Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15

by Plots (and) Counterplots (v1. 1)

  “Come now to the chapel, where M. Novaire will find another friend whose sweet discourse may have power to beguile some hours of their slow flight,” said Mme. Arnheim, as she led the way into a little chapel rich in Gothic arches and stained windows, full of saintly legends that recalled the past.

  “Ah, yes, here is indeed a treasure for you, Gustave—I had forgotten this,” said Mme. Moreau, as our hostess led me to a fine organ, and with a smile invited me to touch its tempting keys.

  With a desire to excel never experienced before, I obeyed, and filled the air with surges of sweet sound that came and went like billows breaking melodiously on the strand. Mme. Arnheim listened with drooping eyes and folded hands; and as I watched her standing in the gloom with one mellow ray of sunlight falling on her golden hair, she seemed to my excited fancy a white-robed spirit with the light of heaven shining on its gentle head.

  The beautiful eyes were full of tender dew as they met mine in thanking me, and a certain deference seemed to mark her manner, as if the music I had power to create were a part of myself, and still lingered about me when the organ keys were mute.

  Returning toward the chateau, we found a dainty little feast spread on a rustic table in the shadow of a group of foreign trees. No servants appeared, but Mme. Arnheim served us herself with a cordial ease that rendered doubly sweet the light wines she poured for us, and the nectarines she gathered from the sunny wall.

  It was a new and wonderfully winning thing to me to see a creature beautiful and gifted—so free from affectation, so unconscious of self, so childlike, yet so full of all the nameless charms of gracious womanhood. To an imaginative temperament like mine it was doubly dangerous, and I dreaded to depart.

  I sat apparently listening to the low dash of the fountain, but eye, ear, and mind were all intent on her; watching the pliant grace of her slender form, listening to the silvery music of her voice, and musing on the changeful beauty of her countenance. As I thus regarded her, my eye was caught by the sole ornament she wore, an ornament so peculiar and so ill-suited to its gentle wearer that my attention was arrested by it.

  As she refilled my glass, a bracelet slipped from her arm to her wrist, and in that brief moment I had examined it attentively. It was of steel, delicately wrought, clasped by a golden lock, the tiny key of which hung by a golden chain. A strange expression stirred the sweet composure of her face as she saw the direction of my glance, and with a sudden gesture she thrust the trinket out of sight.

  But as her hands moved daintily among the fruit in serving us, the bracelet often fell with a soft clash about her slender wrist, and each time she thrust it back, till her white arm was reddened with the marks of its slight links.

  It seemed a most unfitting ornament, and as I watched her closely, I fancied some sad memory was connected with it, for the sight of it seemed painful, and all notice irksome to her. Ah, I little knew to what a fate it fettered her!

  As we stood upon the terrace, awaiting the carriage, I turned from the chateau with its airy balconies without, and its inviting apartments within, to the blooming scene before me, exclaiming with enthusiasm, “This is the loveliest spot in France! A perfect picture of a peaceful, happy home. Ah, madame, many must envy you this tranquil retreat from the cares and sorrows of the world.”

  Mme. Arnheims dark eyes wandered over the fair home I admired, and again I saw that strange expression flit across her face, but now more vividly than before. Pain, abhorrence, and despair seemed to sit for an instant on those lovely features; a swift paroxysm of mute anguish seemed to thrill through her whole figure; and I saw the half-hidden hands clenched as if controlling some wild impulse with an iron will. Like a flash it came and went, and with a long, deep sigh she answered slowly, “Do not envy me, for you have all the world before, free to choose a home where fancy leads. This is my world, and is often wearisome for all its loveliness.”

  There was a mournful cadence in her voice that saddened me, and a black shadow seemed to fall across the sunny landscape as I listened. The carriage came, and when she turned to say adieu, no trace of gloom marred the sweet serenity of her pale countenance.

  “Come often and come freely, Monsieur Novaire,” she said, adding, with a smile that would have won from me any boon I had the power to bestow, “My books, my organ, and my gardens are most sincerely at your service, and I only claim the right to listen when you fill my little chapel with the melody I love so well.”

