“He is going soon, and came because he could not keep away, he said. Poor Alf, I wish he did not care for me so much.”
While she was speaking, Yorke examined her with a troubled look, for that brief absence made him quick to see the changes a year had wrought, unobserved till now. Something was gone that once made her beauty a delight to heart as well as eye; some nameless but potent charm that gave warmth, grace, and tenderness to her dawning womanhood. He felt it, and for the first time found a flaw in what he had thought faultless until now. There was no time to analyze the feeling, for drawing away the hand he had detained, she brought him from her desk three letters, directed to herself, in a man’s bold writing.
“Germain!” exclaimed Yorke, as his eye fell on them. “Has he dared to write, when he swore he would not? Have you read them?”
She turned them in his hand, and showed the seals unbroken. A flash of pleasure banished the disquiet from his face, and there was no harshness in his voice as he asked, “How did they come? I forbade Tony to receive any communication he might venture to make.”
“Tony knows nothing of them. One came in a bouquet, which was tossed over the wall the very day you went; one was brought by a carrier dove soon afterward; the bird came pecking at my window, and thinking it was hurt, I took it in; the third was thrust into my hand by someone whom I did not see, as I was walking with Hester yesterday. I suspected who they were from, and did not open them, because I promised not to listen to this man.”
“Rare obedience in a woman! Have you no wish to see them? Will you give me leave to look at them before I burn them?”
“Do what you like, I care nothing for them now.”
She spoke so confidingly, and smiled so contentedly, as she stood folding up his gloves, that Yorke felt his purpose strengthening every instant. The letters confirmed it, for as he flung the last into the fire, he said to himself, “There is no way but this; there will be peace for neither of us while Alfred and Germain have hopes of her. Once mine, and I shall have a legal right to defy and banish both.,,
Turning with decision, he drew her down to a seat beside him, saying, in a tone he had not used since the Cupid was broken, “Sit here and listen, for I’ve many things to tell you, my little girl. You are eighteen tomorrow, and according to your mother’s desire may choose what guardian you will. I leave you free, having no right to influence you, but while I have a home it always will be yours, if you are happy here.” She turned her face away, and for an instant some inward agitation marred its habitual repose, but she answered steadily, though there was an undertone of pain in her voice, “I know it, Yorke, and you are very kind. I am happy here, but I cannot stay, because hard things are said of us, things that wrong you and wound me, more than tongue can tell.” “Who told you this?” he demanded, angrily.
“Alfred; he said I ought to know it, and if you would not follow his mother’s advice, I should choose another guardian.”
“And will you, Cecil?”
“Yes, for your sake as well as my own.”
The tone of resolution made her soft voice jar upon his ear, and convinced him that she would keep her word.
“Whom will you choose?” he gravely asked.
“It is hard to tell; I have made no friends in all these years, and now I have nowhere to go, unless I turn to Mrs. Norton. She will be a mother to me, Alfred a very gentle guardian, and in time I may learn to love him.”
Yorke felt both reproached and satisfied; reproached, because it was his fault that the girl had made no friends, and satisfied because there was as much regret as resolution in her voice, and his task grew easier as he thought of Alfred, whom she should never learn to love.
“But you promised to stay with me, and I want you, Cecil.”
“I did promise, but then I knew nothing of all this. I want to stay, but now I cannot, unless you do something to make it safe and best.” “Something shall be done. Will you have another governess or an elderly companion?” he asked, wishing to assure himself of her real feeling before he spoke more plainly.
She sighed, and looked all the repugnance that she felt, but answered sorrowfully, “I dread it more than you do, but there is no other way.”
“One other way. Shall I name it?”
“Oh, yes, anything is better than another Miss Ulster.”
“If my ward becomes my wife, gossip will be silenced, and we may still keep together all our lives.”
He spoke very quietly, lest he should startle her, but his voice was eager, and his glance wistful in spite of himself. The eager eyes that had been lifted to his own fell slowly, a faint color came up to her cheek, and she answered with a slight shake of the head, as if more perplexed than startled, “How can I, when we don’t care for one another?”
“But we do care for one another. I love you as if you were a child of my own, and I think if nothing had disturbed us that you would have chosen me to be your guardian for another year, at least, would you not?” “Yes, you are my one friend, and this is home.”
“Then stay, Cecil, and keep both. Nothing need be changed between us; to the world we can be husband and wife, here guardian and ward, as we have been for six pleasant years. No one can reproach or misjudge us then; I shall have the right to protect my little pupil, she to cling to her teacher and her friend. We are both solitary in the world. Why can we not go on together in the old way, with the work we love and live for?”
“It sounds very pleasant, but I am so ignorant I cannot tell if it is best. Perhaps you will regret it if I stay, perhaps I shall become a burden when it is too late to put me away, and you may tire of the old life, with no one but a girl to share it with you.”
