Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15

by Plots (and) Counterplots (v1. 1)

  “No, it is to go out now, and alone.”

  “Alone, and in this raging storm? You are crazy, child.”

  “I like the storm; I'm tired of the house. Please let me go for just half an hour.”

  “Why do you wish to be alone, and where are you so eager to go?” “I cannot tell you. Be kind and don’t ask me, Yorke.”

  “A secret from me! That’s something new. When shall I know it?” “Never, if I can help it.”

  He lay looking at her with a curious feeling of wonder and admiration, for this sudden earnestness made her very charming, and he found it extremely pleasant to while away an idle hour discovering the cause of this new waywardness in Cecil.

  “I think you will tell me like an obedient little wife, and ask me prettily to go with or for you.”

  “I cannot tell you, and you must not come with me. Dear Yorke, let me go, please let me go!”

  She folded her hands, dropped on her knees before him, and pleaded so earnestly with voice, and eyes, and outstretched hands, that he sat up amazed.

  “What does it mean, Cecil? You have no right to keep a secret from me, and I cannot let you go out in such a storm on such a mysterious errand as this. A month ago you promised to obey me. Will you rebel so soon, and risk your health if nothing else by this strange freak?”

  There was a sudden kindling of the eye as she rose and turned away with a resolute, white face, saying, in a tone that startled him, “I have the same right to my secret as you have to yours, and I shall keep it as carefully. A month ago I did promise to love, honor, and obey; but the promises meant nothing, and your will is not my law, because though my husband before the world, you are only my guardian here. I harm no one but myself in doing this, and I must go.”

  “Will you go if I forbid it?” he asked, rising in real perplexity and astonishment.

  “Yes,” she answered, steadily.

  “How if I follow you?”

  “I shall do something desperate, Im afraid.”

  She looked as if she might, and he dared not insist. Entreaties and commands had failed; perhaps submission might succeed, and he tried it.

  “Go, then; I shall not follow. I trust you in this, as you have trusted me more than once, and hope you will be as worthy of confidence as I try to be.”

  He thought he had conquered, for as he spoke, gravely yet kindly, she covered up her face as if subdued, and expecting a few tears, an explanation, and penitence, he stood waiting and recalling scenes of childish waywardness which had always ended so. No, not so; for to his unspeakable surprise Cecil left the room without a word. Five minutes later the hall door closed, and he saw her fighting her way against wind and rain with the same intense longing, the same fixed resolution in her face.

  For an hour he watched and waited, racking his brain to discover some clue to this mysterious outbreak. Several trifling events now returned to his memory and deepened his perplexity. Just before they were married he brought her home a pretty bonbonniere to hold the comfits for which she still had a childish fancy. Having filled it for her, he was about to drop it into one of the ornamented pockets of the little apron she wore, but as he touched it a paper rustled, and as if the sound recalled some forgotten secret, she had clutched the pocket in a sudden panic and begged him to stop. He had accused her of having love letters from Alfred hidden there, and she had indignantly denied it, but hurried away as if to put her secret under lock and key. Later she had ventured out alone once or twice, always asking pardon when reproved for these short flights, but repeating them till strictly forbidden. Since then she had grown more taciturn than ever, and often went away to her own room to read or rest, she said. How she did spend the long hours passed there, Yorke was too proud to ask either mistress or maid, though he had felt much curiosity to know. The present mystery recalled these lesser ones, but gave no help in explaining anything, and he could only roam about the room and watch the storm more restlessly than Cecil.

  Another hour passed and he began to feel anxious, for twilight gathered fast and still she did not come. A third hour rolled slowly by; the streetlamps glimmered through the mist, but among the passing figures no familiar one appeared, and he was fast reaching that state of excitement which makes passive waiting impossible when, as he stood peering out into the wild, wet night, a slight rustle was heard behind him, and a soft voice broke the long silence.

  “I am ready, Yorke.”

  Turning with a start, he saw that all his fears had been in vain, for no storm-beaten figure stood before him, but Cecil shining in festival array.

