Part 4

A moment she stood looking down into the singular countenance before her with a curious intentness in her own. A slight quickening of the breath was all the sign she gave of a consciousness of the penetrative glance fixed upon her, the close grasp of his hand; otherwise unembarrassed as a child, she regarded him with an expression maidenly modest, but quite composed. Helwyze keenly enjoyed these glimpses of the new character with which he chose to meddle, yet was both piqued and amused by her present composure, when the mere name of Felix filled her with the delicious shamefacedness of a first love.

It was a little curious that during the instant the two surveyed each other, that, while the girl’s color faded, a light red tinged the man’s pale cheek, her eye grew clear and cold as his softened, and the small hand seemed to hold the larger by the mere contact of its passive fingers.

Slow to arrive, the answer was both comprehensive and significant, but very brief, for three words held it.

“Could I come?”

Helwyze laughed with real enjoyment.

“You certainly have the gift of surprises, if no other, and it makes you charming, Gladys. I fancied you as unsophisticated as if you were eight, instead of eighteen, and here I find you as discreet as any woman of the world,—more so than many. Where did you learn it, child?”

“From myself; I have no other teacher.”

“Ah! ‘instinct is a fine thing, my masters.’ _You_ could not have a better guide. Rest easy, little friend, the proprieties shall be preserved, and you _can_ come, if you decide to do me the honor. My old housekeeper is a most decorous and maternal creature, and into her keeping you will pass. Felix pleased me well, but his time is too valuable now; and, selfish as I am, I hesitate to keep for my own comfort the man who can charm so many. Will you come, and take his place?”

Helwyze could not deny himself the pleasure of calling back the tell-tale color, for the blushes of a chaste woman are as beautiful as the blooming of a flower. Quickly the red tide rose, even to the brow, the eyes fell, the hand thrilled, and the steady voice faltered traitorously, “I could not fill it, sir.”

Still detaining her, that he might catch the sweet aroma of an opening heart, Helwyze added, as the last temptation to this young Eve, whom he was beguiling out of the safe garden of her tranquil girlhood into the unknown world of pain and passion, waiting for womankind beyond,—

“Not for my own sake alone do I want you, but for his. Life is full of perils for him, and he needs a home. I cannot make one for him, except in this way, for my house is my prison, and he wearies of it naturally. But I _can_ give it a new charm, add a never-failing attraction, and make it homelike by a woman’s presence. Will you help me in this?”

“I am not wise enough; Mrs. Surry is often with you: surely she could make it homelike far better than I,” stammered Gladys, chilled by a sudden fear, as she remembered Canaris’ face as he departed with Olivia an hour ago.

“Pardon; that is precisely what she cannot do. Such women weary while they dazzle, the gentler sort win while they soothe. We shall see less of her in future; it is not well for Felix. Take pity on _me_, at least, and answer ‘Yes.’”

“I do, sir.”

“How shall I thank you?” and Helwyze kissed the hand as he released it, leaving a little thorn of jealousy behind to hoodwink prudence, stimulate desire, and fret the inward peace that was her best possession.

Glad to take refuge in music, the girl assumed her seat, and began to sing dreamily to the slow waving of the green spray. Helwyze feigned to be courting slumber, but from the ambush of downcast lids he stole sidelong glances at the countenance so near his own, that he could mark the gradual subsiding of emotion, the slow return of the repose which made its greatest charm for him. And so well did he feign, that presently, as if glad to see her task successfully ended, Gladys stole away to the seclusion of her own happy thoughts.

Busied with his new plans and purposes, Helwyze waited till his patience was rewarded by seeing the face of Canaris appear at the window, glance in, and vanish as silently as it came. But one look was enough, and in that flash of time the other read how the rash wooing had sped, or thought he did, till Olivia came sweeping through the room, flung wide the curtains, and looked in with eyes as brilliant as if, they had borrowed light of the fire-flies dancing there without.

“A fan, a cigarette, a scarlet flower behind the ear, and the Spanish donna would be quite perfect,” he said, surveying with lazy admiration the richly colored face, which looked out from the black lace, wrapped mantilla-wise over the dark hair and whitely gleaming arms.

