Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15 (30 page)

 
          
“Ah,
Bazil, if you were always as kind as now, how different my life would be.”

 
          
“So
would mine, if I dared be kind.” The answer was impulsive as the exclamation,
and he made a gesture as if to take her to himself; but something restrained
him, and with a heavy sigh he walked in silence.

 
          
“Dared
to be kind?” she echoed, in a grieved and wondering tone. “Are you afraid to
show that you care for me a little?”

 
          
“Mortally
afraid, because I cannot tell you all. But, thank heaven, there will come a
time when I may speak, and for that hour I long, though it will be my last.”

 
          
“O
Bazil, what do you mean by such strange words?”

 
          
“I
mean that when I lie dying, I can tell my miserable mystery, and you will pity
and pardon me at last.”

 
          
“But
you once said you would never tell me.”

 
          
“Did
I? Well, then Germain shall tell you when he dies. You'll not have long to
wait.”

 
          
Cecil
shivered at the ominous words, and started with a faint cry, for they seemed
confirmed
, as her eye fell on a dark figure lying with
hidden face among the grass, not far from the solitary path they had
unconsciously chosen. There was something so pathetic about the prostrate
figure, flung down as if in the abandonment of
despair, that
Cecil was on the point of going to offer comfort, when her companion detained
her, whispering earnestly, “Leave him to me, and go on alone. It is time for
the unmasking, and we shall be missed. I'll follow soon, and bring him with
me.”

 
          
She
obeyed, and went on, more heavyhearted than when she came. Within, the gaiety
was at its height, and as she entered, Sir Walter was instantly at her side,
leading her away for the last dance before the masks were removed. Presently
silence fell upon the motley throng, and all stood ready to reveal themselves,
when a signal came. A single horn sounded a mellow blast, and in a moment the
room brightened with smiling faces, as the black masks fell, while a general
peal of laughter filled the air. Cecil glanced about her for her husband and
Germain. They were standing together near the door, both unmasked now, and both
more mysterious to her than ever. Neither looked as she expected to see them;
Yorke was grim and pale, with smileless lips and gloomy eyes; Germain leaned
near him, smiling his enchanting smile, and wearing the indescribable air of
romance which always attached to him, and even now, rendered him a more
striking figure than many of the gayer ones about him.

 
          
“Shall
I ever understand them?” she sighed to herself, as her eyes turned from them to
Sir Walter, standing beside her, one hand on his sword hilt, the other still
holding the half-mask before his face, as if anxious to preserve his incognito
as long as possible. Yorke’s eye was upon him, also, as he waited with intense
impatience to see his suspicion confirmed; but in the confusion of the moment,
he lost sight of the marquise and her attendant before this desire was
gratified. Making his way through the crowd as fast as frequent salutations,
compliments, and jests permitted, he came at last to the balcony. A single
glance assured him that his search was ended, and stepping into the deep shadow
of the projecting wall, he eyed the group before him with an eye that boded ill
to the unconscious pair.

 
          
Cecil’s
face was toward him, and it wore a look of happiness that had long been a
stranger to it, as she spoke earnestly but in so low a tone that not a word was
audible. Her companion listened intently, and made brief replies; he was
unmasked now, but the long plume of his hat drooping between his face and the
observer still prolonged his suspense. Only a few moments did they stand so,
for, as if bidding him adieu, Cecil waved her hand to him, and reentered the
hall through the nearest window. Sir Walter seated himself on the wide railing
of the balcony, flung his hat at his feet, and turned his face full to the
light, as if enjoying the coolness of the sea breeze. One instant he sat
humming a blithe cavalier song to himself, the next, a strong hand clutched and
swung him over the low balustrade, as a face pale with passion came between him
and the moon, and Yorke’s voice demanded fiercely, “What brings you here?
Answer me truly, or I will let go my
hold,
and nothing
but my hand keeps you from instant death.”

 
          
It
was true, for though Alfred’s feet still clung to the bars, his only support
was the arm, inflexible as iron, that held him over the rocky precipice, below
which rolled the sea. But he was brave, and though his face whitened, his eye
was steady, his voice firm, as he replied unhesitatingly, “I came to see
Cecil.”

 
          
“I
thought so! Are you satisfied?”

 
          
“Fully satisfied.”

 
          
“That
she loves you as you would have her love?”

 
          
“Yes,
as I would have her love.”

 
          
“You
dare say this to me!” and Yorke’s grip tightened, as a savage light shot into
his black eyes, and his voice shook with fury.

 
          
“I
dare anything. If you doubt it, try me.”

 
          
Alfred’s
blood was up now, and he forgot himself in the satisfaction it gave him to
inflict a pang of jealousy as sharp as his own had been.

 
          
“What
was she saying to you as she left?” demanded Yorke, under his breath.

