It seemed as if some angel had Gladys in especial charge, bringing light
out of darkness, joy out of sorrow, good out of evil; for no harm came
to her,—only a great peace, which transfigured her face till it was as
spiritually beautiful, as that of some young Madonna.
Waking late the next day she remembered little of the past night’s
events, and cared to remember little, having clearer and calmer thoughts
to dwell upon, happier dreams to enjoy.
She suspected Helwyze of imprudent kindness, but uttered no reproach,
quite unconscious of how much she had to forgive; thereby innocently
adding to both the relief and the remorse he felt. The doubt and dread
which had risen to the surface at his command, seemed to sink again into
the depths; and hope and love, to still the troubled waters where her
life-boat rode at anchor for a time.
Canaris, as if tired of playing truant, was ready now to be forgiven;
more conscious than ever before that this young wife was a possession to
be proud of, since, when she chose, she could eclipse even Olivia. The
jealousy which could so inspire her flattered his man’s vanity, and made
her love more precious; for not yet had he learned all its depth, nor
how to be worthy of it. The reverence he had always felt increased
fourfold, but the affection began to burn with a stronger flame; and
Canaris, for the first time, tasted the pure happiness of loving another
better than himself. Glad to feel, yet ashamed to own, a sentiment whose
sincerity made it very sweet, he kept it to himself, and showed no sign,
except a new and most becoming humility of manner when with Gladys, as
if silently asking pardon for many shortcomings. With Helwyze he was
cold and distant, evidently dreading to have him discover the change he
had foretold, and feeling as if his knowledge of it would profane the
first really sacred emotion the young man had known since his mother
died.
Anxious for some screen behind which to hide the novel, yet most
pleasurable, sensations which beset him, he found Olivia a useful
friend, and still kept up some semblance of the admiration, out of which
all dangerous ardor was fast fading. She saw this at once, and did not
regret it: for she had a generous nature, which an all-absorbing and
unhappy passion had not entirely spoiled.
Obedience to Helwyze was her delight; but, knowing him better than any
other human being could, she was troubled by his increasing interest in
Gladys, more especially since discovering that the girl possessed the
originality, fire, and energy which were more attractive to him than her
youth, gentleness, or grace. Jealousy was stronger than the desire to
obey; and, calling it compassion, Olivia resolved to be magnanimous, and
spare Gladys further pain, letting Canaris return to his allegiance, as
he seemed inclined to do, unhindered by any act of hers.
“The poor child is so young, so utterly unable to cope with me, it is
doubly cruel to torment her, just to gratify a whim of Jasper’s. Better
make my peace handsomely, and be her friend, than rob her of the only
treasure she possesses, since I do not covet it,” she thought, driving
through the May-day sunshine, to carry Jasper the earliest sprays of
white and rosy hawthorn from the villa garden, whither she had been to
set all in order for the summer.
Helwyze was not yet visible; and, full of her new design, Olivia
hastened up to find Gladys, meaning by some friendly word, some
unmistakable but most delicate hint, to reassure her regarding the
errant young husband, whom she had not yet learned to hold.
There was no answer to her hasty tap, and Olivia went in to seek yet
further. Half-way across the larger apartment she paused abruptly, and
stood looking straight before her, with a face which passed rapidly from
its first expression of good-will to one of surprise, then softened,
till tears stood in the brilliant eyes, and some sudden memory or
thought made that usually proud countenance both sad and tender.
Gladys sat alone in her little room, her work lying on her knee, her
arms folded, her head bent, singing to herself as she rocked to and fro,
lost in some reverie that made her lips smile faintly, and her voice
very low. She often sat so now, but Olivia had never seen her thus; and,
seeing, divined at once the hope which lifted her above all sorrow, the
help sent by Heaven, when most she needed it. For the song Gladys sang
was a lullaby, the look she wore was that which comes to a woman’s face
when she rocks her first-born on her knee, and above her head was a new
picture, an angel, with the Lily of Annunciation in its hand.
The one precious memory of Olivia’s stormy life was the little daughter,
who for a sweet, short year was all in all to her, and whose small grave
was yearly covered with the first spring flowers. Fresh from this secret
pilgrimage, the woman’s nature was at its noblest now; and seeing that
other woman, so young, so lonely, yet so blest, her heart yearned over
her,—
“All her worser self slipped from her
Like a robe,”—
and, hurrying in, she said, impulsively,—
“O child, I wish you had a mother!”
Gladys looked up, unstartled from the calm in which she dwelt. Olivia’s
face explained her words, and she answered them with the only reproach
much pain had wrung from her,—
“_You_ might have been one to me.”
“It is not too late! What shall I do to prove my sincerity?” cried
Olivia, stricken with remorse.
“Help me to give my little child an honest father.”
