“When you came to me, I kept you because you were like your mother, whom I loved, and who deserted me. That loss embittered my whole nature, and I resolved to make your life as loveless as my own. It seemed a small atonement for a great wrong, and believing that it was just to visit the sins of the parents upon the children, I carried out my purpose with a blind persistency that looks like madness to me now. But the sentiment I had forsworn revenged itself upon me, and while trying to cheat you of love, it crept into my own heart, and ruled me like a tyrant. Unconsciously, I loved you long before I knew it; that was why I disliked Alfred, why I was so willing to marry you, and why I was so disappointed when others found in you the same want that I felt yet would not own. The night I watched beside you, fearing you would never wake, I found the key to my own actions, saw my delusion, and resolved to conquer it.”
He paused for breath, but Cecil did not speak, though the hidden face brightened, and the heart fluttered like a caged bird.
“I could not conquer it, for it was my master. You can never know how hard I tried, how rebellious my pride was, or how firm my purpose, but all failed, and I was forced to own that my happiness, my peace, depended upon you. Then I determined to undo my six years’ work, to teach you how to love, and make my wife mine in heart as in name. I gave myself wholly to the task of winning you; I studied your tastes, gratified your whims, and tried every art that can attract a woman. You were tired of the old home, and I gave you a new one; you enjoyed Germain’s society, and I let him come, in defiance of my better judgment; you had some pride in my talent, for your sake I displayed it; you loved pleasure, and I labored to supply it freely; I even tried to lure you with splendor and bribe you with diamonds. But I bad lost my skill, and all my efforts were in vain, for no veritable marble woman could have received my gifts more coldly, or ignored my unspoken love more utterly than you. One smile like those you daily gave Germain would have repaid me, but you never shed it over me; one frank word or affectionate look would have brought me to your feet; but all the compassion, confidence, and tenderness were given to others—for me you had only indifference, gratitude, and respect. Cecil, I have suffered one long torment since I married you, longing for my true place, yet not daring to claim it, lest I should rouse aversion and not love.,,
Still with her head bent, her face hidden, and her hand upon her heart, she stood, and Yorke went on, more passionately than before.
“I know that I have forfeited my right to expect affection or demand obedience, but I implore you to forget this infatuation, and retrieve this rash step. You do not know what you are doing, for this will mar your whole life, and make mine worthless. Cecil, come back to me, and let me try again to win you! I will work and wait for years, will be your servant, not your master, will bear and suffer anything if I may hope to touch your heart at last. Is this impossible? Do you love Alfred more than reputation, home, or husband?”
“I never have loved Alfred.”
“Then who, in God’s name, is this man to whom you will cling through everything?”
“My father.”
She looked up now, and turned on him a face so full of hope and joy, that he stood dumb with astonishment as she drew nearer and nearer, with outstretched hands, beaming eyes, and tender voice.
“O Bazil! I know all; the past is forgiven, your long labor and atonement are over, and there is no need for you to work or wait, because my heart always has been yours.”
If the dead Cecilia had come to him in the youthful guise she used to wear, it would not have more amazed and startled him than did these words from his wife’s lips, and not till he felt her clinging to him so trustfully, so tenderly, did he fully realize his happiness.
“What does it mean? Why keep this from me so long? Did you not see I loved you, Cecil?”
“It means that I, too, tried to conquer myself, and failed. Till very lately, I was not sure you loved me, and I could not bear to be repulsed again.”
“Ah, there is the thorn that has vexed you! You are a true woman, in spite of all my training, and you could not forget that hour, so I had to suffer till you were appeased. Is it possible that my innocent, artless girl could lay such plots, and wear a mask so long, that she might subdue her guardians proud heart?”
