“Never again, August; it is impossible. But I will do my best for you now, as before, if I may trust you.”
“Have I not kept my word this time? Have I not left you in peace for nearly a year? Did I not obey you today when you bade me shun you, though the merest accident betrayed your presence to me?”
“You have done well for one so tempted and so impetuous; but you forget the letters written to Cecil in my absence, and lying down to sleep in our very path is not putting the bay between us as I bade you.”
“Forgive the letters; they did no harm, for she never read them, I suspect. Ah, you smile! Then I am right. As for finding me here, it was no plot of mine. I thought you always walked on the beach, so I crept up to catch one glimpse of her unseen, before I went away for another year, perhaps. Be generous, Bazil. You have made her all your own; do not deny me this poor boon.”
“I will not. Promise me to keep our secret sacredly, and you shall see her when you will. But you must control yourself, eye, tongue, voice, and manner, else I must banish you again. Remember your life is in my hands, and I will give you up rather than let harm come to her.”
“I swear it, Bazil. You may safely indulge me now, for I shall not haunt you long; my wanderings are almost over, and you may hear Death knocking at my heart.”
Real solicitude appeared in Yorke’s face as the other spoke with a melancholy smile, and obeying a kindly impulse, he laid his hand on Germain’s shoulder.
“I hope not, for it is a very tender heart, in spite of all its waywardness and past offenses. But if it be so, you shall not be denied the one happiness that I can give you. Come home with me, and for an hour sun yourself in Cecil’s presence. I do not fear you in this mood, and there is no danger of disturbing her; I wish there was!”
“God bless you, Bazil! Trust me freely. The wild devil is cast out, and all I ask is a quiet time in which to repent before I die. Take me to her; I will not mar her peace or yours. May I keep this? It is my only relic.”
He showed the ribbon with a beseeching look, and remembering Cecil’s words, Yorke bowed a mute assent as he led the way down the rude path and along the beach where slender footprints were still visible in the damp sand.
She was waiting in the softly lighted room, with no sign of impatience as she sat singing at the instrument. It was the air Germain had sung, and pausing behind her, he blended the music of his voice with hers in the last strains of the song. She turned then, and put out her hand, but caught it back and glanced at Yorke, for the recollection of the struggle in the dark returned to check the impulse that prompted her to welcome this man whom she could not dislike, in spite of mystery, violence, and unmistakable traces of a turbulent life. Yorke saw her doubt and answered it instantly.
“Give him your hand, Cecil, and forgive the past; there is no ill will between us now, and he will not forget himself again.”
Germain bowed low over the little hand, saying in the tone that always won its way, “Rest assured of that, Mrs. Yorke, and permit me to offer my best wishes, now that my prophecy has been fulfilled.”
In half an hour Yorke saw the desired change, for Germain worked the miracle, and Cecil began to look as she had done a year ago. Sitting a little apart, he watched them intently, as if longing to learn the secret, for he had failed to animate his statue since the night when for a time he believed he had some power over her, but soon learned that it was to opium, not to love, that he owed his brief success. Cecil paid no heed to him, but seemed forgetful of his presence, as Germain entertained her with an animation that increased the fascination of his manner. An irresistible mingling of interest, curiosity, and compassion attracted her to him. Yorke’s assurance, as well as his own altered demeanor, soon removed all misgivings from her mind, and the indescribable charm of his presence made the interview delightful, for he was both gay and gentle, devoted and respectful. The moment the hour struck, he rose and went, with a grateful glance at Yorke, a regretful one at Cecil. She did not ask now as before, “Will he come againY* but her eyes looked the question.
“Yes, he will come tomorrow, if you like. He is ill and lonely, and not long for this world; so do your best for him while you may.”
“I will, with all my heart, for indeed I pity him. It is very generous of you to forget his wrongdoing, and give me this pleasure.”
“Then come and thank me for it a la Mrs. Vivian.”
