nothing at all. I only spoke of it,
thinking you might find some pleasure in pleasing others,” he returned, still
busy with the piping Faun that had a place among the finer works of his own
hands.

 
          
“I
used to do so, and tried very hard to please, but no good came of it, so now I
enjoy myself, and leave others to do likewise. What characters shall we assume,
Germain?”

 
          
As
she asked the question, her voice changed as abruptly as her manner, and
languid indifference was replaced by lively interest.

 
          
“I
shall assume none, I have not spirits enough for it, but in a domino can glide
about and collect compliments for you. Your husband must take the brilliant
part, as a host should.”

 
          
“He
had better personate Othello; the costume would be becoming, and the character
an easy one for him to play, he is such a jealous soul.” She spoke ironically,
and he answered in the same tone.

 
          
“No,
thank you, I prefer Hamlet, but you would succeed well as the princess in the
fairy tale, who turned to stone whenever her husband approached her, though a
very charming woman to all others. Perhaps, however, you would prefer to
personate some goddess; I can recommend Diana, as a cool character for a sultry
summer evening.”

 
          
“I
hate goddesses, having lived with them all my life. Everyone will expect me to
be some classical creature or other, so I shall disappoint them, and enjoy
myself like a mortal woman. HI
imitate
the French
marquise whom we saw last winter at the theater; she was very charming, and the
dress is easily prepared, if one has jewels enough.”

 
          
Germain
laughed involuntarily at the idea of Cecil in such a character, and she laughed
also, a lighthearted laugh, pleasant to hear.

 
          
“You
think I cannot do it? Wait and see. I am a better actress than you think; I’ve
had daily practice since I was married, and Bazil will testify that I do my
part well.”

 
          
“So well that sometimes it is impossible not to mistake art for
nature.
When shall this fete take place, Madame la Marquise?”

 
          
“Next
week; four days are enough for preparation, and if we wait longer, I shall get
tired of the fancy, and give it up.”

 
          
“Next
week it shall be then.”

 
          
Yorke
stood looking down the long room at the pretty tableau at the end, for Germain
was leaning on the back of the couch now, dropping odorous English violets into
the white hands lifted to catch them, and Cecil looked as if she was already
enjoying herself as a mortal woman. Standing apart among the statues, he
wondered if she remembered the time when his will was law, and it was herself
who obeyed with a weakness he had not yet learned. Now this was changed, and he
called himself a fool for losing his old power, yet gaining no new hold upon
her. She ruled him, but seemed not to know it, and keeping her smiles for
others, showed her darkest side to him, being as lovely and as thorny as any
brier rose. Presently she sprang up, saying with unusual animation, “I will go
and consult with Victorine, and then we will drive to town and give our orders.
You must come with me, Germain. I want your taste in my selection; Bazil has
none, except in stones.”

 
          
“One
cannot doubt that, with such proofs all about one,” answered Germain, as he
followed her toward the door. “When shall we have another statue, Yorke? You
have been idle of late.”

 
          
“Never
busier in my life; I have a new design in my mind, but it takes time to work it
out. Wait a few weeks longer, and I will show you something that shall surpass
all these.”

 
          
“Unless you have lost your skill.”

 
          
Yorke’s
face had kindled as he spoke, but it fell again when Cecil whispered these
words in passing, with a glance that seemed to prophesy a failure for the new
design, whatever it might be. A flush of passionate pain passed across his
face, and he lifted his arms as if to hurl poor Psyche down again, but the
sight of the bruised hand seemed to recall some purpose, and calm him by its
spell.

 
          
For
four days there was much
driving
to and fro between
the city and the beach; the great hotel was all astir, and the villas along the
shore were full of busy tongues and needles, for summer is the time for
pleasure, and the Yorkes’ masquerade was the event of the season. On the
appointed evening all things were propitious, the night was balmy, the sky
cloudless, the moon lent her enchantment to the scene, and the lonely home
beside the sea wore its most inviting aspect, for the hall of statues was
brilliant with lights, blooming with flowers, and haunted by the fitful music
of a band concealed among the shrubbery without. Yorke, looking stately and
somber as the melancholy Dane, and Germain in a plain black silk domino, stood
waiting for Cecil, mask in hand. Presently she
came
rustling down, in a costume both becoming and piquant, for the powdered hair
made her fair skin dazzling, and the sweeping brocades of violet and silver set
off her slender figure. She wore no ornaments, but a profusion of rich lace
upon the dress, white plumes in her hair, and a cluster of roses on her bosom.
With the costume she seemed to have assumed the coquetry of the French
marquise, and greeted her companions in broken English, spoken with a charming
accent and sprightly grace that caused Germain to compliment her on her skill,
and Yorke to survey her with undisguised pride, as he said, with a significant
smile, “Let me put the last touch to this ravishing toilet of yours, and prove
that you were right in saying I had some taste in stones.”

