“I think Mrs. Yorke is ill, sir.”
“Is she awake?” he asked, starting up.
“I’ve tried to wake her, but I can’t. Perhaps you could, sir, for something must be amiss—she looks so strangely and hasn’t stirred since morning.”
Before the last sentence was out of her mouth Yorke was halfway upstairs, and in another minute at Cecil’s bedside. A great change had come over her since he saw her last, a change that alarmed him terribly. The restless sleep had deepened into a deathlike immobility; the feverish flush was gone, and violet shadows gave her closed eyes a sunken look; through her pale lips slow breaths came and went; and when he felt her pulse her hand dropped heavily as he relinquished it. Stooping, he whispered gently yet urgently, “Cecil, wake up, it is time.”
But there was no sign of waking, and nothing stirred but the faint flutter of her breath. He raised her, brushed the damp hair from her forehead, and cried in a voice tremulous with fear, “My darling, speak to me!”
But she lay mute and motionless. With a desperate sort of energy he flung up the window, rolled the bed where a fresh wind blew in, laid her high on the pillows, bathed her head and face, held pungent salts to her nostrils, and chafed her hands. Still all in vain; not a sound or motion answered him, and all his appeals, now tender, now commanding, could not break the trance that held her. Desisting suddenly from his fruitless efforts, he sent Victorine for a physician, and till he came suffered the most terrible suspense. Before Dr. Home could open his lips Yorke explained hurriedly, and bade him do something for heaven’s sake.
The old gentleman took a long survey, touched pulse and temples, listened to her breathing, and then asked, though his own medicine case was in his hand, “Do you keep laudanum in the house?”
“I have some that I’ve had a long time. I’ll get it for you.” And Yorke was gone in spite of Victorine’s offer of assistance. But he returned with a fresh anxiety, for the little flask was empty.
“It was half full two days ago; no one goes to that cabinet but myself. I don’t understand it,” he began.
“I do.”
And there was something in the doctor’s tone that caused the bottle to drop from Yorke’s hand as he whispered, with a look of incredulity and dismay, “Do you think she has taken it?”
“I have no doubt of it.”
Yorke seized the old man’s arm with a painful grip, asking in a terror-stricken tone, “Do you mean she tried to destroy herself?”
“Nothing of the sort; she has only taken an overdose and must sleep it off.”
“Doctor, you deceive me! I know enough of this perilous stuff to know that the bottle under my feet contained enough to kill a man.”
“Perhaps so, but not your wife; and the fact that she is still alive proves that I am right.”
Terror changed to intense relief as Yorke asked with an appeasing gesture, “Can you do nothing for her? Will she not sleep herself to death?”
“I assure you there is no danger; she will wake in a few hours, weak and languid, but all the better for the lesson she has unintentionally given herself. It’s a dangerous habit, and I advise you to put a stop to it.”
“To what? I don’t understand you, sir.”
The doctor looked up from the powder he was preparing, saw Yorke’s perplexity, and answered with a significant nod, “I see you don’t, but you shall, for she is too young for such things yet. Your wife eats opium, I suspect.”
For a moment Yorke stared at him blankly, then said impetuously, “I’ll not believe it!”
“Ask the maid,” returned the doctor, but Victorine spoke for herself.
“Upon my word, sir, I know nothing of it. Mrs. Yorke sleeps a deal some days and is very quiet, but I never saw her take anything but the little comfits.”
“Hum! She is more careful than I suspected. I’m sure of it, however, and perhaps you can satisfy yourself if you choose to look.”
The doctor cast a suggestive glance about the room. Yorke understood it, and taking Cecil’s keys began his search, saying sternly, “I have a right to satisfy myself and save her from further danger if it is so.”
He did not look long, for in a corner of the drawer where certain treasures were kept he found a paper which had evidently been a wrapper for something that left a faintly acrid odor behind. A few grayish crumbs were shaken from the folds, and Dr. Home tasted them with a satisfied “I thought so.”
