Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15

by Plots (and) Counterplots (v1. 1)

  “Shall I ever understand them?” she sighed to herself, as her eyes turned from them to Sir Walter, standing beside her, one hand on his sword hilt, the other still holding the half-mask before his face, as if anxious to preserve his incognito as long as possible. Yorke’s eye was upon him, also, as he waited with intense impatience to see his suspicion confirmed; but in the confusion of the moment, he lost sight of the marquise and her attendant before this desire was gratified. Making his way through the crowd as fast as frequent salutations, compliments, and jests permitted, he came at last to the balcony. A single glance assured him that his search was ended, and stepping into the deep shadow of the projecting wall, he eyed the group before him with an eye that boded ill to the unconscious pair.

  Cecil’s face was toward him, and it wore a look of happiness that had long been a stranger to it, as she spoke earnestly but in so low a tone that not a word was audible. Her companion listened intently, and made brief replies; he was unmasked now, but the long plume of his hat drooping between his face and the observer still prolonged his suspense. Only a few moments did they stand so, for, as if bidding him adieu, Cecil waved her hand to him, and reentered the hall through the nearest window. Sir Walter seated himself on the wide railing of the balcony, flung his hat at his feet, and turned his face full to the light, as if enjoying the coolness of the sea breeze. One instant he sat humming a blithe cavalier song to himself, the next, a strong hand clutched and swung him over the low balustrade, as a face pale with passion came between him and the moon, and Yorke’s voice demanded fiercely, “What brings you here? Answer me truly, or I will let go my hold, and nothing but my hand keeps you from instant death.”

  It was true, for though Alfred’s feet still clung to the bars, his only support was the arm, inflexible as iron, that held him over the rocky precipice, below which rolled the sea. But he was brave, and though his face whitened, his eye was steady, his voice firm, as he replied unhesitatingly, “I came to see Cecil.”

  “I thought so! Are you satisfied?”

  “Fully satisfied.”

  “That she loves you as you would have her love?”

  “Yes, as I would have her love.”

  “You dare say this to me!” and Yorke’s grip tightened, as a savage light shot into his black eyes, and his voice shook with fury.

  “I dare anything. If you doubt it, try me.”

  Alfred’s blood was up now, and he forgot himself in the satisfaction it gave him to inflict a pang of jealousy as sharp as his own had been.

  “What was she saying to you as she left?” demanded Yorke, under his breath.

  “I shall answer no questions, and destroy no confidences” was the brief reply.

  “Then I swear I will let go my hold!”

  “Do it, and tell Cecil I was true to the end.”

  With a defiant smile, Alfred took his hands from the other’s arm, and hung there only by that desperate clutch. The smile, the words, drove Yorke beyond himself; a mad devil seemed to possess him, and in the drawing of a breath, the young man would have been dashed upon the jagged cliffs below, had not Germain saved them both. Where he came from, neither saw, nor what he did, for with inconceivable rapidity Yorke was flung back, Alfred drawn over the balustrade, and planted firmly on his feet again. Then the three looked at one another: Yorke was speechless with the mingled rage, shame, and grief warring within him; Alfred still smiling disdainfully; Germain pale and panting with the shock of surprise at such a sight, and the sudden exertion which had spared the gay evening a tragic close. He spoke first, and as one having authority, drawing the young man with him, as he slowly retreated toward the steep steps that wound from the balcony to the cliff that partially supported it.

  “Go, Bazil, and keep this from Cecil; I have a right to ask it, for half the debt to you is canceled by saving you from this act, that would have made your life as sad a failure as my own. I shall return tomorrow for the last time; till then I shall guard this boy, for you are beside yourself.”

