Helwyze was right, and Canaris found that his sudden marriage did
stimulate public interest wonderfully. There had always been something
mysterious about this brilliant young man and his relations with his
patron; who was as silent as the Sphinx regarding his past, and
tantalizingly enigmatical about his plans and purposes for the future.
The wildest speculations were indulged in: many believed them to be
father and son; others searched vainly for the true motive of this
charitable caprice; and every one waited with curiosity to see the end
of it. All of which much amused Helwyze, who cared nothing for the
world’s opinion, and found his sense of humor tickled by the ludicrous
idea of himself in the new _rôle_ of benefactor.
The romance seemed quite complete when it was known that the young poet
had brought home a wife whose talent, youth, and isolation seemed to
render her peculiarly fitted for his mate.
Though love was lacking, vanity was strong in Canaris, and this was
gratified by the commendation bestowed on the new ornament he wore; for
as such simple Gladys was considered, and shone with reflected lustre,
her finer gifts and graces quite eclipsed by his more conspicuous and
self-asserting ones.
With unquestioning docility she gave herself into his hands, following
where he led her, obeying his lightest wish, and loving him with a
devotion which kept alive regretful tenderness when it should have
cherished a loyal love. He gladly took her into all the gayety which for
a time surrounded them, and she enjoyed it with a girl’s fresh delight.
He showed her wise and witty people whom she admired or loved; and she
looked and listened with an enthusiast’s wonder. He gave her all he had
to give, novelty and pleasure; though the one had lost its gloss for
him, and too much of the other he was forced to accept from Helwyze’s
hands. But through all the experiences that now rapidly befell her,
Gladys was still herself; innocently happy, stanchly true,
characteristically independent, a mountain stream, keeping its waters
pure and bright, though mingled with the swift and turbid river which
was hurrying it toward the sea.
Curiosity being satisfied, society soon found some fresher novelty to
absorb it. Women still admired Canaris, but marriage lessened his
attractions for them; men still thought him full of promise, but were
fast forgetting the first successful effort which had won their
applause; and the young lion found that he must roar loud and often, if
he would not be neglected. Shutting himself into his cell, he worked
with hopeful energy for several months, often coming out weary, but
excited, with the joyful labor of creation. At such times there was no
prose anywhere; for heaven and earth were glorified by the light of that
inner world, where imagination reigns, and all things are divine. Then
he would be in the gayest spirits, and carry Gladys off to some hour of
pleasant relaxation at theatre, opera, or ball, where flattery refreshed
or emulation inspired him; and next day would return to his task with
redoubled vigor.
At other times his fickle mistress deserted him; thought would not soar,
language would not sing, poetry fled, and life was unutterably “flat,
stale, and unprofitable.” Then it was Gladys, who took possession of
him; lured him out for a brisk walk, or a long drive into a wholesomer
world than that into which he took her; sung weary brain to sleep with
the sweetest lullabies of brother bards; or made him merry by the
display of a pretty wit, which none but he knew she could exert. With
wifely patience and womanly tact she managed her wayward but beloved
lord, till despondency yielded to her skill, and the buoyant spirit of
hope took him by the hand, and led him to his work again.
In the intervals between these fits of intellectual intoxication and
succeeding depression, Gladys devoted herself to Helwyze with a
faithfulness which surprised him and satisfied her; for, as she said,
her “bread tasted bitter if she did not earn it.” He had expected to be
amused, perhaps interested, but not so charmed, by this girl, who
possessed only a single talent, a modest share of beauty, and a mind as
untrained as a beautiful but neglected garden. This last was the real
attraction; for, finding her hungry for knowledge, he did not hesitate
to test her taste and try her mental mettle, by allowing her free range
of a large and varied library. Though not a scholar, in the learned
sense of the word, he had the eager, sceptical nature which interrogates
all things, yet believes only in itself. This had kept him roaming
solitarily up and down the earth for years, observing men and manners;
now it drove him to books; and, as suffering and seclusion wrought upon
body and brain, his choice of mute companions changed from the higher,
healthier class to those who, like himself, leaned towards the darker,
sadder side of human nature. Lawless here, as elsewhere, he let his mind
wander at will, as once he had let his heart, learning too late that
both are sacred gifts, and cannot safely be tampered with.
