“No fear of that till poor Alf’s forgotten.”
She spoke proudly, and took up her pencil as if weary of the subject. Yorke stood for a moment, wondering if she found it hard to forget “poor Alf,” but he said no more, and sat down as if a load were off his mind. Opening a book, he seemed to read, but Cecil heard no leaves turned, and a covert glance showed him regarding the page with absent eyes and a melancholy expression that troubled her. There had been a time when she would have gone to him with affectionate solicitude, but not now; and though her heart was full of sympathy, she dared not show it, so sat silent till the clock struck ten, then with a quiet “Good night” she was gone.
“We shall dine at six; I’ll ring for you when Germain comes,” said Yorke, as they came in from their walk the following day.
“I shall be ready, sir.”
Cecil watched and waited for the stranger’s arrival, in a flutter of expectation, which proved that in spite of Yorke’s severe training, feminine curiosity was not yet dead. She heard Anthony admit the guest, heard Yorke receive him, and heard the old woman who came to help Hester on such occasions ejaculate from behind a door, “Bless me, what a handsome man!” But minute after minute passed, and no bell rang, no summons came for her. The clock was on the stroke of six, and she was thinking, sorrowfully, that he had forgotten her, when Yorke’s voice was heard at the door, saying with unusual gentleness, “Come, Cecil; it is time.”
“I thought you were to ring for me,” she said, as they went down together.
“And I thought it more respectful to come and wait upon the little mistress, than to call her like a servant. How your heart beats! You need fear nothing. I shall be near you, child.”
He took her by the hand with a protecting gesture that surprised her, but a moment later she understood both speech and action. A gentleman was standing at the far end of the room, and as they noiselessly approached, Cecil had time to mark the grace and strength of his tall figure, the ease of his attitude, the beauty of the hands loosely locked together behind him, before Yorke spoke.
“Germain, my ward, Miss Stein.”
He turned quickly, and the eyes that Cecil was shyly averting, dilated with undisguised astonishment, for a single glance assured her that Germain was the mysterious model. Her hand closed over Yorke’s, trembling visibly, as the stranger, in a singularly musical voice and with an unmistakably highbred air, paid his compliments to Miss Stein.
“Control yourself, and bear with this man for my sake, Cecil,” whispered Yorke, as he led her to a seat, and placed himself so as to screen her for a moment.
She did control herself, for that had been her earliest lesson, and she had learned it well. She did bear with this man, 'for whom she felt such an aversion, and when he offered his arm to lead her in to dinner, she took it, though her eyes never met his, and she spoke not a word. It was long before she ventured to steal a look at him, and when she did so, it was long before she looked away again. The old woman was right, he was a handsome man; younger apparently than his host, and dressed with an elegance that Yorke had never attempted. Black hair and beard, carefully arranged, brilliant dark eyes, fine features, and that persuasive voice, all helped to make a most attractive person, for now the sinister expression was replaced by one of the serenest suavity, the stealthy gait and gestures exchanged for a graceful carriage, and some agreeable change seemed to have befallen both the man and his fortunes, as there was no longer any appearance of mystery or poverty about him. Cecil observed these things with a woman’s quickness, and smiled to think she had ever feared the gay and gallant gentleman. Then she turned to examine Yorke, and saw that the accustomed gravity of his face was often disturbed by varying emotions; for sometimes it was sad, then stern, then tender, and more than once his eye met hers with a grateful look, as if he thanked her for granting him a greater favor than she knew.
Cecil performed her duties gracefully and well, but said little, and listened attentively to the conversation, which never strayed from general subjects. Though interested, she was not sorry when Yorke gave her the signal to withdraw, and went away into the drawing room. Here, leaning in an easy chair before the fire, she hoped to enjoy a quiet half hour at least, but was disappointed. Happening to lift her eyes to the mirror over the low chimneypiece, to study the effect of the plain bands of hair, she saw another face beside her own, and became aware that Mr. Germain was intently watching her in the glass, as he leaned upon the high back of her chair. Meeting her eyes, he came and stood upon the rug, which Judas yielded to him with a surly growl. Cecil arrested the dog, feeling a sense of security while he was by, for the childish dread was not yet quite gone, and despite his promise, Yorke did not appear. Germain seemed to understand the meaning of her hasty glance about the room, and answered it.