Her face was downcast, and he did not see her eyes fill, her lips tremble, or the folded hands, pressed tight together, as she listened to the proposition which gave her a husband’s name, but not a husband’s heart. He saw that she thought only of him, forgetful of herself—knew that he offered very little in exchange for the liberty of this young life, and began to think that he had been mistaken in supposing that she loved him, because she showed so little emotion now; but in spite of all this, the purpose formed so long ago was still indomitable, and though forced by circumstances to modify it, he would not relinquish his design. The relentless look replaced all others, as he rose to leave her, though he said, “Do not answer yet, think well of this, be assured that I desire it, shall be happy in it, and see no other course open, unless you choose to leave me. Decide for yourself, my child, and when we meet tomorrow morning, tell me which guardian you have chosen.”
“I will.”
Cecil was usually earliest down, but when the morrow came, Yorke waited for her with an impatience that he could not control, and when she entered, he went to meet her, with an inquiring eye, an extended hand. She put her own into it without a word, and he grasped the little hand with a thrill of joy that surprised him as much as did the sudden impulse which caused him to stoop and kiss the beautiful, uplifted face that made the sunshine of his life.
Ashamed of this betrayal of his satisfaction, he controlled himself, and said, with as much of his usual composure as he could assume, “Thank you, Cecil; now all is decided, and you never shall regret this step, if I can help it. We will be married privately, and at once, then let the gossips tattle as they please.”
“Are you quite satisfied with me for choosing as I have done?” she asked, as he led her to her place.
“Quite satisfied, quite proud and happy that my ward is to be mine forever. Is she content?”
“Yes, I chose what was pleasantest, and will do my best to be all you would have me, to thank you for giving me so much.”
No more was said, and very soon all trace of any unusual emotion had vanished from Cecil's face; not so with Yorke. A secret unrest possessed him, and did not pass away. He thought it was doubt, anxiety, remorse, perhaps, for what he was about to do, but try as he would, the inward excitement kept him from his usual pursuits, and made him lon
g to have all over without delay. Feeling that he owed Mrs. Norton some explanation of his seeming caprice, he went to her, frankly stated his reasons for the change, and took counsel with her upon many matters. With the readiness of a generous nature, she put aside her own disappointment, and freely did her best for her peculiar neighbor, glad that she had served the girl so well.
She soon convinced him that it would be better not to have a private wedding, but openly to marry and give the young wife a gay welcome home, that nothing mysterious or hasty should give fresh food for remark. He yielded, for Cecil's sake, and the good lady, with a true woman’s love of such affairs, soon had everything her own way, much to Yorke’s annoyance, and Cecil’s bewilderment. Alfred was gone, and his mother wisely left him in ignorance of the approaching marriage, and stifled many a sigh, as she gave her orders and prepared the little bride.
Great was the stir and intense the surprise among the sculptor’s few friends when it was known what was afloat, and Yorke was driven half wild with questions, congratulations, and praises of his betrothed. So much interest and goodwill pleased even while it fretted him; and bent on righting both himself and Cecil, in a manner that should preclude all further misconception, he asked friends and neighbors from far and near to his wedding, thinking, with a half-sad, half-scornful smile, “Let them come, they will see that she is lovely, will think that I am happy, and never guess what a mockery it is to me.”
They did come, did think the bride beautiful, the bridegroom happy; and would have had no suspicion of the mockery, but for one little incident that had undue effect upon the eager-eyed observers. Among the guests was one whom none of the others knew; a singularly handsome man, who glided in unannounced, just before the ceremony, and placed himself in the shadow of the draperies that hung before a deep window in the drawing room. Two or three of the neighbors whispered together, and nodded their heads significantly, as if they had suspicions; but the entrance of the bridal pair hushed the whispers, and suspended the nods for a time at least. As they took their places, Cecil was seen to start and change color when her eye fell on the stranger, leaning in the purple gloom of the recess; Yorke did the same, then he frowned; she drew her veil about her, and stern bridegroom and pale bride appeared to compose themselves for the task before them.
The instant the ceremony was over, one gossip whispered to another, “I told you so, it is the same person who used to sing under her window, and watch the house for hours. A lover, without doubt, and why she preferred this gloomy Mr. Yorke to that devoted creature passes my comprehension.”
“It’s my opinion that she didn’t prefer him, but was persuaded into it. He’s far too old and grave for such a young thing, and I suspect she agrees with me. Did you see her turn as pale as her dress when she saw that fine-looking man in the recess? Poor thing, it’s plain to see that she is marrying from gratitude, or fear, or something of that sort.”
This romantic fancy soon took wing, and flew from ear to ear, although the stranger vanished as suddenly as he came. Yorke caught a hint of it, but only smiled disdainfully, and watched Cecil with a keen sense of satisfaction, in the knowledge that she was all his own. Not only was his eye gratified by her beauty that day, but his pride also, for the admiration she excited would have satisfied the most enamored bridegroom. She seemed to have grown a woman suddenly, for gentle dignity replaced her former shyness, and she bore herself like a queen; pale as the flowers in her bosom, calm as the marble Psyche that adorned an alcove, and so like it that more than one enthusiastic gentleman begged Yorke to part with the statue, now that he possessed the beautiful model. All this flattered his pride as man and artist, enhanced his pleasure in the events of the day, roused his ambition that had slept so long, and banished his last doubt regarding the step he had so hastily taken.
