Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15

by Plots (and) Counterplots (v1. 1)

  “It will not; and the knowledge that I detest and despise you is to add bitterness to your threefold punishment; the memory of Allan, Victor, and Diana is another part of it; and here is the heaviest blow which heaven inflicts as a retribution that will come home to you.”

  As he spoke, Douglas held to her a crumpled paper, stained with a red stain, and torn with the passage of a bullet that ended Victor’s life. She knew the writing, sprang up to seize it, read the few lines, and when the paper fluttered to the ground, the white anguish of her face betrayed that the last blow had crushed her as no other could have done. She dropped into a seat, with the wail of tearless woe that breaks from a bereaved mother’s heart as she looks on the dead face of the child who has been her idol, and finds no loving answer.

  “My baby gone—and I not there to say good-bye! Oh, my darling, I could have borne anything but this!”

  So utterly broken did she seem, so wild and woeful did she look, that Douglas had not the heart to add another pang to her sharp grief by any word of explanation or compassion. Silently he poured out a glass of wine and placed it nearer, then resumed his seat and waited till she spoke. Soon she lifted up her head, and showed him the swift and subtle blight that an hour had brought upon her. Life, light, and beauty seemed to have passed away, and a pale shadow of her former self alone remained. Some hope or some resolve had brought her an unnatural calmness, for her eyes were tearless, her face expressionless, her voice tranquil, as if she had done with life, and neither pain nor passion could afflict her now.

  “What next?” she said, and laid her hand upon the glass, but did not lift it to her lips, as if the former were too tremulous, or the latter incapable of receiving the draft.

  “Only this,” he answered, with a touch of pity in his voice. “I will not have my name handed from mouth to mouth, in connection with an infamous history like this. For Allan’s sake, and for Diana’s, I shall keep it secret, and take your punishment into my hands. Victor I leave to a wiser judge than any human one; the innocent child is safe from shame and sorrow; but you must atone for the past with the loss of liberty and your whole future. It is a more merciful penalty than the law would exact, were the truth known, for you are spared public contempt, allowed time for repentance, and deprived of nothing but the liberty which you have so cruelly abused.”

  “I thank you. Where is my prison to be?”

  She took the glass into her hand, yet still held it suspended, as she waited for his answer, with an aspect of stony immobility which troubled him.

  “Far away in Scotland I own a gray old tower, all that now remains of an ancient stronghold. It is built on the barren rock, where it stands like a solitary eagle’s eyrie, with no life near it but the sound of the wind, the scream of the gulls, the roll of the sea that foams about it. There with my faithful old servants you shall live, cut off from all the world, but not from God, and when death comes to you, may it find you ready and glad to go, a humble penitent, more fit to meet your little child than now.”

  A long slow tremor shook her from head to foot, as word by word her merciful yet miserable doom was pronounced, leaving no hope, no help but the submission and repentance which it was not in her nature to give. For a moment she bowed her head, while her pale lips moved, and her hands, folded above the glass, were seen to tremble as if some fear mingled even in her prayers. Then she sat erect, and fixing on him a glance in which love, despair, and defiance mingled, she said, with all her former pride and spirit, as she slowly drank the wine, “Death cannot come too soon; I go to meet it.”

  Her look, her tone, awed Douglas, and for a moment he regarded her in silence, as she sat there, leaning her bright head against the dark velvet of the cushioned chair. Her eyes were on him still brilliant and brave, in spite of all that had just passed; a disdainful smile curved her lips, and one fair arm lay half extended on the table, as it fell when she put the glass away. On this arm the bracelet shone; he pointed to it, saying, with a meaning glance, “I know that secret, as I know all the rest.”

  “Not all; there is one more you have not discovered—yet.”

  She spoke very slowly, and her lips seemed to move reluctantly, while a strange pallor fell on her face, and the fire began to die out of her eyes, leaving them dim, but tender.