Yorke crushed the paper in his hand, asking in a tone of mingled pain and perplexity, “Why should she do it?”
“A whim, perhaps, ennui, wakefulness; a woman’s reasons for such freaks are many. You must ask her and put a stop to it, though I think this may break up the habit.”
“What led you to suspect her of it?” asked Yorke, trying to find his way out of the mystery.
“I detected laudanum in her breath; that explained the unnatural sleep. The fact that it had not already killed her assured me that she was used to it, for, as you said, a dose like that would kill a man, but not a woman who had been taking opium for months. I can do nothing now; keep the room cool, let her wake naturally, then give her this, and if she is not comfortable tomorrow, let me know.”
With that the doctor left him, Victorine began her watch beside the pale sleeper, and Yorke went away to wander through the silent house haunted by thoughts that would not let him rest.
Chapter VII
HEART FOR HEART
DR. Home was right; Cecil’s heavy sleep gradually passed into a natural one, and in the morning she woke, wan and nerveless, but entirely ignorant that she had lost a day. A misty recollection of some past excitement remained, but brought no explanation of her present lassitude, except a suspicion that she had taken more opium than was prudent. Finding herself alone when she woke, she did not ring for Victorine, but made her toilet hastily, rubbed a transient color into her pale cheeks, drew her hair low on her temples to conceal her heavy eyes, and went down fearing that it was very late.
Yorke sat in his place with a newspaper in his hand, but he was not reading, and there was something in his face that made Cecil pause involuntarily to examine it. It seemed as if years had been added to his age since she saw him last; his mouth was grave, his eye sad; a weary yet resolute expression was visible, but also the traces of some past suffering that touched the girl and caused her to lay her hand upon his shoulder, saying in her gentlest tone, “Good morning, Bazil; forgive me for being so wilful yesterday. I am punished for my fault by finding you so grave and tired now.”
“I am only tired of waiting for my breakfast” was all the answer she got, but she felt him start and saw the paper rustle in his hand as she spoke, though whether surprise or displeasure caused these demonstrations she could not tell, and fancying him in one of his moody fits, took her place in silence. His coffee stood untouched till it was cold before he looked up and said, with a keen glance which made her eyes falter and fall, “Are you quite rested, Cecil?”
“Not quite; I danced too much last night.”
“The night before last, you mean.”
“We were at Coventry’s last evening, Bazil.”
“No, on Monday evening.”
“Yes, and today is Tuesday.”
He turned the paper toward her and Wednesday stared her full in the face. She looked incredulous, then bewildered, and putting her hand to her forehead seemed trying to recollect, while a foreboding fear came over her.
“Then what became of yesterday? I remember nothing of it,” she asked with a troubled look.
“You slept it away.”
“What! All day?”
“For six-and-thirty hours, without a word, almost without a motion.” His eye was still upon her, his voice was ominously quiet, and as he spoke her wandering glance fell on an open book that lay beside him. She read its tide—Confessions of an Opium-Eater—and overcome by a painful blending of shame and fear, she covered up her face without a word.
“Is it true, Cecil?”
&
nbsp; “Yes, Bazil.”
“How long has it been?”
A year.
“What tempted you to try such a dangerous cure, or pleasure?” “Yourself.”
“I! How? When?”
“You gave me laudanum when I could not sleep. I liked its influence, and after that I tried it whenever I was sad or tired.”
“Was this the secret I nearly discovered once, the cause of your solitary walks, the evil spirit that possessed you at Coventry’s?”
“Yes; I had opium in my pocket that day, and was so frightened when I thought you would discover it, because I knew you would be angry. I went out those times to get it, for I dared not trust anyone. Last night, no, Monday night, I had none, and I longed for it so intensely I could not wait. I disobeyed you, but the storm was too much for me, and I was just turning back in despair, when I remembered the little flask. You seldom go to the cabinet, never use the laudanum, and I thought I could replace it by-and-by.”