All was so fresh and wonderful to Gladys, that her society grew very
attractive to him; and pleasant as it was to have her wait upon him with
quiet zeal, or watch her busied in her own corner, studying, or sewing
with the little basket beside her which gave such a homelike air, it was
still pleasanter to have her sit and read to him, while he watched this
face, so intelligent, yet so soft; studied this mind, at once sensitive
and sagacious, this nature, both serious and ardent. It gave a curious
charm to his old favorites when she read them; and many hours he
listened contentedly to the voice whose youth made Montaigne’s worldly
wisdom seem the shrewder; whose music gave a certain sweetness to
Voltaire’s bitter wit or Carlyle’s rough wisdom; whose pitying wonder
added pathos to the melancholy brilliancy of Heine and De Quincy.
Equally fascinating to him, and far more dangerous to her, were George
Sand’s passionate romances, Goethe’s dramatic novels, Hugo and Sue’s
lurid word-pictures of suffering and sin; the haunted world of
Shakespeare and Dante, the poetry of Byron, Browning, and Poe.
Rich food and strong wine for a girl of eighteen; and Gladys soon felt
the effects of such a diet, though it was hard to resist when duty
seconded inclination, and ignorance hid the peril. She often paused to
question with eager lips, to wipe wet eyes, to protest with indignant
warmth, or to shiver with the pleasurable pain of a child who longs, yet
dreads, to hear an exciting story to the end. Helwyze answered
willingly, if not always wisely; enjoyed the rapid unfolding of the
woman, and would not deny himself any indulgence of this new whim,
though conscious that the snow-drop, transplanted suddenly from the free
fresh spring-time, could not live in this close air without suffering.
This was the double life Gladys now began to lead. Heart and mind were
divided between the two, who soon absorbed every feeling, every thought.
To the younger man she was a teacher, to the elder a pupil; in the one
world she ruled, in the other served; unconsciously Canaris stirred
emotion to its depths, consciously Helwyze stimulated intellect to its
heights; while the soul of the woman, receiving no food from either,
seemed to sit apart in the wilderness of its new experience, tempted by
evil as well as sustained by good spirits, who guard their own.
One evening this divided mastery was especially felt by Helwyze, who
watched the young man’s influence over his wife with a mixture of
interest and something like jealousy, as it was evidently fast becoming
stronger than his own. Sitting in his usual place, he saw Gladys flit
about the room, brushing up the hearth, brightening the lamps, and
putting by the finished books, as if the day’s duties were all done, the
evening’s rest and pleasure honestly earned, eagerly waited for. He well
knew that this pleasure consisted in carrying Canaris away to her own
domain; or, if that were impossible, she would sit silently looking at
him while he read or talked in his fitful fashion on any subject his
master chose to introduce.
The desire to make her forget the husband whose neglect would have
sorely grieved her if his genius had not been his excuse in her eyes for
many faults, possessed Helwyze that night; and he amused himself by the
effort, becoming more intent with each failure.
As the accustomed hour drew near, Gladys took her place on the footstool
before the chair set ready for Felix, and fell a musing, with her eyes
on the newly replenished fire. Above, the unignited fuel lay black and
rough, with here and there a deep rift opening to the red core beneath;
while to and fro danced many colored flames, as if bent on some eager
quest. Many flashed up the chimney, and were gone; others died
solitarily in dark corners, where no heat fed them; and some vanished
down the chasms, to the fiery world below. One golden spire, tremulous
and translucent, burned with a brilliance which attracted the eye; and,
when a wandering violet flame joined it, Gladys followed their motions
with interest, seeing in them images of Felix and herself, for childish
fancy and womanly insight met and mingled in all she thought and felt.
Forgetting that she was not alone, she leaned forward, to watch what
became of them, as the wedded flames flickered here and there, now
violet, now yellow. But the brighter always seemed the stronger, and the
sad-colored one to grow more and more golden, as if yielding to its
sunshiny mate.
