Part 9

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.

XIII.

After what would have seemed a wonderfully short time to a more careless waiter, three blows were struck, in the French fashion, and Canaris had barely time to reach his place, when the deep blue curtains slid noiselessly apart, showing the visible portion of the hall, arranged to suggest a mediæval room. An easy task, when a suit of rusty armor already stood there; and Helwyze had brought spoils from all quarters of the globe, in the shape of old furniture, tapestry, weapons, and trophies of many a wild hunt.

“What is it?” whispered Canaris eagerly.

“An Idyl of the King.”

“I see: the first. How well they look it!”

They did; Olivia, as

“An ancient dame in dim brocade; And near her, like a blossom, vermeil-white, That lightly breaks a faded flower-sheath, Stood the fair Enid, all in faded silk.”

Gladys, clad in a quaint costume of tarnished gray and silver damask, singing, in “the sweet voice of a bird,”—

“Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel, and lower the proud; Turn thy wild wheel through sunshine, storm, and cloud; Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.

“Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile and frown; With that wild wheel we go not up nor down; Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.

“Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands; Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands; For man is man and master of his fate.

“Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd; Thy wheel and thou art shadows in the cloud; Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.”

There was something inexpressibly touching in the way Gladys gave the words, which had such significance addressed to those who listened so intently, that they nearly forgot to pay the tribute which all actors, the greatest as the least, desire, when the curtain dropped, and the song was done.

“A capital idea of Olivia’s, and beautifully carried out. This promises to be pleasant;” and Helwyze sat erect upon the divan, where Canaris came to lounge beside him.

“Which comes next? I don’t remember. If it is Vivien, they will have to skip it, unless they call you in for Merlin,” he said, talking gayly, because a little conscience-stricken by the look Gladys wore, as she sung, with her eyes upon him,—

“Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.”

“They will not want a Merlin; for Gladys could not act Vivien, if she would,” answered Helwyze, tapping restlessly as he waited.

“She said she could do ‘_any thing_’ to-night; and, upon my life, she looked as if she might even beguile you ‘mighty master,’ of your strongest spell.”

“She will never try.”

But both were mistaken; for, when they looked again, the dim light showed a dark and hooded shape, with glittering eyes and the semblance of a flowing, hoary beard, leaning half-hidden in a bower of tall shrubs from the conservatory. It was Olivia, as Merlin; and, being of noble proportions, she looked the part excellently. Upon the wizard’s knee sat Vivien,—

“A twist of gold was round her hair; A robe of samite without price, that more exprest Than hid her, clung about her lissome limbs, In color like the satin-shining palm On sallows in the windy gleams of March.”

In any other mood, Gladys would never have consented to be loosely clad in a great mantle of some Indian fabric, which shimmered like woven light, with its alternate stripes of gold-covered silk and softest wool. Shoulders and arms showed rosy white under the veil of hair which swept to her knee, as she clung there, singing sweet and low, with eyes on Merlin’s face, lips near his own, and head upon his breast:—

“In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours, Faith and unfaith can ne’er be equal powers; Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all.

“It is the little rift within the lute That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening, slowly silence all.

“The little rift within the lover’s lute, Or little pitted speck in garner’d fruit, That, rotting inward, slowly moulders all.

“It is not worth the keeping: let it go: But shall it? Answer, darling, answer ‘No;’ And trust me not at all or all in all.”

There Gladys seemed to forget her part, and, turning, stretched her arms towards her husband, as if in music she had found a tongue to plead her cause. The involuntary gesture recalled to her that other verse which Vivien added to her song; and something impelled her to sing it, standing erect, with face, figure, voice all trembling with the strong emotion that suddenly controlled her:—

“My name, once mine, now thine, is closelier mine, For fame, could fame be mine, that fame were thine; And shame, could shame be thine, that shame were mine; So trust me not at all or all in all.”

Down fell the curtain there, and the two men looked at one another in silence for an instant, dazzled, troubled, and surprised; for in this brilliant, impassioned creature they did not recognize the Gladys they believed they knew so well.