“Is the snowdrop gone? Then I will come in, and hear how the new handmaid suits. I saw her at her pleasing task.”

“So well that I should like to keep her at it long and often. Where is Felix?”

His words, his look, angered Olivia, and she answered with smiling ambiguity,—

“Out of his misery, at last.”

“Cruel as ever. I told him it would be so.”

“On the contrary, I have been kind, as I promised to be.”

“Then his face belied him.”

“Would it please you, if I had ventured to forestall your promised gift, and accepted all Felix has to offer me, himself. I have my whims, like you, and follow them as recklessly.”

Helwyze knit his brows, but answered negligently, “Folly never pleases me. It will be amusing to see which tires first. I shall miss him; but his place is already filled, and Gladys has the charm of novelty.”

“You have spoken, then?”

“Forewarned, forearmed; I have her promise, and Felix can go when he likes.”

Olivia paled, dropped her mask, and exclaimed in undisguised alarm,—

“There is no need: I have no thought of such folly! My kindness to Felix was the sparing him an avowal, which was simply absurd. A word, a laugh, did it, for ridicule cures more quickly and surely than compassion.”

“I thought so. Why try to fence with me, Madama? you always get the worst of it,” and Helwyze made the green twig whistle through the air with a sharp turn of the wrist, as he rose to go; for these two, bound together by a mutual wrong, seldom met without bitter words, the dregs of a love which might have blest them both.

He found Felix waiting for him, in a somewhat haughty mood; Olivia having judged wisely that ridicule, though a harsh, was a speedy cure for the youthful delusion, which had been fostered by the isolation in which they lived, and the ardent imagination of a poet.

“You were right, sir. What are your commands?” he asked, controlling disappointment, pique, and unwillingness with a spirit that won respect and forbearance even from Helwyze, who answered with a cordial warmth, as rare as charming,—

“I have none: the completion of my wish I leave to you. Consult your own time and pleasure, and, when it is happily accomplished, be assured I shall not forget that you have shown me the obedience of a son.”

Quick as a child to be touched, and won by kindness, Canaris flushed with grateful feeling and put out his hand impulsively, as he had done when selling his liberty, for now he was selling his love.

“Forgive my waywardness. I _will_ be guided by you, for I owe you my life, and all the happiness I have known in it. Gladys shall be a daughter to you; but give me time—I must teach myself to forget.”

His voice broke as he stumbled over the last words, for pride was sore, and submission hard. But Helwyze soothed the one and softened the other by one of the sympathetic touches which occasionally broke from him, proving that the man’s heart, was not yet quite dead. Laying his hand upon the young man’s shoulder, he said in a tone which stirred the hearer deeply,—

“I feared this pain was in store for you, but could not save you from it. Accept the gentle comforter I bring you, for I have known the same pain, and _I_ had no Gladys.”

VI.

So the days went by, fast and fair in outward seeming, while an undercurrent of unquiet emotion rolled below. Helwyze made no sign of impatience, but silently forwarded his wish, by devoting himself to Olivia; thereby making a green oasis in the desert of her life, and leaving the young pair to themselves.

At first, Canaris shunned every one as much as possible; but sympathy, not solitude, was the balm he wanted, and who could give it him so freely as Gladys? Her mute surprise and doubt and grief at this capricious coldness, after such winning warmth, showed him that the guileless heart was already his, and added a soothing sense of power to the reluctance and regret which by turns tormented him.

Irresistibly drawn by the best instincts of a faulty but aspiring nature to that which was lovely, true, and pure, he soon returned to Gladys, finding in her sweet society a refreshment and repose Olivia’s could never give him. Love he did not feel, but affection, the more helpful for its calmness; confidence, which was given again fourfold; and reverence, daily deepening as time showed him the gentle strength and crystal clarity of the spirit he was linking to his own by ties which death itself could not sever. But the very virtues which won, also made him hesitate, though rash enough when yielding to an attraction far less noble. A sense of unworthiness restrained him, even when reluctance had passed from resignation to something like desire, and he paused, as one might, who longed to break a delicate plant, yet delayed, lest it should wither too quickly in his hand.