 
          
“I
shall answer no questions, and destroy no confidences” was the brief reply.

 
          
“Then
I swear I will let go my hold!”

 
          
“Do
it, and tell Cecil I was true to the end.”

 
          
With
a defiant smile, Alfred took his hands from the other’s arm, and hung there
only by that desperate clutch. The smile, the words, drove Yorke beyond
himself; a mad devil seemed to possess him, and in the drawing of a breath, the
young man would have been dashed upon the jagged cliffs below, had not Germain
saved them both. Where he came from, neither saw, nor what he did, for with
inconceivable rapidity Yorke was flung back, Alfred drawn over the balustrade,
and planted firmly on his feet again. Then the three looked at one another:
Yorke was speechless with the mingled rage, shame, and grief warring within him;
Alfred still smiling disdainfully; Germain pale and panting with the shock of
surprise at such a sight, and the sudden exertion which had spared the gay
evening a tragic close. He spoke first, and as one having authority, drawing
the young man with him, as he slowly retreated toward the steep steps that
wound from the balcony to the cliff that partially supported it.

 
          
“Go,
Bazil, and keep this from Cecil; I have a right to ask it, for half the debt to
you is canceled by saving you from this
act, that
would
have made your life as sad a failure as my own. I shall return tomorrow for the
last time; till then I shall guard this boy, for you are beside yourself.”

 
          
With
that they left him, and he let them go without a word, feeling that indeed he
was beside himself. How long he stood there, he did not know; a stir within
recalled him to the necessity of assuming composure, and fighting down the
agitation that must be controlled, he went in to play the courteous host at his
own table, and answer to the toasts drunk to the health and happiness of
himself and his fair wife. He went through with his duties with a desperate
sort of gaiety that deceived careless observers, but not Cecil. She too was
feverishly restless for Alfred did not appear, and Germain was gone also; but
she hid her disquiet better than Yorke, and the effort made her so brilliantly
beautiful and blithe that the old fancy of “Yorke’s statue” was forgotten, and
“Yorke’s wife” became “the star of the goodly companie.”

 
          
The
evening came to an end at last, and Yorke’s long torment was over. Early birds
were beginning to twitter, and the short summer night was nearly past, as the
latest guest departed, leaving the weary host and hostess alone. Cecil’s first
act was to unclasp the diamonds, and offer to restore them to the giver, saying
gratefully, yet with gravity, “I thank you for your generous thought of me, and
have tried to do honor to your gift, but please take them back now, they are
too costly ornaments for me.”

 
          
“Too
heavy chains, you mean,” and with a sudden gesture, he sent the glittering
handful to the ground, adding, in a tone that made her start, “Did you bring
that boy here?”

 
          
“Do
you mean the gallant Sir Walter?”

 
          
“I
mean Alfred Norton.”

 
          
“No,
I did not ask him.”

 
          
“You
knew he was coming?”

 
          
“I
only hoped so.”

 
          
The
dark veins rose on Yorke’s forehead, he locked his hands tightly together
behind him, and fixed on her a look that she never could forget, as he said
slowly, as if every word was wrung from him, “You must see him no more. I warn
you, harm will come of it if you persist.”

 
          
A
smile broke over her face, and with a shrug of her white shoulders, and an
accent of merry malice that almost drove him frantic, she answered
nonchalantly, “Why mind him more than poor Germain? If he comes, I cannot shun
him, unless my lord and master has turned jealous, and forbids it; does he?”

 
          
“Yes.”

 
          
Yorke
left the room, as he uttered the one word that was both an answer and a
confession; had he looked backward, he would have seen Cecil down upon her
knees gathering up the scattered diamonds, with that inexplicable smile
quenched in tears, and on her face that tender expression he so longed to see.

ON THE RACK

 
          
THE
house was not astir till very late next day, for master and mistress
breakfasted in
their own
rooms at
noon
, and seemed in no haste to meet. A more
miserable man than Yorke the sun did not shine on. Oppressed with remorse for
last night’s violence, shame at last night’s betrayal of jealousy, and bitter
sorrow for last night’s defeat, he longed yet dreaded to see Cecil, feeling
that all hope of winning her heart was lost, and nothing but the resignation of
despair remained for him.

 
          
Fearing
that Alfred might venture back, he haunted house and garden like a restless ghost,
despising himself the while, yet utterly unable to resist the power that
controlled him. No one came, however; not even
Germain,
and the afternoon was half over before Cecil appeared. He knew the instant she
left her room, for not a sound escaped him; he saw her come down into her
boudoir looking so fresh and fair he found it hard to feign unconsciousness of
her presence, till he was composed enough to meet her as he would. The windows
of her room opened on the shady terrace where he had been walking for an hour.
After passing and repassing several times, in hopes that she would speak to
him, he pulled his hat low over his brows, and looking in, bade her “Good
morning.” She answered with unusual animation, but her eye did not meet his,
and she bent assiduously over her work as if to hide her varying color. Yorke
was quick to see these signs of disquiet, but the thought of Alfred made him
interpret them in his own way, and find fresh cause of suffering in them.

