Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15

by Plots (and) Counterplots (v1. 1)

  Her voice roused him, but only to fresh exertion, for seizing her hand he staggered up the bank, flung open the door of the hut, and dropped down at her feet as if in truth he had given his life to save her. For a moment she was in despair; she ran out into the storm, called, waved her handkerchief, and looked far and near, hoping some passing boat might bring help. But nothing human was in sight; the nearest point of land was inaccessible, for an ebbing wave had washed the boat away, and she was utterly alone with the unconscious man upon the barren island. She had a brave spirit, a quick wit, and these were her supporters now, as, forgetting her own fears, she devoted herself to her suffering comrade. Fortunately, her vinaigrette was in her pocket, and water plentiful; using these simple remedies with skill, the deathlike swoon yielded at last, and Germain revived.

  With the return of consciousness he seemed to remember her situation before his own, and exert himself to lighten its discomforts by feeble efforts to resume his place as protector. As soon as he had breath enough to speak, he whispered, with a reassuring glance, “Do not be afraid, I will take care of you. The pain has gone for this time, and I shall be better soon.”

  “Think of yourself, not me. If I only had a fire to dry and warm you I should be quite happy and content,” answered Cecil, looking round the gloomy place that darkened momentarily.

  With the courtesy as native to him as his impetuosity, Germain tried to rise as he took out a little case and pointed toward a corner of the hut.

  “You need fire more than I; here are matches, there is wood; help me a little and you shall be ‘quite happy and content.’”

  But as he spoke the case dropped from his hand, and he fell back with a sharp pang that warned him to submit.

  “Lie still and let me care for you; I like to do it, and the exercise will keep me warm. Here is wood enough to last all night, and with light and heat we shall be very comfortable till morning and help comes.”

  With the heartiness of a true woman when compassion stirs her, Cecil fell to work, and soon the dark hut glowed with a cheery blaze, the wooden shutter was closed, excluding wind and rain, the straw scattered here and there was gathered into a bed for Germain, and with her cloak over him, he lay regarding her with an expression that both touched and troubled her, so humble, grateful, and tender was it. When all was done, she stepped to the door, thinking she heard the sound of passing oars; nothing appeared, however, but as she listened on the threshold Germains voice called her with an accent of the intensest longing.

  “Do not leave me! Come back to me, my darling, and let nothing part us anymore.”

  She thought he was wandering, and gave no answer but a soothing “Hush, rest now, poor Germain.”

  “Never that again; call me Father, and let me die happy in my daughters arms.”

  “Father?” echoed Cecil, as a thrill of wonder, joy, and blind belief shook her from head to foot.

  “Yes, I may claim you at last, for I am dying. Let our heart speak; come to me, my little Cecil, for as God lives I am your father.”

  He struggled up, spread wide his arms, and called her in a tone of tenderness that would have carried conviction to the most careless listener. Cecils heart did speak; instinct was quicker than memory or reason. In an instant she understood the attraction that led her to him, owned the tender tie that bound them, and was gathered to her father’s bosom, untroubled by a doubt or fear. For a time there were only broken exclamations, happy tears, and demonstrations of delight, as father and daughter forgot everything but the reunion that gave them back to one another. Soon Cecil calmed herself for his sake, made him lie down again, and while she dried his hair and warmed his cold hands in her own, she began to question eagerly.

  “Why was I never told of this before?” she sorrowfully said, regretting the long years of ignorance that had deferred the happiness which made that hour so bright, in spite of darkness and danger.

  “My life depended upon secrecy, and this knowledge would have been no joy, but a shame and sorrow to you, my poor child.”

  “Mamma always told me that you died when I was a baby; did she believe it?”

  “No, she knew I was alive, but in one sense I did die to her, and all the world, for a convict has no country, home, or friends/’

  “A convict!” And Cecil shrank involuntarily.

  He saw it, but clung to her, saying imploringly, “Hear me before you cast me off. Try to pity and forgive me, for with all his sins your father loves you better than his life.”

