“When did she leave you?” he ventured to ask, carefully avoiding the hard word “die.”
“Three weeks ago.”
“How old are you, Cecil?” he said presently, in order to change the current of her thoughts, although the question was an unnecessary one.
“Nearly twelve, sir.”
“Twelve years, twelve long years since I saw her last, and then gave up the world.”
He spoke low to himself, and his thoughts seemed to wander from the present to the past, as, bending his head upon his breast, he stood mute and motionless till Anthony announced, “Tea is ready, master.”
Looking up with the melancholy shadow gloomier than ever in his eyes, Yorke led the child to the table, filled her cup, put everything within her reach, and opening a book, read more than he ate. Twilight was deepening in the room; the oppressive silence made the meal unsocial, and Cecil’s heart was heavy, for she felt doubly forlorn, bereft of the protection she had hoped to find and the familiar name her mother’s voice had endeared to her. She ate a few morsels, then leaned back in her chair, looking drearily about and wondering what would happen next. She did not wait long before a somewhat startling incident occurred.
As her eye roved to and fro it was arrested by the sudden appearance of a face at one of the windows. A strange, uncanny face, half concealed by a black beard that made the pallor of the upper part more striking. It was gone again instantly, but Cecil had only time to catch her breath and experience a thrill of alarm, when the long curtains that hung before the other half-open window stirred as if a hand grasped them, and through the narrow aperture between the folds the glitter of an eye was plainly visible. Fascinated by fear, the child sat motionless, longing to cry out, yet restrained by timidity and the hope that her companion would look up and see the intruder for himself.
He seemed absorbed in his book, and utterly unconscious of the hidden watcher, till an involuntary gesture caused another movement of the curtains, as if the hand loosened its grasp, for the eye vanished and Cecil covered her face with a long sigh of relief. Mr. Yorke glanced up, mistook the gesture for one of weariness, and evidently glad of an excuse to dispose of the child, he said abruptly, “You have come a long way today, and must be tired. Will you go to bed?”
“Oh, yes, I shall be glad to go,” cried Cecil, eager to leave what to her was now a haunted room.
Taking a lamp, he led her along dimly lighted halls, up wide staircases, into a chamber that seemed immense to its small occupant, while the darkly curtained bed was so like a hearse she instantly decided that it would be impossible to sleep in it. Mr. Yorke glanced about as if desirous of making her comfortable, but quite ignorant how to set about it.
“The old woman who would have attended you is sick, but if you want anything, ring for Anthony. Good night.”
Cecil was on the point of lifting her face for the good-night kiss she had been accustomed to receive from other lips, but remembering the careless pressure of his hand, the cold welcome he had given her, she restrained the impulse, and let him leave her with no answer but a quiet echo of his own “Good night.”
The moment his steps died away, she opened the door again and watched the light mount higher and higher as he wound his way up a spiral flight of stairs that evidently led to the tower. Cecil longed to follow, for she was sleepless with the excitement of novelty and a lingering touch of fear (for the face still haunted her), and she now reproached herself for not having spoken to Mr. Yorke. She was about to make this an excuse for following him, when the sound of noises from above made her hesitate.
“I’ll wait till he comes down, or till the person goes, for he ought to know about the man I saw, because it might be a thief,” she thought.
After lingering on the threshold till she was tired, Cecil seated herself in an easy chair beside the door, and amused herself by examining the pictures on the wall. But she was more weary than she knew; the chair was luxuriously cushioned, the steady murmur of voices very soothing, and she soon lapsed away into a drowse.
The certainty that someone had touched her suddenly startled her wide awake. An instant’s thought recalled her purpose, and fearing to be up too late, she ran into the upper hall, hoping to find Mr. Yorke descending. No one was in sight, however, yet so sure was she that a hand had touched her and a footstep sounded in the room that she looked over the balustrade, intending to call. Not a word left her lips, however, for neither Mr. Yorke nor Anthony appeared; but a man was going slowly down, wrapped in a cloak, with a shadowy hat drawn low over his brows. A slender hand shone white against the dark cloak, and as he reached the hall below he glanced over his shoulder, showing Cecil the same colorless face with its black beard and glittering eyes that had frightened her before, though he evidently did not see her now.
