He dropped the book, as if it had burnt him, and looked over his
shoulder, almost expecting to see the dark thought lurking in his mind
take shape before him. Empty, dim, and quiet was the lofty room; but a
troubled spirit and distempered imagination peopled it with such vivid
and tormenting phantoms of the past, the present and the future, that he
scarcely knew whether he was awake or dreaming, as he sat there alone,
waiting for midnight, and the spectre of an uncommitted deed.
His wandering eye fell on a leaf of paper, lying half-shrivelled by the
heat of the red fire. This recalled the hour when, in the act of burning
that first manuscript, Helwyze had saved him, and all that followed
shortly after.
Not a pleasant memory, it seemed; for his face darkened, and his glance
turned to a purple-covered volume, left on the low chair where Gladys
usually sat, and often read in that beloved book. A still more bitter
recollection bowed his head at sight of it, till some newer, sharper
thought seemed to pierce him with a sudden stab, and he laid his
clenched hand on the pile of papers before him, as if taking an oath
more binding than the one made there nearly three years ago.
He had been reading Shakespeare lately, for one may copy the great
masters; and now, as he tried with feverish energy to work upon his
play, the grim or gracious models he had been studying seemed to rise
and live before him. But one and all were made subject to the strong
passions which ruled him; jealousy, ambition, revenge, and love wore
their appropriate guise, acted their appropriate parts, and made him one
with them. Othello would only show himself as stabbing the perfidious
Iago; Macbeth always grasped at the air-drawn dagger; Hamlet was
continually completing his fateful task; and Romeo whispered, with the
little vial at his lips,—
“Oh, true apothecary!
Thy drugs are quick.”
Canaris tried to chase away these troubled spirits; but they would not
down, and, yielding to them, he let his mind wander as it would, till he
had “supped full of horrors,” feeling as if in the grasp of a nightmare
which led him, conscious, but powerless, toward some catastrophe
forefelt, rather than foreseen. How long this lasted he never knew; for
nothing broke the silence growing momently more terrible as he listened
to the stealthy tread of the temptation coming nearer and nearer, till
it appeared in the likeness of himself, while a voice said, in the
ordinary tone which so often makes dreams grotesque at their most
painful climax,—
“Master is so careless when half-asleep; and, not being used to this new
stuff, an overdose might kill him.”
As if these words were the summons for which he had been waiting,
Canaris rose up suddenly and went into that other room, too entirely
absorbed by the hurrying emotions which swept him away to see what
looked like a new phantom coming in. It might have been the shade of
young Juliet, gentle Desdemona, poor Ophelia, or, better still the
_eidolen_ of Margaret wandering, pale and pensive, through the baleful
darkness of this _Walpurgis Nacht_.
He did not see it; he saw nothing but the glass upon the table where the
dim light burned, the little vial with its colorless contents, and
Helwyze stirring in his bed, as if about to wake and speak. Conscious
only of the purpose which now wholly dominated him, Canaris, without
either haste or hesitation, took the bottle, uncorked, and held it over
the glass half-filled with water. But before a single drop could fall a
cold hand touched his own, and, with a start that crushed the vial in
his grasp, he found himself eye to eye with Gladys.
Guilt was frozen upon his face, terror upon hers; but neither spoke, for
a third voice muttered drowsily, “Stern, give me more; don’t rouse me.”
Canaris could not stir; Gladys whispered, with white lips, and her hand
upon the cup,—“Dare I give it?”
He could only answer by a sign, and cowered into the shadow, while she
put the draught to Helwyze’s lips, fearing to let him waken now. He
drank drowsily, yet seemed half-conscious of her presence; for he looked
up with sleep-drunken eyes, and murmured, as if to the familiar figure
of a dream,—
“Mine asleep, his awake,” then whispering brokenly about “Felix, Vivien,
and daring any thing,” he was gone again into the lethargy which alone
could bring forgetfulness.
Gladys feared her husband would hear the almost inaudible words; but he
had vanished, and when she glided out to join him, carefully closing the
door behind her, a glance showed that her fear was true.
Relieved, yet not repentant, he stood there looking at a red stain on
his hand with such a desperate expression that Gladys could only cling
to him, saying, in a terror-stricken whisper,—
“Felix, for God’s sake, come away! What are you doing here?”
“Going mad, I think,” he answered, under his breath; but added, lifting
up his hand with an ominous gesture, “I would have done it if you had
not stopped me. It would be better for us all if he were dead.”
“Not so; thank Heaven I came in time to save you from the sin of
murder!” she said, holding fast the hand as yet unstained by any blood
but its own.
“I _have_ committed murder in my heart. Why not profit by the sin, since
it is there? I hate that man! I have cause, and you know it.”
“No, no, not all! You shall tell me every thing; but not now, not here.”
“The time has come, and this is the place to tell it. Sit there and
listen. I must untie or cut the snarl to-night.”
He pointed to the great chair; and, grateful for any thing that could
change or stem the dangerous current of his thoughts, Gladys sank down,
feeling as if, after this shock, she was prepared for any discovery or
disaster. Canaris stood before her, white and stern, as if he were both
judge and culprit; for a sombre wrath still burned in his eye, and his
face worked with the mingled shame and contempt warring within him.