He spoke impulsively and held his hands to her, but she drew back, swept him a stately little curtsy, and answered with her coolest air, “We are not in public now, so, thank you, guardian, and good night.”
She smiled as she spoke, but he turned as if he had been struck, and springing out of the low window, paced the sands until the young moon set.
They had come to the seaside before the season had begun, but now the great hotel was filling fast, and solitude was at an end. Cecil regretted this, and so did Yorke, for the admiration which she always excited no longer pleased but pained him, because pride had changed to a jealous longing to keep her to himself. In public she was the brilliant, winning wife, in private, the cold, quiet ward, and nothing but Germain’s presence had power to warm her then. He came daily, seeming to grow calmer and better in the friendly atmosphere about him. Cecil enjoyed his society with unabated pleasure, and Yorke left them free after being absent for hours and apparently intent upon some purpose of his own. Of course, there were many eyes to watch, many tongues to comment upon the actions of the peculiar sculptor and his lovely wife. Germain was known to be a friend; it was evident that he was an invalid, and no longer young; but flirting young ladies and gossiping old ones would make romances, while the idle gentlemen listened and looked on. Cecil soon felt that something was amiss, for though her secluded life had made her singularly childlike in some things, she was fast learning to know herself, and understand her relations to the world. She wondered if Yorke heard what was said, and hoped he would speak if anything displeased him; but till he did, she went on her way as if untroubled, walking, sailing, singing, and driving with Germain, who never forgot his promise, and who daily won from her fresh confidence and regard. So the days passed till the month was gone, and with a heavy heart Cecil heard her husband give orders to prepare for home.
“Are you ready?” he asked, coming in as she stood recalling the pleasant hours spent with Germain, and wondering if he would come to say farewell.
“Yes, Bazil, I am ready.”
“But not glad to go?”
“No, for I have been very happy here.”
“And home is not made pleasanter by absence?”
“I shall try to think it is pleasanter.”
“And I shall try to make it so. Here is the carriage. Shall we go?” As they rolled away, Cecil looked back, half suspecting to see some signal of adieu from window, cliff, or shore, but there was none, and Yorke said, interpreting the look aright, “It is in vain to look for him; he has already gone.”
“It is much better so. I am glad of it,” she said decidedly, as she drew down her veil, and leaning back, seemed to decline all further conversation. Her companion consoled himself with Judas, but something evidently filled him with a pleasant excitement, for often he smiled unconsciously, and several times sang softly to himself, as if well pleased at some fancy of his own. Cecil thought her disappointment amused him, and much offended, sat with her eyes closed behind her veil, careless of all about her, till the sudden stopping of the carriage roused her, and looking up, she saw Yorke waiting to hand her out.
“Why stop here? This is not home,” she said, looking at the lovely scene about with wondering eyes.
“Yes, this is home,” he answered, as leading her between blooming parterres and up the wide steps, he brought her into a place so beautiful that she stood like one bewildered. A long, lofty hall, softly lighted by the sunshine that crept in through screens of flowers and vines. A carpet, green and thick as forest moss, lay underfoot; warm-hued pictures leaned from the walls, and all about in graceful alcoves stood
Yorke’s fairest statues, like fit inhabitants of this artist’s home. Before three wide windows airy draperies swayed in the wind, showing glimpses of a balcony that overhung the sea, whose ever-varying loveliness was a perpetual joy, and on this balcony a man sat, singing.
“Does it please you, Cecil? I have done my best to make home more attractive by bringing to it all that you most love.”
Yorke spoke with repressed eagerness, for his heart was full, and try as he might, he could not quite conceal it. Cecil saw this, and a little tremor of delight went through her; but she only took his hand in both her own, exclaiming gratefully, “It is too beautiful for me! How shall I thank you? This is the work you have been doing secretly, and this is why you sent Germain before us to give me a sweet welcome. How thoughtful, and how beautiful it was of you.”