  “Thank heaven you are safe! IVe been watching for you, but I did not see you come,” he said, eyeing her with renewed wonder.

  “No, I took care that you should not, and have been busy for an hour making myself pretty, as you bade me. Are you satisfied?”

  He would have been hard to please if he was not satisfied with the fair apparition standing in the light of the newly kindled chandelier. A rosy cloud seemed to envelop her, bridal pearls gathered up the dark hair, shone on graceful neck and arms, and glimmered here and there among the soft-hued drapery. A plumy fan stirred in her hand, and a white down-trimmed cloak half covered shoulders almost as fair, for Yorke adorned his living statue with a prodigal hand. He could not but smile delightedly and forgive her, though she asked no pardon, for he was too glad to have her back to think of questions or reproaches.

  “I am more than satisfied. Now come and let me play hostess among the teapots, for you are too splendid for anything but to be looked at, and you must need refreshment after your wild walk.”

  “No, I want nothing; let Hester fill my place. IT1 wait for you here, and enjoy the pleasant fire you have made for me.”

  She knelt down before it, and he went slowly away, looking backward at the pretty picture the firelight showed him. When he rejoined her after tea and toilet, she was lying in a deep chair looking straight before her with a singular expression, dreamy, yet intense, blissfully calm, yet full of a mysterious brightness that made her face strangely beautiful. He examined her keenly, but she did not see him, he spoke, but she did not hear him, and not until he touched her did she seem conscious of his presence. Then the rapt look passed away, and she roused herself with an effort.

  But Yorke could not forget it, and later in the evening when Coventry's rooms were full of friends and strangers, he stepped aside into a corner to observe Cecil from a distance and receive the compliments that now were so welcome to him. Two gentlemen paused nearby and, unconscious who was overhearing them, spoke freely of his ward.

  “Where is Yorke's statue as they call her? A dozen people are waiting for my opinion, and I must not disappoint them,” said the elder of the two, with the air of an experienced connoisseur.

  “She is sitting yonder. Do you see her, Dent? The dark-haired angel with the splendid eyes,” returned the younger, speaking with artistic enthusiasm.

  Dent took a survey, and Yorke waited for his opinion, feeling sure that it would be one of entire and flattering approval.

  “As a work of art she is exquisite, but as a woman she is a dead failure. Why in heaven's name didn't Yorke marry one of his marble goddesses and done with it?”

  “They say he has,” laughed Ascot, as Dent put down his glass with a shake of the head. “He fell in love with her beauty, and is as proud of it as if he had carved the fine curves of her figure and cut the clear outline of her face. If it were not for color and costume, she might be mounted on a pedestal as a mate for that serenely classical Pallas just behind her.”

  “Now to my eye,” said Dent, “that rosy, sweet-faced little woman sitting near her is far lovelier than this expressionless, heartless-looking beauty. See how young Mrs. Vivian kindles and glows with every passing emotion; look at her smile, hear her laugh, see her meet her husband's eye with a world of love in her own, and then contrast her with your statuesque Mrs. Yorke.”

  “Every man to his taste. I admire the sculptor’s, but I don't envy
him his handsome wife unless he possesses the art of warming and waking his Galatea. I doubt it, however, for he hasn't the look of a Pygmalion, though a very personable man. Come and introduce me to charming Mrs. Vivian; I’ve looked at the snow image till I'm positively chilled.”

  They passed on, and Yorke sent a glance after them that might have hastened their going had they met it. He had heard nothing but praise before, and this was quite a revelation to him. He was hurt and angry, yet ashamed of being so, and drawing back into his corner, began to contrast Cecil with her neighbor. The gentlemen were right; that indefinable something which she had once possessed was gone now, and her beauty had lost its magic. The woman near her was all they had said, young, blooming, blithe, and tender, with her new happiness shining in her face, and making her far more winsome than her fairer neighbor. He watched her look up at her husband with her heart in her eyes, and felt a sense of wrong because he had never met a glance like that in the dark eyes he knew so well. He saw the young pair dance together, and as they floated by, forgetful of everything but one another, he sighed involuntarily, remembering that he had done with love. He looked long at Cecil, and began to wonder if he did possess the power to animate his statue. For the first time he forgot his purpose, and yielding to the impulse of the moment, crossed the room, bent over her, and asked, “Cecil, can you waltz?”

