Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15

by Plots (and) Counterplots (v1. 1)

  “I cannot tell; this is so new and strange to me, I have no answer ready.”

  She looked troubled now, but more by his earnestness than by any maidenly doubts or fears of her own, and leaning her head upon her hand seemed to search for an answer, and search in vain. Alfred watched her a moment, then broke out indignantly, “No wonder it seems new and strange, for you have led a nun’s life all these years, and know nothing of the world outside these walls. Yorke lets you read neither romance nor poetry, gives you no companions but marble men and women, no change but a twilight walk each day, or a new design to work out in this gloomy place. You never have been told you have a heart and a right to love like other women. Let me help you to know it, and find an answer for myself.,,

  “Am I so different from other girls? Is my life strange and solitary? I’ve sometimes thought so, but I never felt quite sure. What is love, Alfred?”

  “This!” And opening his arms her young lover would have answered her wistful question eloquently, but Cecil shrank a little, and put up her hand to check his impulse.

  “Not so, tell me in words, Alf, how one feels when one truly loves.”

  “I only know how I feel, Cecil. I long for you day and night; think of you wherever I am; see no one half so beautiful, half so good as you; care for nothing but being here, and have no wish to live unless you will make life happy for me.”

  “And that is love?” She spoke low, to herself, for as he answered her face had slowly been averted, a soft trouble had dawned in her eyes, and a deeper color risen to her cheek, as if the quiet heart was waking suddenly.

  “Yes; and you do love me, Cecil? Now I know it—now you will not deny it.”

  She looked up, pale but steady, for the child’s expression was quite gone, and in her countenance was all a woman’s pain and pity, as she said decidedly, “No, Alf, I do not love you. I know myself now, and feel that it is impossible.”

  But Alfred would not accept the hard word “impossible,” and pleaded passionately, in spite of the quiet determination to end the matter, which made Cecil listen almost as coldly as if she did not hear. Anger succeeded surprise and hope, as the young man bitterly exclaimed, “You might make it possible, but you will not try!”

  “No, I will not, and it is unkind of you to urge me. Let me be in peace—I’m happy with my work, and my nun’s life was pleasant till you came to trouble it with foolish things.”

  She spoke impatiently, and the first glimpse of passion ever seen upon her face now disturbed its quietude, yet made it lovelier than ever.

  “Well said, Cecil; my pupil does honor to her master.”

  Both started as the deep voice sounded behind them, and both turned to see Bazil Yorke leaning in the doorway with a satirical smile on his lips. Cecil made an involuntary motion to go to him, but checked herself as Alfred said hotly, “It is not well said! And but for the artful training you have given her, she would be glad to change this unnatural life, though she dare not say so, for you are a tyrant, in spite of your seeming kindness!”

  “Do you fear me too much to tell the truth, Cecil?” asked Yorke, quite unmoved.

  “No, master.”

  “Then decide between us two, now and forever, because I will not have your life or mine disturbed by such scenes as this. If you love Alfred, say so freely, and when my guardianship ends I will give you to his. If you prefer to stop with me, happy in the work you are wonderfully fitted to perform, content with the quiet life I deem best for you, and willing to be the friend and fellow laborer of the old master, then come to him and let us hear no more of lovers or of tyrants.”

  As he spoke Cecil had listened breathlessly, and when he paused, she went to him with such a glad and grateful face, such instant and entire willingness, that it touched him deeply, though he showed no sign of it except to draw her nearer, with a caressing gesture which he had not used since she ceased to be a child.

  The words, the act, wounded the young lover to the heart, and he broke out, in a voice trembling with anger, sorrow, and reproach, “I might have known how it would be; I should have known if my own love had not blinded me. You have taught her something beside your art —have made too sure of her to fear any rival, and when the time comes you will change the guardian to a husband, and become her master in earnest.”

  “Not I! My day for such folly is long since past. Cecil will never be anything to me but my ward and pupil, unless some more successful lover than yourself should take her from me.”

