“I cannot come—it is Germain—”
More she could not say, for with the arrival of help her strength deserted her, and she dropped down upon the floor, faint but not unconscious. Lying thus, she heard the outer door give way, heard a wrathful exclamation from Yorke, an exultant laugh from Germain, then hurried conversation too low for her to catch a word, till suddenly both voices rose, one defiant, the other determined.
“I tell you, Bazil, I will see her!”
“Not if I can prevent it.”
“Then I swear I will use force!”
“I swear you shall not!”
A quick movement followed, and the terrified listener heard unmistakable sounds of a fierce but brief struggle in the darkened room, the stamp of feet, the hard breathing of men wrestling near at hand, the crash of a falling statue and a human body, a low groan, then sudden silence. In that silence Cecil lost her consciousness, for her quiet life had ill prepared her for such scenes. Only for a moment, however; the sound of retreating footsteps recalled her, and trying to control the frightened flutter of her heart, she listened breathlessly. What had happened? Where was Yorke? These questions roused her, and the longing to answer them gave her courage to venture from her refuge.
Softly drawing the bolt, she looked out. Nothing could be seen but the pale glimmer of stars through the western window; all near at hand was hidden by the deep shadow of a tall screen that divided the studio. A moment she stood trembling with apprehension lest Germain had not gone, then stole a few steps forward, whispering, “Yorke, are you here?”
There was no answer, but as the words left her lips she stumbled over something at her feet, something that stirred and faintly sighed. Losing fear in an all-absorbing anxiety, Cecil sprang boldly forward, groped for a match, lighted the lamp with trembling hands, and looked about her. The beautiful Psyche lay headless on the ground, but the girl scarcely saw it, for half underneath it lay Yorke, pale and senseless. How she dragged him out she never knew; superhuman strength seemed given her, and self-possession to think and do her best for him. Throwing up the window, she called to Anthony still busy in the garden, then bathed the white face, fanned the breathless lips, chafed the cold hands, and soon had the joy of seeing Yorke’s eyes open with a conscious look.
“It is I. Where are you hurt? What shall I do for you, dear master?” “Tell them the Psyche fell, nothing more,” he answered, painfully, but with a clear mind and a commanding glance.
She understood and obeyed him when the old man arrived. With many exclamations of concern and much wonderment as to how the accident could have occurred, Anthony laid his master on the couch, gave him such restoratives as were at hand, and then went to fetch a surgeon and find Hester, who was gossiping in a neighbor’s kitchen, according to her wont.
“Tell me what happened, my poor child,” whispered Yorke when they were alone, and Cecil sat beside him with a face almost as pallid as his own.
“Not now, you are not fit. Wait awhile,” she began.
But he interrupted her, saying with a look she dared not disobey, “No, tell me now—I must know it!”
She told him, but he seemed too weak for indignation, and looked up at her with a faint glimmer of his old sarcastic smile.
“Another lover, Cecil, and a strange one; but you need not fear him, for though as rash and headstrong as a boy, he will not harm you.” Then Yorke’s face changed and darkened as he said, earnestly, “Promise me that you will never listen to him, never meet him, or countenance his mad pursuit of you. No good can come of it to you, and only the bitterest disappointment to me. Promise me this, I implore you, Cecil.”
She hesitated, but his face grew haggard with suspense, and something in her own heart pleaded for him more persuasively than his anxious eyes or urgent words.
“I promise this. Now rest and let me fan you, for your lips are white with pain.”
He did not speak again till steps and voices were heard approaching; then he drew her down to him, whispering, “Not a word of Germain to anyone; keep near me till I am up again, then I will take measures to prevent the recurrence of a scene like this.”