  “I do not cast you off—I will love, pity, and forgive; believe this, and trust your daughter, now that she is yours again.”

  Cecil spoke tenderly, and tried to reassure him with every affectionate demonstration she could devise, for the one word “father” had unlocked her heart, and all its pent-up passion flowed freely now that a natural vent was found. Lying with her hand in his, August Stein told the story of the past, and Cecil learned the secret of her fathers and her husband’s life.

  “Dear, nineteen years ago Bazil and your mother were betrothed. The gifted young man was a fit mate for the beautiful girl, and but for me they might have been a happy pair this day. In an evil hour I saw her, loved her, and resolved to win her in spite of every obstacle, for my passions ruled me, and opposition only made me the more resolute and reckless. I used every art to dazzle, captivate, and win her, even against her will, and I succeeded; but the brief infatuation was not love, and though she fled with me, she soon discovered that her heart still clung to Bazil. Well it might, for though we had wronged him deeply he took no revenge, and would have helped us in our sorest strait. We were not happy, for I led a wild life, and your mother longed for home. Her father disowned her, when our secret marriage was discovered, her friends deserted her, and for a year we wandered from place to place, growing poorer and more wretched as hope after hope failed. I had squandered my own fortune, and had no means of earning a livelihood except my voice. That had won me my wife, and I tried to sing my way to competence for her sake. To do this, I was obliged to leave her; I always did so reluctantly, for the birth of my little daughter made the mother dearer than before. Cecil, always remember that I loved you both with all the fervor of an undisciplined nature, and let that fact lighten your condemnation of what follows.”

  “I shall remember, Father.”

  “Coming home unexpectedly one day, I found Bazil there. He had discovered us and, seeing our poverty, generously offered help. I should have thanked and honored him for that, but knowing that he did it for Cecilia’s sake I hated and distrusted him, refused his kindness, and forbade him the house. He bore with me, promised your mother that he would befriend her, and went away, hoping I would relent when I was calmer. His nobleness made my own conduct seem more base; the knowledge that my wife reproached me for destroying her happiness wounded me deeply; and the thought that Bazil saw my failure and pitied me rankled in my heart and made me miserable. I had been brooding darkly over these things as I returned from my distasteful work a night or two later, and was in a desperate mood. As I entered quietly, I saw a man bending over the cradle where my baby lay; I thought it was Bazil, my wrath rose hot against him, some devil goaded me to it, and I felled him with a single blow. But when the light shone on his dead face I saw that it was not Bazil but the young surgeon who had saved both wife and child for me.”

  There was a long pause, broken only by Stein’s fluttering breath and Cecil’s whisper.

  “Do not go on; be quiet and forget.”

  “I cannot forget or be quiet till I tell you everything. I was tried, sentenced to imprisonment for life, and for ten years was as dead to the world as if I had lain in my grave. I raged and pined like a savage creature in my prison, made many desperate attempts to escape, and at last succeeded. I left Australia, and after wandering east and west, a homeless vagabond for two weary years, I ventured back to England, hoping to learn something of my wife, as no tidings of her had reached me all those years. I could not find her, and dared n
ot openly inquire; Yorke tells me she concealed herself from everyone, accepted nothing even from him, but devoted herself to you, and waited patiently till it pleased heaven to release her.”

  “Poor Mamma! Now I know how heavy her burden must have been, and why she longed to lay it down.”

  “Child, she did not find it half so heavy as I found mine, nor long to lay it down as bitterly as I have longed for eighteen years. If she had loved me it would have saved us both, for affection can win and hold me as nothing else has power to do. It has done much for me already, because, since I knew you, my darling, I have learned to repent and, for your sake, to atone, as far as may be, for my wasted life.”

  “It is very sweet to hear you say that, Father, and to feel that I have helped you, even unconsciously. Now leave the sorrowful past, and tell me how you found Bazil and myself.”