“I hope they will fly up together, out into the wide, starry sky, which
is their eternity, perhaps,” she thought, smiling at her own eagerness.
But no; the golden flame flew up, and left the other to take on many
shapes and colors, as it wandered here and there, till, just as it
glowed with a splendid crimson, Gladys was forced to hide her dazzled
eyes and look no more. Turning her flushed face away, she found Helwyze
watching her as intently as she had watched the fire, and, reminded of
his presence, she glanced toward the empty chair with an impatient sigh
for Felix.
“You are tired,” he said, answering the sigh. “Mrs. Bland told me what a
notable housewife you are, and how you helped her set the upper regions
to rights to-day. I fear you did too much.”
“Oh, no, I enjoyed it heartily. I asked for something to do, and she
allowed me to examine and refold the treasures you keep in the great
carved wardrobe, lest moths or damp or dust had hurt the rich stuffs,
curious coins, and lovely ornaments stored there. I never saw so many
pretty things before,” she answered, betraying, by her sudden animation,
the love of “pretty things,” which is one of the strongest of feminine
foibles.
He smiled, well pleased.
“Olivia calls that quaint press from Brittany my bazaar, for there I
have collected the spoils of my early wanderings; and when I want a
_cadeau_ for a fair friend, I find it without trouble. I saw in what
exquisite order you left my shelves, and, as you were not with me to
choose, I brought away several trifles, more curious than costly, hoping
to find a thank-offering among them.”
As he spoke, he opened one of the deep drawers in the writing-table, as
if to produce some gift. But Gladys said, hastily,—
“You are very kind, sir; but these fine things are altogether too grand
for me. The pleasure of looking at and touching them is reward enough;
unless you will tell me about them: it must be interesting to know what
places they came from.”
Feeling in the mood for it, Helwyze described to her an Eastern bazaar,
so graphically that she soon forgot Felix, and sat looking up as if she
actually saw and enjoyed the splendors he spoke of. Lustrous silks
sultanas were to wear; misty muslins, into whose embroidery some
dark-skinned woman’s life was wrought; cashmeres, many-hued as rainbows;
odorous woods and spices, that filled the air with fragrance never blown
from Western hills; amber, like drops of frozen sunshine; fruits, which
brought visions of vineyards, olive groves, and lovely palms dropping
their honeyed clusters by desert wells; skins mooned and barred with
black upon the tawny velvet, that had lain in jungles, or glided with
deathful stealthiness along the track of human feet; ivory tusks that
had felled Asiatic trees, gored fierce enemies, or meekly lifted princes
to their seats.
These, and many more, he painted rapidly; and, as he ended, shook out of
its folds a gauzy fabric, starred with silver, which he threw over her
head, pointing to the mirror set in the door of the _armoire_ behind
her.
“See if that is not too pretty to refuse. Felix would surely be inspired
if you appeared before him shimmering like Suleika, when Hatem says to
her,—
“‘Here, take this, with the pure and silver streaking,
And wind it, Darling, round and round for me;
What is your Highness? Style scarce worth the speaking,
When thou dost look, I am as great as He.’”
Gladys did look, and saw how beautiful it made her; but, though she did
not understand the words he quoted, the names suggested a sultan and his
slave, and she did not like either the idea or the expression with which
Helwyze regarded her. Throwing off the gauzy veil, she refolded and put
it by, saying, in that decided little way of hers, which was prettier
than petulance,—
“My Hatem does not need that sort of inspiration, and had rather see his
Suleika in a plain gown of his choosing, than dressed in all the
splendors of the East by any other hand.”
“Come, then, we must find some better _souvenir_ of your visit, for I
never let any one go away empty-handed;” with that he dipped again into
the drawer, and held up a pretty bracelet, explaining, as he offered it
with unruffled composure, though she eyed it askance, attracted, yet
reluctant, a charming picture of doubt and desire,—
“Here are the Nine Muses, cut in many-tinted lava. See how well the
workman suited the color to the attribute of each Muse. Urania is blue;
Erato, this soft pink; Terpsichore, violet; Euterpe and Thalia, black
and white; and the others, these fine shades of yellow, dun, and drab.