For several days Yorke saw no one but the doctor and his servants, for the fall and the heavy weight upon his chest had seriously injured him. He rebelled against the order to be still, finding a single week’s confinement very irksome with no society but Hester, no occupation but a book or his own thoughts. Cecil did not come to nurse him as she used to do when slighter indispositions kept him in his rooms. She sent no little gifts to tempt his appetite or enliven his solitude; she made daily inquiries for his health, but nothing more. He missed his familiar spirit and her gentle ministrations, but would not send for her, thinking, with a mixture of satisfaction and regret, “She takes me at my word, and perhaps it’s better so, for absence will soon cure any girlish pique my frankness may have caused her.”
But though he would not call her, he left his room sooner than was wise, and went to find her in the studio. Everything was in its accustomed order, Cecil at her place, and his first exclamation one of pleasant surprise.
“Why, here’s my Psyche mended and mounted again! Many thanks, my little girl.”
She went to take the hand he offered, saying very quietly, “I am glad to see you, master, and to find you like what I have done.”
“I never thought my Psyche would cause me so much suffering, but I forgive her for her beauty’s sake,” answered Yorke, laughing, for an unusual cheerfulness possessed him, and it was pleasant to be back in his old haunt again. “Well, what do you see in it?” he asked, observing that the girl stood with her eyes fixed on the statue.
“I see my model.”
He remembered his own words, and was glad to change the conversation by a question or two.
“How have you got on through these days that have been so wearisome to me? Have you missed the old master?”
“I have been busily at work, and I have missed you, for I often want help, and Tony cannot always walk with me.”
Yorke felt slightly disappointed both at the answer and her welcome, but showed no sign of it as he said, “Nothing has been seen of Germain since his last freak, I fancy?”
“He has been here.”
“The deuce he has!” ejaculated Yorke, looking amazed. “Did you see him, Cecil?”
“Yes; I could not help it. I Was watching for the doctor one day, and hearing a ring, I opened the door, for Tony and Hester were with you. Germain stepped quickly in and asked, ‘Is Yorke alive?’ I said yes. ‘I thank God for that!’ he cried. ‘Tell him to get well in peace; I’ll not disturb him if I can keep away—’ Then Anthony appeared and he was gone as quickly as he came.”
“That was like him, reckless and generous, fierce and gentle by turns. Pity that so fine a nature should be so early wrecked.”
Yorke mused a moment, and Cecil, as if anxiety or pity made her forget her promise, asked suddenly, “Shall you let him go unmolested after such an outrage as this?”
“Yes, even if he had half murdered me or maimed me for life, I would not lift a finger against him. God knows I have my faults, and plenty of them, but I can forgive blows like his easier than some that gentler hands have dealt me.”
Cecil made no answer, but seemed lost in wonderment, till Yorke, observing how pale and heavy-eyed she looked, said kindly, “Have you, too, been ill? I asked for you every day, and Hester always gave a good report. Is anything amiss? Tell me, child.”
“I am not ill, and nothing is amiss except that I do not sleep, owing to want of exercise, perhaps.”
“This must be mended; I’ll give you sleep tonight, and tomorrow we will have a long drive together.”
Going to an ancient cabinet, he took from it a quaint flask, poured a few drops of some dark liquid into a tiny glass, and mingling it with water, brought it to her.
“It is bitter, but it will bring you deep and dreamless sleep. Drink, little wakeful spirit, drink and rest.”
With
out offering to take the glass, she bent and drank, not the first bitter draft his hand had given her.
“I think you would drink hemlock without a question if I gave it to you,” he said, smiling at her mute obedience.
“I think I should. But I asked no questions now because I knew that this was laudanum. Mamma used it when in pain, and I have often tasted it, playing that I made it sweet for her.”
Yorke turned hastily away as if to replace the flask and cup, and when he spoke again he was his gravest self. “Go now, and sleep, Cecil. Tomorrow the old quiet life shall begin again.”
It did begin again, and week after week, month after month passed in the same monotonous seclusion. They went nowhere, saw scarcely anyone; Yorke’s genius was almost unknown, Cecil’s beauty blooming unseen; and so the year rolled slowly by.
Chapter V
GOSSIP
PUTTING his head into the studio where Cecil was at work as usual, and Yorke lounged on the sofa in a most unwonted fit of indolence, “Mrs. Norton’s compliments, and can she see the master for a few minutes?” said Anthony.