  “Growing bold, after two years of safety, I ventured to inquire for Yorke, thinking that he could tell me something of your mother. He had left Germany, where we first met, and had gone home to America. I followed, and found him leading the solitary life you know so well. He was so changed I hardly recognized him; I was still more altered, and trusting to the disguise which had baffled keener eyes than his, I offered myself as a model, feeling curiously drawn to him as the one link between Cecilia and myself. He accepted my services, and paid me well, for I was very poor; he pitied me, knowing only that I was a lonely creature like himself, and so generously befriended me that I could not harden my heart against him; but overpowered by remorse and gratitude I betrayed myself, and put my life into his hands, only asking to see or hear of my wife. He knew nothing of her then, but with a magnanimity that bound me to him forever, he kept my secret, and endeavored to forgive the wrong which he never could entirely forget.”

  “O Bazil, so generous, so gentle, why did I not know this sooner, and thank you as I ought?”

  The tender words were drowned in sudden tears, as Cecil hid her face, weeping with mingled self-reproach and joy over each revelation that showed her something more to love and honor in her husband. But she soon dried her tears to listen, for her father hurried on as if anxious to be done.

  “I saw you, my child, the night you came, and was sure you were mine, you were so like your mother. I implored Bazil to let me have you, when I knew that she was gone, but he would not, having promised to guard you from me, and never let your life be saddened by the knowledge of your convict father. He has kept that promise sacredly, and bound me to an equal silence, under penalty of betrayal if I break it, except as I do now, when I have nothing more to fear. He let me see you secretly, when you slept, or walked, or were busy at your work, for he had not the heart to deny me that. Ah, Cecil, you never knew how near I often was to you—never guessed what right I had to love you, or how much I longed to tell you who I was. More than once I forgot myself, and would have broken my word at any cost, but something always checked me in time, and Baziks patience was long-suffering. The night he let me see and sing to you did me more good than years of prison life, for you unconsciously touched all that was best in me, and by the innocent affection that you could not control made that hour more beautiful and precious than I can tell you. Since then, whether near or absent, gloomy or gay, I have regarded you as my saving angel, and tried in my poor way to be more worthy of you, and earn a place in your memory when I am gone.”

  Such love and gratitude shone in his altered face that Cecil could only lay her head upon his shoulder, praying that he might be spared for a longer, better life, and a calmer death at last. Soon her father spoke again, smiling the old sweet smile, as he caressed the beautiful head that leaned against him as if its place were there.

  “Did my little girl think me a desperate lover, with my strange devices to attract and win her? Bazil told me that I frightened you, and I tried to control myself; but it was so hard to stand aside and see my own child pass me like a stranger, that I continually forgot your ignorance and betrayed how dear you were to me. What did you think of that mysterious Germain?”

  “What could I think but that he loved me? How could I dream that you were my father when all my life I had believed you dead? Even now I almost doubt it, you are so young, so charming and lighthearted when you please.”

  “I am past forty, Cecil, and what I am is only the shadow of what 1 was, a man endowed with many good gifts; but all have been wasted or misused, owing to a neglected education, a wayward will, an impetuous nature, and a sanguine spirit, which has outlived disgrace and desolation, suffering and time.”

  “And this is the mystery that has perplexed me for so long. I think you might have told me as well as Bazil, and let me do my part to make you happy, Father.”

  “I longed to do so, and assured him that we might trust you; but he would not break his promise to your mother. It was wise, though very hard to bear. I was not a fit guardian for a beautiful young girl like mine, and I knew it, yet I wanted you, and made his life a burden to him by my importunity. Love him, Cecil, love him faithfully, for he has spared you much sorrow, and through you has saved your father.”

  She did not answer, but looking into her face, he was satisfied. Thus opening their hearts to one another, the night wore on, yet neither found it long, and when at last Stein slept, exhausted, Cecil sat beside him, thinking happy thoughts, while the wind raved without, the rain beat on the low roof, the sea thundered round the island, and Yorke went searching for her far and wide.