  Yorke laughed scornfully at the young man’s accusation, but looked down at the girl with an involuntary pressure of the arm that held her, for despite his careless manner, she was dearer to him than he knew.

  “I will never leave you for any other—never, my dear master.”

  Alfred heard her soft whisper, saw her cling to Yorke, knew that there was no hope for him, and with a broken “Good-bye, Cecil, I shall not trouble you again,” he was gone.

  “Poor lad, he takes it hardly, but he’ll soon forget. I should have warned him, had I not been sure it would have hastened what I desired to prevent. It is over at last, thank heaven, so look up, foolish child; there are no lovers here to frighten you now.”

  But Cecil did not look up, she hid her face and wept quietly, for Alfred had been her only young friend since the day he gave the rose and made the new home pleasant by his welcome.

  Yorke let her tears flow unreproved for a few moments, then his patience seemed exhausted, and placing her in a seat, he turned away to examine the Cupid which Alfred had not accepted. As he looked at it he smiled, then frowned, as if some unwelcome fancy had been conjured up by it, and asked abruptly, “What suggested the idea of this, Cecil?” “You did!” was the half-audible answer.

  “I did? Never to my knowledge.”

  “Your making Psyche suggested Cupid, for though you did not tell me the pretty fable, Alf did, and told me how my image should be made. I could not do a large one, so I pleased myself with trying a little winged child with the bandage and the bow.”

  “Why would you not let me see it till it was done?”

  “At first because I hoped to make it good enough to give you, then I thought it too full of faults to offer, so I gave it to Alf; but he would not have it without me, and now I don’t care for it anymore.”

  Yorke smiled, as if well pleased at this proof of her indifference to the youth, then with a keen glance at the drooping face before him, he asked, “Are you quite sure that you do not care for Alfred?”

  “Very sure, master.”

  “Then what has changed you so within a week or two? You sang yesterday like an uncaged bird, a thing you seldom do. You smile to yourself as you work, and when I wished to use your face as a model not an hour ago, you could not fix your eyes on me as I bade you, and cried when I chid you. What is it, Cecil? If you have anything upon your mind, tell me, and let nothing disturb us again if possible.”

  If the girl had been trained to repress all natural emotions and preserve an unvarying calmness of face, voice, and manner, she had also been taught to tell the truth, promptly and fearlessly. Now it was evident that she longed to escape the keen eye and searching questions of her master, as she loved to call him, but she dared not hesitate, and answered slowly, “I should have told you something before, only I did not like to, and I thought perhaps you knew it.”

  “Well, well, stop blushing and speak out; I know nothing but this boy’s love and the change in you.” Yorke spoke impatiently, and wore an anxious look, as if he dreaded more tender confessions, for Cecil never lifted her eyes as she rapidly went on:

  “A week ago, as we came in from our evening walk, you stopped at the corner to call Judas, and I went on to open the door for you. Just as I put the key into the latch, a hand took mine, as if to slip something into it, but I was so startled I let the paper drop, and should have called to you if someone had not wrapped me in a cloak so closely that I could not speak, though I was kissed more than once and called my darling in
a very tender voice. It all happened in a minute, and before I knew what to do, the man was gone, and I ran in, too frightened to wait for you.”

  As she paused, Cecil looked up, and was amazed to see no wonder on Yorke’s face, but an expression of pain and indignation that she could not understand. “Back again and I not know it,” he muttered to himself, then aloud, almost sternly, “why did you not tell me this before?”

  “You were busy that night, and when I’d thought of it a little I did not like to speak of it, because I remembered that you called me silly when I told you that people made me uncomfortable by looking at me as I walked in the day. I thought I’d wait, but it troubled me and made me seem unlike myself, I suppose.”

  “Are you sure it was not Alfred, playing some foolish prank in the twilight?” asked Yorke.