“Alfred’s mother! What next? I’ll come, Tony,” answered the master, turning to observe the effect of this announcement upon the girl.
But she scarcely seemed to have heard the question or answer, and went on smoothing the rounded limbs of a slender Faun, with an aspect of entire absorption.
“What an artist I have made of her, if a lump of clay is more interesting than the news of her first lover,” thought her guardian, as he left the room with a satisfied smile.
Since Alfred’s disappointment, there had been a breach between the neighbors, and his mother discontinued the friendly calls she had been wont to make since Cecil came. She was a gray-haired, gracious lady, with much of her son’s frankness and warmth of manner. After a few moments spent in general inquiries, she said, with some embarrassment but with her usual directness, “Mr. Yorke, I have felt it my duty to come and tell you certain things, of which I think you should be informed without delay. You lead such a secluded life that you are not likely to hear any of the injurious rumors that are rife concerning Cecil and yourself. They are but natural, for any appearance of mystery or peculiarity always excites curiosity and gossip, and as a woman and a neighbor, I venture to warn you of them, because I take a deep interest in the girl, both for her own sake and my son’s.”
“I thank you, Mrs. Norton, and I beg you will speak freely. I am entirely ignorant of these rumors, though I know that tattling tongues find food for scandal in the simplest affairs.”
The guest saw that the subject was distasteful to her host, but steadily continued, “While she was a child, the relationship of guardian and ward was all sufficient; but now that she is a woman, and so beautiful a woman, it strikes outside observers that you are too young a man to be her sole companion. It is known that you live here together with no society, few friends, and those chiefly gentlemen; that you have neither governess nor housekeeper, only an old female servant. Cecil goes nowhere, and never walks without yourself or Anthony; while her beauty attracts so much attention that interest and curiosity are unavoidably aroused and increased by the peculiarity of her life. It would be a trying task to repeat the reports and remarks that have come to me; you can imagine them, and feel how much pain they cause me, although I know them to be utterly groundless and unjust.”
Intense annoyance was visible in Yorke’s face, as he listened and answered haughtily, “Those who know me will need no denial of these absurd rumors. I care nothing for the idle gossip of strangers, nor does Cecil, being too innocent to dream that such things exist.”
“But you know it, sir, and you know that a man may defy public opinion, and pass scatheless, a woman must submit and walk warily, if she would keep her name unsullied by the breath of slander. A time may come when she will learn this, and reproach you with unfaithfulness to your charge, if you neglect to surround her with the safeguards which she is, as yet, too innocent to know that she needs.”
Mrs. Norton spoke earnestly, and her maternal solicitude for the motherless girl touched Yorke’s heart, for he had one, though he had done his best to starve and freeze it. His manner softened, his eye grew anxious, and he asked, with the air of one convinced in spite of himself, “What would you have me do? I sincerely desire to be faithful to my duty, but I begin to fear that I have undertaken more than I can perform.”
“May I suggest that the presence of a respectable gentlewoman in your house would most effectually silence busy tongues, and might be a great advantage to Miss Stein, who must spffer for the want of female society?”
“I have tried that plan and it failed too entirely to make me willing to repeat the experiment.”
A slight flush on Yorke’s dark cheek and a disdainful curl of the lips told the keen-eyed lady as plainly as words that the cause of the dismissal of a former governess had been too much devotion to the guardian, too little to the ward. Mrs. Norton was silent a moment, and then said, with some hesitation, “May I ask you a very frank question, Mr. Yorke?”
“Your interest in Cecil gives you a right to ask anything, madam,” he replied, bowing with the grace of manner which he could assume at will.
“Then let me inquire if you intend to make this girl your wife, at some future time?”
“Nothing can be further from my intentions” was the brief but decided reply.