“Everything is possible to a woman when she loves, and you were only conquered with your own weapons, Bazil. Let me make my confession now, and you shall see that you have not suffered, worked, and waited all alone. When you bade me renounce love, I found it very hard to kill the affection that had grown warmer than you chose to have it. But I did my best to seem what you desired me to be, and your lessons of self-control stood me in good stead. I chilled and hardened myself rigorously; I forced myself to be meek, cold, and undemonstrative to you, whatever I might be to others; I took opium, that I might forget my pain, and feign the quietude I could not feel, and I succeeded beyond my hopes. When you asked me to marry you, I was half prepared for it, because Alfred insisted that you loved me. I wished to believe it; I wanted to stay, and would have frankly owned how dear you were to me, if you had not insisted upon offering me protection, but no love. That night I resolved to show you your mistake, to prove to you that you had a heart, and teach you a better lesson than any you had taught your pupil.”
“You have done so, little dearest, and I am your scholar henceforth. Teach me gently, and I will study all my days. What more, Cecil?”
“I found it very hard to resist when you grew so kind, and should have been sure you loved me, but for Germain. Why you let him come, and showed no displeasure at my delight in his society, was so inexplicable to me that I would not yield till 1 was satisfied. Last night my father told me all, and if anything could make you dearer, it would be the knowledge of the great debt we owe you. My generous, patient husband, how can I thank you as I ought?”
He showed her how, and for several minutes they stood in the sunshine, very silent, very happy, while the waves broke softly on the shore, as if all storms had passed away forever. Yorke spoke first.
“One thing more, Cecil, lest I forget it, for this sudden happiness has turned my brain, I think, and nothing is clear to me but that you are mine. What does this mean?” And drawing out the card, he held it before her eyes, with some anxiety dimming the brightness of his own.
She took it, tore it up, and as the white shreds went flying away on the wind, she said smiling, “Let all your jealous fears go with them, never to come back again. What a miserable night you must have had, if you believed that I had left you for Alf.”
“An awful night, Cecil,” and he told her all the wanderings and his fears.
“I will not say that you deserved it for harboring such a thought, because you have suffered enough, and it is so much sweeter to forgive than to reproach. But you must promise never to be jealous anymore, not even of poor Alf / ”
The happy-hearted laugh he had so longed to hear gladdened his ear, as she looked up at him with the arch expression that made her charming.
‘Til try,” he answered meekly, “but keep him away till I am very sure you love me, else I shall surely fling him into the sea, as I nearly did the night Sir Walter and the marquise tormented me. Why did he come? And why did you meet him yesterday?”
“He came to tell me that he had replaced my image with a more gracious one, for when he heard that I was married, he cast me off, and found consolation in his pretty cousin’s smiles. His was a boyish love, ardent but short-lived, and he is happy now, with one who loves him as I never could have loved. Hearing of our masque, he planned to come in disguise, and tell his story as a stranger, that he might the better watch its effect on me. But I knew him instantly, and we enjoyed mystifying those about us, till I forgot him in my own mystification. You did not wish him to come again, so I wrote to him, saying good-bye, and begging him to go at once. The disobedient boy had more to tell me, and sent word he should be on the beach at five. I knew he would come to the house unless I met him, and fearing a scene—f
or you have grown very tragic, dear—I went. He delayed so long that he had only time to hurry across to the lower depot for the last train, leaving his boat to Father and myself.”
“What misery the knowledge of this would have spared me! Why did you not tell me, when we were together yesterday, that Alfred had forgotten you?”
“I meant to do so, but you gave me no opportunity, for you were so restless and strange I was half afraid of you. Besides, since you had confessed jealousy, I hoped you would confess love also, and I waited, thinking it would come.”
“How could I own it, when you had confessed you loved a younger man than I, and my eyes were blinded by Alfreds silence and your own?”
“I did not tell you that it was my father. Did he betray me?”
She looked perplexed, and Yorke half ashamed, as he confessed another proof of his affection.
“It was I, Cecil, who came to you in the garden, who questioned you, and was stabbed to the heart by your answers. Good heavens, how blind I’ve been!”
“Never reproach me with treachery, after that. Why did you change dresses? To try me?”
