Helwyze folded black velvet _paletôt_ about him, stroked the damp hair
off his forehead, and, with hands loosely clasped behind his back, went
walking slowly through the quiet house, to find the bright drawing-room
and breezy balcony already deserted.
No sound of voice or step gave him the clew he sought; and, pausing in
the hall, he stood a moment, his finger on his lip, wondering whither
Gladys had betaken herself.
“Not with them, assuredly. Dreaming in the moonshine somewhere. I must
look again.”
Retracing his noiseless steps, he glanced here and there with eyes which
nothing could escape, for trifles were significant to his quick wit; and
he found answers to unspoken queries in the relics the vanished trio
left behind them. Olivia’s fan, flung down upon a couch, made him smile,
as if he saw her toss it there when yielding half-impatiently to the
entreaties of Canaris. An ottoman, pushed hastily aside, told where the
young lover sat, till he beguiled her out to listen to the pleading
which would wax eloquent and bold under cover of the summer night. The
instrument stood open, a favorite song upon the rack, but the glimmering
keys were mute; and the wind alone was singing fitfully. A little hat
lay in the window, as if ready to be caught up in glad haste when the
summons came; but the dew had dimmed the freshness of its azure ribbons,
and there was a forlorn look about the girlish thing, which told the
story of a timid hope, a silent disappointment.
“Where the deuce is the child?” and Helwyze cast an ireful look about
the empty room; for motion wearied him, and any thwarting of his will
was dangerous. Suddenly his eye brightened, and he nodded, as if well
pleased; for below the dark drapery that hung before an arch, a fold of
softest white betrayed the wearer.
“Now I have her!” he whispered, as if to some familiar; and, parting the
curtains, looked down upon the little figure sitting there alone, bathed
in moonlight as purely placid as the face turned on him when he spoke.
“Might one come in? The house seems quite deserted, and I want some
charitable soul to say a friendly word to me.”
“Oh, yes! What can I do, sir?” With the look of a suddenly awakened
child, Gladys rose up, and involuntarily put out her hand as if to heap
yet more commodiously the pillows of the couch which filled the alcove;
then paused, remembering what Canaris had told her of the invalid’s
rejection of all sympathy, and stood regarding him with a shy, yet
wistful glance, which plainly showed the impulse of her tender heart.
Conscious that the surest way to win this simple creature was by
submitting to be comforted,—for in her, womanly compassion was stronger
than womanly ambition, vanity, or interest,—Helwyze shed a reassuring
smile upon her, as he threw himself down, exclaiming, with a sigh of
satisfaction, doubly effective from one who so seldom owned the
weariness that oppressed him,—
“Yes: you shall make me comfortable, if you kindly will; the heat
exhausts me, and I cannot sleep. Ah, this is pleasant! You have the gift
of piling pillows for weary heads, Gladys. Now, let the moonlight make a
picture of you, as it did before I spoilt it; then I shall envy no man.”
Pleased, yet abashed, the girl sank back into her place on the wide
window ledge, and bent her face over the blooming linden spray that lay
upon her lap, unconsciously making of herself a prettier picture than
before.
“Musing here alone? Not sorrowfully, I hope?”
“I never feel alone, sir, and seldom sorrowful.”
“‘They never are alone that are accompanied with noble thoughts;’ yet it
would not be unnatural if you felt both sad and solitary, so young, so
isolated, in this big, bad world of ours.”
“A beautiful and happy world to me, sir. Even loneliness is pleasant,
because with it comes—liberty.”
The last word fell from her lips involuntarily; and, with a wonderfully
expressive gesture, she lifted her arms as if some heavy fetter had
newly dropped away.
Ardent emphasis and forceful action both surprised and interested
Helwyze, confirming his suspicion that this girlish bosom hid a spirit
as strong as pure, capable of deep suffering, exquisite happiness,
heroic effort. His eye shone, and he gave a satisfied nod; for his first
careless words had struck fire from the girl, making his task easier and
more attractive.
“And how will you use this freedom? A precious, yet a perilous, gift for
such as you.”
“Can any thing so infinitely sweet and sacred be dangerous? He who
planted the longing for it here, and gave it me when most needed, will
surely teach me how to use it. I have no fear.”
The bent head was erect now; the earnest face turned full on Helwyze
with such serene faith shining in it, that the sneer died off his lips,
and something like genuine compassion touched him, at the sight of such
brave innocence tranquilly confronting the unknown future.
“May nothing molest, or make afraid. While here, you are quite safe;—you
_do_, then, think of going?” he added, as a quick change arrested him.
“I do, sir, and soon. I only wait to see how, and where.”
It was difficult to believe that so resolute a tone could come into a
voice so gentle, or that lips whose shape was a smile could curl with
such soft scorn. But both were there; for the memory of that other
woman’s story embittered even gratitude, since in the girl’s simple
creed disloyalty to love was next to disloyalty to God.