That pleases you, I know; so let me put it on.”
It did please her; and she stretched out her hand to accept it,
gratified, yet conscious all the while of the antagonistic spirit which
often seized her when with Helwyze. He put on the bracelet with a
satisfied air; but the clasp was imperfect, and, at the first turn of
the round wrist, the Nine Muses fell to the ground.
“It is too heavy. I am not made to wear handcuffs of any sort, you see:
they will not stay on, so it is of no use to try;” and Gladys picked up
the trinket with an odd sense of relief; though poor Erato was cracked,
and Thalia, like Fielding’s fair Amelia, had a broken nose. She rose to
lay it on the table, and, as she turned away, her eye went to the clock,
as if reproaching herself for that brief forgetfulness of her husband.
Half amused, half annoyed, and bent on having his own way, even in so
small a thing as this, Helwyze drew up a chair, and, setting a Japanese
tray upon the table, said, invitingly,—
“Come and see if these are more to your taste, since fine raiment and
foolish ornaments fail to tempt you.”
“Oh, how curious and beautiful!” cried Gladys, looking down upon a
collection of Hindoo gods and goddesses, in ebony or ivory: some
hideous, some lovely, all carved with wonderful delicacy, and each with
its appropriate symbol,—Vishnu, and his serpent; Brahma, in the sacred
lotus; Siva, with seven faces; Kreeshna, the destroyer, with many
mouths; Varoon, god of the ocean; and Kama, the Indian Cupid, bearing
his bow of sugar-cane strung with bees, to typify love’s sting as well
as sweetness. This last Gladys examined longest, and kept in her hand as
if it charmed her; for the minute face of the youth was beautiful, the
slender figure full of grace, and the ivory spotless.
“You choose him for your idol? and well you may, for he looks like
Felix. Mine, if I have one, is Siva, goddess of Fate, ugly, but
powerful.”
“I will have no idol,—not even Felix, though I sometimes fear I may make
one of him before I know it;” and Gladys put back the little figure with
a guilty look, as she confessed the great temptation that beset her.
“You are wise: idols are apt to have feet of clay, and tumble down in
spite of our blind adoration. Better be a Buddhist, and have no god but
our own awakened thought; ‘the highest wisdom,’ as it is called,” said
Helwyze, who had lately been busy with the Sâkya Muni, and regarded all
religions with calm impartiality.
“These are false gods, and we are done with them, since we know the true
one,” began Gladys, understanding him; for she had read aloud the life
of Gautama Buddha, and enjoyed it as a legend; while he found its mystic
symbolism attractive, and nothing repellent in its idolatry.
“But do we? How can you prove it?”
“It needs no proving; the knowledge of it was born in me, grows with my
growth, and is the life of my life,” cried Gladys, out of the fulness of
that natural religion which requires no revelation except such as
experience brings to strengthen and purify it.
“All are not so easily satisfied as you,” he said, in the sceptical tone
which always tried both her patience and her courage; for, woman-like,
she could feel the truth of things, but could not reason about them. He
saw her face kindle, and added, rapidly, having a mind to try how firmly
planted the faith of the pretty Puritan was: “Most of us agree that
Allah exists in some form or other, but we fall out about who is the
true Prophet. You choose Jesus of Nazareth for yours; I rather incline
to this Indian Saint. They are not unlike: this Prince left all to
devote his life to the redemption of mankind, suffered persecutions and
temptations, had his disciples, and sent out the first apostles of whom
we hear; was a teacher, with his parables, miracles, and belief in
transmigration or immortality. His doctrine is almost the same as the
other; and the six virtues which secure Nirvâna, or Heaven, are charity,
purity, patience, courage, contemplation, and wisdom. Come, why not take
him for a model?”
