Nothing stirred about the vine-clad villa, except the curtains swaying
in the balmy wind, that blew up from a garden where mid-summer warmth
brooded over drowsy flowers and whispering trees. The lake below gleamed
like a mirror garlanded about with water-lilies, opening their white
bosoms to the sun. The balcony above burned with deep-hearted roses
pouring out their passionate perfume, as if in rivalry of the purple
heliotrope, which overflowed great urns on either side of the stone
steps.
Nothing broke the silence but the breezy rustle, the murmurous lapse of
waters upon a quiet shore, and now and then the brief carol of a bird
waking from its noontide sleep. A hammock swung at one end of the
balcony, but it was empty; open doors showed the wide hall tenanted only
by statues gleaming, cool and coy, in shadowy nooks; and the spirit of
repose seemed to haunt the lovely spot.
For an hour the sweet spell lasted; then it was broken by the faint,
far-off warble of a woman’s voice, which seemed to wake the sleeping
palace into life; for, as if drawn by the music, a young man came
through the garden, looking as Ferdinand might, when Ariel led him to
Miranda.
Too beautiful for a man he was, and seemed to protest against it by a
disdainful negligence of all the arts which could enhance the gracious
gift. A picturesque carelessness marked his costume, the luxuriant curls
that covered his head were in riotous confusion; and as he came into the
light he stretched his limbs with the graceful abandon of a young
wood-god rousing from his drowse in some green covert.
Swinging a knot of lilies in his hand, he sauntered up the long path,
listening with a smile, for as the voice drew nearer he recognized both
song and singer.
“Little Gladys must not see me, or she will end her music too soon,” he
whispered to himself; and, stepping behind the great vase, he peered
between the plumy sprays to watch the coming of the voice that made his
verses doubly melodious to their creator’s ear.
Through the shadowy hall there came a slender creature in a quaint white
gown, who looked as if she might have stepped down from the marble
Hebe’s pedestal; for there was something wonderfully virginal and fresh
about the maidenly figure with its deep, soft eyes, pale hair, and
features clearly cut as a fine cameo. Emerging from the gloom into a
flood of sunshine, which touched her head with a glint of gold, and
brought out in strong relief the crimson cover of the book, held
half-closed against her breast, she came down the steps, still singing
softly to herself.
A butterfly was sunning its changeful wings on the carved balustrade,
and she paused to watch it, quite unconscious of the picture she made,
or the hidden observer who enjoyed it with the delight of one whose
senses were keenly alive to all that ministers to pleasure. A childish
act enough, but it contrasted curiously with the words she sung,—fervid
words, that seemed to drop lingeringly from her lips as if in a new
language; lovely, yet half learned.
“Pretty thing! I wish I could sketch her as she stands, and use her as
an illustration to that song. No nightingale ever had a sweeter voice
for a love-lay than this charming girl,” thought the flattered listener,
as, obeying a sudden impulse, he flung up the lilies, stepped out from
his ambush, and half-said, half-sung, as he looked up with a glance of
mirthful meaning,—
“Like a high-born maiden
In a palace tower,
Soothing her love-laden
Soul in secret hour,
With music sweet as love which overflows her bower.”
The flowers dropped at her feet, and, leaning forward with the supple
grace of girlhood, she looked down to meet the dangerous dark eyes,
while her own seemed to wake and deepen with a sudden light as beautiful
as the color which dawned in her innocent face. Not the quick red of
shame, nor the glow of vanity, but a slow, soft flush like the shadow of
a rosy cloud on snow. No otherwise disconcerted, she smiled back at him,
and answered with unexpected aptness, in lines that were a truer
compliment than his had been,—
“Like a poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not.”
It was this charm of swift and subtle sympathy which made the girl seem
sometimes like the embodied spirit of all that was most high and pure in
his own wayward but aspiring nature. And this the spell that drew him to
her now, glad to sun himself like the butterfly in the light of eyes so
clear and candid, that he could read therein the emotions of a maiden
heart just opening to its first, half-conscious love.
Springing up the steps, he said with the caressing air as native to him
as his grace of manner. “Sit here and weave a pretty garland for your
hair, while I thank you for making my poor verses beautiful. Where did
you find the air that fits those words so well?”
“It came itself; as the song did, I think,” she answered simply, as she
obeyed him, and began to braid the long brown stems, shaping a chaplet
fit for Undine.
“Ah! you will never guess how that came!” he said, sitting at her feet
to watch the small fingers at their pretty work. But though his eyes
rested there, they grew absent; and he seemed to fall into a reverie not
wholly pleasant, for he knit his brows as if the newly won laurel wreath
sat uneasily upon a head which seemed made to wear it.
Gladys watched him in reverential silence till he became conscious of
her presence again, and gave her leave to speak, with a smile which had
in it something of the condescension of an idol towards its devoutest
worshipper.
“Were you making poetry, then?” she asked, with the frank curiosity of a
child.
“No, I was wondering where I should be now if I had never made any;” and
he looked at the summer paradise around him with an involuntary shiver,
as if a chill wind had blown upon him.
