X.

Gladys stood silent for a moment, with her eyes fixed on the little

figures, longing for wisdom to convince this man, whom she regarded with

mingled pity, admiration and distrust, that he could not walk by his own

light alone. He guessed the impulse that kept her there, longed to have

her stay, and felt a sudden desire to reinstate himself in her good

opinion. That wish, or the hope to keep her by some new and still more

powerful allurement, seemed to actuate him as he hastily thrust the gods

and goddesses out of sight, and opened another drawer, with a quick

glance over his shoulder towards that inner room.

At that instant the clock struck, and Gladys started, saying, in a tone

of fond despair,—

“Where _is_ Felix? Will he never come?”

“I heard him raging about some time ago, but perfect silence followed,

so I suspect he caught the tormenting word, idea, or fancy, and is busy

pinning it,” answered Helwyze, shutting the drawer as suddenly as he

opened it, with a frown which Gladys did not see; for she had turned

away, forgetting him and his salvation in the one absorbing interest of

her life.

“How long it takes to write a poem! Three whole months, for he began in

September; and it was not to be a long one, he said.”

“He means this to be a masterpiece, so labors like a galley-slave, and

can find no rest till it is done. Good practice, but to little purpose,

I am afraid. Poetry, even the best, is not profitable now-a-days, I am

told,” added Helwyze, speaking with a sort of satisfaction which he

could not conceal.

“Who cares for the profit? It is the fame Felix wants, and works for,”

answered Gladys, defending the absent with wifely warmth.

“True, but he would not reject the fortune if it came. He is not one of

the ethereal sort, who can live on glory and a crust; his gingerbread

must not only be gilded, but solid and well-spiced beside. You adore

your poet, respect also the worldly wisdom of your spouse, madame.”

When Helwyze sneered, Gladys was silent; so now she mused again, leaning

on the high back of the chair which she longed to see occupied. He mused

also, with his eyes upon the fire, fingers idly tapping, and a furtive

smile round his mouth, as if some purpose was taking shape in that busy

brain of his. Suddenly he spoke, in a tone of kindly interest, well

knowing where her thoughts were, and anxious to end her weary waiting.

“Perhaps the poor fellow has fallen asleep, tired out with striving

after immortality. Go and wake him, if you will, for it is time he

rested.”

“May I? He does not like to be disturbed; but I fear he is ill: he has

eaten scarcely any thing for days, and looks so pale it troubles me. I

will peep first; and if he is busy, creep away without a word.”

Stepping toward the one forbidden, yet most fascinating spot in all the

house, she softly opened the door and looked in. Canaris was there,

apparently asleep, as Helwyze thought; for his head lay on his folded

arms as if both were weary. Glancing over her shoulder with a nod and a

smile, Gladys went in, anxious to wake and comfort him; for the little

room looked solitary, dark, and cold, with dead ashes on the hearth, the

student lamp burning dimly, and the food she had brought him hours ago

still standing untasted, among the blotted sheets strewn all about. At

her first touch he looked up, and she was frightened by the expression

of his face, it was so desperately miserable.

“Dear, what is it?” she asked, quickly, with her arms about him, as if

defying the unknown trouble to reach him there.

“Disappointment,—nothing else;” and he leaned his head against her,

grateful for sympathy, since she could give no other help.

“You mean your book, which does not satisfy you even yet?” she said,

interpreting the significance of the weary, yet restless, look he wore.

“It never will! I have toiled and tried, with all my heart and soul and

mind, if ever a man did; but I cannot do it, Gladys. It torments me, and

I cannot escape from it; because, though it is all here in my brain, it

_will not_ be expressed in words.”

“Do not try any more; rest now, and by and by, perhaps, it will be

easier. You have worked too hard, and are worn out; forget the book, and

come and let me take care of you. It breaks my heart to see you so.”

“I was doing it for your sake,—all for you; and I thought this time it

would be very good, since my purpose was a just and generous one. But it

is not, and I hate it!”

With a passionate gesture, Canaris hurled a pile of manuscript into the

further corner of the room, and pushed his wife from him, as if she too

were an affliction and a disappointment. It grieved her bitterly; but

she would not be repulsed; and, holding fast in both her own the hand

that was about to grasp another sheaf of papers, she cried, with a tone

of tender authority, which both controlled and touched him,—

“No, no, you shall not, Felix! Put me away, but do not spoil the book;

it has cost us both too much.”

“Not you; forgive me, it is myself with whom I am vexed;” and Canaris

penitently kissed the hands that held his, remembering that she could

not know the true cause of his effort and regret.

“I _shall_ be jealous, if I find that I have given you up so long in

vain. I must have something to repay me for the loss of your society all

this weary time. I have worked to fill your place: give me my reward.”

“Have you missed me, then? I thought you happy enough with Helwyze and

the books.”

“Missed you! happy enough! O Felix! you do not know me, if you think I

_can_ be happy without you. He is kind, but only a friend; and all the

books in the wide world are not as much to me as the one you treat so

cruelly.” She clasped tightly the hands she held, and looked into his

face with eyes full of unutterable love. Such tender flattery could not

but soothe, such tearful reproach fail to soften, a far prouder, harder

man than Canaris.