 
          
Both
seemed glad to ignore last night, for neither spoke of it, though conversation
flagged, and long pauses were frequent, till Yorke, in sheer desperation, took
up a book, offering to read aloud to her. She thanked him, and leaning on the
window ledge he opened at random and began to read. Of late, poems and romances
had found their way into the house, apparently introduced by Germain, and to
her surprise Yorke allowed Cecil to read them, which she did with diligence,
but no visible effect as yet. In five minutes Yorke wished she had refused his offer,
for the lines he had unwittingly chosen were of the tenderest sort, and he
found it very hard to read the tuneful raptures of a happy lover, when his own
heart was heaviest. He hurried through it as best he could, and not till the
closing line was safely delivered did he venture to look at Cecil. For the
first time she seemed affected by the magic of poetry; her hands lay idle, her
head was averted, and her quickened breath stirred the long curls that half hid
her face.

 
          
“She
thinks of Alfred,” groaned Yorke, within himself, and throwing down the book,
he abruptly left her for another aimless saunter through the garden and the
grove. He did not trust himself near her again, but lying in the grass where he
could see her window, he watched her unobserved. Still seated at her embroidery
frame, she worked at intervals, but often dropped her needle to look out as if
longing for someone who did not come. “She waits for Alfred,” sighed Yorke, and
laying his head down on his arm, he fell to imagining how different all might
have been had he not marred his own happiness by blindly trying to atone for
one wrong with another. The air was sultry, the soft chirp of insects very
soothing; the weariness of a wakeful night weighed down his eyelids, and before
he was aware of its approach, a deep sleep fell upon him, bringing happier
dreams to comfort him than any his waking thoughts could fashion.

 
          
A
peal of thunder startled him wide awake, and glancing at his watch, he found he
had lost an hour. Springing up, he went to look for Cecil, as he no longer saw
her at her window. But nowhere did he find her, and after a vain search he
returned to the boudoir, thinking some clue to her whereabouts might be
discovered there. He did discover a clue, but one that drove him half mad with
suspense and fear. Turning over the papers on her writing table, hoping to find
some little message such as she often left for him, he came upon a card bearing
Alfred’s
name,
and below it a single line in French.

 
          
“At five, on the beach.
Do not fail.”

 
          
Yorke’s
face was terrible as he read the words that to his eyes seemed a sentence of
lifelong desolation, for, glancing despairingly about the room, he saw that
Cecil’s hat was gone, and understood her absence now. A moment he stood staring
at the line like one suddenly gone blind; then all the pain and passion passed
into an unnatural calmness as he thrust the card into his pocket and rang like
a man who has work to do that will not brook delay.

 
          
“Where
is Mrs. Yorke?” was the brief question that greeted Anthony when he appeared.

 
          
“Gone
to the beach, I think, sir.”

 
          
“How long ago?”

 
          
“Nearly
an hour, I should say. It was
half past four
when I came home; she was here then, for I
gave her the note; but she went out soon after, and now it’s
half past five
.”

 
          
“What
note was that?”

 
          
“An
answer to one I carried to the hotel, sir.”

 
          
“To
Mr. Alfred, was it not?”

 
          
“Yes, sir.”

 
          
“Did
you see him, Anthony?”

 
          
“Gave
it into
his own
hand, sir, as Mistress bade me, for it
was important, she said.”

 
          
“Very important!
He answered it, you say?”

 
          
“Yes, sir.
I met him on the lawn, and when he’d read the
note, he just wrote something outlandish on his card and told me to hurry back.
Is anything wrong, master?”

 
          
“Mrs.
Yorke has gone boating with him, I believe, and I am anxious about her, for a
storm is blowing up and Mr. Alfred is no sailor. Are you sure she went that
way?”

 
          
“Very
sure, sir; she had her boat cloak with her, and went down the beach path. I
thought she spoke to you lying under the pine, but I suppose you were asleep,
so she didn’t wake you.”

 
          
“She
stopped, did she?”

 
          
“Yes,
sir, several minutes, and stooped down as if speaking to you.” “You were
watching her, it seems. Why was that?”

 
          
“Beg
pardon, sir, but I couldn’t help it; she looked so gay and pretty it did my old
eyes good to look at her.”

 
          
“You
may go.”