  “You mean the mystery of the iron ring; but I learned that last night, when, with an expert companion, I entered your room, where you lay buried in the deep sleep produced by the drugged coffee which I gave you. I saw my portrait on your neck, as I wear Allan’s, ever since we gave them to each other, long ago, and beside the miniature, the silver key that opened your quaint treasure casket. I found the wax impression of my signet, taken, doubtless, on the night when, as a ghost, you haunted my room; I found the marriage record, stamped with that counterfeit seal, to impose upon Diana; I found relics of Vane, and of your child; and when Hyde called me, I saw and examined the two letters on your arm, which he had uncovered by removing the bracelet from it.”

  He paused there, expecting some demonstration. None appeared; she leaned and listened, with the same utter stillness of face and figure, the same fixed look and deathly pallor. He thought her faint and spent with the excitement of the hour, and hastened to close the interview, which had been so full of contending emotions to them both.

  “Go now, and rest,” he said. “I shall make all necessary arrangements here, all proper explanations to Lady Leigh. Gabrielle will prepare for your departure in the morning; but let me warn you not to attempt to bribe her, or to deceive me by any new ruse, for now escape is impossible.”

  “I have escaped!”

  The words were scarcely audible, but a glance of exultation flashed from her eyes, then faded, and the white lids fell, as if sleep weighed them down. A slight motion of the nerveless hand that lay upon the table drew Earl’s attention, and with a single look those last words were explained. The opal ring was turned inward on her finger, and some unsuspected spring had been touched when she laid her hands together; for now in the deep setting appeared a tiny cavity, which had evidently contained some deadly poison. The quick and painless death that was to have been Victor’s had fallen to herself, and, unable to endure the fate prepared for her, she had escaped, when the net seemed most securely drawn about her. Horror-stricken, Douglas called for help; but all human aid was useless, and nothing of the fair, false Virginie remained but a beautiful, pale image of repose.

  A Marble Woman

  Chapter I

  LITTLE CECIL

  “WHAT do you mean by pulling the bell fit to bring the house down?” demanded gruff old Anthony, as he flung the door open and found himself confronted with a large trunk and a small girl holding a letter in her hand.

  “It was the coachman, please, sir” was the composed answer.

  “Well, what do you want, child?”

  “I wish to come in. This is my luggage; I’ll help you with it.”

  The small personage laid hold of one handle with such perfect good faith in her own strength that it produced a chuckle from the old servant as he drew the trunk in with one hand, the child with the other, and shut the door, saying more respectfully, “Now, ma’am, what next?”

  Smoothing her disordered dress with dignity, the little girl replied, as if repeating a carefully learned lesson, “You are to give this letter to Mr. Bazil Yorke, and say Miss Stein has come. Then I am to wait till he tells me what to do.”

  “Are you Miss Stein?” asked Anthony, bewildered by the appearance of a child in that lonely house.

  “Yes, sir; and I’ve come to live here if Mr. Yorke will keep me,” said the little girl, glancing wistfully about her as if waiting for a welcome.

  “Are you a relation of Master’s?” questioned Anthony, still more mystified.

  “No, sir. He knew my papa and mamma, but he never saw me. That’s all I know about it.”

  The old man shook his head with an air of resignation as he muttered to himself, “Some whim of Master’s; it’s just
like him.” Then aloud, “I’ll take up the letter, but you’d better play out here till you’re wanted; for when Master gets busy up aloft, it’s no use trying to fetch him down before the time.”

  Leading her through the hall, he opened a glass door and ushered her into a city garden, where a few pale shrubs and vines rustled in the wind. The child glanced listlessly about her as she walked, for nothing was in bloom, and the place had a neglected air. Suddenly a splendid, full-blown rose softly brushed her cheek and fell at her feet. With an exclamation of pleasure she caught it up and looked skyward to see what friendly fairy had divined her wish and granted it.

  “Here I am,” called a laughing voice, and turning about she saw a boy leaning on the low wall that divided Mr. Yorke’s garden from an adjoining one. A rosy, bright-eyed boy about her own age he seemed, full of the pleasant audacity which makes boyhood so charming, and in a neighborly mood just then; for as she looked up wondering, he nodded, smiled, and said merrily, “How are you? Do you like the rose?”