Helwyze and Olivia watched this brief wooing with peculiar interest. She, being happy herself, was full of good hope for Gladys, and let her step, unwarned, into the magic circle drawn around her. He sat as if at a play, enjoying the pretty pastoral enacted before him, content to let “summer and seclusion” bring the young pair together as naturally and easily as spring-time mates the birds. Suspense gave zest to the new combination, surprise added to its flavor, and a dash of danger made it unusually attractive to him.

Canaris came to him one day, with a resolute expression on his face, which rendered it noble, as well as beautiful.

“Sir, I will not do this thing; I dare not.”

“Dare not! Is cowardice to be added to disobedience and falsehood?” and Helwyze looked up from his book with a contemptuous frown.

“I will not be sneered out of my purpose; for I never did a braver, better act than when I say to you, ‘I dare not lie to Gladys.’”

“What need of lying? Surely you love her now, or you are a more accomplished actor than I thought you.”

“I have tried,—tried too faithfully for her peace, I fear; but, though I reverence her as an angel, I do _not_ love her as a woman. How can I look into her innocent, confiding face, and tell her,—she who is all truth,—that I love as she does?”

“Yet that is the commonest, most easily forgiven falsehood a man can utter. Is it so hard for _you_ to deceive?”

Quick and deep rose the hot scarlet to Canaris’s face, and his eyes fell, as if borne down by the emphasis of that one word. But the sincerity of his desire brought courage even out of shame; and, lifting his head with a humility more impressive than pride or anger, he said, steadily,—

“If this truth redeems that falsehood, I shall, at least, have recovered my own self-respect. I never knew that I had lost it, till Gladys showed me how poor I was in the virtue which makes her what she is.”

“What conscientious qualm is this? Where would this truth-telling bring you? How would your self-respect bear the knowledge that you had broken the girl’s heart? for, angel as you call her, she has one, and you have stolen it.”

“At your bidding.”

“Long before I thought of it. Did you imagine you could play with her, to pique Olivia, without harm to Gladys? Is yours a face to smile on a woman, day after day, and not teach her to love? In what way but this _can_ you atone for such selfish thoughtlessness? Come, if we are to talk of honor and honesty, do it fairly, and not shift the responsibility of your acts upon my shoulders.”

“Have I done that? I never meant to trouble her. Is there no way out of it but this? Oh, sir, I am not fit to marry her! What am I, to take a fellow-creature’s happiness into my hands? What have I to offer her but the truth in return for her love, if I must take it to secure her peace?”

“If you offer the truth, you certainly _will_ have nothing else, and not even receive love in return, perhaps; for her respect may go with all the rest. If I know her, the loss of that would wound her heart more deeply than the disappointment your silence will bring her now. Think of this, and be wise as well as generous in the atonement you should make.”

“Bound, whichever way I look; for when I meant to be kindest I am cruel.”

Canaris stood perplexed, abashed, remorseful; for Helwyze had the art to turn even his virtues into weapons against him, making his new-born regard for Gladys a reason for being falsely true, dishonorably tender. The honest impulse suddenly looked weak and selfish, compassion seemed nobler than sincerity, and present peace better than future happiness.

Helwyze saw that he was wavering, and turned the scale by calling to his aid one of the strongest passions that rule men,—the spirit of rivalry,—knowing well its power over one so young, so vain and sensitive.

“Felix, there must be an end of this; I am tired of it. Since you are more enamoured of truth than Gladys, choose, and abide by it. I shall miss my congenial comrade, but I will not keep him if he feels my friendship slavery. I release you from all promises: go your way, in peace; I can do without you.”

A daring offer, and Helwyze risked much in making it; but he knew the man before him, and that in seeming to set free, he only added another link to the invisible chain by which he held him. Canaris looked relieved, amazed, and touched, as he exclaimed, incredulously,—

“Do you mean it, sir?”

“I do; but in return for your liberty I claim the right to use mine as I will.”

“Use it? I do not understand.”

“To comfort Gladys.”

“How?”