“What reward will you have?” he asked, making an effort to be cheerful

for her sake.

“Eat, drink, and rest; then read me every word you have written. I am no

critic; but I would try to be impartial: love makes even the ignorant

wise, and I shall see the beauty which I know is in it.”

“I put you there, or tried; so truth and beauty should be in it. Some

time you shall hear it, but not now. I could not read it to-night,

perhaps never; it is such a poor, pale shadow of the thing I meant it to

be.”

“Let me read it,” said a voice behind them; and Helwyze stood upon the

threshold, wearing his most benignant aspect.

“You?” ejaculated Canaris; while Gladys shrunk a little, as if the

proposition did not please her.

“Why not? Young poets never read their own verses well; yet what could

be more soothing to the most timorous or vain than to hear them read by

an admiring and sympathetic friend? Come, let me have my reward, as well

as Gladys;” and Helwyze laid his hand upon the unscattered pile of

manuscript.

“A penance, rather. It is so blurred, so rough, you could not read it;

then the fatigue,”—began Canaris, pleased, yet reluctant still.

“I can read any thing, make rough places smooth, and not tire, for I

have a great interest in this story. He has shown me some of it, and it

_is_ good.”

Helwyze spoke to Gladys, and his last words conquered her reluctance,

whetted her curiosity; he looked at Canaris, and his glance inspired

hope, his offer tempted, for his voice could make music of any thing,

his praise would be both valuable and cheering.

“Let him, Felix, since he is so kind, I so impatient that I do not want

to wait;” and Gladys went to gather up the leaves, which had flown

wildly about the room.

“Leave those, I will sort them while you begin. The first part is all

here. I am sick of it, and so will you be, before you are through. Go,

love, or I may revoke permission, and make the bonfire yet.”

Canaris laughed as he waved her away; and Gladys, seeing that the cloud

had lifted, willingly obeyed, lingering only to give a touch to the

dainty luncheon, which was none the worse for being cold.

“Dear, eat and drink, then _my_ feast will be the sweeter.”

“I will; I’ll eat and drink stupendously when you are gone; I wish you

_bon appetit_,” he said, filling the glass, and smiling as he drank.

Contented now, Gladys hurried away, to find Helwyze already seated by

the study-table, with the manuscript laid open before him. He looked up,

wearing an expression of such pleasurable excitement, that it augured

well for what was coming, and she slipped into the chair beside the one

set ready for Canaris on the opposite side of the hearth, still hoping

he would come and take it. Helwyze began, and soon she forgot every

thing,—carried away by the smoothly flowing current of the story which

he read so well. A metrical romance, such as many a lover might have

imagined in the first inspiration of the great passion, but few could

have painted with such skill. A very human story, but all the truer and

sweeter for that fact. The men and women in it were full of vitality and

color; their faces spoke, hearts beat, words glowed; and they seemed to

live before the listener’s eye, as if endowed with eloquent flesh and

blood.

Gladys forgot their creator utterly, but Helwyze did not; and even while

reading on with steadily increasing effect, glanced now and then towards

that inner room, where, after a moment of unnecessary bustle, perfect

silence reigned. Presently a shadow flickered on the ceiling, a shadow

bent as if listening eagerly, though not a sound betrayed its approach

as it seemed to glide and vanish behind the tall screen which stood

before the door. Gladys saw nothing, her face being intent upon the

reader, her thoughts absorbed in following the heart-history of the

woman in whom she could not help finding a likeness to herself.

Helwyze saw the shadow, however, and laughed inwardly, as if to see the

singer irresistibly drawn by his own music. But no visible smile

betrayed this knowledge; and the tale went on with deepening power and

pathos, till at its most passionate point he paused.

“Go on; oh, pray go on!” cried Gladys, breathlessly.

“Are you not tired of it?” asked Helwyze; with a keen look.

“No, no! You are? Then let me read.”

“Not I; but there is no more here. Ask Felix if we _may_ go on.”

“I must! I will! Where is he?” and Gladys hurried round the screen, to

find Canaris flung down anyway upon a seat, looking almost as excited as

herself.

“Ah,” she cried, delightedly, “you could not keep away! You know that it

is good, and you are glad and proud, although you will not own it.”

“Am I? Are you?” he asked, reading the answer in her face, before she

could whisper, with the look of mingled awe and adoration which she

always wore when speaking of him as a poet,—

“Never can I tell you what I feel. It almost frightens me to find how

well you know me and yourself, and other hearts like ours. What gives

you this wonderful power, and shows you how to use it?”

“Don’t praise it too much, or I shall wish I had destroyed, instead of

re-sorting, the second part for you to hear.” Canaris spoke almost

roughly, and rose, as if about to go and do it now. But Gladys caught

his hand, saying gayly, as she drew him out into the fire-light with

persuasive energy,—

“That you shall never do; but come and enjoy it with us. You need not be

so modest, for you know you like it. Now I am perfectly happy.”

