Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15 (35 page)

 
          
“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.

 
 
 
          
“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.

 
          
“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.