“You do not love her, and leave her doubly forlorn, since you have given her a glimpse of love. I must befriend her, as you will not; and when she comes to me, as she has promised, if she is happy, I shall keep her.”

“As _fille adoptive_.”

Canaris affirmed, not asked, this; and, in the changed tone, the suspicious glance, Helwyze saw that he had aimed well. With a smile that was a sneer, he answered coldly,—

“Hardly that: the paternal element is sadly lacking in me; and, if it were not, I fear a man of forty could not adopt a girl of eighteen without compromising her, especially one so lonely and so lovely as poor little Gladys.”

“You will marry her? Yet when I hinted it, you said, ‘Impossible!’”

“I did; but then I did not know how helpful she could be, how glad to love, how easy to be won by kindness. _Ennui_ drives one to do the rashest things; and when you are gone, I shall find it difficult to fill your place. ’Tis a pity to tie the pretty creature to such a clod. But, if I can help and keep her in no other way, I may do it, remembering that her captivity would be a short one; it should be my care that it was a very light one while it lasted.”

“But she loves _me_!” exclaimed Canaris, with jealous inconsistency.

“I fear so; yet you reject her for a scruple. Hearts are easily caught in the rebound; and who will hold hers more gently than I? Olivia will tell you I _can_ be gentle when it suits me.”

The name stung Canaris, where pride was sorest; and the thought, that this man could take from him both the woman whom he loved and the girl who loved him, roused an ignoble desire to silence the noble one. He showed it instantly, for his eye shot a quick glance at the mirror; a smile that was almost insolent passed over his face; and his air was full of the proud consciousness of youth, health, comeliness, and talent.

“Thanks for my freedom; I shall know how to use it. Since I may tell Gladys the truth, I do not dread her love so much; and will atone generously, if I can. I think she will accept poverty with me rather than luxury with you. At least she shall have her choice.”

“Well said. You will succeed, since you possess all the gifts which win women except wealth and”—

“Stop! you shall _not_ say it,” cried Canaris, hotly. “Are you possessed of a devil, that you torment me so?” He clenched his hands, and walked fast through the room, as if to escape from some fierce impulse.

A certain, almost brutal, frankness characterized the intercourse of these men at times; for the tie between them was a peculiar one, and fretted both, though both clung to it with strange tenacity. With equal candor and entire composure Helwyze answered the excited question.

“We are all possessed, more or less; happy the man who is master. My demon is a bad one; for your intellectual devil is hard to manage, since he demands the best of us, and is not satisfied or cheated as easily as some that are stronger, yet less cunning. Yours is ambition,—an insatiable fellow, who gives you no rest. I had a fancy to help you rule him; but he proves less interesting that I thought to find him, and is getting to be a bore. See what you can do, alone; only, when he gets the upper hand again, excuse me from interfering: once is enough.”

Canaris made no reply, but dashed out of the room, as if he could bear no more, leaving Helwyze to throw down his book, muttering impatiently,—

“Here is a froward favorite, and excitement with a vengeance! He will not speak yet; for with all his fire he is wary, and while he fumes I must work. But how? but how?”

VII.

A storm raged all that night; but dawn came up so dewy and serene, that the world looked like a child waking after anger, with happy smiles upon its lips, penitential tears in its blue eyes.

Canaris was early astir, after a night as stormy within as without, during which he had gone through so many alternations of feeling, that, weary and still undecided, he was now in the mood to drift whithersoever the first eddy impelled him. Straight to Gladys, it seemed; and, being superstitious, he accepted the accident as a good omen, following his own desire, and calling it fate.

Wandering in the loneliest, wildest spot of all the domain, he came upon her as suddenly as if a wish had brought her to the nook haunted for both by pleasant memories. Dew-drenched her feet, hatless her head; but the feet stood firmly on the cliff which shelved down to the shore below, and the upturned head shone bright against the deep blue of the sky. Morning peace dwelt in her eyes, morning freshness glowed on her cheek, and her whole attitude was one of unconscious aspiration, as she stood there with folded hands and parted lips, drinking in the storm-cooled breeze that blew vigorous and sweet across the lake.