It alarmed her again, for it was a singularly sinister face in spite of its beauty. Never pausing to see what became of him, and conscious of nothing but an uncontrollable longing to be near Mr. Yorke, Cecil climbed the winding stairs without a pause till she reached an arched doorway, and seemed to see a gathering of ghosts beyond. The long, large room was filled with busts, statues, uncut blocks, tools, dust, and disorder, in the midst of which stood Mr. Yorke, dressed in a suit of gray linen, and intent on modeling something from a handful of clay. Many children would have been more alarmed at these inanimate figures than at the other, but Cecil found so much that was inviting, she forgot fear in delight, and boldly entered. A smiling woman seemed to beckon to her, a winged child to offer flowers, and all about the room pale gods and goddesses looked down upon her from their pedestals with what to her beauty-loving eye seemed varying expressions of welcome. Judas, the great dog, lay like a black statue on a tawny tiger skin, and the strong glow from a chandelier shone on his master as he worked with a swift dexterity that charmed Cecil.
Eager to ask questions, she began her explanations with a sudden “Bazil, I came up to—”
But got no further, for with a start that sent the model crumbling to the floor, he turned upon her almost angrily, demanding, “Who calls me by that name?”
“Its me; Mamma always said Bazil, and so I got used to it. What can I call you, sir?”
“Simply Yorke, as others do. I forbid that hateful name. Why are you here?”
“Indeed, I could not help it. I was so lonely and so frightened down there. I saw a face at the window, and wanted to tell you, but heard someone talking up here and I waited. But when I waked I saw the same face going down the stairs, and so I ran to you.”
Yorke listened with curious intentness to her story, asked a question or two, mused a moment, then said, pointing to a half-finished athlete, “The man is my model for that. He is a strange person, and does odd things, but you need not fear him.”
A quick-witted woman would have seen at a glance that dust lay thick on the clay figure, and have known that the slender hand grasping the cloak could never have belonged to the arm that served as a model for the brawny athlete. But Cecils childish eyes saw no discrepancy between the two, and she believed the explanation at once. With a sigh of mingled satisfaction and relief, she looked about her, and said beseechingly, “Please let me stop and see your work. I like it so much, so very much!”
“What do you know about it, child?” Yorke answered, wondering at her interest and sudden animation.
“Why, I used to do it; Mamma taught me as you taught her, with wax first, then pretty brown clay like this; and I was very happy doing it, because I liked it best of all my plays.”
“Your mother taught you! Why, Cecil?” And Yorke’s grave face kindled with an expression that won the child to franker speech at once.
“She liked it as well as I, and always called me little Bazil when I made pretty things. She was fond of it because she used to be very happy doing it a long time ago. She often told me about you when you lived in her fathers house; how you hated lessons, and loved to make splendid things in wax and wood and clay; how you didn’t care to eat or s
leep when you were busy, and how you made an image of her, but broke it when she was unkind to you. She didn’t tell me what she did, but I wish you would, so that I may be careful not to do it while I’m here.”
He laughed such a bitter laugh, it both touched and troubled her, as he answered harshly, “No fear of that; I never can be hurt again as she hurt me thirteen years ago.” Then with a sudden change in countenance and manner, he sat down on a block of marble with a half-finished angel’s head looking out of it, drew Cecil toward him, and looked at her with hungry eyes as he said eagerly, “Tell me more. Did she talk of me? Did she teach you to care for me? Child, speak fast—I vowed I would ask no questions, but I must!”
His voice rose, his glance searched her face, his stern mouth grew tremulous, and the whole man seemed to wake and glow with an unconquerable desire. Reassured by this sudden thaw in the frosty aspect of her guardian, Cecil leaned confidingly against his knee and softly answered, with her hand upon his shoulder, “Yes, Mamma often spoke of you; she wished me to love you dearly—and the last thing she said was that about the keepsake. I think she will be sorry if you send me away, because she thought you’d care for me as you once did for her.”