“I heard and saw this afternoon, when you two talked together yonder,
and I knew then what made you so glad to go away, so loath to come back.
_You_ have had a secret as well as I.”
“I was never sure until to-day. Do not speak of that: it is enough to
know it, and forget it if we can. Tell your secret: it has burdened you
so long, you will be glad to end it. _He_ would have done so, but I
would not let him.”
“I thought it would be hard to tell you, yet now my fault looks so small
and innocent beside his, I can confess without much shame or fear.”
But it was not easy; for he had gone so far into a deeper, darker world
that night, it was difficult to come to lesser sins and lighter
thoughts. As he hesitated for a word, his eye fell upon the
purple-covered book, and he saw a way to shorten his confession.
Catching up a pen, he bent over the volume an instant, then handed it to
Gladys, open at the title-page. She knew it,—the dear romance, worn with
much reading,—and looked wonderingly at the black mark drawn through the
name, “Felix Canaris,” and the words, “Jasper Helwyze,” written boldly
below.
“What does it mean?” she asked, refusing to believe the discovery which
the expression of his averted face confirmed.
“That I am a living lie. He wrote that book.”
“He?”
“Every line.”
“But not the other?” she said; clinging to a last hope, as every thing
seemed falling about her.
“All, except half a dozen of the songs.”
Down dropped the book between them,—now a thing of little worth,—and,
trying to conceal from him the contempt which even love could not
repress, Gladys hid her face, with one reproach, the bitterest she could
have uttered,—
“O my husband! did you give up honor, liberty, and peace for so poor a
thing as that?”
It cut him to the soul: for now he saw how high a price he had paid for
an empty name; how mean and poor his ambition looked; how truly he
deserved to be despised for that of which he had striven to be proud.
Gladys had so rejoiced over him as a poet, that it was the hardest task
of all to put off his borrowed singing-robes, and show himself an
ordinary man. He forgot that there was any other tribunal than this, as
he stood waiting for his sentence, oppressed with the fear that out of
her almost stern sense of honor she might condemn him to the loss of the
respect and confidence which he had lately learned to value as much as
happiness and love.
“You must despise me; but if you knew”—he humbly began, unable to bear
the silence longer.
“Tell me, then. I will not judge until I know;” and Gladys, just, even
in her sorrow, looked up with an expression which said plainer than
words, “For better, for worse; this is the worse, but I love you still.”
That made it possible for him to go on, fast and low, not stopping to
choose phrases, but pouring out the little story of his temptation and
fall, with a sense of intense relief that he was done with slavery for
ever.
“Neither of us coolly planned this thing; it came about so simply and
naturally, it seemed a mere accident.—And yet, who can tell what _he_
might have planned, seeing how weak I was, how ready to be tempted.—It
happened in that second month, when I promised to stay; he to help me
with my book. It was _all_ mine then; but when we came to look at it,
there was not enough to fill even the most modest volume; for I had
burnt many, and must recall them, or write more. I tried honestly, but
the power was not in me, and I fell into despair again; for the desire
to be known was the breath of my life.”
“You will be, if not in this way, in some other; for power of some sort
_is_ in you. Believe it, and wait for it to show itself,” said Gladys,
anxious to add patience and courage to the new humility and sincerity,
which could not fail to ennoble and strengthen him in time.
“Bless you for that!” he answered, gratefully, and hurried on. “It came
about in this wise: one day my master—he was then, but is no longer,
thank God!—sat reading over a mass of old papers, before destroying
them. Here he came upon verses written in the diaries kept years ago,
and threw them to me, ‘to laugh over,’ as he said. I did not laugh: I
was filled with envy and admiration, and begged him to publish them. He
scorned the idea, and bade me put them in the fire. I begged to keep
them, and then,—Gladys, I swear to you I cannot tell whether I read the
project in his face, or whether my own evil genius put it into my
head,—then I said, audaciously, though hardly dreaming he would consent,
‘You do not care for fame, and throw these away as worthless: I long for
it, and see more power in these than in any I can hope to write for
years, perhaps; let me add them to mine, and see what will come of it.’
‘Put your own name to them, if you do, and take the consequences,’ he
answered, in that brusque way of his, which seems so careless, yet is so
often premeditated. I assented, as I would have done to any thing that
promised a quick trial of my talent; for in my secret soul I thought
some of my songs better than his metaphysical verses, which impressed,
rather than charmed me. The small imposture seemed to amuse him; I had
few scruples then, and we did it, with much private jesting about
Beaumont and Fletcher, literary frauds, and borrowed plumage. You know
the rest. The book succeeded, but he saved it; and the critics left me
small consolation, for my songs were ignored as youthful ditties, his
poems won all the praise, and _I_ was pronounced a second Shelley.”
“But he? Did he claim no share of the glory? Was he content to let you
have it all?” questioned Gladys, trying to understand a thing so foreign
to her nature that it seemed incredible.
