Neither had heard the door of that inner room open quietly; neither had
seen Canaris stand upon the threshold for an instant, then draw back,
looking as if he had found another skeleton to hide in the cell where he
was laboring at the third act of the tragedy which he was to live, not
write.
He had heard the last words Gladys said, he had seen the last look
Helwyze wore, and, like a flash of lightning, the truth struck and
stunned him. At first he sat staring aghast at the thing he plainly saw,
yet hardly comprehended. Then a sort of fury seized and shook him, as he
sprang up with hands clenched, eyes ablaze, looking as if about to
instantly avenge the deadliest injury one man could do another. But the
half savage self-control adversity had taught stood him in good stead
now, curbing the first natural but reckless wrath which nerved every
fibre of his strong young body with an almost irresistible impulse to
kill Helwyze without a word.
The gust of blind passion subsided quickly into a calmer, but not less
dangerous, mood; and, fearing to trust himself so near his enemy,
Canaris rushed away, to walk fast and far, unconscious where he went,
till the autumnal gloaming brought him back, master of himself, he
thought.
While he wandered aimlessly about the city, he had been recalling the
past with the vivid skill which at such intense moments seems to bring
back half-forgotten words, apparently unnoticed actions, and unconscious
impressions; as fire causes invisible letters to stand out upon a page
where they are traced in sympathetic ink.
Not a doubt of Gladys disturbed the ever-deepening current of a love the
more precious for its newness, the more powerful for its ennobling
influence. But every instinct of his nature rose in revolt against
Helwyze, all the more rebellious and resentful for the long subjection
in which he had been held.
A master stronger than the ambition which had been the ruling passion of
his life so far asserted its supremacy now, and made it possible for him
to pay the price of liberty without further weak delay or unmanly
regret.
This he resolved upon, and this he believed he could accomplish safely
and soon. But if Helwyze, with far greater skill and self-control, had
failed to guide or subdue the conflicting passions let loose among them,
how could Canaris hope to do it, or retard by so much as one minute the
irresistible consequences of their acts? “The providence of God cannot
be hurried,” and His retribution falls at the appointed time, saving,
even when it seems to destroy.
Returning resolute but weary, Canaris was relieved to find that a still
longer reprieve was granted him; for Olivia was there, and Gladys
apparently absorbed in the tender toil women love, making ready for the
Christmas gift she hoped to give him. Helwyze sent word that he was
suffering one of his bad attacks, and bade them all good-night; so there
was nothing to mar the last quiet evening these three were ever to pass
together.
When Canaris had seen Olivia to the winter quarters she inhabited near
by, he went up to his own room, where Gladys lay, looking like a child
who had cried itself to sleep. The sight of the pathetic patience
touched with slumber’s peace, in the tear-stained face upon the pillow,
wrung his heart, and, stooping, he softly kissed the hand upon the
coverlet,—the small hand that wore a wedding-ring, now grown too large
for it.
“God bless my dearest!” he whispered, with a sob in his throat. “Out of
this accursed house she shall go to-morrow, though I leave all but love
and liberty behind me.”
Sleepless, impatient, and harassed by thoughts that would not let him
rest, he yielded to the uncanny attraction which the library now had for
him, and went down again, deluding himself with the idea that he could
utilize emotion and work for an hour or two.
The familiar room looked strange to him; and when the door of Helwyze’s
apartment opened quietly, he started, although it was only Stern, coming
to nap before the comfortable fire. Something in Canaris’s expectant air
and attitude made the man answer the question his face seemed to ask.
“Quiet at last, sir. He has had no sleep for many nights, and is fairly
worn out.”
“You look so, too. Go and rest a little. I shall be here writing for
several hours, and can see to him,” said Canaris, kindly, as the poor
old fellow respectfully tried to swallow a portentous gape behind his
hand.
“Thank you, Mr. Felix: it would be a comfort just to lose myself. Master
is not likely to want any thing; but, if he should call, just step and
give him his drops, please. They are all ready. I fixed them myself: he
is so careless when he is half-asleep, and, not being used to this new
stuff, an overdose might kill him.”
Giving these directions, Stern departed with alacrity, and left Canaris
to his watch. He had often done as much before, but never with such a
sense of satisfaction as now; and though he carefully abstained from
giving himself a reason for the act, no sooner had the valet gone than
he went to look in upon Helwyze, longing to call out commandingly,
“Wake, and hear me!”
But the helplessness of the man disarmed him, the peaceful expression of
the sharp, white features mutely reproached him, the recollection of
what he would awaken to made Canaris ashamed to exult over a defeated
enemy; and he turned away, with an almost compassionate glance at the
straight, still figure, clearly defined against the dusky background of
the darkened room.
“He looks as if he were dead.”
Canaris did not speak aloud, but it seemed as if a voice echoed the
words with a suggestive emphasis, that made him pause as he approached
the study-table, conscious of a quick thrill of comprehension tingling
through him like an answer. Why he covered both ears with a sudden
gesture, he could not tell, nor why he hastily seated himself, caught up
the first book at hand and began to read without knowing what he read.
Only for an instant, however, then the words grew clear before him, and
his eyes rested on this line,—
“σύ θην ἃ χρῄζεις, ταῦτ’ ἐπιγλωσσᾷ Διός.”[1]
Footnote 1:
“Thy ominous tongue gives utterance to thy wish.”