Some strange emotion rushed warm and tender over Bazil Yorke, and as if the words, the gentle touch, had broken down some barrier set up by pride or will, he took the child into his arms with an impetuous gesture, saying brokenly, “She remembered me—and she sent me her all. Surely I may keep the gift and put one drop of sweetness into this bitter life of mine.”
Bewildered, yet glad, Cecil clung to him, drawn by an attraction that she could not understand. For a moment Yorke hid his face in her long hair, then put her away as abruptly as he had embraced her, and returned to his work as if unused to such betrayals of feeling and ashamed of them. He merely said, as he took up his tools, “Amuse yourself as you please; I must work.”
Quite contented, Cecil roved about the room till curiosity was satisfied; made timid advances toward the great dog, which were graciously received; and at length gathering up the crumbled clay that fell from Yorke’s hand, she sat down beside Judas and began to mold as busily as the master.
Presently a little voice broke the silence, humming a song that Yorke remembered well. Softly as it was sung, Judas pricked up his ears, his master paused in his work, and leaning with folded arms, listened till the long hush recalled the singer from her happy reverie. She stopped instantly, but seeing no displeasure in the altered face above her, she held out her work, asking shyly, “Is it very bad, sir?”
It was a bunch of grapes deftly fashioned by small fingers that needed no other tool than their own skill, and though swiftly done, it was as graceful as if the gray cluster had just been broken from a vine. Yorke examined it critically, lifted the child’s face and studied it intently for a moment, kissed it gravely on the forehead so like his own, and said, with an air of decision, “It is well done; I shall keep both it and you. Will you stay and work with me, Cecil, and be content with no friend but myself, no playmate but old Judas?”
Cecil read the yearning of the man’s heart in his eyes with the quick instinct of a child, and answered it by exclaiming heartily, “Yes, I will; and be very happy here, for I like this place, I like Judas, and I love you already, because you make these lovely things, and are so kind to me now.”
“Are you a discreet girl, Cecil? Can you see and hear things, and yet not ask questions or tell tales?” asked Yorke, somewhat anxiously.
“I think I am.”
“So do I. Now I have a mind to keep you, for you are one of my sort; but I wish you to understand that nothing which goes on in my house is to be talked about outside of it. I let the world alone, and desire the world to do the same by me; so remember if you forget your promise, you march at once.”
“I always keep my promises. But may I ask two questions now before I promise? Then I’ll never do it anymore.”
“Well, my inquisitive little person, what is it?”
“I want to know if I can sometimes see the pleasant boy who gave me this rose.”
“And kissed you on the wall,” added Yorke, with such a satirical look that Cecil colored high and involuntarily exclaimed, “Did you see us? I thought you couldn’t from this high place.”
“I see everything that happens on my premises. If you do not gossip you may see the boy occasionally. What is the other question?”
“Will that disagreeable man come here often—the model, I mean? He frightens me, and I don’t want to see him unless you wish me to.” “You will not see him anymore. I shall not work at this figure for the present, so there will be no need of him. Make yourself easy; I shall never wish you to see or speak to him.”
“You are very kind. I’ll try to please you and not peep or ask questions. Can I wash my hands and look at this pretty book? I’ll go quietly away to bed when I get sleepy.”
With very much the air of a man who had undertaken the care of a butterfly, Yorke established her with the coveted portfolio on her lap, and soon entirely forgot her.
Accustomed to the deep reveries of a solitary life, hour after hour passed unheeded, and the city clocks tolled their warnings to deaf ears. After glancing once at the little chair and finding the child gone, he thought no more of her, till rising to rest his cramped limbs he saw her lying fast asleep on the tiger skin. One arm embraced the dog’s shaggy neck, her long hair swept the dusty floor, and the rosy warmth of slumber made the childish face blooming and beautiful.