“Yes; I offered to come down from my high place, as soon as I realized
how little right I had to it. But he forbade me, saying, what I was fool
enough to believe, that my talent only needed time and culture, and the
sunshine of success to ripen it; that notoriety would be a burden to
him, since he had neither health to sustain nor spirits to enjoy it;
that in me he would live his youth over again, and, in return for such
help as he could give, I should be a son to him. That touched and won
me; now I can see in it a trap to catch and hold me, that he might amuse
himself with my folly, play the generous patron, and twist my life to
suit his ends. He likes curious and costly toys; he had one then, and
has not paid for it yet.”
“This other book? Tell me of that, and speak low, or he may hear us,”
whispered Gladys, trembling lest fire and powder should meet.
With a motion of his foot Canaris sent the book that lay between them
spinning across the hearth-rug out of sight, and answered, with a short,
exultant laugh,—
“Ah! there the fowler was taken in his own snare. I did not see it then,
and found it hard to understand why he should exert himself to please
you by helping me. I thought it was a mere freak of literary rivalry;
and, when I taxed him with it, he owned that, though he cared nothing
for the world’s praise, it _was_ pleasant to know that his powers were
still unimpaired, and be able to laugh in his sleeve at the deluded
critics. That was like him, and it deceived me till to-day. Now I know
that he begrudged me your admiration, wanted your tears and smiles for
himself, and did not hesitate to steal them. The night he so adroitly
read _his_ work for mine, he tempted me through you. I had resolved to
deserve the love and honor you gave me; and again I tried, and again I
failed, for my romance was a poor, pale thing to his. He had read it;
and, taking the same plot, made it what you know, writing as only such a
man could write, when a strong motive stimulated him to do his best.”
“But why did you submit? Why stand silent and let him do so false a
thing?” cried poor Gladys, wondering when the end of the tangle would
come.
“At first his coolness staggered me; then I was curious to hear, then
held even, against my will, by admiration of the thing—and you. I meant
to speak out, I longed to do it; but it was very hard, while you were
praising me so eloquently. The words were on my lips, when in his face I
saw a look that sealed them. He meant that I should utter the
self-accusation which would lower me for ever and raise him in your
regard. I could not bear it. There was no time to think, only to feel,
and I vowed to make you happy, at all costs. I hardly thought he would
submit; but he did, and I believed that it was through surprise at being
outwitted for the moment, or pity towards you. It was neither: he
fancied I had discovered his secret, and he _dared_ not defy me then.”
“But when I was gone? You were so late that night: I heard your voices,
sharp and angry, as I went away.”
“Yes; that was _my_ hour, and I enjoyed it. He had often twitted me with
the hold he had on my name and fame, and I bore it; for, till I loved
you, they were the dearest things I owned. That night I told him he
_should not_ speak; that you should enjoy your pride in me, even at his
expense, and I refused to release him from his bond, as he had, more
than once, refused to release me: for we had sworn never to confess till
both agreed to it. Good heavens! how low he must have thought I had
fallen, if I could consent to buy your happiness at the cost of my
honor! He did think it: that made him yield; that is the cause of the
contempt he has not cared to hide from me since then; and that adds a
double edge to my hatred now. I was to be knave as well as fool; and
while I blinded myself with his reflected light, he would have filched
my one jewel from me. Gladys, save me, keep me, or I shall do something
desperate yet!”
Beside himself with humiliation, remorse, and wrath, Canaris flung
himself down before her, as if only by clinging to that frail spar could
he ride out the storm in which he was lost without compass or rudder.
Then Gladys showed him that such love as hers could not fail, but, like
an altar-fire, glowed the stronger for every costly sacrifice thrown
therein. Lifting up the discrowned head, she laid it on her bosom with a
sweet motherliness which comforted more than her tender words.
“My poor Felix! you have suffered enough for this deceit; I forgive it,
and keep my reproaches for the false friend who led you astray.”
“It was so paltry, weak, and selfish. You _must_ despise me,” he said,
wistfully, still thinking more of his own pain than hers.
“I do despise the sin, not the dear sinner who repents and is an honest
man again.”
“But a beggar.”
“We have each other. Hush! stand up; some one is coming.”
Canaris had barely time to spring to his feet, when Stern came in, and
was about to pass on in silence, though much amazed to see Gladys there
at that hour, when the expression of the young man’s face made him
forget decorum and stop short, exclaiming, anxiously,—
“Mr. Felix, what’s the matter? Is master worse?”
“Safe and asleep. Mrs. Canaris came to see what I was about.”
“Then, sir, if I may make so bold, the sooner she gets to bed again the
better. It is far too late for her to be down here; the poor young lady
looks half-dead,” Stern whispered, with the freedom of an old servant.
“You are right. Come, love;” and without another word Canaris led her
away, leaving Stern to shake his gray head as he looked after them.
Gladys _was_ utterly exhausted; and in the hall she faltered, saying,
with a patient sigh, as she looked up the long stairway, “Dear, wait a
little; it is so far,—my strength is all gone.”
Canaris caught her in his arms and carried her away, asking himself,
with a remorseful pang that rent his heart,—
“Is this the murder I have committed?”
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