  With that they left him, and he let them go without a word, feeling that indeed he was beside himself. How long he stood there, he did not know; a stir within recalled him to the necessity of assuming composure, and fighting down the agitation that must be controlled, he went in to play the courteous host at his own table, and answer to the toasts drunk to the health and happiness of himself and his fair wife. He went through with his duties with a desperate sort of gaiety that deceived careless observers, but not Cecil. She too was feverishly restless for Alfred did not appear, and Germain was gone also; but she hid her disquiet better than Yorke, and the effort made her so brilliantly beautiful and blithe that the old fancy of “Yorke’s statue” was forgotten, and “Yorke’s wife” became “the star of the goodly companie.”

  The evening came to an end at last, and Yorke’s long torment was over. Early birds were beginning to twitter, and the short summer night was nearly past, as the latest guest departed, leaving the weary host and hostess alone. Cecil’s first act was to unclasp the diamonds, and offer to restore them to the giver, saying gratefully, yet with gravity, “I thank you for your generous thought of me, and have tried to do honor to your gift, but please take them back now, they are too costly ornaments for me.”

  “Too heavy chains, you mean,” and with a sudden gesture, he sent the glittering handful to the ground, adding, in a tone that made her start, “Did you bring that boy here?”

  “Do you mean the gallant Sir Walter?”

  “I mean Alfred Norton.”

  “No, I did not ask him.”

  “You knew he was coming?”

  “I only hoped so.”

  The dark veins rose on Yorke’s forehead, he locked his hands tightly together behind him, and fixed on her a look that she never could forget, as he said slowly, as if every word was wrung from him, “You must see him no more. I warn you, harm will come of it if you persist.”

  A smile broke over her face, and with a shrug of her white shoulders, and an accent of merry malice that almost drove him frantic, she answered nonchalantly, “Why mind him more than poor Germain? If he comes, I cannot shun him, unless my lord and master has turned jealous, and forbids it; does he?”

  “Yes.”

  Yorke left the room, as he uttered the one word that was both an answer and a confession; had he looked backward, he would have seen Cecil down upon her knees gathering up the scattered diamonds, with that inexplicable smile quenched in tears, and on her face that tender expression he so longed to see.

  Chapter IX

  ON THE RACK

  THE house was not astir till very late next day, for master and mistress breakfasted in their own rooms at noon, and seemed in no haste to meet. A more miserable man than Yorke the sun did not shine on. Oppressed with remorse for last night’s violence, shame at last night’s betrayal of jealousy, and bitter sorrow for last night’s defeat, he longed yet dreaded to see Cecil, feeling that all hope of winning her heart was lost, and nothing but the resignation of despair remained for him.

  Fearing that Alfred might venture back, he haunted house and garden like a restless ghost, despising himself the while, yet utterly unable to resist the power that controlled him. No one came, however; not even Germain, and the afternoon was half over before Cecil appeared. He knew the instant she left her room, for not a sound escaped him; he saw her come down into her boudoir looking so fresh and fair he found it hard to feign unconsciousness of her presence, till he was composed enough to meet her as he would. The windows of her room opened on the shady terrace where he had been walking for an hour. After passing and repassing several times, in hopes that she would speak to him, he pulled his hat low over his brows, and looking in, bade her “Good morning.” She answered with unusual animation, but her eye did not meet his, and she bent assiduously over her work as if to hide her varying color. Yorke was quick to see these signs of disquiet, but the thought of Alfred made him interpret them in his own way, and find fresh cause of suffering in them.r />
  Both seemed glad to ignore last night, for neither spoke of it, though conversation flagged, and long pauses were frequent, till Yorke, in sheer desperation, took up a book, offering to read aloud to her. She thanked him, and leaning on the window ledge he opened at random and began to read. Of late, poems and romances had found their way into the house, apparently introduced by Germain, and to her surprise Yorke allowed Cecil to read them, which she did with diligence, but no visible effect as yet. In five minutes Yorke wished she had refused his offer, for the lines he had unwittingly chosen were of the tenderest sort, and he found it very hard to read the tuneful raptures of a happy lover, when his own heart was heaviest. He hurried through it as best he could, and not till the closing line was safely delivered did he venture to look at Cecil. For the first time she seemed affected by the magic of poetry; her hands lay idle, her head was averted, and her quickened breath stirred the long curls that half hid her face.

