Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15 (19 page)

 
          
Presently
a little voice broke the silence, humming a song that Yorke remembered well.
Softly as it was sung, Judas pricked up his ears, his master paused in his
work, and leaning with folded arms, listened till the long hush recalled the
singer from her happy reverie. She stopped instantly, but seeing no displeasure
in the altered face above her, she held out her work, asking shyly, “Is it very
bad, sir?”

 
          
It
was a bunch of grapes deftly fashioned by small fingers that needed no other
tool than their own skill, and though swiftly done, it was as graceful as if
the gray cluster had just been broken from a vine. Yorke examined it
critically, lifted the child’s face and studied it intently for a moment,
kissed it gravely on the forehead so like his own, and said, with an air of
decision, “It is well done; I shall keep both it and you. Will you stay and
work with me, Cecil, and be content with no friend but myself,
no
playmate but old Judas?”

 
          
Cecil
read the yearning of the man’s heart in his eyes with the quick instinct of a
child, and answered it by exclaiming heartily, “Yes, I will; and be very happy
here, for I like this place, I like Judas, and I love you already, because you
make these lovely things, and are so kind to me now.”

 
          
“Are
you a discreet girl, Cecil? Can you see and hear things, and yet not ask
questions or tell tales?” asked Yorke, somewhat anxiously.

 
          
“I
think I am.”

 
          
“So
do
I
. Now I have a mind to keep you, for you are one
of my
sort
; but I wish you to understand that nothing
which goes on in my house is to be talked about outside of it. I let the world
alone, and desire the world to do the same by me; so remember if you forget
your promise, you march at once.”

 
          
“I
always keep my promises. But may I ask two questions now before I promise? Then
I’ll never do it anymore.”

 
          
“Well,
my inquisitive little person, what is it?”

 
          
“I
want to know if I can sometimes see the pleasant boy who gave me this rose.”

 
          
“And
kissed you on the wall,” added Yorke, with such a satirical look that Cecil
colored high and involuntarily exclaimed, “Did you see us? I thought you
couldn’t from this high place.”

 
          
“I
see everything that happens on my premises. If you do not gossip you may see
the boy occasionally. What is the other question?”

 
          
“Will
that disagreeable man come here often—the model, I mean? He frightens me, and I
don’t want to see him unless you wish me to.” “You will not see him anymore. I
shall not work at this figure for the present, so there will be no need of him.
Make yourself easy; I shall never wish you to see or speak to him.”

 
          
“You
are very kind. I’ll try to please you and not peep or ask questions. Can I wash
my hands and look at this pretty book? I’ll go quietly away to bed when I get
sleepy.”

 
          
With
very much the air of a man who had undertaken the care of a butterfly, Yorke
established her with the coveted portfolio on her lap, and soon entirely forgot
her.

 
          
Accustomed
to the deep reveries of a solitary life, hour after hour passed unheeded, and
the city clocks tolled their warnings to deaf ears. After glancing once at the
little chair and finding the child gone, he thought no more of her, till rising
to rest his cramped limbs he saw her lying fast asleep on the tiger skin. One
arm embraced the dog’s shaggy neck, her long hair swept the dusty floor, and
the rosy warmth of slumber made the childish face blooming and beautiful.

 
          
“Truly
I am a fit guardian for a little creature like this,” Yorke muttered, as he
watched her a moment; then he covered her with a cloak and began to pace the
room, busied with some absorbing thought. Once he paused and looked at the
sleeper with an expression of grim determination, saying to
himself
as he eyed the group, “If I had power to kill the savage beast, skill to subdue
the fierce dog, surely I can mold the child as I will, and make the daughter
pay the mother’s debt.”

 
          
His
face darkened as he spoke, the ruthless look deepened, and the sudden clenching
of the hand boded ill for the young life he had taken into his keeping.

 
          
All
night the child lay dreaming of her mother, all night the man sat pondering
over an early wrong that had embittered a once noble nature, and dawn found
them unchanged, except that Cecil had ceased to smile in her sleep, and Bazil
Yorke had shaped a fugitive emotion into a relentless purpose.

THE BROKEN CUPID

 
          
FIVE
years later, a new statue stood in the studio; we might have said two new
statues, though one was a living creature. The marble figure was a lovely,
Psyche-bending form, and with her graceful hand above her eyes, as if she
watched her sleeping lover. Of all Bazil Yorke s works this was the best, and
he knew it, for, surrounded by new influences, he had wrought at it with much
of his youthful ardor—had found much of the old happiness while so busied, and
was so proud of his success that no offer could tempt him to part with it—no
certainty of fame persuade him to exhibit it, except to a chosen few.