“What are you doing here so early, little dryad?” and Canaris paused, with an almost irresistible desire to put out his arms and hold her, lest she fly away, so airy was her perch, so eager her look into the boundless distance before her.

“Only being happy!” and she looked down into his face with such tender and timid joy in her own, he hardly had need to ask,—

“Why, Gladys?”

“Because of this,” showing a string of pearls that hung from her hand, half-hidden among the trailing bits of greenery gathered in her walk.

“Who gave you that?” demanded Canaris, eying it with undisguised surprise; for the pearls were great, globy things, milk-white, and so perfect that any one but Gladys would have seen how costly was the gift.

“Need you ask?” she said, blushing brightly.

“Why not? Do you suspect me?”

“You cannot deceive me by speaking roughly and looking stern. Who but you would put these in my basket without a word, and let me find them there when I laid my work away last night? I was so pleased, so proud, I could not help keeping them, though far too beautiful for me.”

Then Canaris knew who had done it; and his hand tightened over the necklace, while his eye went towards the lake, as if he longed to throw it far into the water. He checked himself, and, turning it about with a disdainful air, said, coldly,—

“If _I_ had given you this, it should have been quite perfect. The cross is not large nor fine enough to match the chain. Do you see?”

“Ah, but the little cross is more precious than all the rest! That is the one jewel my mother left me, and I put it there to make my rosary complete;” and Gladys surveyed it with a pretty mixture of devout affection and girlish pleasure.

“I’ll give you a better one than this,—a string of tiny carved saints in scented wood, blessed by holy hands, and fit to say prayers like yours upon. You will take it, though my gift is not half so costly as his?” he said, eagerly.

“Whose?”

“Helwyze gave you that.”

“But why?” and Gladys opened wide her clear, large eyes in genuine astonishment.

“He is a generous master; your singing pleases him, and he pays you so,” replied Canaris, bitterly.

“He is not my master!”

“He will be.”

“Never! I shall not go, if I am to be burdened with benefits. I will earn my just due, but not be overpaid. Tell him so.”

Gladys caught back the chain, unclasped the cross, and threw the pearls upon the grass, where they lay, gleaming, like great drops of frozen dew, among the green. Canaris liked that; thought proudly, “_I_ have no need to bribe;” and hastened to make his own the thing another seemed to covet. Drawing nearer, he looked up, asking, in a tone that gave the question its true meaning,—

“May _I_ be your master, Gladys?”

“Not even you.”

“Your slave, then?”

“Never that.”

“Your lover?”

“Yes.”

“But I can give you nothing except myself.”

“Love is enough;” and finding his arms about her, his face, warm and wistful, close to hers, Gladys bent to give and take the first kiss, which was all they had to bestow upon each other.

Singularly unimpassioned was the embrace in which they stood for a brief instant. Canaris held her with a clasp more jealous than fond; Gladys clung to him, yet trembled, as if some fear subdued her joy; and both vaguely felt the incompleteness of a moment which should be perfect.

“You do love me, then?” she whispered, wondering at his silence.

“Should I ask you to be my wife if I did not?” and the stern look melted into an expression of what seemed, to her, reproach.

“No; ah, no! I fancied that I might have deceived myself. I am so young, you are so kind. I never had a—friend before;” and Gladys smiled shyly, as the word which meant “lover” dropped from her lips.

“I am not kind: I am selfish, cruel, perhaps, to let you love me so. You will never reproach me for it, Gladys? I mean to save you from ills you know nothing of; to cherish and protect you—if I can.”

Verily in earnest now; for the touch of those innocent lips reminded him of all his promise meant, recalled his own unfitness to guide or guard another, when so wayward and unwise himself. Gladys could not understand the true cause of his beseeching look, his urgency of tone; but saw in them only the generous desire to keep safe the creature dearest to him, and loved him the more for it.

“I never can think you selfish, never will reproach you but will love and trust and honor you all my life,” she answered, with a simplicity as solemn as sincere; and, holding out the hand that held her dead mother’s cross, Canaris pledged his troth upon it with the mistaken chivalry which makes many a man promise to defend a woman against all men but himself.

“Now you can be happy again,” he said, feeling that he had done his best to keep her so.