  I could only thank her in words that sounded very poor and cold, remembering the sweetness of her own, and we drove away, leaving her in the shadow of the hall, still smiling her adieu.

  Frankly as the favor had been granted, I accepted it, and went often to the chateau which soon became a “Castle Dangerous,” and its fair mistress the one beloved object in the world to me. Day after day I went to muse in the quiet library, or to soothe my restless spirit with the music of the chapel organ. Mme. Arnheim I but seldom saw until I learned the spell which had power to lure her to my longing eyes. At the chateau she was the stately hostess, always courteous and calm, but when I sat alone in the chapel, filling the air with the plaintive or triumphal melody, I never failed to see a shadow gliding past the open door, or hear the light fall of a step along the echoing aisles, and with an altered mien she came to listen as I spoke to her in the tenderest strains heart could devise or hand execute.

  This filled me with a sense of power I exulted in, for, remembering Mme. Moreau's warning words, “If you desire Mathilde’s friendship, beware of love,” I concealed my growing passion, and only gave it vent in the music that lured her to my side, and spoke to her in accents that never could offend. Slowly the coldness of her manner vanished, and though still chary of her presence, she came at last to treat me as a friend. At rare intervals some sudden interest in the book I read, some softened mood produced by the song I sang, the strain I played, gave me glimpses of a nature so frank and innocent, and a heart so deep and tender, that the hope of winning it seemed vain, and I reproached myself with treachery in accepting thus the hospitalities of her home and the blessing of her friendship, while so strong a love burned like a hidden fire in my breast.

  Calmly the days flowed by, and nothing marred my peace till a slight incident filled me with restless doubts and fears. Wandering one day among the gardens, led by the desire of meeting Mathilde, I struck into an unfrequented path which wound homeward round a wing of the chateau which I had never visited and which I had believed unused. Pausing on the hillside to examine it, my eye fell on an open window opposite the spot where I was standing, and just within it I beheld Mathilde sitting with bent head and averted face. Hager to catch a glimpse of that beloved countenance, I stood motionless, screened by a drooping tree. As I peered further into the shaded room a jealous pang shot through me and my heart stood still, for in the high carved chair beside Mathilde I saw the arm and shoulder of a man. With straining eyes I watched it, and set my teeth fiercely when I saw the arm encircle her graceful neck, while the hand played idly with a tress of sunny hair I would have given worlds to touch. The arm was clothed in the sleeve of a damask robe de chambre, somber yet rich, and the hand seemed delicate and white; its motions were languid and I heard the murmur of a low voice often broken by faint laughter.

  I could not move, but stood rooted to the spot till Mathilde dropped the curtain, and a moment after her voice rose soft and sweet, singing to that unknown guest, then I turned and dashed into the wood like one possessed.

  From that day my peace was gone, for though Mathilde was unchanged, between us there always seemed to rise the specter of that hidden friend or lover, and I could not banish the jealous fears that tortured me. I knew from Mme. Moreau that Mathilde had no relatives in France, and few friends beside the general and his wife. The unknown was no cousin, no brother then, and I brooded over the mystery in vain. A careless inquiry of a servant if there were any guests at the chateau received a negative reply, given with respectful brevity and a quick, scrutinizing
glance—while, as he spoke, down through hall and corridor floated the sound of Mathilde’s voice singing in that far-off room.

  Once more, and only once, I watched that window, waiting long in vain, but the curtain was thrown back at length, and then I saw

  Mathilde pacing to and fro with clasped hands and streaming eyes, as if full of some passionate despair; while the low laughter, I remember well, seemed mocking her great sorrow.

  She came to the casement and flung it wide, leaning far out, as if to seek consolation in the caressing breath of the balmy air and the soft sighing of the pines. As she stood thus, I saw her strike her fettered arm a cruel blow upon the strong stone balcony enclosing the window—a blow which left it bruised; though she never heeded it, but turned again into the room, as if in answer to some quick command.