  “Yes; poor Alf taught me.”

  The tone in which the name was uttered roused the old jealous feeling, for she never spoke his name in that softened voice.

  “Come, then, and waltz with me,” he said, with a masterful air as novel as the request.

  “With you? I thought you never danced.”

  “I will show you that I do. Lean on my arm, and let me see if I can bring some color into those white cheeks of yours.”

  She glanced up at him with a curious smile, for he looked both melancholy and excited; the next minute she forgot his face to wonder at his skill, for with a strong arm and steady foot he bore her round and round with a delightsome sense of ease and motion as the music rose and fell and their flying feet kept time. Yorke often looked down to mark the effect of this on Cecil, and was satisfied, for soon she glowed with the soft excitement of exercise and pleasure; the mysterious brightness returned to her eyes again and shone upon her face. Once he paused purposely before Dent and Ascot, and as he waited as if to catch the time, he heard the young man whisper, “Look at her now and own that she is beautiful.”

  “That she is, for this is nature and not art. The man can animate his statue and I envy him,” returned the other, drawing nearer to watch the brilliant creature swaying on her husband’s arm as Yorke swept her away, wearing an expression that caused more than one friend to smile and rejoice.

  “Rest a little, then we will dance again,” he said, when he seated her, and leaning on her chair began to ply the fan, still bent on trying his power, for the test interested him.

  “Do you see Mrs. Vivian yonder, Cecil? Tell me what you think of her.”

  “I think she is very pretty, and that her husband loves her very much.”

  “Don’t you envy her?”

  “No.”

  “Now that you have seen something of the world, and tasted many of its pleasures, do you never regret that you tied yourself to me so young, never reproach me for asking you to do it?” He leaned nearer as he spoke and looked deep into her eyes; they looked back at him as if they read his heart, and something in their lustrous depths stirred him strangely; but he saw no love there, and she answered in that undemonstrative voice of hers, “I am contented, Yorke.”

  “Call me Bazil; I am tired of the other, and it is too ugly for your lips.”

  She smiled to herself, remembering a time when Bazil was forbidden, and asked a question in her turn.

  “Who are the gentlemen just passing?”

  “Dent and Ascot, artists, I believe. Why do you ask?”

  “I thought they were friends of yours, they seem to take so much interest in us.”

  “They are no friends of mine. Shall I tell you what they say of us?”

  “Yes, Bazil, if you like.”

  He did not answer for a moment, because the long unused name came very sweetly from her lips, and he paused to enjoy it. Then he told her; but she only smoothed the ruffled plumage of the fan he had been using, and looked about her undisturbed.

  “Mrs. Vivian tries to please her husband by being fond and gay; I try to please mine by being calm and cool. If both are satisfied, why care for what people say?”

  “But I do care, and it displeases me to have you criticized in that way. Be what you like at home, but in public try to look as if you cared for me a little, because I will not have it said that I married you for your beauty alone.”

  “Shall I imitate Mrs. Vivian? You are hard to please, but I can try.”

  He laughed a sudden and irrepressible laugh, partly at her suggestion, partly at his own request, and she smiled for sympathy, so blithe and pleasant was the sound.

  “What a capricious fool I am becoming,” he said. “I no longer know myself, and shall begin to think my gray hairs have come too soon if this goes on. Am I very old and grave, Cecil?”

  “Eight-and-thirty is not old, Bazil, and if you always dressed as carefully as tonight, and looked as happy, no one would call you my old husband, as a lady did just now.”

  Yorke glanced at a mirror opposite and fancied she was right; then his face clouded over, and he shook his head as if reproaching himself for a young man’s folly. But the reflection he saw was that of a stately- looking man, with fine eyes and a thoughtful countenance which just then wore a smile that made it singularly attractive. Here their host was seen approaching with the strangers, and Yorke whispered suddenly, “Imitate Mrs. Vivian if you can; I want to try the effect upon these gentlemen.”