  “Oh, yes! Did you mean it for me?”

  “I thought you looked as if you needed one, so I tossed it over. It’s very dismal down there. Suppose you come up here, and then you can see my garden while we talk a bit. Don’t be afraid of me; just give me your hand and there you are.”

  There was something so winning in voice, face, and gesture that little Miss Stein could not resist the invitation. She gave her hand, and soon sat on the wide coping of the wall, regarding her new friend with a shy yet confiding look as he did the honors of the place with well-bred eagerness. Neither asked the other’s name, but making the rose their master of ceremonies, introduced themselves through that pretty medium, and soon forgot that they had been entire strangers five minutes before.

  “Do you like my garden?” asked the boy, as the girl smelled her flower and smiled down upon the blooming plot below her.

  “Very much; I wish Mr. Yorke would have one like it.”

  “He don’t care for such things; he’s odd and busy, and a genius, you know.”

  “I hope that’s nothing bad, because I’m going to live with him. Tell me all about him, for I never saw him in my life.”

  “He’s a sculptor and makes splendid statues up in that tower where nothing but the sun and sparrows can see him. He never shows them, and no one would ever see them if they didn’t beg and tease and give him no peace till they do.”

  “Is he kind and pleasant?” asked the girl.

  “He looks precious grim with his long hair and beard, but he’s got kind eyes, though his face is dark and strange.”

  “Has he got a wife and any little children?”

  “Oh, dear, no! He lives here with old Tony and Mrs. Hester, the maid. I heard my mother tell a lady that Mr. Yorke had a love trouble and can’t bear women, so none dare go near him. He’s got a splendid great dog, but he’s as fierce as a wolf to everyone but his master and 1 ony.

  “I wish I hadn’t come. I don’t like odd people, and I’m afraid of dogs,” sighed Miss Stein.

  “Mr. Yorke will be kind to such a little thing as you, and make old Judas like you, I dare say. Perhaps you won’t have to stay long if you don’t like it. Is your home far away?”

  “I’ve got no home now. Oh, Mamma! Mamma!” And covering her face with her little black frock, the child broke into such sudden, bitter sobs that the boy was stricken with remorse. Finding words vain, he sprang impetuously off the wall, and filling his hands with his choicest flowers, heaped them into the child’s lap with such demonstrations of penitence and goodwill that she could not refuse to be comforted.

  Just then Anthony called her, and with a hasty good-bye she turned to obey, but the boy detained her for a moment to say, “Don’t forget to ask Mr. Yorke if you may play with me, because you’ll be very dull all by yourself, and I should like you for my little sweetheart.”

  “Alfred! Alfred! It is rather too soon for that,” called a smiling lady from a window of the adjoining house, whereat the boy sprang down, laughing at the unexpected publicity of his declaration, and Miss Stein walked away, looking much disturbed by Anthony’s chuckles.

  “The master will be down to his tea directly, so you can look out a winder and not meddle till he comes,” said the old man as he left her.

  The memory of the pretty lad warmed the child’s heart and seemed to shed a ray of cheerfulness over the somber room. A table was spread with care, and beside one plate lay a book, as if “the master” was in the habit of enlivening his solitary meals with such society as the full shelves about afforded him. The furniture was ancient, the window hangings dark, the pictures weird or gloomy, and the deep silence that reigned through the house oppressed the lonely child. Approaching the table she ventured to examine the book. It proved intelligible and picturesque; so establishing herself in the armchair, she spread the volume before her, and soon became happily forgetful of orphanage and solitude.