“Your guardian will follow presently, and sent me on to chat with you, meantime. Permit me.”
As he spoke, Anthony entered, bringing coffee, but Germain brought Cecil's cup himself, and served her with an air of devotion that both confused and pleased her by its novelty. Drawing a chair to the other side of the tiny table between them, he sat down, and before she knew it, Cecil found herself talking to this dreaded person, shyly at first, then frankly and with pleasure.
“How was the great Rachel last night, Miss Stein?”
“I did not see her, sir.”
“Ah, you prefer the opera, as I do, perhaps?”
“I never went.”
“Then Yorke should take you, if you love music.”
“I do next to my art, but I seldom hear any.”
“Your art—then you are to be a sculptor?”
“I hope to be in time, but I have much to learn.”
“You will go to Italy before long, I fancy? That's part of every artist's education.”
“No, sir, I shall not go. Yorke has been, and can teach me all I need.”
“You have no desire for it, then? Or do you wait till some younger guardian appears, who has not seen Italy, and can show it to you as it should be shown?”
“I shall never have any guardian but Yorke, we have already settled that—”
Here Cecil paused, for Germain looked at her keenly, smiled, and said significantly, “Pardon me, I had not learned that he intended to end his romance in the good old fashion, by making his fair ward his wife. I am an early friend, and have a right to take an interest in his future, so I offer my best wishes.”
“You mistake me, sir; I should not have said that. Yorke is my guardian, nothing more, nor will he ever be. I have no father, and he tries to be one to me.”
Cecil spoke with a bashful eagerness, burning cheeks, and downcast eyes, unconscious of the look of relief that passed over her companion's face as she explained.
“A thousand pardons; my mistake was natural, and may prove a prophecy. Now let me atone for it by asking how the Psyche prospers. Is it worthy of its maker and its model?”
“It is done, and very beautiful; everyone who sees it thinks it worthy of its maker, except me. I know he will do nobler things than that. He had no model but his own design; you have seen that, perhaps?”
“I see it now,” he answered, bowing.
“Indeed, I am not; he never makes a model of me now, except for a moment. He has had none since you left.”
A curious expression swept over Germain’s face, and he exclaimed, with ill-disguised satisfaction, “You recognize me then? I was not sure that you had ever seen me, though I used to haunt the house like a restless spirit, as I am.”
“Yes, I knew you at once, because I never could forget the fright you gave me years ago, peeping in, the night I came. Since then I’ve seen you several times, but never heard your name until yesterday.” “That is like Yorke. He hides his good deeds, and when I was most unfortunate, he befriended me, and more than once has kept me from what fate seems bent on making me, a solitary vagabond. The world goes better with me now, and one day I hope to take my proper place again; till then, I must wa
it to pay the debt I owe him.”
This impulsive speech went straight to Cecil’s heart, and banished the last trace of distrust. In the little pause that followed, she found time to wonder why Yorke did-not come, and thinking of him, she asked if he would approve all she had been saying. A moment’s recollection showed her that she had unconsciously given her companion many hints of the purpose, pursuits, and prospects of her life, during that seemingly careless conversation. She felt uncomfortable, and hoping Yorke had not heard her, sat silent until Germain spoke again.
“I see an instrument yonder. Let me lead you to it, for having owned that you love music, you cannot deny me the pleasure of listening to it.”
Fearing to commit herself again, if she continued to talk, Cecil complied, but as they crossed the room together, she saw Yorke standing in the shadow of a curtained window. He made a warning sign, that caused her to hesitate an instant, trying to understand it; Germain’s quick eye followed hers like a flash, and kindled with sudden fire; but before either could speak, Yorke advanced, saying gravely, “Will you venture, Cecil? Germain is a connoisseur in music.”