  I never looked again—for whatever secret sin or sorrow was there concealed, I had no right to know it, for by no look or word did Mathilde ever seek my sympathy or aid; but with a growing paleness on her cheek, a deepening sadness in her eye, she met me with unaltered kindness, and listened when I played as if she found her only solace there.

  So the summer passed, and silently the hidden passion that possessed me did its work, till the wan shadow that once mocked me from my mirror was changed into the likeness of an ardent, healthful man, clear of eye, strong of arm, and light of foot. They said it was the fresh air of the hills; I knew it was the healing power of a beloved presence and the magic of an earnest love.

  One soft September day, I had wandered with Mathilde into the deep ravine that cleft a green hill not far from the chateau. We had sat listening to the music of the waterfall as it mingled pleasantly with our conversation, till a sudden peal of thunder warned us home. Shut in by the steep cliffs, the gathering clouds had been unobserved until the tempest was close at hand. We hastily wound our way up from below, and paused a moment to look out upon the wildly beautiful scene.

  Standing thus, there came a sudden glare before my eyes, followed by a deafening crash that brought me faint and dizzy to the ground. A flood of rain revived me, and on recovering I was conscious that Mathilde’s arms encircled me, and my head was pillowed on her bosom; I felt the rapid beating of her heart, and heard the prayers she was murmuring as she held me thus. Her mantle was thrown about me, as if to shield me from the storm, and shrouded in its silken folds I lay as if in a dream, with no fear of thunderbolt or lightning flash—conscious only of the soft arms enfolding me, the faint perfume of her falling hair, and the face so near my own that every whispered word fell clearly on my ear.

  How long I should have remained thus I cannot tell, for warmer drops than rain fell on my cheek and recalled me to myself. Putting aside the frail screen she had placed between me and the sudden danger, I staggered to my feet, unmindful of my dizzy brain and still half-blinded eyes.

  “Not dead! Not dead! Thank God for that” was the glad cry that broke from Mathilde’s lips, as I stood wild-eyed and pale before her. “O Gustave, are you unscathed by that awful bolt which I thought had murdered you before me?”

  I reassured her, and felt that it was now my turn to shelter and protect, for she clung to me trembling and tearful, so changed that the calm, cold Mme. Arnheim of the fair chateau and the brave, tenderhearted creature on the cliff seemed two different women, but both lovely and beloved.

  Swiftly and silently we hurried home, and when I would have quitted her she detained me with gentle force, saying, “You must remain my guest tonight, I cannot suffer you to leave my roof in such a storm as this.”

  Old Mile. D’Aubigny bustled to and fro, and after refreshment and repose left us together by the cheerful firelight on the library hearth.

  Mathilde sat silent, as if wrapped in thought, her head bent on her hand. I sat and looked at her till I forgot all but my love, and casting prudence to the winds, spoke out fervently and fast.

  “Mathilde,” I said, “deal frankly with me, and tell me was it fear or love that stirred this quiet heart of yours, and spoke in words of prayerful tenderness when you believed me dead? Forgive me if I pain you, but remembering that moment of unlooked-for bliss, I can no longer keep the stern silence I have imposed upon myself so long. I have loved you very truly all these months of seeming coldness, have haunted this house not in search of selfish ease, but to be near you, to breathe the air you breathed, to tread the ground you trod, and to sun myself in the light of your beloved presence. I should have been silent still, knowing my unworthiness, but as I lay pillowed on your bosom, through the tumult of the storm, a low voice from your heart seemed to speak to mine, saying ‘I love you.’ Tell me, dearest Mathilde, did I hear aright?”

  An unwonted color dawned upon her cheek, a world of love and longing shone upon me in her glance, while a change as beautiful as it was brief passed over her, leaving in the stately woman’s place a tender girl, whose heart looked from her eyes, and made her broken words more full of music than the sweetest song.

  “Gustave, you heard aright; it was not fear that spoke.” She stretched her hand to me, and clasping it in both my own I bent to kiss it with a lover’s ardor—when between my eager lips and that fair hand dropped the steel bracelet with a sharp metallic sound.