  “She thinks of Alfred,” groaned Yorke, within himself, and throwing down the book, he abruptly left her for another aimless saunter through the garden and the grove. He did not trust himself near her again, but lying in the grass where he could see her window, he watched her unobserved. Still seated at her embroidery frame, she worked at intervals, but often dropped her needle to look out as if longing for someone who did not come. “She waits for Alfred,” sighed Yorke, and laying his head down on his arm, he fell to imagining how different all might have been had he not marred his own happiness by blindly trying to atone for one wrong with another. The air was sultry, the soft chirp of insects very soothing; the weariness of a wakeful night weighed down his eyelids, and before he was aware of its approach, a deep sleep fell upon him, bringing happier dreams to comfort him than any his waking thoughts could fashion.

  A peal of thunder startled him wide awake, and glancing at his watch, he found he had lost an hour. Springing up, he went to look for Cecil, as he no longer saw her at her window. But nowhere did he find her, and after a vain search he returned to the boudoir, thinking some clue to her whereabouts might be discovered there. He did discover a clue, but one that drove him half mad with suspense and fear. Turning over the papers on her writing table, hoping to find some little message such as she often left for him, he came upon a card bearing Alfred’s name, and below it a single line in French.

  “At five, on the beach. Do not fail.”

  Yorke’s face was terrible as he read the words that to his eyes seemed a sentence of lifelong desolation, for, glancing despairingly about the room, he saw that Cecil’s hat was gone, and understood her absence now. A moment he stood staring at the line like one suddenly gone blind; then all the pain and passion passed into an unnatural calmness as he thrust the card into his pocket and rang like a man who has work to do that will not brook delay.

  “Where is Mrs. Yorke?” was the brief question that greeted Anthony when he appeared.

  “Gone to the beach, I think, sir.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Nearly an hour, I should say. It was half past four when I came home; she was here then, for I gave her the note; but she went out soon after, and now it’s half past five.”

  “What note was that?”

  “An answer to one I carried to the hotel, sir.”

  “To Mr. Alfred, was it not?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you see him, Anthony?”

  “Gave it into his own hand, sir, as Mistress bade me, for it was important, she said.”

  “Very important! He answered it, you say?”

  “Yes, sir. I met him on the lawn, and when he’d read the note, he just wrote something outlandish on his card and told me to hurry back. Is anything wrong, master?”

  “Mrs. Yorke has gone boating with him, I believe, and I am anxious about her, for a storm is blowing up and Mr. Alfred is no sailor. Are you sure she went that way?”

  “Very sure, sir; she had her boat cloak with her, and went down the beach path. I thought she spoke to you lying under the pine, but I suppose you were asleep, so she didn’t wake you.”

  “She stopped, did she?”

  “Yes, sir, several minutes, and stooped down as if speaking to you.” “You were watching her, it seems. Why was that?”

  “Beg pardon, sir, but I couldn’t help it; she looked so gay and pretty it did my old eyes good to look at her.”

  “You may go.”

  The instant he was alone, Yorke caught up a delicate lace handkerchief that lay on a chair, and calling Judas, showed it to him with a commanding “Find her.” The dog eyed his master intelligently, smelled the bit of cambric, and with nose to the ground, dashed out of the house, while Yorke followed, wearing the vigilant, restless look of an Indian on the war trail. Under the pine Judas paused, snuffed here and there, hurried down the path, and set off across the beach, till coming to a little cove, he seemed at fault, ran to and fro a minute, then turned his face seaward and gave a long howl as if disappointed that he could not follow his mistress by water as by land. Yorke came up breathless, looked keenly all about him, and discovered several proofs of the dog’s sagacity. Cecil’s veil lay on a rocky seat, large and small footprints were visible in the damp sand, and a boat had been lately drawn up in the cove, for the receding tide had not washed the mark of the keel away.