“Then I dare not try; please let me refuse,” she answered, drawing back, for now she comprehended that she was not to sing.
But Germain led her on, saying, with his most persuasive air, “You will not refuse me presently, when I have given you courage by doing my part first.”
He sat down as he spoke, and began to sing; Cecil was stealing back to her seat, but paused in the act to listen; for a moment stood undecided, then turned, and slowly, step by step, drew nearer, like a fascinated bird, till she was again beside him, forgetful now of everything but the wonderful voice that filled the room with its mellow music. As it ceased, she gave a long sigh of pleasure, and exclaimed like a delighted child, “Oh! Sing again; it is so beautiful!”
Germain flashed a meaning glance over his shoulder at Yorke, who stood apart, gloomily watching them.
“Sit then, and let me do my best to earn a song from you.” And placing a chair for her, he gave her music such as she had never dreamed of, as song after song poured from his lips, stirring her with varying emotions, as the airs were plaintive, passionate, or gay.
“Now may I claim my reward?” he said at length, and Cecil, without a thought of Yorke, gladly obeyed him.
Why she chose a little song her mother used to sing she could not tell; it came to her, and she sang it with all her heart, giving the tender words with unwonted spirit and sweetness. Sitting in his seat, Germain leaned his arm upon the instrument and watched her with absorbing interest. Unconsciously, she had pushed away the heavy bands that annoyed her, and now showed again the fair forehead with the delicate brow; her cheeks were rosy with excitement, her eyes shone, her lips smiled as she sang, and in spite of the gray gown with no ornament but a little knot of pansies, Cecil had never looked more beautiful than now. When she ended, she was surprised to see that this strange man’s eyes were full of tears, and instead of compliments, he only pressed her hand, saying with lowered voice, “I cannot thank you as I would for this.” Yorke called the girl to him, and Germain slowly followed. At dinner he had led the conversation, now he left it to his host, saying little, but sitting with his eyes on Cecil, who, to her own surprise and Yorke’s visible disquiet, did not feel abashed or offended by the pertinacious gaze. He lingered long, and went with evident reluctance, bidding Cecil good night in a tone so like the mysterious “my darling” that she retreated hastily, convinced that it must have been uttered by himself alone.
“How do you like this gentleman?” asked Yorke, returning from a somewhat protracted farewell in the hall.
“Very much. But why didn’t you tell me who I was to see?”
“I had a fancy to test your powers of self-control, and I was satisfied.” “I will take care that you shall be, sir,” she answered, with set lips and a flash of the eye.
“You seem to have quite outlived your old dislike, and quite forgotten his last offense,” continued Yorke, as if ill pleased.
“I am no longer a silly child, and I have not forgotten his offense; but as you overlooked the insult, I could not refuse to meet your guest when you bade me to bear with him for your sake.”
There was an air of dignity about her, and a touch of sarcasm in her tone, that was both new and becoming, yet it ruffled Yorke, though he disdained to show it.
“Of one thing I am satisfied. Seclude a woman as you may; when an opportunity comes, she will find her tongue. I did not know my silent girl tonight.”
“You heard me, then? I am sorry, but I did not know what I was doing till it was done. You gave me a part to play, and I am no actress, as you see. Is the masquerade over now?”
“Yes, and it has not proved as successful as I hoped, yet I am glad it was no worse.”
“So am I,” and Cecil shook down her hair with an aspect of relief.
“Where are your pansies?” Yorke asked suddenly.
“They fell out as I was singing, they must have dropped just here,” and she looked all about, but no pansies were visible.
“I thought so,” muttered Yorke. “I shall repent this night’s experiment, I fear, but God knows I did it for the best.”
Cecil stood, thoughtfully coiling a dark lock around her finger for a moment, then she asked wistfully, “Will Mr. Germain come again? He said he hoped to do so, when he went.”