He looked pleased but not satisfied, and led her up and down, showing all the wonders of the little summer palace by the sea. Everywhere she found her tastes remembered, her comfort consulted, her least whim gratified, and sometimes felt as if she had found something dearer than all these. Still no words passed her lips warmer than gratitude, and when they returned to the hall of statues, she only pressed the generous hand that gave so much, and said again, “It is too beautiful for me. How can I thank you for such kindness to your little ward?”
“Say wife, Cecil, and I am satisfied.”
“Pardon me, I forgot that, and like the other best because it is truer. Now let me go and thank Germain.”
She went on before him, and coming out into the wide balcony, saw nothing for a moment but the scene before her. Below, the waves broke musically on the shore, the green islands slept in the sunshine, the bay was white with sails, the city spires glittered in the distance, and beyond, the blue sea rolled to meet the far horizon.
“Has he not done well? Is it not a charming home to live and die in?” said Germain, as she turned to greet him, with both hands extended, and something more than gratitude in her face. That look, so confiding and affectionate, was too much for Germain; he took the hands and bent to give her a tenderer greeting, remembering his promise just in time, and with a half-audible apology, hurried away, as if fearing to trust himself.
Cecil looked after him sorrowfully, but when Yorke approached, asking in some surprise, “Where is Germain?” she answered reproachfully, “He is gone, and he must not come again.”
“Why not?”
“Because he cannot forget, and others see it as well as I. You might have spared him this, and for my sake have remembered that it is not always wise to be kind.”
“Ah, they gossip again, do they? Let them; I’ve done one rash and foolish thing to appease Mrs. Grundy, and now I shall trouble myself no further about her or her tongue.”
Leaning on the balustrade, he did not look at her, though he held his breath to catch her reply, but seemed intent on watching leaf after leaf float downward to the sea. His careless tone, his negligent attitude wounded Cecil as deeply as his words; her eyes kindled, and real resentment trembled in her voice.
“Who should care, if not you? Do you know what is said of us?” “Only what is said of every pretty woman at a watering place.” And he leaned over to watch the last leaf fall.
“You do not care, then? It gives you no pain to have it said that I am happier with Germain than with you?”
He clenched the hand she could not see, but shrugged his shoulders and looked far off at sea, as if watching a distant sail.
“For once, rumor tells the truth, and why should I deny it? My pride may be a little hurt, but I’m not jealous of poor Germain.”
If he had seen her hold her lips together with almost as grim a look as his own often wore, and heard her say within herself, “I will prove that,” he would have carried his experiment no further. But he never turned his head, and Cecil asked, with a touch of contempt in her voice that made him wince, “Do you wish this mysterious friend of yours to go and come as freely as he has done of late?”
“Why not, if he is happy? He has not long to enjoy either life or love.”
“And I am to receive him as before, am I?”
“As you please. If his society is agreeable to you, I have no desire to deprive you of it, since mine is burdensome and Alfred away.”
Something in the emphasis unconsciously put upon the last name caused a smile to flit over Cecils face, but it was gone instantly, and her voice was cold as ice.
“Thank you; and you have no fear of the consequences of this unparalleled generosity of yours?”
“None for myself or my snow image. Has she for herself?”
“I fear nothing for myself; I have no heart, you know.”
She laughed a sudden laugh that made him start, and as she vanished behind the floating curtains, he struck his hand on the iron bar before him with a force that brought blood, saying, in an accent of despair, “And she will never know that I have one, till she has broken it!”
Chapter VIII
MASKS
“CECIL, the world begins to wonder why Mrs. Yorke does noi admit it to a glimpse of her new home.”
“Mrs. Yorke is supremely indifferent to the world’s wonder or its wishes.”
She certainly looked so, as she sat in the couch comer singing to herself, and playing with a useless fan—for the room was breezy with sea airs, though an August sun blazed without. Yorke was strolling from alcove to alcove, as if studying the effects among his statues, and Germain lounged on the wide step of the balcony window, with a guitar across his knee, for he still came daily, as neither master nor mistress had forbidden him.