  “She could not be so treacherous—she has gone with Germain— I will not doubt her yet.” But as the just and generous emotion rose, his eye fell on an object which plainly proved that Alfred had been there. A gold sleeve button lay shining at his feet; he seized it, saw the initials A. N. upon it, and doubted no longer, as the hand that held it closed with a gesture full of ominous significance, and turning sharply, he went back more rapidly than he came. Straight home he hurried, and calling Anthony, alarmed the old man as much by his appearance as by the singular orders he gave.

  “If Germain comes, tell him to wait here for me; if young Norton comes, do not admit him; if Mrs. Yorke comes, put a light in the little turret window. I am going to look for her, and shall not return till I find her, unless the light recalls me.”

  “Lord bless us, sir! If you’re scared about Mistress, let someone go with you. I’ll be ready in a jiffy.”

  “No; I shall go alone. Get me the key of the boathouse, and do as I tell you.”

  “But, master, they’ll put in somewhere when they see the squall coming on. Better send down to the hotel, or ride round to the Point. It’s going to be a wild night, and you don’t look fit to face it.”

  But Yorke was deaf to warnings or suggestions, and hastily preparing himself for the expedition, he repeated his orders, and left Anthony shaking his head over “Master’s recklessness.”

  As he unmoored the boat, Judas leaped in, and standing in the bow, looked into the dim distance with an alert, intent expression, as if he shared the excitement of his companion. Up went the sail, and away flew the Sea Gull, leaving a track of foam behind, and carrying with it a heart more unquiet than stormy sea or sky. Across the bay skimmed the boat, and landing on the now deserted beach, Yorke went up to the hotel, so calm externally that few would have suspected the fire that raged within.

  “Is young Norton here?” he asked of a clerk lounging in the office.

  “Left this afternoon, sir.”

  “Rather sudden, wasn’t it? Are you sure he’s gone?”

  “Don’t know about the suddenness, Mr. Yorke, but I do know that he paid his bill, sent his baggage by the four-thirty train, and said he should follow in the next.”

  “Did he say anything about coming over to the Cliffs? I expected him today.”

  “I heard nothing of it, and the last I saw of him he was going toward the beach to bid the ladies good-bye, I supposed.”

  “Thank you, Gay. I had a message for him, but I can send it by mail.” And Yorke sauntered away as if his disappointment was a very triflng one. But the instant he was out of sight his pace quickened to a stride, and he made straight for the depot, cursing his ill-timed sl
eep as he went. Another official was soon found and questioned, but no young gentleman answering to Alfred’s description had purchased a ticket; of this the man was quite sure, as very few persons had left by either of the last trains.

  “Well planned for so young a head, but Judas and his master will outwit him yet,” muttered Yorke between his teeth, concentrating all his wrath on Alfred, for he dared not think of Cecil.

  Stopping at Germain’s lodging, he was told that his friend had gone to town at noon, and had not yet returned. This intelligence settled one point in his mind and confirmed his worst fear. Regardless of the gathering storm, he put off again, shaping his course for the city, led by a conviction that the lovers would endeavor to conceal themselves there for a time at least. A strange pair of voyagers went scudding down the harbor that afternoon: the great black hound, erect and motionless at the bow, though the spray dashed over him, and the boat dipped and bounded as it drove before the wind; the man erect and motionless at the helm, one hand on the rudder and one on the sail, his mouth grimly set, and his fiery eye fixed on the desired haven with an expression which proved that an indomitable will defied both danger and defeat. Craft of all sorts were hurrying into port, and more than one belated pleasure boat crossed Yorke’s track. The occupants of each were scanned with a scrutinizing glance, and once or twice he shouted an inquiry as they passed. But in none appeared the faces he sought, no answer brought either contradiction or confirmation of his fear, and no backward look showed him the welcome light burning in the little turret window. Coming at last to the wharf where they always landed, he questioned the waterman to whose care he gave his boat.