Olivia came before the swallows; for the three words, “I miss you,”
would have brought her from the ends of the earth, had she exiled
herself so far. She had waited for him to want and call her, as he often
did when others wearied or failed him. Seldom had so long a time passed
without some word from him; and endless doubts, fears, conjectures, had
harassed her, as month after month went by, and no summons came. Now she
hastened, ready for any thing he might ask of her, since her reward
would be a glimpse of the only heaven she knew.
“Amuse Felix: he is falling in love with his wife, and it spoils both of
them for my use. He says he has forgotten you. Come often, and teach him
to remember, as penalty for his bad taste and manners,” was the single
order Helwyze gave; but Olivia needed no other; and, for the sake of
coming often, would have smiled upon a far less agreeable man than
Canaris.
Gladys tried to welcome the new guest cordially, as an unsuspicious dove
might have welcomed a falcon to its peaceful cote; but her heart sunk
when she found her happy quiet sorely disturbed, her husband’s place
deserted, and the old glamour slowly returning to separate them, in
spite of all her gentle arts. For Canaris, feeling quite safe in the
sincere affection which now bound him to his wife, was foolhardy in his
desire to show Olivia how heart-whole he had become. This piqued her
irresistibly, because Helwyze was looking on, and she would win _his_
approval at any cost. So these three, from divers motives, joined
together to teach poor Gladys how much a woman can suffer with silent
fortitude and make no sign.
The weeks that followed seemed unusually gay and sunny ones; for April
came in blandly, and Olivia made a pleasant stir throughout the house by
her frequent visits, and the various excursions she proposed. Many of
these Gladys escaped; for her pain was not the jealousy that would drive
her to out-rival her rival, but the sorrowful shame and pity which made
her long to hide herself, till Felix should come back and be forgiven.
Helwyze naturally declined the long drives, the exhilarating rides in
the bright spring weather, which were so attractive to the younger man,
and sat at home watching Gladys, now more absorbingly interesting than
ever. He could not but admire the patience, strength, and dignity of the
creature; for she made no complaint, showed no suspicion, asked no
advice, but went straight on, like one who followed with faltering feet,
but unwavering eye, the single star in all the sky that would lead her
right. A craving curiosity to know what she felt and thought possessed
him, and he invited confidence by unwonted kindliness, as well as the
unfailing courtesy he showed her.
But Gladys would not speak either to him or to her husband, who seemed
wilfully blind to the slowly changing face, all the sadder for the smile
it always wore when his eyes were on it. At first, Helwyze tried his
gentlest arts; but, finding her as true as brave, was driven, by the
morbid curiosity which he had indulged till it became a mania, to use
means as subtle as sinful,—like a burglar, who, failing to pick a lock,
grows desperate and breaks it, careless of consequences.
Taking his daily walk through the house, he once came upon Gladys
watering the _jardinière_, which was her especial care, and always kept
full of her favorite plants. She was not singing as she worked, but
seriously busy as a child, holding in both hands her little watering-pot
to shower the thirsty ferns and flowers, who turned up their faces to be
washed with the silent delight which was their thanks.
“See how the dear things enjoy it! I feel as if they knew and watched
for me, and I never like to disappoint them of their bath,” she said,
looking over her shoulder, as he paused beside her. She was used to this
now, and was never surprised or startled when below stairs by his
noiseless approach.
“They are doing finely. Did Moss bring in some cyclamens? They are in
full bloom now, and you are fond of them, I think?”
“Yes, here they are: both purple and white, so sweet and lovely! See how
many buds this one has. I shall enjoy seeing them come out, they unfurl
so prettily;” and, full of interest, Gladys parted the leaves to show
several baby buds, whose rosy faces were just peeping from their green
hoods.
Helwyze liked to see her among the flowers; for there was something
peculiarly innocent and fresh about her then, as if the woman forgot her
griefs, and was a girl again. It struck him anew, as she stood there in
the sunshine, leaning down to tend the soft leaves and cherish the
delicate buds with a caressing hand.
“Like seeks like: you are a sort of cyclamen yourself. I never observed
it before, but the likeness is quite striking,” he said, with the slow
smile which usually prefaced some speech which bore a double meaning.
“Am I?” and Gladys eyed the flowers, pleased, yet a little shy, of
compliment from him.
“This is especially like you,” continued Helwyze, touching one of the
freshest. “Out of these strong sombre leaves rises a wraith-like
blossom, with white, softly folded petals, a rosy color on its modest
face, and a most sweet perfume for those whose sense is fine enough to
perceive it. Most of all, perhaps, it resembles you in this,—it hides
its heart, and, if one tries to look too closely, there is danger of
snapping the slender stem.”