“But, child, had you no fear of consequences when playing such perilous pranks with yourself? You might have killed yourself, as you came near doing just now.”
“I was used to it because Mamma often had it, and at first I was very careful; but the habit grew upon me unconsciously, and became so fascinating I could not resist it. In my hurry I took too much, and was frightened afterward, for everything seemed strange. I don’t know what I did, but nothing seemed impossible to me, and it was a splendid hour; I wish it had been my last.”
Tears fell between her fingers, and for a moment she was shaken by some uncontrollable emotion. Yorke half rose as if to go to her, but checked the impulse and sat down again with the air of a man bent on subduing himself at any cost. Cecil was herself again almost immediately, and wiping away her tears, seemed to await his reproof with her accustomed meekness.
But none came, for very gently he said, “Was this kind to yourself or me?”
“No; forgive me, Bazil. I will amend my fault.”
“And promise never to repeat it?”
“I promise, but you cannot know how hard a thing it is to give up when I need it so much.”
“Why, Cecil?”
“Because—” she stopped an instant, as if to restrain some impetuous word, and added, in an altered tone, “because I find it hard to tame myself to the quiet, lonely life you wish me to lead. I am so young, so full of foolish hopes and fancies, that it will take time to change me entirely, and what I have seen of the world lately makes it still more difficult. Have patience with me, and I shall he wiser and more contented soon.”
He had left the table as if to throw up a window, and lingered for a moment to enjoy the balmy air, perhaps to conceal or conquer some pang of self-reproach, some late regret for what he had done. When he returned, it was to say, with an undertone of satisfaction in his grave voice, “Yes, it is too soon to ask so much of you, and if you give up this dangerous comforter, surely I can give up a little of the seclusion that I love. It is hard to break off such a habit. I will help you, and for a time we will forget these troubles in new scenes and employments. Will you go to the seashore for a month, Cecil, and so make home pleasanter by absence?”
“Oh, so gladly! I love the sea, and it will do me good. You are very kind to think of it, and I thank you so much, Bazil!”
She did thank him, with eyes as well as lips, for her face brightened like a prisoner’s when the key turns in the lock and sunshine streams into his cell. Yorke saw the joy, heard the tone of gratitude, and stifled a sigh, for they showed him what a captive he had made of her, and betrayed how much she had suffered silently.
“Shall I go with you?” he asked, in a curiously unauthoritative tone, but with a longing look that might have changed her reply had she seen it.
“If you care to, I shall feel safer; but do not unless it is pleasant to you.”
“It is pleasant. We will go tomorrow,” he said decidedly. “Rest and prepare today; take Victorine with you, and leave your troubles all behind, and in a month we will come back our happy selves again.”
“I hope so” was all her answer, and the change was settled without more words.
“The charm does not work,” sighed Yorke within himself, as he looked down at Cecil leaning on his arm while they went pacing along the smooth beach seven days later, with the great waves rolling up before them, a fresh wind blowing inward from the sea, and summer sunshine brooding over the green islands of the bay. The week had brought no change to Cecil; air and bathing, exercise and change of scene, thoughtful care and daily devotion on her husband’s part, all seemed to have failed, and she walked beside him with the old quietude and coldness intensified instead of lightened.
“What shall I do with you, Cecil? You don’t get strong and rosy as I hoped you would, and you often have a longing look as if you wanted your opium again; but you know I dare not give it to you.”
“I shall learn to do without it in time, or find something else to take its place. Hark!”
As the words left her lips, her hand arrested him, her eyes kindled, a smile broke over her face, and her whole figure seemed to start into life. He stood still wondering, but instantly he learned what magic had wrought the spell, for on the wings of the wind came the fitful music of a song from a solitary boatman whose skiff lay rocking far out in the bay. Both recognized the voice, both watched the white sail gliding nearer, and both faces altered rapidly; Cecil’s warmed and brightened as she listened with head erect and detaining hand, but Yorke’s darkened with the blackest frown it had ever worn as he drew her away with an impatient gesture and peremptory “Come in; it is too warm to linger here for a fisherman’s song!”