 
          
Cecil
bent her beautiful neck to let him clasp a diamond necklace about it, and held
out a pair of lovely arms to receive their glittering fetters, with a little
cry of pleasure, and a characteristic “Merci, monsieur! You are too gallant in
so revenging yourself upon me for my idle words. These are superb, I kiss your
munificent hands,” and as he essayed to fasten in the brooch, she touched his
hand with her lips. The pin dropped, Germain took it up, and turning to him,
she said, in her own voice, “Put it in my hair just here, there is no room for
it below; diamonds are best on the head, and roses on the heart.”

 
          
As
he deftly fastened it above her white forehead, she drew out a flower broken by
Yorke’s unskillful hand, and tying it to the ribbon of Germain’s domino, she
said, “Wear this, else among so many black dominoes I shall not know my friend,
and make my confidences to wrong ears.”

 
          
“Now
I am prouder of my rose than you of your jewels, madame, and thank you for it
heartily,” he replied, surveying it with delight.

 
          
“Shall
I wear not your favor, also?” asked Yorke, with extended hand.

 
          
“Oh,
yes, but not that one, because it does not suit you. There’s rue for you; and
here’s some for me, but we may wear our rue with a difference.”

 
          
As
she quoted poor Ophelia’s words, from a vase nearby she gathered a flowerless
sprig, and gave it to him with a glance that cut him to the heart. He took it
silently, and instantly resuming her gay manner, she exclaimed, as the roll of
a carriage was heard, “It is the Coventrys, they come early, because I asked
them to play the host and hostess for an hour to increase the bewilderment of
our guests, and give us greater freedom. She is to be Juno, and while she is
masked, no one will suspect that it is Come, Germain, let us slip away, and
return later.”

 
          
The
rooms filled rapidly, and the mock host and hostess did the honors so well that
the guests had no doubt of their identity, while the real master of the house
moved among them unsuspected, watching impatiently for the arrival of the
marquise and her friend. He waited long, but at last the white plumes were seen
approaching, and many eyes followed the brilliant figure that entered, not on
the arm of a black domino, but a young courtier in the picturesque costume of
Elizabeth
’s time. Yorke saw at a glance that this was
not Germain; who was it then? Alfred flashed into his mind, but he was across
the water, and not
 
expected to return for months. No
new-made acquaintance of Cecil’s carried himself with such a gay and gallant
air; for the disguise seemed to sit easily upon him, and he wore doublet and
hose, velvet cloak and lovelocks, ruff and sword with none of the awkwardness
that most men exhibit when in costume. Nor was this all he saw to disturb him;
the charming marquise leaned upon the arm of this debonair Sir Walter Raleigh,
talking with an animation that attracted attention, while the devotion of her
escort, and the grace of both, roused much curiosity concerning this striking
young couple. Hamlet followed them like a shadow, but their conversation was in
whispers, and they went their way as if unconscious of anything but themselves.
Yorke soon met the black domino with the white rose dangling on his breast, and
drew him apart to ask eagerly, “Who is that with Cecil?”

 
          
“I
have no idea.”

 
          
“Where
did she meet him?”

 
          
“I
cannot tell you.”

 
          
“But
you went away together, and were to return together. When and how did you
part?”

 
          
“We
went to the music room to wait a little, but soon she sent me for her fan,
which had been forgotten. I was gone some time, for the maid was busy with the
ladies; when I returned Madame had disappeared, and I saw no more of her till
she came in with Sir Walter.” “Rude to you, that is not like her!”

 
          
“I
was to blame, if anyone; she grew tired of waiting, doubtless, and finding some
friend, left me to follow her. I am glad she did, for he is a fitter escort for
youth and beauty than I. They look like a prince and princess out of a fairy
tale,
and it does one’s heart good to watch them.” Yorke
made no reply, but stood motionless beside Germain, looking where he looked,
for the dancing had begun, and the young pair
were
slowly circling round the room to the sound of music, inspiring enough to stir
the coldest blood. Twice the marquise floated by, with a glance over her
shoulder as she passed; but the third time she looked in vain, for the two dark
figures were gone, and a splendid Cleopatra held her court in the deserted
recess.