“Truly I am a fit guardian for a little creature like this,” Yorke muttered, as he watched her a moment; then he covered her with a cloak and began to pace the room, busied with some absorbing thought. Once he paused and looked at the sleeper with an expression of grim determination, saying to himself as he eyed the group, “If I had power to kill the savage beast, skill to subdue the fierce dog, surely I can mold the child as I will, and make the daughter pay the mother’s debt.”
His face darkened as he spoke, the ruthless look deepened, and the sudden clenching of the hand boded ill for the young life he had taken into his keeping.
All night the child lay dreaming of her mother, all night the man sat pondering over an early wrong that had embittered a once noble nature, and dawn found them unchanged, except that Cecil had ceased to smile in her sleep, and Bazil Yorke had shaped a fugitive emotion into a relentless purpose.
Chapter II
THE BROKEN CUPID
FIVE years later, a new statue stood in the studio; we might have said two new statues, though one was a living creature. The marble figure was a lovely, Psyche-bending form, and with her graceful hand above her eyes, as if she watched her sleeping lover. Of all Bazil Yorke s works this was the best, and he knew it, for, surrounded by new influences, he had wrought at it with much of his youthful ardor—had found much of the old happiness while so busied, and was so proud of his success that no offer could tempt him to part with it—no certainty of fame persuade him to exhibit it, except to a chosen few.
The human figure was Cecil, changed from a rosy child into a slender, deep-eyed girl. Colorless, like a plant deprived of sunshine, strangely unyouthful in the quiet grace of her motions, the sweet seriousness of her expression, but as beautiful as the Psyche and almost as cold. Her dress heightened the resemblance, for the white folds draped her from neck to ankle; not an ornament marred its severe simplicity, and the wavy masses of her dark hair were gathered up with a fillet, giving her the head of a young Hebe. It was a fancy of Yorke s, and as few eyes but his beheld her, she dressed for him alone, unconscious that she served as a model for his fairest work. Standing in the one ray of sunshine that shot athwart the subdued light of the studio, she seemed intent upon a little Cupid exquisitely carved in the purest marble. She was not working now, for the design was finished, but seemed to be regarding it with mingled satisfaction and regret—satisfaction that it was done so well, regret that it was done so soon. The little god was just drawing an arrow from his quiv
er with an arch smile, and the girl watched him with one almost as gay. A rare sight upon her lips, but some happy fancy seemed to bring it, and more than once she gave the graceful figure a caressing touch, as if she had learned to love it.
“Don’t fire again, little Cupid, I surrender,” suddenly exclaimed a blithe voice behind her, and, turning, Cecil saw her friend and neighbor, Alfred, now a tall young man, though much of the boyish frankness and impetuosity still remained.
“Do you like it, Alf?” she asked, with a quiet smile of welcome, and a repose of manner contrasting strongly with the eagerness of the newcomer’s.
“You know I do, Cecil, for it has been my delight ever since you began it. The little god is perfect, and I must have him at any cost. Name your price, and let it be a high one.”
“Yorke would not like that, neither should I. You have more than paid for it by friendly acts and words through these five years, so let me give it to you with all my heart.”
She spoke tranquilly, and offered her hand as if transferring to him the lovely figure it had wrought. He took the white hand in both his own, and with a sudden glow on his cheek, a sudden ardor in his eye, said, in an impulsive voice, “With all your heart, Cecil? Let me take you at your word, let me claim, not only the image of love, but the reality, -and keep this hand as mine.”
A soft tinge of color touched the girl’s cheek as she drew her hand away, but the quiet smile remained unchanged, and she still looked up at him with eyes as innocent and frank as any child’s.
“I did not mean that, Alf; we are too young for such things yet, and I know nothing of love except in marble.”
“Let me teach you then; we never are too young to learn that lesson,” he urged eagerly. “I meant to wait another year before I spoke, for then I shall be my own master, and have a home to give you. But you grow so lovely and so dear, I must speak out and know my fate. Dear Cecil, what is it to be?”
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