“I will! show me how.”
Then these two women spent a memorable hour together; for the new tie of
motherhood bridged across all differences of age and character, made
confession easy, confidence sweet, friendship possible. Yet, after all,
Gladys was the comforter, Olivia the one who poured out her heart, and
found relief in telling the sorrows that had been, the temptations that
still beset her, the good that yet remained to answer, when the right
chord was touched. She longed to give as much as she received; but when
she had owned, with a new sense of shame, that she was merely playing
with Canaris for her own amusement (being true to Helwyze even in her
falsehood), there seemed no more for her to do, since Gladys asked but
one other question, and that she could not answer.
“If he does not love you, and, perhaps, it is as you say,—only a poet’s
admiration for beauty,—what _is_ the trouble that keeps us apart? At
first I was too blindly happy to perceive it; now tears have cleared my
eyes, and I see that he hides something from me,—something which he
longs, yet dares not tell.”
“I know: I saw it long ago; but Jasper alone can tell that secret. He
holds Felix by it, and I fear the knowledge would be worse than the
suspicion. Let it be: time sets all things right, and it is ill
thwarting my poor cousin. I have a charming plan for you and Felix; and,
when you have him to yourself, you may be able to win his confidence,
as, I am sure, you have already won his heart.”
Then Olivia told her plan, which was both generous and politic; since it
made Gladys truly happy, proved her own sincerity, secured her own peace
and that of the men whose lives seemed to become more and more
inextricably tangled together.
“Now I shall go to Jasper, and conquer all his opposition; for I know I
am right. Dear little creature, what is it about you that makes one feel
both humble and strong when one is near you?” asked Olivia, looking down
at Gladys with a hand on either shoulder, and genuine wonder in the eyes
still soft with unwonted tears.
“God made me truthful, and I try to keep so; that is all,” she answered,
simply.
“That is enough. Kiss me, Gladys, and make me better. I am not good
enough to be the mother that I might have been to you; but I _am_ a
friend; believe that, and trust me, if you can?”
“I do;” and Gladys sealed her confidence with both lips and hand.
“Jasper, I have invited those children to spend the summer at the villa,
since you have decided for the sea. Gladys is mortally tired of this
hot-house life, so is Felix: give them a long holiday, or they will run
away together. Mrs. Bland and I will take care of you till they come
back.”
Olivia walked in upon Helwyze with this abrupt announcement, well
knowing that persuasion would be useless, and vigorous measures surest
to win the day. Artful as well as courageous in her assault, she
answered in that one speech several objections against her plan, and
suggested several strong reasons for it, sure that he would yield the
first, and own the latter.
He did, with unexpected readiness; for a motive which she could not
fathom prompted his seemingly careless acquiescence. He had no thought
of relinquishing his hold on Canaris, since through him alone he held
Gladys; but he often longed to escape from both for a time, that he
might study and adjust the new power which had come into his life,
unbidden, undesired. Surprise and disappointment were almost
instantaneously followed by a sense of relief when Olivia spoke; for he
saw at once that this project was a wiser one than she knew.
Before her rapid sentences were ended, the thought had come and gone,
the decision was made, and he could answer, in a tone of indifference
which both pleased and perplexed her,—
“Amiable woman, with what helpful aspirations are you blest. Seeing your
failure with Felix, I have been wondering how I should get rid of him
till he recovers from this comically tardy passion for his wife. They
can have another and a longer honeymoon up at the villa, if they like:
the other was far from romantic, I suspect. Well, why that sphinx-like
expression, if you please?” he added, as Olivia stood regarding him from
behind the fading hawthorn which she forgot to offer.
“I was wondering if I should ever understand you, Jasper.”
“Doubtful, since I shall never understand myself.”
“You ought, if any man; for you spend your life in studying yourself.”
“And the more I study, the less I know. It is very like a child with a
toy ark: I never know what animal may appear first. I put in my hand for
a dove, and I get a serpent; I open the door for the sagacious elephant,
and out rushes a tiger; I think I have found a favorite dog, and it is a
wolf, looking ready to devour me. An unsatisfactory toy, better put it
away and choose another.”
Helwyze spoke in the half-jesting, half-serious way habitual to him; but
though his mouth smiled, his eyes were gloomy, and Olivia hastened to
turn his thoughts from a subject in which he took a morbid interest.
“Fanciful, but true. Now, follow your own excellent advice, and find
wholesome amusement in helping me pack off the young people, and then
ourselves. It is not too early for them to go at once. Canaris can come
in and out as you want him for a month longer, then I will have all
things ready for you in the old cottage by the sea. You used to be happy
there: can you not be so again?”
“If you can give me back my twenty years. May-day is over for both of
us; why try to make the dead hawthorn bloom again? Carry out your plan,
and let the children be happy.”