  “I know it was not Alf; he wears no beard, and is not tall like this strange man.”

  “It could not have been Anthony?”

  “Oh, no, that is impossible. Old Tony’s hands are rough; these were soft though very strong, and the voice was too low and kind for his.”

  “Have you no suspicion who it might have been?” asked Yorke, searching her thoughtful face intently.

  She blushed deeper than before, but answered steadily, “I did think of you, master, for you are tall and strong, you wear a beard and cloak, and your hand is soft. But your voice never is like that voice, and you never say my darling’ in that tender way.”

  Yorke knit his brows, saying, a little bitterly, “You seem to have forgiven this insolent stranger already because of that, and to reproach me that I never use such sentimental phrases, or embrace my ward upon my doorstep. Shall I tell you who this interesting phantom probably was? The model, whom you disliked so much that I dismissed him when you came.”

  Cecil turned pale, for her childish terror had remained as fresh in her memory as the events that wakened it; and though she had merely caught glimpses of the man as he occasionally glided into Yorke’s private room during the past five years, she still felt a curious mixture of interest and fear, and often longed to break her promise and ask questions concerning him and his peculiar ways.

  “Why do you let him come?” she said, forgetting everything but surprise, as Yorke spoke as he had never done before.

  “I wish I could prevent it!” he answered, eyeing her half sadly, half jealously. “I’ve bidden him to go, but be will come back to harass me. Now I’ll end it at any cost.”

  “But why does be care for me?” asked Cecil, finding that her first question had received an answer.

  “Because you are beautiful and—” There Yorke caught back the coming words, and after a pause said coldly, “Remember your promise- no more of this.”

  For several minutes he went to and fro, busied with anxious thoughts, while Cecil mused over the mystery, and grieved for Alfred’s disappointment. Suddenly Yorke paused before her.

  “Do you understand to what you pledge yourself when you say you will never leave me, Cecil?”

  “I think I do” was the ready answer.

  “Nothing is to be changed, you know.”

  “I hope not.”

  “No romances—no poetry to be allowed.”

  “I do not want them.”

  “No frivolities and follies like other women.”

  “I can be happy without.”

  “No more Cupids of any sort.”

  “Shall I break this one?”

  “No, leave it as a warning, or send it to poor Alf.”

  “What else, master?” she asked wistfully.

  “Only this: Can you be content year after year with study, solitude, steady progress, and in time fame for yourself, but never any knowledge of love as Alfred paints it?”

  “Never, Yorke?”

  “Never, Cecil!”

  She shivered, as if the words fell cold upon her heart, all the glad light and color faded from her face, and she looked about her with longing eyes, as if the sunshine had gone out of her life forever. Yorke saw the change, and a momentary expression of pity softened the stern determination of his face.

  “This never would have happened but for that romantic boy,” he thought. “There shall be no more of it, and a little pain now shall spare us all misunderstanding hereafter.”

  “Cecil,” he said aloud, “love makes half the misery of the world; it has been the bane of my life—it has made me what I am, a man without ambition, hope, or happiness—and out of my own bitter experience I warn you to beware of it. You know nothing of it yet, and if you are to stay with me you never will, unless this boys folly has done more harm than I suspect. Carving Cupid has filled your head with fancies that will do you no good; banish them and be what I would have you.”

  “A marble woman like your Psyche, with no heart to love you, only grace and beauty to please your eye and bring you honor; is that what you would have me?”

  He started, as if she had put some hidden purpose into words; his eye went from the gleaming statue to the pale girl, and saw that he had worked out his design in stone, but not yet in that finer material given him to mold well or ill. He did not see the pain and passion throbbing in her heart; he only saw her steady eyes; he only heard her low spoken question, and answered it, believing that he served her better than she knew.

  “Yes, I would have you beautiful and passionless as Psyche, a creature to admire with no fear of disturbing its quiet heart, no fear of endangering one's own. I am kinder than I seem in saying this, for I desire to save you from the pain I have known. Stay with me always, if you can, but remember, Cecil, I am done with love.”