“What possessed her to sing that? She is so unlike herself, I do not know her,” said Canaris, excited by the discoveries he was making.

“She is inspired to-night; so be prepared for any thing. These women will work wonders, they are acting to the men they love,” answered Helwyze, warily, yet excited also; because, for him, a double drama was passing on that little stage, and he found it marvellously fascinating.

“I never knew how beautiful she was!” mused Canaris, half aloud, his eyes upon the blue draperies which hid her from his sight.

“You never saw her in such gear before. Splendor suits her present mood, as well as simplicity becomes her usual self-restraint. You have made her jealous, and your angel will prove herself a woman, after all.”

“Is that the cause of this sudden change in her? Then I don’t regret playing truant, for the woman suits me better than the angel,” cried Canaris, conscious that the pale affection he had borne his wife so long was already glowing with new warmth and color, in spite of his seeming neglect.

“Wait till you see Olivia as Guinevere. I know she cannot resist that part, and I suspect she is willing to efface herself so far that she may take us by storm by and by.”

Helwyze prophesied truly; and, when next the curtains parted, the stately Queen sat in the nunnery of Almesbury, with the little novice at her feet. Olivia _was_ right splendid now, for her sumptuous beauty well became the costly stuffs in which she had draped herself with the graceful art of a woman whose physical loveliness was her best possession. A trifle _too_ gorgeous, perhaps, for the repentant Guinevere; but a most grand and gracious spectacle, nevertheless, as she leaned in the tall carved chair, with jewelled arms lying languidly across her lap, and absent eyes still full of love and longing for lost Launcelot.

Gladys, in white wimple and close-folded gown of gray, sat on a stool beside the “one low light,” humming softly, her rosary fallen at her feet,—

“the Queen looked up, and said, ‘O maiden, if indeed you list to sing Sing, and unbind my heart, that I may weep.’ Whereat full willingly sang the little maid,

Late, late, so late! and dark the night and chill! Late, late, so late! but we can enter still. Too late! too late! ye cannot enter now.

No light had we: for that we do repent, And, learning this, the bridegroom will relent. Too late! too late! ye cannot enter now.

No light, so late! and dark and chill the night! O let us in, that we may find the light! Too late! too late! ye cannot enter now.

Have we not heard the bridegroom is so sweet? O let us in, tho’ late, to kiss his feet! No, no, too late! ye cannot enter now.”

Slowly the proud head had drooped, the stately figure sunk, till, as the last lament died away, nothing remained of splendid Guinevere but a hidden face, a cloud of black hair from which the crown had fallen, a heap of rich robes quivering with the stormy sobs of a guilty woman’s smitten heart. The curtains closed on this tableau, which was made the more effective by the strong contrast between the despairing Queen and the little novice telling her beads in meek dismay.

“Good heavens, that sounded like the wail of a lost soul! My blood runs cold, and I feel as if I ought to say my prayers,” muttered Canaris, with a shiver; for, with his susceptible temperament, music always exerted over him an almost painful power.

“If you knew any,” sneered Helwyze, whose eyes now glittered with something stronger than excitement.

“I do: Gladys taught me, and I am not ashamed to own it.”

“Much good may it do you.” Then, in a quieter tone, he asked, “Is there any song in ‘Elaine’? I forget; and that is the only one we have not had.”

“There is ‘The Song of Love and Death.’ Gladys was learning it lately; and, if I remember rightly, it was heart-rending. I hope she will not sing it, for this sort of thing is rather too much for me;” and Canaris got up to wander aimlessly about, humming the gayest airs he knew, as if to drown the sorrowful “Too late! too late!” still wailing in his ear.

By this time Gladys was no longer quite herself: an inward excitement possessed her, a wild desire to sing her very heart out came over her, and a strange chill, which she thought a vague presentiment of coming ill, crept through her blood. Every thing seemed vast and awful; every sense grew painfully acute; and she walked as in a dream, so vivid, yet so mysterious, that she did not try to explain it even to herself. Her identity was doubled: one Gladys moved and spoke as she was told,—a pale, dim figure, of no interest to any one; the other was alive in every fibre, thrilled with intense desire for something, and bent on finding it, though deserts, oceans, and boundless realms of air were passed to gain it.