  Morning dawned at last, and as her father still slept, she opened the little window, that the balmy air might refresh him, put up her signal of distress, and sat down to watch and wait. The sound of hurrying feet roused her from her reverie, and looking up, she saw her husband coming toward her, so changed and haggard that her joy turned to fear. Dreading to excite her father, she instantly glanced over her shoulder, and barred the entrance with her extended arm. Her gesture, her expression, instantly arrested Yorke, and while Judas fawned delightedly about her feet, he stood apart, with the sad certainty that she was not alone, to mar his joy at finding her.

  “Is he there?” was his first question, sternly put.

  “Yes; he is ill and sleeping; you must not disturb him. Blame me if you will, but he shall be left in peace.”

  She spoke resolutely, and closed the door between them and the sleeper, keeping her place upon the threshold, as if ready to defend him, for Yorke’s manner alarmed her even more than his wild appearance. The action seemed to affect him like an insult; he seized her arm, and holding it in a painful grasp, eyed her almost fiercely, as he said, with a glance that made her tremble, “Then you did leave me sleeping, and go away with this man, to be wrecked here, and so be discovered?”

  “Yes; why should I deny it?”

  “And you love him, Cecil?”

  “With all my heart and soul, and you can never part us anymore.”

  As she answered, with a brave, bright smile, and a glad voice, she felt Yorke quiver as if he had received a blow, saw his face whiten, and heard an accent of despair in his voice, when he said slowly, “You will leave him, if I command it?”

  “No—he has borne enough. I can make him happy, and I shall cling to him through everything, for you have no right to take me from him.”

  “No right?” ejaculated Yorke, loosening his hold, with a bewildered look.

  “None that I will submit to, if it parts us. You let me know him, let me learn to love him, and now, when he needs me most, you would take me from him. Bazil, you have been very generous, very kind to both of us, and I am truly grateful, but while he lives, I must stay with him, because I have promised.”

  He looked at her with a strange expression, at first as if he felt his senses going, then he seemed to find a clue to her persistency. A bitter laugh escaped him, but his voice betrayed wounded pride and poignant sorrow.

  “I understand now; you intend to hold me to my bond, and see in me nothing but your guardian. You are as ignorant as headstrong, if you think this possible.
I gave up that foolish delusion long ago, and tried to show you a truer, happier tie. But you were blind and would not see, deaf and would not hear, hardhearted and would not relent.”

  “You bade me be a marble woman, with no heart to love you, only grace and beauty, to please your eye and do you honor. Have I not obeyed you to the letter?”

  Coldly and quietly she spoke, yet kept her eyes on the ground, her hand on her breast, as if to hold some rebellious emotion in check. As the soft voice reechoed the words spoken long ago, all that scene came back to Yorke, and made the present moment doubly hard to bear.

  “You have, you have! God forgive me for the wrong I did you. I tried to atone for it, but I have failed, and this is my punishment.”

  He spoke humbly, despairingly, and his proud eyes filled as he turned his face to hide the grief he was ashamed to show. Cecil stood with bent head, and face half hidden by her falling hair, but though she trembled, she compelled voice and features to obey her with the ease which long practice had made second nature.

  “If you had cared to teach me a gentler lesson, I would have gladly learned it; but you did not, and having done your best to kill love in my heart, you should not reproach me if you are disappointed now, or wonder that I turn to others for the affection without which none of us can live.”

  “I will not reproach; I do not wonder, but I cannot give you up. Cecil, there is still time to relent, and to return; let me tell you how hard I have tried to make you love me, in spite of my own decree, and perhaps my patience, my penitence, may touch your heart. I will not urge my right as husband, but plead as lover. Will you listen?”

  “Yes.”

  Cecil stole a glance at him as she spoke, and a curious smile touched her lips, though she listened with beating heart to words poured out with the rapidity of strong emotion.