 
          
The
human figure was Cecil, changed from a rosy child into a slender, deep-eyed
girl. Colorless, like a plant deprived of sunshine, strangely unyouthful in the
quiet grace of her motions, the sweet seriousness of her expression, but as
beautiful as the Psyche and almost as cold. Her dress heightened the
resemblance, for the white folds draped her from neck to ankle; not an ornament
marred its severe simplicity, and the wavy masses of her dark hair were
gathered up with a fillet, giving her the head of a young Hebe. It was a fancy
of Yorke s, and as few eyes but his beheld her, she dressed for him alone,
unconscious that she served as a model for his fairest work. Standing in the
one ray of sunshine that shot athwart the subdued light of the studio, she
seemed intent upon a little Cupid exquisitely carved in the purest marble. She
was not working now, for the design was finished, but seemed to be regarding it
with mingled satisfaction and regret—satisfaction that it was done so well,
regret that it was done so soon. The little god was just drawing an arrow from
his quiver with an arch smile, and the girl watched him with one almost as gay.
A rare sight upon her lips, but some happy fancy seemed to bring it, and more than
once she gave the graceful figure a caressing touch, as if she had learned to
love it.

 
          
“Don’t
fire again, little Cupid, I surrender,” suddenly exclaimed a blithe voice
behind her, and, turning, Cecil saw her friend and neighbor, Alfred, now a tall
young man, though much of the boyish frankness and impetuosity still remained.

 
          
“Do
you like it, Alf?” she asked, with a quiet smile of welcome, and
a repose
of manner contrasting strongly with the eagerness
of the newcomer’s.

 
          
“You
know I do, Cecil, for it has been my delight ever since you began it. The
little god is perfect, and I must have him at any cost. Name your price, and
let it be a high one.”

 
          
“Yorke would not like that, neither should I.
You have more
than paid for it by friendly acts and words through these five years, so let me
give it to you with all my heart.”

 
          
She
spoke tranquilly, and offered her hand as if transferring to him the lovely
figure it had wrought. He took the white hand in both his
own,
and with a sudden glow on his cheek, a sudden ardor in his eye, said, in an
impulsive voice, “With all your heart, Cecil? Let me take you at your word, let
me claim, not only the image of love, but the reality, -and keep this hand as
mine.”

 
          
A
soft tinge of color touched the girl’s cheek as she drew her hand away, but the
quiet smile remained unchanged, and she still looked up at him with eyes as
innocent and frank as any child’s.

 
          
“I
did not mean that, Alf; we are too young for such things yet, and I know
nothing of love except in marble.”

 
          
“Let
me teach you then; we never are too young to learn that lesson,” he urged
eagerly. “I meant to wait another year before I spoke, for then I shall be my
own master, and have a home to give you. But you grow so lovely and so dear, I
must speak out and know my fate. Dear Cecil, what is it to be?”

 
          
“I
cannot tell; this is so new and strange to me, I have no answer ready.”

 
          
She
looked troubled now, but more by his earnestness than by any maidenly doubts or
fears of her own, and leaning her head upon her hand seemed to search for an
answer, and search in vain. Alfred watched her a moment, then broke out
indignantly, “No wonder it seems new and strange, for you have led a nun’s life
all these years, and know nothing of the world outside these walls. Yorke lets
you read neither romance nor poetry, gives you no companions but marble men and
women, no change but a twilight walk each day, or a new design to work out in
this gloomy place. You never have been told you have a heart and a right to
love like other women. Let me help you to know it, and find an answer for
myself
.,,

 
          
“Am
I so different from other girls? Is my life strange and solitary? I’ve
sometimes thought so, but I never felt quite sure. What is love, Alfred?”

 
          
“This!”
And opening his arms her young lover would have answered her wistful question
eloquently, but Cecil shrank a little, and put up her hand to check his
impulse.

 
          
“Not
so, tell me in words, Alf, how one feels when one truly loves.”

 
          
“I
only know how I feel, Cecil. I long for you day and night; think of you
wherever I am; see no one half so beautiful, half so good as you; care for
nothing but being here, and have no wish to live unless you will make life
happy for me.”

 
          
“And
that is love?” She spoke low, to herself, for as he answered her face had
slowly been averted, a soft trouble had dawned in her eyes, and a deeper color
risen to her cheek, as if the quiet heart was waking suddenly.

 
          
“Yes;
and you do love me, Cecil? Now I know it—now you will not deny it.”

 
          
She
looked up, pale but steady, for the child’s expression was quite gone, and in
her countenance was all a woman’s pain and pity, as she said decidedly, “No,
Alf, I do not love you. I know myself now, and feel that it is impossible.”

 
          
But
Alfred would not accept the hard word “impossible,” and pleaded passionately,
in spite of the quiet determination to end the matter, which made Cecil listen
almost as coldly as if she did not hear. Anger succeeded surprise and hope, as
the young man bitterly exclaimed, “You might make it possible, but you will not
try!”