Olivia wondered at her unsuspected power, and felt a little envious of her enchanting gift. But she was too absorbed in “setting the stage,” dressing her prima donna, and planning how to end the spectacle with her favorite character of Cleopatra, to do more than observe that Gladys’s eyes were luminous and large, her face growing more and more colorless, her manner less and less excited, yet unnaturally calm.

“This is the last, and you have the stage alone. Do your best for Felix; then you shall rest and be thanked,” she whispered, somewhat anxiously, as she placed Elaine in her tower, leaning against the dark screen, which was unfolded, to suggest the casement she flung back when Launcelot passed below,—

“And glanced not up, nor waved his hand, Nor bade farewell, but sadly rode away.”

The “lily maid of Astolat” could not have looked more wan and weird than Gladys, as she stood in her trailing robes of dead white, with loosely gathered locks, hands clasped over the gay bit of tapestry which simulated the cover of the shield, eyes that seemed to see something invisible to those about her, and began her song, in a veiled voice, at once so sad and solemn, that Helwyze held his breath, and Canaris felt as if she called him from beyond the grave:—

“Sweet is true love, tho’ given in vain, in vain; And sweet is death, who puts an end to pain; I know not which is sweeter, no, not I.

Love, art thou sweet? then bitter death must be; Love, thou art bitter; sweet is death to me. O Love, if death be sweeter, let me die.

Sweet love, that seems not made to fade away, Sweet death, that seems to make us loveless clay, I know not which is sweeter, no, not I.

I fain would follow love, if that could be; I needs must follow death, who calls for me: Call and I follow, I follow! let me die!”

Carried beyond self-control by the unsuspected presence of the drug, which was doing its work with perilous rapidity, Gladys, remembering only that the last line should be sung with force, and that she sung for Felix, obeyed the wild impulse to let her voice rise and ring out with a shrill, despairing power and passion, which startled every listener, and echoed through the room, like Elaine’s unearthly cry of hapless love and death.

Olivia dropped her asp, terrified; the maids stared, uncertain whether it was acting or insanity; and Helwyze sprung up aghast, fearing that he had dared too much. But Canaris, seeing only the wild, woful eyes fixed on his, the hands wrung as if in pain, forgot every thing but Gladys, and rushed between the curtains, exclaiming in real terror,—

“Don’t look so! don’t sing so! my God, she is dying!”

Not dying, only slipping fast into the unconscious stage of the hasheesh dream, whose coming none can foretell but those accustomed to its use. Pale and quiet she lay in her husband’s arms, with half-open eyes and fluttering breath, smiling up at him so strangely that he was bewildered as well as panic-stricken. Olivia forgot her Cleopatra to order air and water; the maids flew for salts and wine; Helwyze with difficulty hid his momentary dismay; while Canaris, almost beside himself, could only hang over the couch where lay “the lily-maid,” looking as if already dead, and drifting down to Camelot.

“Gladys, do you know me?” he cried, as a little color came to her lips after the fiery draught Olivia energetically administered.

The eyes opened wider, the smile grew brighter, and she lifted her hand to bring him nearer, for he seemed immeasurably distant.

“Felix! Let me be still, quite still; I want to sleep. Good-night, good-night.”

She thought she kissed him; then his face receded, vanished, and, as she floated buoyantly away upon the first of the many oceans to be crossed in her mysterious quest, a far-off voice seemed to say, solemnly, as if in a last farewell,—

“Hush! let her sleep in peace.”

It was Helwyze; and, having felt her pulse, he assured them all that she was only over-excited, must rest an hour or two, and would soon be quite herself again. So the brief panic ended quietly; and, having lowered the lights, spread Guinevere’s velvet mantle over her, and re-assured themselves that she was sleeping calmly, the women went to restore order to ante-room and hall, Canaris sat down to watch beside Gladys, and Helwyze betook himself to the library.

“Is she still sleeping?” he asked, with unconcealable anxiety, when Olivia joined him there.