  She bowed and held the fan above her eyes a moment, as if to screen them from the light. When it dropped, as the newcomers were presented, they saw a blooming, blushing face, with smiles on the lips, light in the eyes, and happiness in every tone of the youthful voice. Amazed at the rapidity of the change, yet touched by her obedience and charmed with her address, her husband could only look and listen for the first few minutes, wondering what spirit possessed the girl. So well did she act her part that he soon entered heartily into his own, and taking young Vivian for his model, played the devoted husband so successfully that Dent and Ascot lingered long, and went away at last to report that Mrs. Yorke was the most charming woman in the room, and the sculptor the happiest man.

  “Was my imitation a good one? Is that what you wish me to be in public?” asked Cecil, dropping back into her accustomed manner the instant they were alone, though her face still wore its newly acquired charm.

  “It was done to the life, and you quite took my breath away with your ‘loves’ and ‘dears,’ and all manner of small fascinations. Where did you learn them? What possesses you tonight, Cecil?”

  “An evil spirit. I have called it up, and now I cannot lay it.”

  She laid her hands against her cheeks, where a color like the deep heart of a rose burned steadily, while her eyes glittered and the flowers on her bosom trembled with the rapid beating of her heart, and some inward excitement seemed to kindle her into a life and loveliness that startled Yorke and half frightened herself. She saw that her words bewildered him still more than her actions, and, as if anxious to make him forget both, she rose, saying with an imperious little gesture, “We have sat apart in this nook too long; it is ill-bred. Come and dance with me.” He obeyed as if they had changed places, and for an hour Cecil danced like a devotee, delighting and surprising those about by the gaiety and grace with which she bore her part in the brilliant scene. When not with her, Yorke lingered nearby, longing to take her home, for her spirits seemed unnatural to him, and a half-painful, half-pleasurable sentiment of tender anxiety replaced his former pride in her. She had blossomed so suddenly he scarcely knew his quiet pupil, and while her secret
perplexed him, this new change both charmed and troubled him, and kept • him hovering about her till she came to him flushed and breathless, saying in the same excited manner as before, “Take me home, Bazil, or I shall dance myself to death. I want to be quiet now, for my head aches and burns, and Im so tired I shall fall asleep before I know it.”

  Making their adieus, he took her to a quiet anteroom and left her to rest while he went to find his carriage. He was absent many minutes, being detained by the way, and when he returned it was to find Cecil fast asleep. Her fan and gloves had fallen from her hands, and she lay with her disordered hair scattered on the pillow, her white arms folded under her head, looking as if an unconquerable drowsiness had overpowered her. Wrapping her in her cloak Yorke took her away half awake, let her sleep undisturbed on his shoulder during the drive, and reluctantly gave her into the hands of her maid when they reached home.

  Very little sleep did he get that night, for Cecil’s figure was continually dancing before his eyes, sometimes as he first saw it that evening in the firelight, then as it looked when she played Mrs. Vivian with such spirit, or when she answered with that strange expression, “An evil spirit.

  I have called it up, and now I cannot lay it.” But oftenest as he watched it by the light of the streetlamps, with a soft cheek against his own, and recollections of that other Cecil curiously blended with thoughts of the one sleeping on his shoulder. Calling himself a fool, with various adjectives attached, and resolutely fixing his mind on other things, having failed to bring repose, he lighted both lamp and meerschaum and read till dawn.

  His first question when he met Victorine in the morning was “How is Mrs. Yorke?”

  “Still asleep, sir, and I haven’t called her, for the only thing she said last night was to bid me let her rest all day unless she woke.”

  “Very well, let her be quiet, and tell me when she rises.”

  He went to his studio, but could settle to nothing, and found the day wearisomely long, for Cecil did not rise. He asked for her at dinner, but she was still asleep, and hoping for a long evening with her, he resigned himself to a solitary afternoon. The clock was on the stroke of six when Victorine came in, looking frightened.