  So intent was she that a man came to the door unobserved, and pausing there, scrutinized her from head to foot. Had she looked up she would have seen a tall, athletic figure and a singularly attractive face, though it was neither beautiful nor gentle. The dark, neglected hair was streaked with gray at thirty; the forehead was marked with deep lines, and under the black brows were magnificent yet melancholy eyes, that just then looked as if some strong emotion had kindled an unwonted fire in their depths. The lower part of the face gave flat contradiction to the upper, for the nose was disdainful, the chin square and grim, the whole contour of the mouth relentless, in spite of the softening effect of a becoming beard. Dressed in velvet cap and paletot, and framed in the dark doorway, he looked like a striking picture of some austere scholar aged with care or study, not with years; yet searching closer, one would have seen traces of deep suffering, latent passion, and a strange wistfulness, as if lonely eyes were forever seeking something they had lost.

  For many minutes Bazil Yorke watched the unconscious child, as if there was some strong attraction for him in the studious little figure poring over the book with serious eyes, one hand turning the pictured pages, the other pushing back the wavy hair from a blooming cheek and a forehead possessing delicate brows and the harmonious lines about the temples which artists so love. The man’s eyes softened as he looked, for the child’s patient trust made her friendlessness the more pathetic. He put out his hand as if to draw her to him, then checked the impulse, and the hard mouth grew grimmer as he swept off the cap, saying coldly, “Miss Stein, I am ready now.”

  His guest started, shut the book, slipped down, and went to meet her host, offering her hand as if anxious to atone for the offense of meddling.

  Like one unused to such acts, Mr. Yorke took the small hand, gave it a scarcely perceptible pressure, and dropped it without a word. The action grieved the child, yet nothing betrayed the pang of disappointment it gave her except a slight tremor in the voice that timidly asked, “Did you get the letter, sir?”

  “I did. Your mother wished me to keep you till you were eighteen, when you were to choose a guardian for yourself. Her family will not receive you, and your father’s family is far away; but your mother and myself were old friends many years ago, and she hoped I would take you for a time.”

  “Will you, sir? I’ll try not to be a trouble.”

  “No, I cannot. This is no place for a child; nor am I a fit guardian if it was. I will find some better home for you tomorrow. But as you will remain here tonight, you may take off your hat and cloak, or whatever it is.”

  Half pityingly, half impatiently he spoke, and eyed the child as if he longed to yet dared not keep her. The little hat was taken off, but the ribbons of the mantle were in a knot, and after pulling at it for a moment, she turned to her companion for help. As he stooped to give it with a curious reluctance in his manner, she scanned the face so near her own with innocent freedom, and presently murmured, as if to herself, “Yes, the boy was right; his eyes are kind.”

  With a wrench that tore the silk, and caused t
he child to start, Mr. Yorke broke the knot, and turning away, rang the bell with vehemence.

  “What is your name?” he asked, carefully averting his eyes as the little girl sat down.

  “Cecilia Bazil Stein.”

  “What an ominous conjunction!”

  She did not understand the scornful exclamation and proceeded to explain.

  “Mamma’s name was Cecilia, yours is Bazil, and Papa’s was Stein. You can call me Celia as Mamma did, if you please, sir.”

  “No, I shall call you Cecil. I dislike the other name.”

  Quick tears sprang to the child’s eyes, but none fell, and lowering her voice she said, with trembling lips, “Mamma wished me to tell you that she sent her love, and the one precious thing she had as a keepsake, and hoped you’d take it in memory of the happy days when you and she were friends.”

  Mr. Yorke turned his back upon her for several minutes, then asked abruptly, “Where have you been this last year?”

  “Here in America. We were in England before that, because Mamma did not like Germany since Papa died, and we were tired of going about.”

  “Your father died when you were a baby, I think. Have you been with your mother ever since?” asked Mr. Yorke with a half-smile, as the little creature spoke of these countries as composedly as if they were neighboring towns.

  “Yes, I was always with her, and we were very happy staying in all sorts of new and pleasant places. But Mamma wished to save up some money for me, so we came here and lived very plainly in the country till she—”

  The child stopped there, for her lips trembled and she did not wish to disgrace herself by crying twice in one hour. He saw that she controlled herself, and the little trait of character pleased him as did the pretty mixture of innocent frankness and good breeding betrayed by her manner and appearance.