“Yes; and as you sat there so near me, so gentle, frank, and beautiful, I found it almost impossible to sustain my character; but I knew if I revealed myself, you would freeze again, and all the charm be gone. Heaven knows I was a miserable man that night, for you disappointed me, and Alfred drove me half mad; but your father saw my folly, and saved me from myself. God bless him for that!”
“Yes, God bless him for that, and for saving me to be your happy wife. Come now and wake him; he has been very ill, and needs care.” They went, and kneeling by him, Cecil called him gently, but he did not answer; and taking her into his arms, her husband whispered tenderly, “Dear, he will never wake again.”
Never again in this world, for the restless heart was still at last, and the sunshine fell upon a face of such reposeful beauty that it was evident the long sleep had painlessly deepened into death.
The Skeleton in the Closet
“LOUIS, to whom does that chateau belong?” I asked, as we checked our horses under the antique gateway, and my eye, following the sweep of the lawn, caught a glimpse of the mansion embosomed in a blooming paradise of flowers and grand old trees.
“To Mme. Arnheim, the loveliest widow in all France,” Louis answered, with a sigh.
“And the crudest, I fancy, or you would have been master here,” I replied, interpreting the sigh aright, for my friend was a frequent captive to the gentle sex.
“Never its master, Gustave—I should always have remained a slave while Mathildewas there,” he answered, with a moody glance through the iron gates that seemed to bar him from the heaven of his desire.
“Nay, Louis, come down from the clouds and tell me something of the Circe whose spells have ensnared you; come hither and sit on this little knoll where we have a better view of the chateau, and while our horses rest, you shall tell the story of your love, as the romances have it.” And dismounting as I spoke, I threw myself upon the green sward opposite the flowery lawn that sloped up to the terraces whereon the chateau stood.
Louis flung himself beside me, saying abruptly, “There is no tale to tell, Gustave. I met Mathilde at the general’s a year ago—loved her, of course, and of course without success. I say of course, for I am not the only one that has laid siege to her cold heart, and got frostbitten in the attempt. She is a marble image, beautiful and cold, though there are rare flashes of warmth that win, a softness that enchants, which make her doubly dangerous. She lives yonder with her old duenna, Mile. D’Aubigny, caring little for the world, and seldom blessing it with her presence. She has made an Eden, but desires no Adam, and is content to dwell year after year solitary in her flowery nook like the English poet’s Lady of Shalott.”
“And trust me, like that mysterious lady, she, too, will one day see—
“A how-shot from her bower-eaves,
Riding ’mong the barley-sheaves,
The sunlight dazzling thro’ the leaves,
And flashing on his greaves
A bold Sir Lancelot.
She’ll leave her web, and leave her loom,
She’ll make three paces thro’ the room,
She’ll see the water-lilies bloom,
She’ll see the helmet and the plume,
And follow down to Camelot,”
chanted I, making a free translation of the lines to suit my jest.
“There she is! Look, Gustave, look!” cried Louis, springing to his feet, with an eager gesture toward the lawn.
I looked, almost expecting to behold the shadowy lady of the poets song, so fully had the beauty of the spot enchanted me. A female figure was passing slowly down the broad steps that led from terrace to terrace into the shaded avenue. Silently I drew Louis into the deep shadow of the gateway, where we could look unperceived.
The slender, white-robed figure came slowly on, pausing now and then to gather a flower, or caress the Italian greyhound tripping daintily beside her. My interest was excited by my friend’s words, and I looked eagerly for the beauty he extolled. She was beautiful—and when she paused in the shadow of a drooping acacia, and stood looking thoughtfully toward the blue lake shining in the distance, I longed to be an artist, that I might catch and keep the picture.
The sunshine fell upon her through the leaves, turning her hair to gold, touching the soft bloom of her cheek, and rendering more fair the graceful arms half bared by the fresh wind tossing the acacia boughs. A black lace scarf was thrown about her, one end drawn over her blond hair, as the Spanish women wear their veils; a few brilliant flowers filled her hands, and gave coloring to her unornamented dress. But the chief charm of her delicate face was the eyes, so lustrous and dark, so filled with the soft gloom of a patient grief that they touched and won my heart by their mute loveliness.