When all was over, and the house quiet again, he roamed through the empty rooms, still odorous and bright with bridal decorations, looking for his wife, and smiling, as he spoke the word low to himself, for the pleasant excitement of the day was not yet gone. But nowhere did he see the slender white figure in the misty veil; her little glove lay where she dropped it when the ring was put on, her bouquet of roses and orange flowers was fading in the seat she left, and an array of glittering gifts still stood unexamined by their new mistress. Thinking she was worn out and had gone to rest, he went slowly toward the studio, wondering if he should not feel more like his old self in that familiar place. Passing Cecil's room, he saw that the door was open, and no one within but the newly hired maid, who was busy folding up the silvery gown.
“Where is Miss Cecil?” he asked.
“Mrs. Yorke is in the tower, sir,” answered the woman, with a simper at his mistake.
He bit his lip, and went on; but as he climbed the winding stairs, he passed his hand across his eyes, remembering a happy time, nineteen years ago, when that name had almost been another and a dearer woman's. Dressed in the plain gray gown, and with no change about her but the ring on the hand that caressed the dog's shaggy head, Cecil sat reading as if nothing had disturbed the usual quiet routine of her day. If she had looked up with a word of welcome or a smile of pleasure, it would have pleased him well, for his heart was very tender just then, and she was very like her mother. But she seemed unconscious of his presence till he stood before her, regarding her with the expression that was so attractive and so rare.
“Are you worn out with the bustle of the day, and so come here to rest and find yourself, as I do?” he asked, stroking the soft waves of her hair.
“Yes, I am tired, but I was never more myself than I have been today,” she answered, turning a leaf, as if waiting to read on.
“What did it all seem like, Cecil?”
“A pretty play, but I was glad to have it over.”
“It was a pretty play, though Germain might have spoiled it if I had not warned him away. But it is not quite over, as I was reminded on my way up. We must remember that before others I am your husband, and you my little wife, else I shall call you ‘Miss Cecil' again, and you say master,' as you did half an hour ago.”
“What would you have me do? I know I shall forget, for there is nothing to remind me but this,” and she turned the ring to and fro upon her finger, adding, as he thought, regretfully, “It begins to make a difference already, and you said nothing would be changed.”
“Nothing shall be changed, except that,” he answered, chilled by her coldness, and turning sharply round, he seized chisel and mallet, and fell to work, regardless of bridal broadcloth and fine linen.
Chapter VI
CECIL’S SECRET
IT was easy to say that nothing should be changed, but they soon found it very hard to prevent decided alterations in the lives of both. Yorke’s friends, rejoicing in the new tie that seemed about to give him back to the world he had shunned so long, did everything in their power to help on the restoration by all manner of festivities after the wedding. Having yielded once or twice by Mrs. Norton’s advice, Yorke found it both difficult and irksome to seclude himself again, for it seemed as if a taste of the social pleasures neglected for so many years had effectually roused him from his gloom and given him back his youth again. But the chief cause of the change was Cecil. Wherever she went she won such admiration that his pride was fostered by the praise it fed on, and regarding her as his best work, he could not deny himself the satisfaction of beholding the homage paid his beautiful young wife. She submitted with her usual docility, yet expressed so little interest in anything but her art that he soon grew jealous of it, and often urged her to go pleasuring lest she should grow old and gray before her time, as he had done.
“Look your loveliest tonight, Cecil, for there will be many strangers at Coventry’s, and I have promised him that my handsome wife would come,” he said, as he came into the drawing room one tempestuous afternoon and found her looking out into the deserted street where the rain fell in torrents and the wind blew gustily.
“It is so stormy, need we go?
”
“We must. The wind will fall at dark, and one does not mind rain in a closed carriage. You wonder at me, I dare say, and so do I at myself; but I think I’m waking up and growing young again. Now I shall be old Yorke and read studiously for an hour.”
He laughed as he spoke and laid himself on the couch, book in hand. But he read little, for Cecil’s unusual restlessness distracted his attention, and he had fallen into a way of observing her lately while she worked or studied and he sat idle. She too opened a book, but soon put it down; she made a sketch, but seemed ill pleased with it, and threw it in the fire; she worked half a flower at her embroidery frame, turned over two or three portfolios with a listless air, then began to wander up and down the room so noiselessly that it would not have disturbed him had he been as absorbed as he seemed. Watching her covertly, he saw her steps grow rapid, her eyes wistful, her whole face and figure betray impatience and an intense desire for something beyond her reach. Several times she seemed about to follow an almost uncontrollable impulse, but checked herself on the way to the door and resumed her restless march, pausing with each turn to look out into the storm.
“What is it, Cecil? You want something. Can I get it for you?” he said at last, unable to restrain the question.
“I do want something, but you cannot get it for me,” she answered, pausing with an expression of mingled doubt and desire infinitely more becoming than her usual immobility.
“Come here and tell me what it is; you so seldom ask anything of me I am curious to know what this may be.”
Drawing her down upon the couch where he still lay, he waited for her request with an amused smile, expecting some girlish demand. But she delayed so long that he turned her face to his, saying, as he studied its new aspect, “Is it to stay at home tonight, little girl?”
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