She looked so, as she saw her husband sink into the tall-backed chair,

and took her place beside him, laughing at the almost comic mixture of

sternness, resignation, and impatience betrayed by his set lips, silent

acquiescence, and excited eyes.

“Now we are ready;” and Gladys folded her hands with the rapturous

contentment of a child at its first fairy spectacle.

“All but the story. I will fetch it;” and Helwyze stepped quickly behind

the screen before either could stir.

Gladys half rose, but Canaris drew her down again, whispering, in an

almost resentful tone,—

“Let him, if he will; you wait on him too much. I put the papers in

order; he will read them easily enough.”

“Nay, do not be angry, dear; he does it to please me, and surely no one

could read it better. I know you would feel too much to do it well,” she

answered, her hand in his, with its most soothing touch.

There was no time for more. Helwyze returned, and, after a hasty

resettling of the manuscript, read on, without pausing, to the story’s

end, as if unconscious of fatigue, and bent on doing justice to the

power of the _protégé_ whose success was his benefactor’s best reward.

At first, Gladys glanced at her husband from time to time; but presently

the living man beside her grew less real than that other, who, despite a

new name and country, strange surroundings, and far different

circumstances, was so unmistakably the same, that she could not help

feeling and following his fate to its close, with an interest almost as

intense as if, in very truth, she saw Canaris going to his end. Her

interest in the woman lessened, and was lost in her eagerness to have

the hero worthy of the love she gave, the honor others felt for him;

and, when the romance brought him to defeat and death, she was so

wrought upon by this illusion, that she fell into a passion of sudden

tears, weeping as she had never wept before.

Felix sat motionless, his hand over his eyes, lips closely folded, lest

they should betray too much emotion; the irresistible conviction that it

_was_ good, strengthening every instant, till he felt only the

fascination and excitement of an hour, which foretold others even more

delicious. When the tale ended, the melodious voice grew silent, and

nothing was heard but the eloquent sobbing of a woman. Words seemed

unnecessary, and none were uttered for several minutes, then Helwyze

asked briefly,—

“Shall we burn it?”

As briefly Canaris answered “No;” and Gladys, quickly recovering the

self-control so seldom lost, looked up with “a face, clear shining after

rain,” as she said in the emphatic tone of deepest feeling,—

“It would be like burning a live thing. But, Felix, you must not kill

that man: I cannot have him die so. Let him live to conquer all his

enemies, the worst in himself; then, if you must end tragically, let the

woman go; she would not care, if he were safe.”

“But she is the heroine of the piece; and, if it does not end with her

lamenting over the fallen hero, the dramatic point is lost,” said

Helwyze; for Canaris had sprung up, and was walking restlessly about the

room, as if the spirits he had evoked were too strong to be laid even by

himself.

“I know nothing about that; but I feel the moral point would be lost, if

it is not changed. Surely, powerful as pity is, a lofty admiration is

better; and this poem would be nobler, in every way, if that man ends by

living well, than by dying ignominiously in spite of his courage. I

cannot explain it, but I am sure it is so; and I will not let Felix

spoil his best piece of work by such a mistake.”

“Then you like it? You would be happy if I changed and let it go before

the world, for your sake more than for my own?”

Canaris paused beside her, pale with some emotion stronger than

gratified vanity or ambitious hope. Gladys thought it was love; and,

carried out of herself by the tender pride that overflowed her heart and

would not be controlled, she let an action, more eloquent than any

words, express the happiness she was the first to feel, the homage she

would be the first to pay. Kneeling before him, she clasped her hands

together, and looked up at him with cheeks still wet, lips still

tremulous, eyes still full of wonder, admiration, fervent gratitude, and

love.

In one usually so self-restrained as Gladys such joyful abandonment was

doubly captivating and impressive. Canaris felt it so; and, lifting her

up, pressed her to a heart whose loud throbbing thanked her, even while

he gently turned her face away, as if he could not bear to see and

receive such worship from so pure a source. The unexpected humility in

his voice touched her strangely, and made her feel more deeply than ever

how genuine was the genius which should yet make him great, as well as

beloved.

“I will do what you wish, for you see more clearly than I. You _shall_

be happy, and I _will_ be proud of doing it, even if no one else sees

any good in my work.”

“They will! they must! It may not be the grandest thing you will ever

do, but it is so human, it cannot fail to touch and charm; and to me

that is as great an act as to astonish or dazzle by splendid learning or

wonderful wit. Make it noble as well as beautiful, then people will love

as well as praise you.”

“I will try, Gladys. I see now what I should have written, and—if I

can—it shall be done.”

“I promised you inspiration, you remember: have I not kept my word?”

asked Helwyze, forgotten, and content to be forgotten, until now.

Canaris looked up quickly; but there was no gratitude in his face, as he

answered, with his hand on the head he pressed against his shoulder, and

a certain subdued passion in his voice,—

“You have: not the highest inspiration; but, if _she_ is happy, it will

atone for much.”

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