“Pardon me; Alfred received an impression that you were educating her for that purpose, and I hoped it might be so. I can suggest nothing else, unless some other gentleman is permitted to give the protection of his name and home. My poor boy still loves her, in spite of absence, time, and efforts to forget; he is still eager to win her, and I would gladly be a mother to the sweet girl. Is there no hope for him?”
“None, I assure you. She loves nothing but her art, as I just had an excellent proof; for when you were announced, and your sons name mentioned, she seemed to hear nothing, remember nothing, but worked on, undisturbed.”
Mrs. Norton rose, disappointed and disheartened by the failure of her mission.
“I have ventured too far, perhaps, but it seemed a duty, and I have performed it as best I could. I shall not intrude again, but I earnestly entreat you to think of this, for the girl’s sake, and take immediate steps to contradict these injurious rumors. Call upon me freely, if I can aid you in any way, and assure Cecil that I am still her friend, although I may have seemed estranged since Alfred’s rejection.”
Yorke thanked her warmly, promised to give the matter his serious consideration, and bade her adieu, with a grateful respect that won her heart, in spite of sundry prejudices against him.
As the door closed behind her, he struck his hands impatiently together, saying to himself, “I might have known it would be so! Why did I keep the child until I cannot do without her, forgetting that she would become a woman, and bring trouble as inevitably as before? I’ll not have another companion to beset me with the romantic folly I’ve forsworn; neither will I marry Cecil to silence these malicious gossips; 111 take her away from here, and in some quiet place we will find the old peace, if possible.”
In pursuance of this purpose, he announced that he was going away upon business that might detain him several days, and after many directions, warnings, and misgivings, he went. He was gone a week, for the quiet place was not easily found, and while he looked, he saw and heard enough to convince him that Mrs. Norton was right. He took pains to gather, from various sources, the reports to which she had alluded, and was soon in a fever of indignation and disgust. Her words haunted him; he soon saw clearly the wrong he had been doing Cecil, felt that his present plan would but increase it, and was assured that one of two things must be done without delay, either provide her with a chaperon or marry her himself, for he rebelled against the idea of giving her to any other. The chaperon was the wisest but most disagreeable expedient, for well he knew that a third person, however discreet and excellent, would destroy the seclusion and freedom
which he loved so well, and had enjoyed so long. It was in every respect repugnant to him, and he believed it would be to Cecil also. The other plan to his own surprise did not seem so impossible or distasteful, and the more he thought of it, the more attractive it became. Nothing need be changed except her name, slander would be silenced, and her society secured to him for life. But would she consent to such a marriage? He recalled with pleasure the expression of her face when she went to him, saying, “I will never leave you, my dear master, never”; and half regretted that he had checked the growth of the softer sentiment, which seemed about to take the place of her childish affection. He did not love her as a husband should, but he felt how sweet it was to be beloved, knew that she was happy with him, and longed to keep his little ward, at any cost, to himself.
Still undecided, but full of new and not unpleasurable fancies, he hurried home, feeling a strong curiosity to know how Cecil would regard this proposition should he make it. No one ran to meet him, as he entered, no one called out a glad welcome, and the young face that used to brighten when he came was nowhere visible.
“Where is Miss Cecil?” he asked of Hester.
“In the garden, master,” she answered, with a significant nod, that sent him to the nearest window that opened on the garden.
Cecil was walking here with Alfred, and Yorke’s face darkened ominously, as a jealous fear assailed him that she was about to solve the question for herself. He eyed her keenly, but her face was half averted, and he could see that she listened intently to her companion, who talked rapidly, and with an expression that made his handsome face more eloquent than his ardent voice.
“Cecil!” called Yorke sharply, unwilling to prolong a scene that angered him, more than he would confess even to himself.
Alfred looked up, bowed with a haughty, half-defiant air, said a few words to Cecil, and leaped the wall again. But she, after one glance upward, went in so slowly that her guardian chafed at the delay, and when at length she came to him with a cold handclasp, and a tranquil “Home so soon?” he answered, almost harshly, “Too soon, perhaps. Why do I find that boy here? I thought he was away again.”
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