“That is its nature, and it cannot help being shy. I kneel down and look
up without touching it; then one sees that it has nothing to hide,”
protested Gladys, following out the flower fancy, half in earnest, half
in jest, for she felt there was a question and a reproach in his words.
“Perhaps not; let us see, in my way.” With a light touch Helwyze turned
the reluctant cyclamen upward, and in its purple cup there clung a newly
fallen drop, like a secret tear.
Mute and stricken, Gladys looked at the little symbol of herself,
owning, with a throb of pain, that if in nothing else, they _were_ alike
in that.
Helwyze stood silent likewise, inhaling the faint fragrance while he
softly ruffled the curled petals as if searching for another tear.
Suddenly Gladys spoke out with the directness which always gave him a
keen pleasure, asking, as she stretched her hand involuntarily to shield
the more helpless flower,—
“Sir, why do you wish to read my heart?”
“To comfort it.”
“Do I need comfort, then?”
“Do you not?”
“If I have a sorrow, God only can console me, and He only need know it.
To you it should be sacred. Forgive me if I seem ungrateful; but you
cannot help me, if you would.”
“Do you doubt my will?”
“I try to doubt no one; but I fear—I fear many things;” and, as if
afraid of saying too much, Gladys broke off, to hurry away, wearing so
strange a look that Helwyze was consumed with a desire to know its
meaning.
He saw no more of her till twilight, for Canaris took her place just
then, reading a foreign book, which she could not manage; but, when
Felix went out, he sought one of his solitary haunts, hoping she would
appear.
She did; for the day closed early with a gusty rain, and the sunset hour
was gray and cold, leaving no after-glow to tint the western sky and
bathe the great room in ruddy light. Pale and noiseless as a spirit,
Gladys went to and fro, trying to quiet the unrest that made her nights
sleepless, her days one long struggle to be patient, just, and kind. She
tried to sing, but the song died in her throat; she tried to sew, but
her eyes were dim, and the flower under her needle only reminded her
that “pansies were for thoughts,” and hers, alas! were too sad for
thinking; she took up a book, but laid it down again, since Felix was
not there to finish it with her. Her own rooms seemed so empty, she
could not return thither when she had looked for him in vain; and,
longing for some human voice to speak to her, it was a relief to come
upon Helwyze sitting in his lonely corner,—for she never now went to the
library, unless duty called her.
“A dull evening, and dull company,” he said, as she paused beside him,
glad to have found something to take her out of herself, for a time at
least.
“Such a long day! and such a dreary night as it will be!” she answered,
leaning her forehead against the window-pane, to watch the drops fall,
and listen to the melancholy wind.
“Shorten the one and cheer the other, as I do: sleep, dream, and
forget.”
“I cannot!” and there was a world of suffering in the words that broke
from her against her will.
“Try my sleep-compeller as freely as I tried yours. See, these will give
you one, if not all the three desired blessings,—quiet slumber,
delicious dreams, or utter oblivion for a time.”
As he spoke, Helwyze had drawn out a little _bonbonnière_ of
tortoise-shell and silver, which he always carried, and shaken into his
palm half a dozen white comfits, which he offered to Gladys, with a
benign expression born of real sympathy and compassion. She hesitated;
and he added, in a tone of mild reproach, which smote her generous heart
with compunction,—
“Since I may not even try to minister to your troubled mind, let me, at
least, give a little rest to your weary body. Trust me, child, these
cannot hurt you; and, strong as you are, you will break down if you do
not sleep.”
Without a word, she took them; and, as they melted on her tongue, first
sweet, then bitter, she stood leaning against the rainy window-pane,
listening to Helwyze, who began to talk as if he too had tasted the
Indian drug, which “made the face of Coleridge shine, as he conversed
like one inspired.”
It seemed a very simple, friendly act; but this man had learned to know
how subtly the mind works; to see how often an apparently impulsive
action is born of an almost unconscious thought, an unacknowledged
purpose, a deeply hidden motive, which to many seem rather the child
than the father of the deed. Helwyze did not deceive himself, and owned
that baffled desire prompted that unpremeditated offer, and was ready to
avail itself of any self-betrayal which might follow its acceptance, for
he had given Gladys hasheesh.
It could not harm; it might soothe and comfort her unrest. It surely
would make her forget for a while, and in that temporary oblivion
perhaps he might discover what he burned to know. The very uncertainty
of its effect added to the daring of the deed; and, while he talked, he
waited to see how it would affect her, well knowing that in such a
temperament as hers all processes are rapid. For an hour he conversed so
delightfully of Rome and its wonders, that Gladys was amazed to find
Felix had come in, unheard for once.
All through dinner she brightened steadily, thinking the happy mood was
brought by her prodigal’s return, quite forgetting Helwyze and his
bitter-sweet bonbons.