 
          
“No,
I will not, and it is unkind of you to urge me. Let me be in peace—I’m happy
with my work, and my nun’s life was pleasant till you came to trouble it with
foolish things.”

 
          
She
spoke impatiently, and the first glimpse of passion ever seen upon her face now
disturbed its quietude, yet made it lovelier than ever.

 
          
“Well
said, Cecil; my pupil does honor to her master.”

 
          
Both
started as the deep voice sounded behind them, and both turned to see Bazil
Yorke leaning in the doorway with a satirical smile on his lips. Cecil made an
involuntary motion to go to him, but checked
herself
as Alfred said hotly, “It is not well said! And but for the artful training you
have given her, she would be glad to change this unnatural life, though she
dare not say so, for you are a tyrant, in spite of your seeming kindness!”

 
          
“Do
you fear me too much to tell the truth, Cecil?” asked Yorke, quite unmoved.

 
          
“No, master.”

 
          
“Then
decide between us two, now and forever, because I will not have your life or
mine disturbed by such scenes as this. If you love Alfred, say so freely, and
when my guardianship ends I will give you to his. If you prefer to stop with
me, happy in the work you are wonderfully fitted to perform, content with the
quiet life I deem best for you, and willing to be the friend and fellow laborer
of the old master, then come to him and let us hear no more of lovers or of
tyrants.”

 
          
As
he spoke Cecil had listened breathlessly, and when he paused, she went to him
with such a glad and grateful face, such instant and entire willingness, that
it touched him deeply, though he showed no sign of it except to draw her
nearer, with a caressing gesture which he had not used since she ceased to be a
child.

 
          
The
words, the act, wounded the young lover to the heart, and he broke out, in a
voice trembling with anger, sorrow, and reproach, “I might have known how it
would be; I should have known if my own love had not blinded me. You have
taught her something beside your art —have made too sure of her to fear any
rival, and when the time comes you will change the guardian to a husband, and
become her master in earnest.”

 
          
“Not
I! My day for such folly is long since past. Cecil will never be anything to me
but my ward and pupil, unless some more successful lover than
yourself
should take her from me.”

 
          
Yorke
laughed scornfully at the young man’s accusation, but looked down at the girl
with an involuntary pressure of the arm that held her, for despite his careless
manner, she was dearer to him than he knew.

 
          
“I
will never leave you for any other—never, my dear master.”

 
          
Alfred
heard her soft whisper, saw her cling to Yorke, knew that there was no hope for
him, and with a broken “Good-bye, Cecil, I shall not trouble you again,” he was
gone.

 
          
“Poor
lad, he takes it hardly, but he’ll soon forget. I should have warned him, had I
not been sure it would have hastened what I desired to prevent. It is over at
last,
thank
heaven, so look up, foolish child; there
are no lovers here to frighten you now.”

 
          
But
Cecil did not look up, she hid her face and wept quietly, for Alfred had been
her only young friend since the day he gave the rose and made the new home
pleasant by his welcome.

 
          
Yorke
let her tears flow unreproved for a few moments, then his patience seemed
exhausted, and placing her in a seat, he turned away to examine the Cupid which
Alfred had not accepted. As he looked at it he smiled,
then
frowned, as if some unwelcome fancy had been conjured up by it, and asked
abruptly, “What suggested the idea of this, Cecil?” “You did!” was the
half-audible answer.

 
          
“I
did?
Never to my knowledge.”

 
          
“Your
making Psyche suggested Cupid, for though you did not tell me the pretty fable,
Alf did, and told me how my image should be made. I could not do a large one,
so I pleased myself with trying a little winged child with the bandage and the
bow.”

 
          
“Why
would you not let me see it till it was done?”

 
          
“At
first because I hoped to make it good enough to give you, then I thought it too
full of faults to offer, so I gave it to Alf; but he would not have it without
me, and now I don’t care for it anymore.”

 
          
Yorke
smiled, as if well pleased at this proof of her indifference to the youth, then
with a keen glance at the drooping face before him, he asked, “Are you quite
sure that you do not care for Alfred?”

 
          
“Very sure, master.”

 
          
“Then
what has changed you so within a week or two? You sang yesterday like an
uncaged bird, a thing you seldom do. You smile to yourself as you work, and
when I wished to use your face as a model not an hour ago, you could not fix
your eyes on me as I bade you, and cried when I chid you. What is it, Cecil? If
you have anything upon your mind, tell me, and let nothing disturb us again if
possible.”

 
          
If
the girl had been trained to repress all natural emotions and preserve an
unvarying calmness of face, voice, and manner, she had also been taught to tell
the truth, promptly and fearlessly. Now it was evident that she longed to
escape the keen eye and searching questions of her master, as she loved to call
him, but she dared not hesitate, and answered slowly, “I should have told you
something before, only I did not like to, and I thought perhaps you knew it.”