The smile broke into a laugh as she said, following with evident reluctance, “Do fishermen sing Italian and go fishing in costumes like that?”
“Your ears and eyes must be keener than mine if you can discover what I neither hear nor see,” he answered almost petulantly. But still smiling, she looked backward as she began to sing like a soft echo of the strangers voice, and let him lead her where he would. Till sunset he kept her in their rooms, busy with pencil, book, or needle, blind to the wistful glances she often sent seaward, and deaf to hints that they were losing the hours best suited for sketching. Victorine came in at last, bringing Cecil's hat and mantle, and, as if the nod she gave him was a preconcerted signal, Yorke rose at once, saying promptly, “Yes, now we can go, without fear of sun or—”
“Fishermen,” added Cecil, with a slightly scornful smile.
“Exactly.” And Yorke put on her mantle without a sign of displeasure at her interruption. She seemed upon the point of refusing the stroll that now had no charm for her, but yielded, and they went out together, leaving Victorine to lift her hands and wonder afresh at the strange behavior of her master and mistress.
“I have a fancy to walk upon the rocks; can I, Bazil?” were the first words Cecil uttered, as they came into the splendor of the evening hour that bathed sea and sky within its ruddy glow.
A single sail was skimming down the bay, and not a figure sat or stood among the rocks. Yorke saw this, and answered with a gracious smile, “Walk where you will; I leave the path to you.”
She climbed the cliffs and stood watching the lonely boat until it vanished round the rocky point where the lighthouse tower showed its newly kindled spark. Then she turned and said wearily, “Let us go home. I find it chilly here.”
He led her down another path than that by which they came, but stopped suddenly, and she felt his hand tighten its hold as he exclaimed, “Go back; it is not safe. Go, I beg of you!”
It was too late, for she had seen a figure lying on a smooth ledge of the cliff, had recognized it, and glided on with a willful look, a smile of satisfaction. He set his teeth and sprang after her, but neither spoke, for Germain lay asleep, and the entire repose of his fine face not only restrained their tongues, but riveted their beauty-loving eyes. Cecil was touched to see how changed he was; for all the red glow shining over him, hi
s face was very pale; the wind blew back the hair from his temples, showing how hollow they had grown; and stooping to brush an insect from his forehead, she saw many gray hairs among the dark locks scattered on the stone. His mouth, was half hidden by the black beard, but the lips smiled as if some happy dream haunted his sleep, and in the hands folded on his broad chest, she saw a little knot of ribbon that had dropped from her dress that morning as she listened to his song. Yorke saw it, also, and made an involuntary gesture to pluck it from the sleeper’s hold, but Cecil caught his arm, whispering sharply, “Let him keep it! You care nothing for it, and he needs something to comfort him, if I read his face aright.”
Yorke stood motionless an instant, then seemed to take some sudden resolution, for drawing her gently aside, he said with a mildness that was as new as winning, “You are right; he does need comfort, and he shall have it. Go on alone, Cecil; I will follow soon.”
She obeyed him, but glancing backward as she went, she saw him turn his face to the cliff behind him, and lay his head down on his arm in an attitude of deep dejection or of doubt. He stood so till the last sound of her light step died away, then he stopped and touched the sleeper, with a low-spoken “August, it is I.”
Germain leaped to his feet as if the slight touch had been a blow, the quiet call a pistol shot, and his hand went to his breast with an instinctive motion that half revealed a hidden weapon. A single glance seemed to reassure him, for though his heart beat audibly, and his very lips were white, he laughed and offered the hand that had just been ready to deal death to some imaginary captor. Yorke did not take it, and, as if the discourtesy reminded him of something, Germain drew back, bowed with the grace that was habitual to him, and said coolly, “Pardon me; your sudden waking makes me forgetful. I was dreaming of you, and in the dream we were friends as of old.”
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