Gladys listened with a mixture of perplexity and pain in her face, and
her hand went involuntarily to the little cross which she always wore;
but, though her eye was troubled, her voice was steady, as she answered,
earnestly,—
“Because I have a nobler one. My Prince left a greater throne than yours
to serve mankind; suffered and resisted more terrible persecution and
temptation; sent out wiser apostles, taught clearer truth, and preached
an immortality for all. Yours died peacefully in the arms of his
friends, mine on a cross; and, though he came later, he has saved more
souls than Buddha. Sir, I know little about those older religions; I am
not wise enough even to argue about my own: I can only believe in it,
love it, and hold fast to it, since it is all I need.”
“How can you tell till you try others? This, now, is a fine one, if we
are not too bigoted to look into it fairly. Wise men, who have done so,
say that no faith—not even the Christian—has exercised so powerful an
influence on the diminution of crime as the old, simple doctrine of
Sâkya Muni; and this is the only great historic religion that has not
taken the sword to put down its enemies. Can you say as much for yours?”
“No; but it is worth fighting for, and I _would_ fight, as the Maid of
Orleans did for France, for this is my country. Can you say of _your_
faith that it sustained you in sorrow, made you happy in loneliness,
saved you from temptation, taught, guided, blessed you day by day with
unfailing patience, wisdom, and love? I think you cannot; then why try
to take mine away till you can give me a better?”
Seldom was Gladys so moved as now, for she felt as if he was about to
meddle with her holy of holies; and, without stopping to reason, she
resisted the attempt, sure that he would harm, not help, her, since
neither his words nor example had done Felix any good.
Helwyze admired her all the more for her resistance, and thought her
unusually lovely, as she stood there flushed and fervent with her plea
for the faith that was so dear to her.
“Why, indeed! You would make an excellent martyr, and enjoy it. Pity
that you have no chance of it, and so of being canonized as a saint
afterward. That is decidedly your line. Then, you won’t have any of my
gods? not even this one?” he asked, holding up the handsome Kama, with a
smile.
“No, not even that. I will have only one God, and you may keep your
idols for those who believe in them. My faith may not be the oldest, but
it _is_ the best, if one may judge of the two religions by the happiness
and peace they give,” answered Gladys, taking refuge in a very womanly,
yet most convincing, argument, she thought, as she pointed to the
mirror, which reflected both figures in its clear depths.
Helwyze looked, and though without an atom of vanity, the sight could
not but be trying, the contrast was so great between her glad, young
face, and his, so melancholy and prematurely old.
“Satma, Tama—Truth and Darkness,” he muttered to himself; adding aloud,
with a vengeful sort of satisfaction in shocking her pious nature,—
“But _I_ have no religion; so that defiant little speech is quite thrown
away, my friend.”
It did shock her; for, though she had suspected the fact, there was
something dreadful in hearing him confess it, in a tone which proved his
sincerity.
“Mr. Helwyze, do you really mean that you believe in nothing invisible
and divine? no life beyond this? no God, no Christ to bless and save?”
she asked, hardly knowing how to put the question, as she drew back
dismayed, but still incredulous.
“Yes.”
He was both surprised, and rather annoyed, to find that it cost him an
effort to give even that short answer, with those innocent eyes looking
so anxiously up at him, full of a sad wonder, then dim with sudden dew,
as she said eagerly, forgetting every thing but a great compassion,—
“O sir, it is impossible! You think so now; but when you love and trust
some human creature more than yourself, then you will find that you do
believe in Him who gives such happiness, and be glad to own it.”
“Perhaps. Meantime _you_ will not make me happy by letting me give you
any thing; why is it, Gladys?”
The black brows were knit, and he looked impatient with himself or her.
She saw it, and exclaimed with the sweetest penitence,—
“Give me your pardon for speaking so frankly. I mean no disrespect; but
I cannot help it when you say such things, though I know that gratitude
should keep me silent.”
“I like it. Do not take yourself to task for that, or trouble about me.
There are many roads, and sooner or later we shall all reach heaven, I
suppose,—if there is one,” he added, with a shrug, which spoiled the
smile that went before.
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