“Think rather what you will write next. It is so lovely I want more,
although I do not understand all this,” touching the book upon her knee
with a regretful sigh.
“Neither do I; much of it is poor stuff, Gladys. Do not puzzle your
sweet wits over it.”
“That is because you are so modest. People say true genius is always
humble.”
“Then, I am not a true genius; for I am as proud as Lucifer.”
“You may well be proud of such work as this;” and she carefully brushed
a fallen petal from the silken cover.
“But I am _not_ proud of that. At times I almost hate it!” exclaimed the
capricious poet, impetuously, then checked himself, and added more
composedly, “I mean to do so much better, that this first attempt shall
be forgotten.”
“I think you will never do better; for this came from your heart,
without a thought of what the world would say. Hereafter all you write
may be more perfect in form but less true in spirit, because you will
have the fear of the world, and loss of fame before your eyes.”
“How can you know that?” he asked, wondering that this young girl, so
lately met, should read him so well, and touch a secret doubt that kept
him idle after the first essay, which had been a most flattering
success.
“Nay, I do not know, I only feel as if it must be so. I always sing best
when alone, and the thought of doing it for praise or money spoils the
music to my ear.”
“I feel as if it would be possible to do _any thing_ here, and forget
that there is a world outside.”
“Then it is not dull to you? I am glad, for I thought it would be,
because so many people want you, and you might choose many gayer places
in which to spend your summer holiday.”
“I have no choice in this; yet I was willing enough to come. The first
time is always pleasant, and I am tired of the gayer places,” he said,
with a _blasé_ air that ill concealed how sweet the taste of praise had
been to one who hungered for it.
“Yet it must seem very beautiful to be so sought, admired, and loved,”
the girl said wistfully, for few of fortune’s favors had fallen into her
lap as yet.
“It is, and I was intoxicated with the wine of success for a time. But
after all, I find a bitter drop in it, for there is always a higher step
to take, a brighter prize to win, and one is never satisfied.”
He paused an instant with the craving yet despondent look poets and
painters wear as they labor for perfection in “a divine despair;” then
added, in a tone of kindly satisfaction which rung true on the sensitive
ear that listened,—
“But all that nonsense pleases Helwyze, and he has so few delights, I
would not rob him of one even so small as this, for I owe every thing to
him, you know.”
“I do not know. May I?”
“You may; for I want you to like my friend, and now I think you only
fear him.”
“Mr. Canaris, I do not dislike your friend. He has been most kind to me,
I am grieved if I seem ungrateful,” murmured Gladys, with a vague
trouble in her artless face, for she had no power to explain the
instinctive recoil which had unconsciously betrayed itself.
“Hear what he did for me, and then it may be easier to show as well as
to feel gratitude; since but for him you would have had none of these
foolish rhymes to sing.”
With a look askance, a quick gesture, and a curious laugh, Canaris
tossed the book into the urn below, and the heliotrope gave a fragrant
sigh as it closed above the treasure given to its keeping. Gladys
uttered a little cry, but her companion took no heed, for clasping his
hands about his knee he looked off into the bloomy wilderness below as
if he saw a younger self there, and spoke of him with a pitiful sort of
interest.
“Three years ago an ambitious boy came to seek his fortune in the great
city yonder. He possessed nothing but sundry accomplishments, and a
handful of verses which he tried to sell. Failing in this hope after
various trials, he grew desperate, and thought to end his life like poor
Chatterton. No, not like Chatterton,—for this boy was not an impostor.”
“Had he no friend anywhere?” asked Gladys,—her work neglected while she
listened with intensest interest to the tale so tragically begun.
“He thought not, but chance sent him one at the last hour, and when he
called on death, Helwyze came. It always seemed to me as if,
unwittingly, I conjured from the fire kindled to destroy myself a genie
who had power to change me from the miserable wretch I was, into the
happy man I am. For more than a year I have been with him,—first as
secretary, then _protégé_, now friend, almost son; for he asks nothing
of me except such services as I love to render, and gives me every aid
towards winning my way. Is not that magnificent generosity? Can I help
regarding him with superstitious gratitude? Am I not rightly named
Felix?”
“Yes, oh yes! Tell me more, please. I have led such a lonely life, that
human beings are like wonder-books to me, and I am never tired of
reading them.” Gladys looked with a rapt expression into the face
upturned to hers, little dreaming how dangerous such lore might be to
her.
“Then you should read Helwyze; he is a romance that will both charm and
make your heart ache, if you dare to try him.”
“I dare, if I may, because I would so gladly lose my fear of him in the
gentler feeling that grows in me as I listen.”
Canaris was irresistibly led on to confidences he had no right to make,
it was so pleasant to feel that he had the power to move the girl by his
words, as the wind sways a leaf upon its delicate stem. A half-fledged
purpose lurked in a dark corner of his mind, and even while denying its
existence to himself, he yielded to its influence, careless of
consequences.