They _were_ very happy; for the prospect of entire freedom was so
delicious, that Gladys had some difficulty in concealing her delight,
while Canaris openly rejoiced when told of Olivia’s offer. All
dinner-time he was talking of it; and afterward, under pretence of
showing her a new plant, he took his wife into the conservatory, that he
might continue planning how they should spend this unexpected holiday.
Helwyze saw them wandering arm in arm; Canaris talking rapidly, and
Gladys listening, with happy laughter, to his whimsical suggestions and
projects. Their content displeased the looker-on; but there was
something so attractive in the flower-framed picture of beauty, youth,
and joy, that he could not turn his eyes away, although the sight
aroused strangely conflicting thoughts within him.
He wished them gone, yet dreaded to lose the charm of his confined life,
feeling that absence would inevitably become estrangement. Canaris never
would be entirely his again; for he was slowly climbing upward into a
region where false ambition could not blind, mere pleasure satisfy, nor
license take the place of liberty. He had not planned to ruin the youth,
but simply to let “the world, the flesh, and the devil” contend against
such virtues as they found, while he sat by and watched the struggle.
As Olivia predicted, however, power was a dangerous gift to such a man;
and, having come to feel that Canaris belonged to him, body and soul, he
was ill-pleased at losing him just when a new interest was added to
their lives.
Yet losing him he assuredly was; and something like wonder mingled with
his chagrin, for this girl, whom he had expected to mould to his will,
exerted over him, as well as Canaris, a soft control which he could
neither comprehend nor conquer. Its charm was its unconsciousness, its
power was its truth; for it won gently and held firmly the regard it
sought. She certainly did possess the gift of surprises; for, although
brought there as a plaything, “little Gladys,” without apparent effort,
had subjugated haughty Olivia, wayward Felix, ruthless Helwyze; and none
rebelled against her. She ruled them by the irresistible influence of a
lovely womanhood, which made her daily life a sweeter poem than any they
could write.
“Why did I not keep her for myself? If she can do so much for him, what
might she not have done for me, had I been wise enough to wait,” thought
Helwyze, watching the bright-haired figure that stood looking up to the
green roof whence Canaris was gathering passion-flowers.
As if some consciousness of his longing reached her, Gladys turned to
look into the softly lighted room beyond, and, seeing its master sit
there solitary in the midst of its splendor, she obeyed the
compassionate impulse which was continually struggling against doubt and
dislike.
“It must seem very selfish and ungrateful in us to be so glad. Come,
Felix, and amuse him as well as me,” she said, in a tone meant for his
ear alone. But Helwyze heard both question and answer.
“I have been court-fool long enough. ’Tis a thankless office, and I am
tired of it,” replied Canaris, in the tone of a prisoner asked to go
back when the door of his cell stands open.
“_I_ must go, for there is Jean with coffee. Follow, like a good boy,
when you have put your posy into a song, which I will set to music by
and by, as your reward,” said Gladys, turning reluctantly away.
“You make goodness so beautiful, that it is easy to obey. There is my
posy set to music at once, for you are a song without words, _cariña_;”
and Canaris threw the vine about her neck, with a look and a laugh which
made it hard for her to go.
Jean not only brought coffee, but the card of a friend for Felix, who
went away, promising to return. Gladys carefully prepared the black and
fragrant draught which Helwyze loved, and presented it, with a sweet
friendliness of mien which would have made hemlock palatable, he
thought.
“Shall I sing to you till Felix comes to give you something better?” she
asked, offering her best, as if anxious to atone for the sin of being
happy at the cost of pain to another.
“Talk a little first. There will be time for both before he remembers us
again,” answered Helwyze, motioning her to a seat beside him, with the
half-imperative, half-courteous, look and gesture habitual to him.
“He will not forget: Felix always keeps his promises to me,” said
Gladys, with an air of gentle pride, taking her place, not beside, but
opposite, Helwyze, on the couch where Elaine had laid not long ago.
This involuntary act of hers gave a tone to the conversation which
followed; for Helwyze, being inwardly perturbed, was seized with a
desire to hover about dangerous topics: and, seeing her sit there, so
near and yet so far, so willing to serve, yet so completely mistress of
herself, longed to ruffle that composure, if only to make her share the
disquiet of which she was the cause.
“Always?” he said, lifting his brows with an incredulous expression, as
he replied to her assertion.
“I seldom ask any promise of him, but when I do, he always keeps it. You
doubt that?”
“I do.”
“When you know him as well as I, you will believe it.”
“I flatter myself that I know him better; and, judging from the past,
should call him both fickle and, in some things, false, even to you.”