  “I shall remember, sir.”

  Yorke left her, glad to have the task over, for it had not been as easy as he fancied. Cecil listened and answered with her usual submission, stood motionless till the sound of a closing door assured her that he was gone, then a look of sharp anguish banished the composure of her face, and a woman's passionate pride trembled in her voice as she echoed his last words.

  “I am done with love!” And lifting the little Cupid let it drop broken at her feet.

  Chapter III

  GERMAIN

  FOR a week Cecil saw little of Yorke, as, contrary to his custom, he was out a greater part of each day, and when at home was so taciturn and absorbed that he was scarcely more than a shadow in the house. She asked no questions, appeared unconscious of any change, and worked busily upon a new design, thinking bitter thoughts the while. Alfred never came, and Cecil missed him; but Yorke was well satisfied, for the purpose formed so long ago had never changed; and though the young mans love endangered its fulfillment, that cloud had passed by, leaving the girl all his own again. She too seemed to cherish some purpose, that soon showed its influence over her; for her face daily grew more cold and colorless, her manner quieter, her smiles fewer, her words briefer, her life more nunlike than ever, till unexpected events changed the current of her thoughts, and gave her new mysteries to brood over.

  One evening, as Cecil sat drawing, while Yorke paced restlessly up and down, he said suddenly, after watching her for several minutes, “Cecil, will you do me a great favor?”

  “With pleasure, if I can and ought,” she answered, without pausing in her work.

  “I am sure you can, I think you ought, yet I cannot explain why I ask it, although it will annoy and perplex you. Will you have faith in me, and believe that what I do is done for the best?”

  “I trust you, sir; you have taught me to bear in silence many things that perplex and annoy me, so I think I can promise to bear one more.” Something in her meek answer seemed to touch him like a reproach, for his voice softened, as he said regretfully, “I know I am not all I might be to you, but the day may come when you will see that I have spared you greater troubles, and made my dull home a safer shelter than it seems.”

  He took a turn or two, then stopped again, asking abruptly, “A gentleman is to dine with me tomorrow; will you do the honors of the house?”

  It was impo
ssible to conceal the surprise which this unusual request produced, for during all the years they had been together, few strangers had been admitted, and Cecil, being shy, had gladly absented herself on these rare occasions. Now she laid down her pencil and looked up at him, with mingled reluctance and astonishment in her face.

  “How can I, when I know nothing of such things? Hester has always suited you till now.”

  “I have neglected many womanly accomplishments which you should have acquired, this among them; now you shall learn to be the little mistress of the house, and leave Hester in her proper place. Will you oblige me, Cecil?”

  Yorke spoke as if discharging a painful duty which had been imposed upon him; Cecil was quick to see this, and any pleasure she might have felt in the proposal was destroyed by his uneasy manner.

  “As you please, sir” was all her answer.

  “Thank you; now one thing more. Haven’t you a plain gray gown?”

  “Yes.”

  “Be kind enough to wear it tomorrow, instead of that white one, which is more becoming, but too peculiar to appear in before strangers. This, also, I want altered; let me show you how.”

  He untied the band that held her hair, and as it fell upon her shoulders, he gathered the dark locks plainly back into a knot behind, smoothing away the ripples on her forehead, and the curls that kept breaking from his hold.

  “Wear it so tomorrow. Look in the glass, and see how I mean,” he said, as he surveyed the change he had effected.

  She looked, and smiled involuntarily, though a vainer girl would have frowned, for the alteration added years to her age, apparently; destroyed the beautiful outline of her face, and robbed her head of its most graceful ornament.

  “You wish me to look old and plain, I see. If you like it, I am satisfied.”

  He looked annoyed at her quickness in divining his purpose, and shook out the curls again, as he said hastily, “I do wish it, for my guest worships beauty, and I have no desire for more love passages at present/’