“Then I will go on and let compassion finish what I have begun. Till
thirty, Helwyze led a wonderfully free, rich life, I infer from hints
dropped in unguarded moments,—for confidential moods are rare. Every
good gift was his, and nothing to alloy his happiness, unless it was the
restless nature which kept him wandering like an Arab long after most
men have found some ambition to absorb, or some tie to restrain, them.
From what I have gathered, I know that a great passion was beginning to
tame his unquiet spirit, when a great misfortune came to afflict it, and
in an hour changed a life of entire freedom to one of the bitterest
bondage such a man can know.”
“Oh, what?” cried Gladys, as he artfully paused just there to see her
bend nearer, and her lips part with the tremor of suspense.
“A terrible fall; and for ten years he has never known a day’s rest from
pain of some sort, and never will, till death releases him ten years
hence, perhaps, if his indomitable will keeps him alive so long.”
“Alas, alas! is there no cure?” sighed Gladys, as the violet eyes grew
dim for very pity of so hard a fate.
“None.”
A brief silence followed while the shadow of a great white cloud drifted
across the sky, blotting out the sunshine for a moment.
All the flowers strayed down upon the steps and lay there forgotten, as
the hands that held them were clasped together on the girl’s breast, as
if the mere knowledge of a lot like this lay heavy at her heart.
Satisfied with his effect, the story-teller was tempted to add another
stroke, and went on with the fluency of one who saw all things
dramatically, and could not help coloring them in his own vivid fancy.
“That seems very terrible to you, but in truth the physical affliction
was not so great as the loss that tried his soul; for he loved ardently,
and had just won his suit, when the misfortune came which tied him to a
bed of torment for some years. A fall from heaven to hell could hardly
have seemed worse than to be precipitated from the heights of such a
happiness to the depths of such a double woe; for she, the beautiful,
beloved woman proved disloyal, and left him lying there, like
Prometheus, with the vulture of remembered bliss to rend his heart.”
“Could he not forget her?” and Gladys trembled with indignation at the
perfidy which seemed impossible to a nature born for self-sacrifice.
“He never will forget or forgive, although the man she married well
avenged him while he lived, and bequeathed her a memory which all his
gold could not gild. _Her_ fate is the harder now; for the old love has
revived, and Helwyze is dearer than in his days of unmarred strength. He
knows it, but will not accept the tardy atonement; for contempt has
killed _his_ love, and with him there is no resurrection of the dead. A
very patient and remorseful love is hers: for she has been humiliated in
spirit, as he can never be, by the bodily ills above which he has risen
so heroically that his courage has subdued the haughtiest woman I ever
met.”
“You know her, then?” and Gladys bent to look into his face, with her
own shadowed by an intuition of the truth.
“Yes.”
“I am afraid to listen any more. It is terrible to know that such
bitterness and grief lie hidden in the hearts about me. Why did you tell
me this?” she demanded, shrinking from him, as if some prophetic fear
had stepped between them.
“Why did I? Because I wished to make you pity my friend, and help me put
a little brightness into his hard life. You can do it if you will, for
you soothe and please him, and few possess the power to give him any
comfort. He makes no complaint, asks no pity, and insists on ignoring
the pain which preys upon him, till it grows too great to be concealed;
then shuts himself up alone, to endure it like a Spartan. Forgive me if
in my eagerness I have said too much, and forget whatever troubled you.”
Canaris spoke with genuine regret, and hoped to banish the cloud from a
face which had been as placid as the lake below, till he disturbed it by
reflections that affrighted her.
“It is easy to forgive, but not to forget, words which cannot be unsaid.
I was so happy here; and now it is all spoilt. She was a new-made
friend, and very kind to me when I was desolate. I shall seem a
thankless beggar if I go away before I have paid my debt as best I can.
How shall I tell her that I must?”
“Of whom do you speak? I gave no name. I thought you would not guess.
Why must you go, Gladys?” asked the young man, surprised to see how
quickly she felt the chill of doubt, and tried to escape obligation,
when neither love nor respect brightened it.
“I need give no name, because you know. It is as well, perhaps, that I
have guessed it. I ought not to have been so content, since I am here
through charity. I must take up my life and try to shape it for myself;
but the world seems very large now I am all alone.”
She spoke half to herself, and looked beyond the safe, secluded garden,
to the gray mountains whose rough paths her feet had trod before they
were led here to rest.
Quick to be swayed by the varying impulses which ruled him with
capricious force, Canaris was now full of pity for the trouble he had
wrought, and when she rose, like a bird startled from its nest, he rose
also, and, taking the hand put out as if involuntarily asking help, he
said with regretful gentleness,—
“Do not be afraid, we will befriend you. Helwyze shall counsel and I
will comfort, if we can. I should not have told that dismal story; I
will atone for it by a new song, and you shall grow happy in singing
it.”
She hesitated, withdrew her hand, and looked askance at him, as if one
doubt bred others. An approaching footstep made her start, and stand a
moment with head erect, eye fixed, and ear intent, like a listening
deer, then whispering, “It is she; hide me till I learn to look as if I
did not know!”—Gladys sprung down the steps, and vanished like a wraith,
leaving no token of her presence but the lilies in the dust, for the
young man followed fleetly.
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