“He will not, rest assured of that,” answered Yorke grimly, adding, as if against his will, “he is a treacherous and dangerous man, in spite of his handsome face and charming manners. Beware of him, child, and shun him, if you would preserve your peace; mine is already lost.”
“Then why do you—” There she checked herself, remembering that she was not to ask questions.
“Why do I bring him here? you would ask. That I shall never tell you, and it will never happen again, for the old spell is as strong as ever, I find.”
He spoke bitterly, because in the girl’s face he saw the first sign of distrust, and it wounded him deeply. It had been a hard evening for him, and he had hoped for a different result, but his failure was made manifest, as Cecil bowed her mute good-night, and went away fhore perplexed than ever.
Chapter IV
IN THE DARK
DAYS passed and Germain did not reappear, though Cecil strongly suspected that he had endeavored to do so more than once; for now the door was always locked. Anthony often mounted guard in the hall; Yorke seldom went out, and when they walked together chose a new route each day, while his face wore a vigilant expression as if he were perpetually on the watch. These changes kept the subject continually before the girl’s mind, though not a word was spoken. More than once she caught glimpses of a familiar figure haunting the street, more than once she heard the mellow voice singing underneath her window, and more than once she longed to see this strange Germain again.
Standing at the window one somber afternoon, she thought of these things as she watched her guardian giving orders to Anthony, who was working in the garden. As Yorke turned to enter the house, she remembered that the studio was not lighted as he liked to find it, and hurried away to have it ready for his coming. Halfway up the first flight she stopped a moment, for a gust of fresh air blew up from below as if from some newly opened door or window. The hall was dusky with early twilight, and looking downward she saw nothing.
“Is that you, Yorke?” she asked, but no one answered, and she went on her way. At the top of the second flight she paused again, fancying that she heard steps behind her. The sound ceased as she stopped, and thinking to herself, “It’s Judas,” she ran up the spiral stairs leading to the tower. These were uncarpeted, and in a moment the sound of steps was distinctly audible behind her; neither the slow tread of Yorke, nor the quick patter of the dog, but soft and stealthy footfalls as of someone anxious to follow unsuspected. She paused, and the steps paused also; she went on and the quick sound began again; she peered downward through the gloom, but the stairs wound abru
ptly round and round, and nothing could be seen. She called to Yorke and the dog again, but there was no reply except the rustle of garments brushing against the wall, and the rapid breathing of a human creature. A nervous thrill passed over her; the thought of Germain flashed into her mind, and the early terror woke again, for time and place suggested the forbidding figure she had seen lurking there so long ago. Fearing to descend and meet him, she sprang on, hoping to reach the studio in time to call Yorke from the window and lock the door. As she darted upward, the quick tread of a mans foot was plainly heard, and when she flung the door behind her, a strong hand prevented it from closing, a tall figure entered, the key was turned, and Germain’s well-remembered voice exclaimed:
“Do not cry out. I have risked my life by entering at a window, for I must speak to you, and Yorke guards you like a dragon.”
“Why do you come if he forbids it, following and frightening me in the dark?” cried Cecil, grasping vainly for a lamp as Germain placed himself between her and the window.
“Because he keeps you from me, and he has no right to do it. I love you as he never can, yet though I plead day and night, and promise anything, he will not let me see you, even for an hour. Do not fear or shun me, but come to me, little Cecil, come to me, and let me feel that you are mine.”
With voice and gesture of intensest love and longing, he advanced as if to claim her, but Cecil, terrified by this impetuous wooing, fled before him to an inner room, bolted the door, and rang the bell until it broke. Vainly Germain shook the door and implored her to hear him; she neither answered nor listened, but called for help till the room rang again.
Soon, very soon, Yorke’s familiar step came leaping up the stairs, and his voice demanded, in tones of wonder and alarm, “Cecil, where are you? Speak to me, and open instantly.”
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