  With a bitter cry, Mathilde tore herself from my hold, and covering up her face shrank away, as if between us there had risen up a barrier visible to her alone.

  “Mathilde, what is it? What power has this bauble, to work such a change as this? See! It is off and gone forever; for this hand is mine now, and shall wear no fetter but the golden one I give it,” I cried, as kneeling on the cushion at her feet I repossessed myself of her passive hand, and unlocking the hateful bracelet, flung it far away across the room.

  Apparently unconscious of my presence, Mathilde sat with such mute anguish and despair in every line of her drooping figure that a keen sense of coming evil held me silent at her feet, waiting some look or word from her.

  A sharp struggle must have passed within her, for when she lifted up her face, all light and color had died out, and the whole countenance was full of some stern resolve, that seemed to have chilled its beauty into stone. Silently she motioned me to rise, and with a statelier mien than I had ever seen her wear, she passed down the long room to where the ominous steel bracelet glittered in the light. Silently she raised it, reclasped it on her arm, then with rapid motion rent away the tiny key and flung it into the red embers glowing on the hearth.

  A long, shuddering sigh heaved her bosom as it vanished, a sound more eloquent of patient despair than the bitterest tears that ever fell. Coming to my side, she looked into my eyes with such love and pity shining through the pale determination of'her face that I would have folded her to my breast, but with a swift gesture of that fettered arm she restrained me, saying slowly as if each word wrung her heart:

  “God forgive me that I could forget the solemn duty this frail chain binds me to. Gustave, I never meant to wrong you thus, and will atone for it by giving you the confidence never bestowed on any human being. Come and see the secret anguish of my life, the haunting specter of my home, the stern fate which makes all love a bitter mockery, and leaves me desolate.”

  Like a shadow she flitted from me, beckoning me to follow. The storm still raged without, but all was bright and still within as we passed through gallery and hall into that distant wing of the chateau. The radiance of shaded lamps fell on the marble floors—graceful statues gleamed among the flowers, and the air was full of perfume, but I saw no beauty anywhere, for between me and the woman whom I loved an unknown phantom seemed to stand, and its black shadow darkened all the world to me.

  Mathilde paused in a silent corridor at length, and looking back at me, whispered imploringly, “Gustave, do not judge me till I have told you all.” Then before I could reply, she passed before me into a dimly lighted room, still beckoning me to follow.

  Bernhardt, an old servant whom I had seldom seen, rose as she entered, and at a motion from Mathilde bade me be seated.
Mechanically I obeyed, for all strength seemed to desert me as I looked upon the scene before me.

  On the floor, clothed in the dress I well remembered, sat a man playing with the childish toys that lay around him. The face would have been a young and comely one, were it not for the awful blight which had fallen on it; the vacant gaze of his hollow eyes, the aimless movements of his feeble hands, and the unmeaning words he muttered to himself, all told the fearful loss of that divine gift—reason.

  Mathilde pointed to the mournful wreck, saying, with a look of desolation which few human faces wear, “Gustave, am I not a widow?”

  Then I knew that I saw the husband of my Mathilde—and he an idiot!

  A brief sensation of mingled disgust, despair, and rage possessed me, for I knew how powerless I was to free the heart I coveted from this long slavery; one thought of Mathilde recalled me, one glance into those eyes so full of pain and passion banished every feeling but a tender pity for her cruel lot, and a redoubled love and admiration for the patient strength which had borne this heavy weight of care all those years. I could not speak, I only took that fettered hand and kissed it reverently.

  The imbecile (I cannot say husband) rose, when he saw Mathilde, and creeping to her side filled her hands with toys, still smiling that vacant smile, so pitiful to see in eyes that have shone unclouded upon such a wife, still muttering those senseless words so dreadful to hear, from lips that should have spoken with a man’s wisdom and a husbands tenderness to her.

  My heart ached, as I saw that young, fair woman sit near that wreck of manhood, soothing his restless spirit with the music of her voice, while his wandering hands played with the one ornament she wore, that bracelet whose slight links were so strong a chain to bind her to a bitter duty, so sorrowful a badge of slavery to a proud soul like hers. '