We stood gazing eagerly, forgetting in our admiration the discourtesy of the act, till a shrill neigh from my horse startled us, and woke Mme. Arnheim from her reverie. She cast a quick glance down the avenue, and turning, was soon lost to us in the shelter of a winding path.
“Come, Louis, come away before we are discovered; it was a rude act, and I am ashamed of it,” I cried, drawing him away, though my eye still watched the lover, hoping for another glance.
Louis lingered, saying bitterly, “Gustave, I envy that dog the touch of her hand, the music of her voice, and proud as I am, would follow her like a hound, even though she chid me like one, for I love her as I never loved before, and I have no hope.”
Wondering no longer at the passion of my friend, I made no reply to his gloomy words, but turning away, we mounted, and with a lingering look behind, departed silently. Louis returned to Paris; I to my friend General Moreau, at whose hospitable home I was visiting to recruit my health, shattered by long illness.
The general’s kind lady, even amid her cares as hostess to a mansion full of friends, found time to seek amusement for her feeble guest, and when I had exhausted her husband’s stock of literature, as if prompted by some good angel she proposed a visit to Mme. Arnheim to bespeak for me admission to her well-stored library.
Concealing my delight, I cheerfully accompanied Mme. Moreau, asking sundry questions as we drove along, concerning the fair recluse. There was a slight reserve in Madame’s manner as she answered me.
“Mathilde has known much sorrow in her short life, mon ami, and seeks to forget the past in the calmness of the present. She seldom visits us except we are alone—then she comes often, for the general regards her with a fatherly affection; and in her society I feel no want of other friends.”
“Has she been long a widow?” I asked, impelled by a most unmasculine curiosity to learn yet more.
“Seven years,” replied Madame. “Her husband was a German—but I know little of her past life, for she seldom speaks of it, and I have only gathered from the few allusions she has made to it, that she married very young, and knew but little happiness as a wife.”
I longed to ask yet more, and though courtesy restrained my tongue, my eyes betrayed me; Mme. Moreau, who had taken the invalid to her motherly heart, could not resist that mute appeal, for, as she drew up the window to shield me from the freshening breeze, she said smilingly:
“Ah, my child, I may repent this visit if I lead you into temptation, for boy as you seem to me, there is a man’s heart in this slight frame of yours and a love of beauty shining in these hollow eyes. I cannot satisfy you, Gustave—she came hither but two years ago, and has lived secluded from the world, regardless of many solicitations to quit her solitude and widowhood. Your friend Louis was one of her most earnest suitors, but, like the rest, only procured his own banishment, for Mathilde only desires friends and not lovers. Therefore, let me warn you, if you desire the friendship of this charming woman, beware of love. But see, we have arrived, so bid adieu to ennui for a while at least.”
Up the wide steps and over the green terraces we passed into a room whose chief charm was its simplicity; no costly furniture encumbered it, no tasteless decorations marred it; a few rare pictures enriched its walls, and a few graceful statues looked out from flowery nooks. Light draperies swayed to and fro before the open casements, giving brief glimpses of bloom and verdure just without. Leafy shadows flickered on the marble floor, and the blithe notes of birds were the only sounds that broke the sunny silence brooding over the whole scene.
Well as I fancied I remembered Mme. Arnheim, I was struck anew with the serene beauty of her face as she greeted us with cordial courtesy.
A rapt pity seemed to fill the pensive eyes as Madame spoke of my long illness, and her whole manner was full of interest, and a friendly wish to serve that captivated me and made me bless the pallid face that wore so sweet a pity for me.
We visited the library, a fascinating place to me, full of rare old books, and the soft gloom of shade and silence so dear to a student's heart. A few graceful words made me welcome here, and I promised myself many blissful hours in a spot so suited to my taste and fancy.
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