Up sprung the color to Gladys’s cheek, and her eyes shone with sudden
fire, but her voice was low and quiet, as she answered quickly,—
“One is apt to look for what one wishes to find: _I_ seek fidelity and
truth, and I shall not be disappointed. Felix may wander, but he will
come back to me: I have learned how to hold him _now_.”
“Then you are wiser than I. Pray impart the secret;” and, putting down
his cup, Helwyze regarded her intently, for he saw that the spirit of
the woman was roused to defend her wifely rights.
“Nay, I owe it to you; and, since it has prevailed against your
enchantress, I should thank you for it.”
The delicate emphasis on the words, “your enchantress,” enlightened him
to the fact that Gladys divined, in part at least, the cause of Olivia’s
return. He did not deny, but simply answered, with a curious contrast
between the carelessness of the first half of his reply, with the vivid
interest of the latter,—
“Olivia has atoned for her sins handsomely. But what do you owe _me_? I
have taught you nothing. I dare not try.”
“I did not know my own power till you showed it to me; unintentionally,
I believe, and unconsciously, I used it to such purpose that Felix felt
pride in the wife whom he had thought a child before. I mean the night I
sang and acted yonder, and did both well, thanks to you.”
“I comprehend, and hope to be forgiven, since I gave you help or
pleasure,” he answered, with no sign of either confusion or regret,
though the thought shot through his mind, “Can she remember what came
after?”
“Questionable help, and painful pleasure, yet it was a memorable hour
and a useful one; so I pardon you, since after the troubled delusion
comes a happy reality.”
There was a double meaning in her words, and a double reproach in the
glance which went from the spot where she had played her part, to the
garland still about her neck.
“Your yoke is a light one, and you wear it gracefully. Long may it be
so.”
Helwyze thought to slip away thus from the subject; for those accusing
eyes were hard to meet. But Gladys seemed moved to speak with more than
her usual candor, as if anxious to leave no doubts behind her; and,
sitting in the self-same place, uttered words which moved him even more
than those which she had whispered in her tormented sleep.
“No, my yoke is not light;” she said, in that grave, sweet voice of
hers, looking down at the mystic purple blossom on her breast, with the
symbols of a divine passion at its heart. “I put it on too ignorantly,
too confidingly, and at times the duties, the responsibilities, which I
assumed with it weigh heavily. I am just learning how beautiful they
are, how sacred they should be, and trying to prove worthy of them. I
know that Felix did not love as I loved, when he married me,—from pity,
I believe. No one told me this: I felt, I guessed it, and would have
given him back his liberty, if, after patient trial, I had found that I
could not make him happy.”
“Can you?”
“Yes, thank God! not only happy, but good; and henceforth duty is
delight, for I can teach him to love as I love, and he is glad to learn
of me.”
Months before, when the girl Gladys had betrayed her maiden tenderness,
she had glowed like the dawn, and found no language but her blushes; now
the woman sat there steadfast and passion-pale, owning her love with the
eloquence of fervent speech; both pleading and commanding, in the name
of wifehood and motherhood, for the right to claim the man she had won
at such cost.
“And if you fail?”
“I shall not fail, unless you come between us. I have won Olivia’s
promise not to tempt Felix’s errant fancy with her beauty. Can I not win
yours to abstain from troubling his soul with still more harmful trials?
It is to ask this that I speak now, and I believe I shall not speak in
vain.”
“Why?”
Helwyze bent and looked into her face as he uttered that one word below
his breath. He dared do no more; for there was that about her,
perilously frank and lovely though she was, which held in check his
lawless spirit, and made it reverence, even while it rebelled against
her power over him.
She neither shrank nor turned aside, but studied earnestly that unmoved
countenance which hid a world of wild emotion so successfully, that even
her eyes saw no token of it, except the deepening line between the
brows.
“Because I am bold enough to think I know you better even than Olivia
does; that you are not cold and cruel, and, having given me the right to
live for Felix, you will not disturb our peace; that, if I look into
your soul, as I looked into my husband’s, I shall find there what I
seek,—justice as well as generosity.”
“You shall!”
“I knew you would not disappoint me. For this promise I am more grateful
than words can express, since it takes away all fear for Felix, and
shows me that I was right in appealing to the heart which you try to
kill. Ah! be your best self always, and so make life a blessing, not the
curse you often call it,” she added, giving him a smile like sunshine, a
cordial glance which was more than he could bear.
“With you I am. Stay, and show me how to do it,” he began, stretching
both hands towards her with an almost desperate urgency in voice and
gesture.
But Gladys neither saw nor heard; for at that moment Felix came through
the hall singing one of the few perfect love songs in the world,—
“Che farò senza Eurydice.”
“See, he does keep his promise to me: I knew he would come back!” she
cried delightedly, and hurried to meet him, leaving Helwyze nothing but
the passion-flowers to fill his empty hands.
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