“I shall stay at home, and enjoy the society of my pretty wife. What
have you done to make yourself so beautiful to-night? Is it the new
gown?” asked Canaris, surveying her with laughing but most genuine
surprise and satisfaction as they returned to the drawing-room again.
“It is not new: I made it long ago, to please you, but you never noticed
it before,” answered Gladys, glancing at the pale-hued dress, all broad,
soft folds from waist to ankle, with its winter trimming of swan’s down
at the neck and wrists; simple, but most becoming to her flower-like
face and girlish figure.
“What cruel blindness! But I see and admire it now, and honestly declare
that not Olivia in all her splendor is arrayed so much to my taste as
you, my Sancta Simplicitas.”
“It is pleasant to hear you say so; but that alone does not make me
happy: it must be having you at home all to myself again,” she
whispered, with shining eyes, cheeks that glowed with a deeper rose each
hour, and an indescribably blest expression in a face which now was both
brilliant and dreamy.
Helwyze heard what she said, and, fearing to lose sight of her, promptly
challenged Canaris to chess, a favorite pastime with them both. For an
hour they played, well matched and keenly interested, while Gladys sat
by, already tasting the restful peace, the delicious dreams, promised
her.
The clock was on the stroke of eight, the game was nearly over, when a
quick ring arrested Helwyze in the act of making the final move. There
was a stir in the hall, then, bringing with her a waft of fresh, damp
air, Olivia appeared, brave in purple silk and Roman gold.
“I thought you were all asleep or dead; but now I see the cause of this
awful silence,” she cried. “Don’t speak, don’t stir; let me enjoy the
fine tableau you make. Retsch’s ‘Game of Life,’ quite perfect, and most
effective.”
It certainly was to an observer; for Canaris, flushed and eager, looked
the young man to the life; Helwyze, calm but intent, with his finger on
his lip, pondering that last fateful move, was an excellent Satan; and
behind them stood Gladys, wonderfully resembling the wistful angel, with
that new brightness on her face.
“Which wins?” asked Olivia, rustling toward them, conscious of having
made an impressive entrance; for both men looked up to welcome her,
though Gladys never lifted her eyes from the mimic battle Felix seemed
about to lose.
“I do, as usual,” answered Helwyze, turning to finish the game with the
careless ease of a victor.
“Not this time;” and Gladys touched a piece which Canaris in the hurry
of the moment was about to overlook. He saw its value at a glance, made
the one move that could save him, and in an instant cried “Checkmate,”
with a laugh of triumph.
“Not fair, the angel interfered,” said Olivia, shaking a warning finger
at Gladys, who echoed her husband’s laugh with one still more exultant,
as she put her hand upon his shoulder, saying, in a low, intense voice
never heard from her lips before,—
“I have won him; he is mine, and cannot be taken from me any more.”
“Dearest child, no one wants him, except to play with and admire,” began
Olivia, rather startled by the look and manner of the lately meek, mute
Gladys.
Here Helwyze struck in, anxious to avert Olivia’s attention; for her
undesirable presence disconcerted him, since her woman’s wit might
discover what it was easy to conceal from Canaris.
“You have come to entertain us, like the amiable enchantress that you
are?” he asked, suggestively; for nothing charmed Olivia more than
permission to amuse him, when others failed.
“I have a thought,—a happy thought,—if Gladys will help me. You have
given me one living picture: I will give you others, and she shall sing
the scenes we illustrate.”
“Take Felix, and give us ‘The God and the Bayadere,’” said Helwyze,
glancing at the young pair behind them, he intent upon their
conversation, she upon him. “No, I will have only Gladys. You will act
and sing for us, I know?” and Olivia turned to her with a most engaging
smile.
“I never acted in my life, but I will try. I think I should like it for
I feel as if I could do any thing to-night;” and she came to them with a
swift step, an eager air, as if longing to find some outlet for the
strange energy which seemed to thrill every nerve and set her heart to
beating audibly.
“You look so. Do you know all these songs?” asked Olivia, taking up the
book which had suggested her happy thought.
“There are but four: I know them all. I will gladly sing them; for I set
them to music, if they had none of their own already. I often do that to
those Felix writes me.”
“Come, then. I want the key of the great press, where you keep your
spoils, Jasper.”
“Mrs. Bland will give it you. Order what you will, if you are going to
treat us to an Arabian Night’s entertainment.”
“Better than that. We are going to teach a small poet, by illustrating
the work of a great one;” and, with a mischievous laugh, Olivia
vanished, beckoning Gladys to follow.
The two men beguiled the time as best they might: Canaris playing softly
to himself in the music-room; Helwyze listening intently to the sounds
that came from behind the curtains, now dropped over a double door-way
leading to the lower end of the hall. Olivia’s imperious voice was
heard, directing men and maids. More than once an excited laugh from
Gladys jarred upon his ear; and, as minute after minute passed, his
impatience to see her again increased.
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