Helwyze watched her closely, while his fingers fell to tapping idly on
the sofa scroll; and the spark brightened under the lids that contracted
with the intent expression of concentrated sight.
“Perhaps I can show you how and when. May I?” he asked, assuming a
paternal air, which inwardly amused him much.
Gladys looked, hesitated, and a shade of perplexity dimmed the clear
brightness of her glance, as if vaguely conscious of distrust, and
troubled by its seeming causelessness.
Helwyze saw it, and quickly added the magical word which lulled
suspicion, roused interest, and irresistibly allured her fancy.
“Pardon me; I should not have ventured to speak, if Felix had not hinted
that you began to weary of dependence, as all free spirits must; your
own words confirm the hint; and I desired to share my cousin’s pleasure
in befriending, if I might, one who can so richly repay all obligation.
Believe me, Gladys, your voice is a treasure, which, having discovered,
we want to share between us.”
If the moonlight had been daybreak, the girl’s cheek could not have
shown a rosier glow, as she half-averted it to hide the joy she felt at
knowing Canaris had taken thought for her so soon. Her heart fluttered
with tender hopes and fears, like a nestful of eager birds; and,
forgetting doubt in delight, she yielded to the lure held out to her.
“You are most kind: I shall be truly grateful if you will advise me,
sir. Mrs. Surry has done so much, I can ask no more, but rather hasten
to relieve her of all further care of me.”
“She will be loth to lose you; but the friend of whom I am about to
speak needs you much, and can give you what you love better even than
kindness,—independence.”
“Yes: that is what I long for! I will do any thing for daily bread, if I
may earn it honestly, and eat it in freedom,” leaning nearer, with
clasped hands and eager look.
“Could you be happy to spend some hours of each day in reading, singing
to, and amusing a poor soul, who sorely needs such pleasant comforting?”
“I could. It would be very sweet to do it; and I know how, excellently
well, for I have had good training. My father was an invalid, and I his
only nurse for years.”
“Fortunate for me in all ways,” thought Helwyze, finding another reason
for his purpose; while Gladys, bee-like, getting sweetness out of
bitter-herbs, said to herself, “Those weary years had their use, and are
not wasted, as I feared.”
“I think these duties will not be difficult nor distasteful,” continued
Helwyze, marking the effect of each attraction, as he mentioned it with
modest brevity. “It is a quiet place; plenty of rare books to read, fine
pictures to study, and music to enjoy; a little clever society, to keep
wits bright and enliven solitude; hours of leisure, and entire liberty
to use them as you will. Would this satisfy you, Gladys, till something
better can be found?”
“Better!” echoed the girl, with the expression of one who, having asked
for a crust, is bidden to a feast. “Ah, sir, it sounds too pleasant for
belief. I long for all these lovely things, but never hoped to have
them. Can I earn so much happiness? Am I a fit companion for this poor
lady, who must need the gentlest nursing, if she suffers in the midst of
so much to enjoy?”
“You will suit exactly; have no fear of that, my good child. Just be
your own happy, helpful self, and you can make sunshine anywhere. We
will talk more of this when you have turned it over in that wise young
head of yours. Olivia may have some more attractive plan to offer.”
But Gladys shook “the wise young head” with a decided air, as piquante
as the sudden resolution in her artless voice.
“I shall choose for myself; your plan pleases me better than any Mrs.
Surry is likely to propose. She says I must not work, but rest and enjoy
myself. I will work; I love it; ease steals away my strength, and
pleasure seems to dazzle me. I must be strong, for I have only myself to
lean upon; I must see clearly, for my only guide is my own conscience. I
_will_ think of your most kind offer, and be ready to accept it whenever
you like to try me, sir.”
“Thanks; I like to try you now, then; sit here and croon some drowsy
song, to show how well you can lull wakeful senses into that blessed
oblivion called sleep.”
As he spoke, Helwyze drew a low seat beside the couch, and beckoned her
to come and take it; for she had risen as if to go, and he had no mind
to be left alone yet.
“I am so pleased you asked me to do this, for it is my special gift.
Papa was very stubborn, but he always had to yield, and often called me
his ‘sleep compeller.’ Let me drop the curtain first, light is so
exciting, and draws the insects. I shall keep them off with this pretty
fan, and you will find the faint perfume soothing.”
Full of the sweetest good-will, Gladys leaned across the couch to darken
the recess before the lullaby began. But Helwyze, feeling in a mood for
investigation and experiment, arrested the outstretched hand, and,
holding it in his, turned the full brilliance of his fine eyes on hers,
asking with most seductive candor,—
“Gladys, if _I_ were the friend of whom we spoke, would you come to me?
You compel truth as well as sleep, and I cannot deceive you, while you
so willingly serve me.”