“I think I have proved my indifference, but people annoy me with questions, and I suspect we shall have no peace till we give some sort of an entertainment, and purchase freedom hereafter by the sacrifice of one evening now.”
“You are right, Yorke; I, too, have been beset by curious inquirers, and I suggest that you end their suspense at once. Why not have a masquerade? These rooms are admirably fitted for it, there has been none this season, and the moon is at the full next week. What does ‘my lady’ say?
Germain spoke in his persuasive voice, and Cecil looked interested now.
“If we must have anything let it be that. I like such things, and it is pleasant to forget oneself sometimes. Does the fancy suit you, Bazil?”
“Anything you please, or nothing at all. I only spoke of it, thinking you might find some pleasure in pleasing others,” he returned, still busy with the piping Faun that had a place among the finer works of his own hands.
“I used to do so, and tried very hard to please, but no good came of it, so now I enjoy myself, and leave others to do likewise. What characters shall we assume, Germain?”
As she asked the question, her voice changed as abruptly as her manner, and languid indifference was replaced by lively interest.
“I shall assume none, I have not spirits enough for it, but in a domino can glide about and collect compliments for you. Your husband must take the brilliant part, as a host should.”
“He had better personate Othello; the costume would be becoming, and the character an easy one for him to play, he is such a jealous soul.” She spoke ironically, and he answered in the same tone.
“No, thank you, I prefer Hamlet, but you would succeed well as the princess in the fairy tale, who turned to stone whenever her husband approached her, though a very charming woman to all others. Perhaps, however, you would prefer to personate some goddess; I can recommend Diana, as a cool character for a sultry summer evening.”
“I hate goddesses, having lived with them all my life. Everyone will expect me to be some classical creature or other, so I shall disappoint them, and enjoy myself like a mortal woman. HI imitate the French marquise whom we saw last winter at the theater; she was very charming, and the dress is easily prepared, if one has jewels enough.”
Germain laughed involuntarily at the idea of Cecil in such a character, and she laughed also, a lighthearted laugh, pleasant to hear.<
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“You think I cannot do it? Wait and see. I am a better actress than you think; I’ve had daily practice since I was married, and Bazil will testify that I do my part well.”
“So well that sometimes it is impossible not to mistake art for nature. When shall this fete take place, Madame la Marquise?”
“Next week; four days are enough for preparation, and if we wait longer, I shall get tired of the fancy, and give it up.”
“Next week it shall be then.”
Yorke stood looking down the long room at the pretty tableau at the end, for Germain was leaning on the back of the couch now, dropping odorous English violets into the white hands lifted to catch them, and Cecil looked as if she was already enjoying herself as a mortal woman. Standing apart among the statues, he wondered if she remembered the time when his will was law, and it was herself who obeyed with a weakness he had not yet learned. Now this was changed, and he called himself a fool for losing his old power, yet gaining no new hold upon her. She ruled him, but seemed not to know it, and keeping her smiles for others, showed her darkest side to him, being as lovely and as thorny as any brier rose. Presently she sprang up, saying with unusual animation, “I will go and consult with Victorine, and then we will drive to town and give our orders. You must come with me, Germain. I want your taste in my selection; Bazil has none, except in stones.”
“One cannot doubt that, with such proofs all about one,” answered Germain, as he followed her toward the door. “When shall we have another statue, Yorke? You have been idle of late.”
“Never busier in my life; I have a new design in my mind, but it takes time to work it out. Wait a few weeks longer, and I will show you something that shall surpass all these.”
“Unless you have lost your skill.”
Yorke’s face had kindled as he spoke, but it fell again when Cecil whispered these words in passing, with a glance that seemed to prophesy a failure for the new design, whatever it might be. A flush of passionate pain passed across his face, and he lifted his arms as if to hurl poor Psyche down again, but the sight of the bruised hand seemed to recall some purpose, and calm him by its spell.
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