 
          
The
instant he was alone, Yorke caught up a delicate lace handkerchief that lay on
a chair, and calling Judas, showed it to him with a commanding “Find her.” The
dog eyed his master intelligently, smelled the bit of cambric, and with nose to
the ground, dashed out of the house, while Yorke followed, wearing the
vigilant, restless look of an Indian on the war trail. Under the pine Judas
paused, snuffed here and there, hurried down the path, and set off across the
beach, till coming to a little cove, he seemed at fault, ran to and fro a
minute, then turned his face seaward and gave a long howl as if disappointed
that he could not follow his mistress by water as by land. Yorke came up breathless,
looked keenly all about him, and discovered several proofs of the dog’s
sagacity. Cecil’s veil lay on a rocky seat, large and small footprints were
visible in the damp sand, and a boat had been lately drawn up in the cove, for
the receding tide had not washed the mark of the keel away.

 
          
“She
could not be so treacherous—she has gone with Germain— I will not doubt her
yet.” But as the just and generous emotion rose, his eye fell on an object
which plainly proved that Alfred had been there. A gold sleeve button lay
shining at his feet; he seized it, saw the initials A. N. upon it, and doubted
no longer, as the hand that held it closed with a gesture full of ominous
significance, and turning sharply, he went back more rapidly than he came.
Straight home he hurried, and calling Anthony, alarmed the old man as much by
his appearance as by the singular orders he gave.

 
          
“If
Germain comes, tell him to wait here for me; if young Norton comes, do not
admit him; if Mrs. Yorke comes, put a light in the little turret window. I am
going to look for her, and shall not return till I find her, unless the light
recalls me.”

 
          
“Lord
bless
us, sir! If you’re scared about Mistress, let
someone go with you. I’ll be ready in a jiffy.”

 
          
“No;
I shall go alone. Get me the key of the boathouse, and do as I tell you.”

 
          
“But,
master, they’ll put in somewhere when they see the squall coming on. Better
send down to the hotel, or ride round to the Point. It’s going to be a wild
night, and you don’t look fit to face it.”

 
          
But
Yorke was deaf to warnings or suggestions, and hastily preparing himself for
the expedition, he repeated his orders, and left Anthony shaking his head over
“Master’s recklessness.”

 
          
As
he unmoored the boat, Judas leaped in, and standing in the bow, looked into the
dim distance with an alert, intent expression, as if he shared the excitement
of his companion. Up went the sail, and away flew the Sea Gull, leaving a track
of foam behind, and carrying with it a heart more unquiet than stormy sea or
sky. Across the bay skimmed the boat, and landing on the now deserted beach,
Yorke went up to the hotel, so calm externally that few would have suspected
the fire that raged within.

 
          
“Is
young Norton here?” he asked of a clerk lounging in the office.

 
          
“Left this afternoon, sir.”

 
          
“Rather
sudden, wasn’t it? Are you sure he’s gone?”

 
          
“Don’t
know about the suddenness, Mr. Yorke, but I do know that he paid his bill, sent
his baggage by the four-thirty train, and said he should follow in the next.”

 
          
“Did
he say anything about coming over to the Cliffs? I expected him today.”

 
          
“I
heard nothing of it, and the last I saw of him he was going toward the beach to
bid the ladies good-bye, I supposed.”

 
          
“Thank
you, Gay. I had a message for him, but I can send it by mail.” And Yorke sauntered
away as if his disappointment was a very triflng one. But the instant he was
out of sight his pace quickened to a stride, and he made straight for the
depot, cursing his ill-timed sleep as he went. Another official was soon found
and questioned, but no young gentleman answering to Alfred’s description had
purchased a ticket; of this the man was quite sure, as very few persons had
left by either of the last trains.

 
          
“Well
planned for so young a head, but Judas and his master will outwit him yet,” muttered
Yorke between his teeth, concentrating
all his
wrath
on Alfred, for he dared not think of Cecil.

 
          
Stopping
at Germain’s lodging, he was told that his friend had gone to town at noon, and
had not yet returned. This intelligence settled one point in his mind and
confirmed his worst fear. Regardless of the gathering storm, he put off again,
shaping his course for the city, led by a conviction that the lovers would
endeavor to conceal themselves there for a time at least. A strange pair of
voyagers went scudding down the harbor that afternoon: the great black hound,
erect and motionless at the bow, though the spray dashed over him, and the boat
dipped and bounded as it drove before the wind; the man erect and motionless at
the helm, one hand on the rudder and one on the sail, his mouth grimly set, and
his fiery eye fixed on the desired haven with an expression which proved that
an indomitable will defied both danger and defeat. Craft of all sorts were
hurrying into port, and more than one belated pleasure boat crossed Yorke’s
track. The occupants of each were scanned with a scrutinizing glance, and once
or twice he shouted an inquiry as they passed. But in none appeared the faces
he sought, no answer brought either contradiction or confirmation of his fear,
and no backward look showed him the welcome light burning in the little turret
window. Coming at last to the wharf where they always landed, he questioned the
waterman to whose care he gave his boat.