A moment she stood looking down into the singular countenance before her
with a curious intentness in her own. A slight quickening of the breath
was all the sign she gave of a consciousness of the penetrative glance
fixed upon her, the close grasp of his hand; otherwise unembarrassed as
a child, she regarded him with an expression maidenly modest, but quite
composed. Helwyze keenly enjoyed these glimpses of the new character
with which he chose to meddle, yet was both piqued and amused by her
present composure, when the mere name of Felix filled her with the
delicious shamefacedness of a first love.
It was a little curious that during the instant the two surveyed each
other, that, while the girl’s color faded, a light red tinged the man’s
pale cheek, her eye grew clear and cold as his softened, and the small
hand seemed to hold the larger by the mere contact of its passive
fingers.
Slow to arrive, the answer was both comprehensive and significant, but
very brief, for three words held it.
“Could I come?”
Helwyze laughed with real enjoyment.
“You certainly have the gift of surprises, if no other, and it makes you
charming, Gladys. I fancied you as unsophisticated as if you were eight,
instead of eighteen, and here I find you as discreet as any woman of the
world,—more so than many. Where did you learn it, child?”
“From myself; I have no other teacher.”
“Ah! ‘instinct is a fine thing, my masters.’ _You_ could not have a
better guide. Rest easy, little friend, the proprieties shall be
preserved, and you _can_ come, if you decide to do me the honor. My old
housekeeper is a most decorous and maternal creature, and into her
keeping you will pass. Felix pleased me well, but his time is too
valuable now; and, selfish as I am, I hesitate to keep for my own
comfort the man who can charm so many. Will you come, and take his
place?”
Helwyze could not deny himself the pleasure of calling back the
tell-tale color, for the blushes of a chaste woman are as beautiful as
the blooming of a flower. Quickly the red tide rose, even to the brow,
the eyes fell, the hand thrilled, and the steady voice faltered
traitorously, “I could not fill it, sir.”
Still detaining her, that he might catch the sweet aroma of an opening
heart, Helwyze added, as the last temptation to this young Eve, whom he
was beguiling out of the safe garden of her tranquil girlhood into the
unknown world of pain and passion, waiting for womankind beyond,—
“Not for my own sake alone do I want you, but for his. Life is full of
perils for him, and he needs a home. I cannot make one for him, except
in this way, for my house is my prison, and he wearies of it naturally.
But I _can_ give it a new charm, add a never-failing attraction, and
make it homelike by a woman’s presence. Will you help me in this?”
“I am not wise enough; Mrs. Surry is often with you: surely she could
make it homelike far better than I,” stammered Gladys, chilled by a
sudden fear, as she remembered Canaris’ face as he departed with Olivia
an hour ago.
“Pardon; that is precisely what she cannot do. Such women weary while
they dazzle, the gentler sort win while they soothe. We shall see less
of her in future; it is not well for Felix. Take pity on _me_, at least,
and answer ‘Yes.’”
“I do, sir.”
“How shall I thank you?” and Helwyze kissed the hand as he released it,
leaving a little thorn of jealousy behind to hoodwink prudence,
stimulate desire, and fret the inward peace that was her best
possession.
Glad to take refuge in music, the girl assumed her seat, and began to
sing dreamily to the slow waving of the green spray. Helwyze feigned to
be courting slumber, but from the ambush of downcast lids he stole
sidelong glances at the countenance so near his own, that he could mark
the gradual subsiding of emotion, the slow return of the repose which
made its greatest charm for him. And so well did he feign, that
presently, as if glad to see her task successfully ended, Gladys stole
away to the seclusion of her own happy thoughts.
Busied with his new plans and purposes, Helwyze waited till his patience
was rewarded by seeing the face of Canaris appear at the window, glance
in, and vanish as silently as it came. But one look was enough, and in
that flash of time the other read how the rash wooing had sped, or
thought he did, till Olivia came sweeping through the room, flung wide
the curtains, and looked in with eyes as brilliant as if, they had
borrowed light of the fire-flies dancing there without.
“A fan, a cigarette, a scarlet flower behind the ear, and the Spanish
donna would be quite perfect,” he said, surveying with lazy admiration
the richly colored face, which looked out from the black lace, wrapped
mantilla-wise over the dark hair and whitely gleaming arms.
“Is the snowdrop gone? Then I will come in, and hear how the new
handmaid suits. I saw her at her pleasing task.”
“So well that I should like to keep her at it long and often. Where is
Felix?”
His words, his look, angered Olivia, and she answered with smiling
ambiguity,—
“Out of his misery, at last.”
“Cruel as ever. I told him it would be so.”
“On the contrary, I have been kind, as I promised to be.”
“Then his face belied him.”
“Would it please you, if I had ventured to forestall your promised gift,
and accepted all Felix has to offer me, himself. I have my whims, like
you, and follow them as recklessly.”
Helwyze knit his brows, but answered negligently, “Folly never pleases
me. It will be amusing to see which tires first. I shall miss him; but
his place is already filled, and Gladys has the charm of novelty.”
“You have spoken, then?”
“Forewarned, forearmed; I have her promise, and Felix can go when he
likes.”