A Modern Mephistopheles
XII
Olivia came before the swallows; for the three words, “I miss you,” would have brought her from the ends of the earth, had she exiled herself so far. She had waited for him to want and call her, as he often did when others wearied or failed him. Seldom had so long a time passed without some word from him; and endless doubts, fears, conjectures, had harassed her, as month after month went by, and no summons came. Now she hastened, ready for any thing he might ask of her, since her reward would be a glimpse of the only heaven she knew.
“Amuse Felix: he is falling in love with his wife, and it spoils both of them for my use. He says he has forgotten you. Come often, and teach him to remember, as penalty for his bad taste and manners,” was the single order Helwyze gave; but Olivia needed no other; and, for the sake of coming often, would have smiled upon a far less agreeable man than Canaris.
Gladys tried to welcome the new guest cordially, as an unsuspicious dove might have welcomed a falcon to its peaceful cote; but her heart sunk when she found her happy quiet sorely disturbed, her husband’s place deserted, and the old glamour slowly returning to separate them, in spite of all her gentle arts. For Canaris, feeling quite safe in the sincere affection which now bound him to his wife, was foolhardy in his desire to show Olivia how heart-whole he had become. This piqued her irresistibly, because Helwyze was looking on, and she would win his approval at any cost. So these three, from divers motives, joined together to teach poor Gladys how much a woman can suffer with silent fortitude and make no sign.
The weeks that followed seemed unusually gay and sunny ones; for April came in blandly, and Olivia made a pleasant stir throughout the house by her frequent visits, and the various excursions she proposed. Many of these Gladys escaped; for her pain was not the jealousy that would drive her to out-rival her rival, but the sorrowful shame and pity which made her long to hide herself, till Felix should come back and be forgiven. Helwyze naturally declined the long drives, the exhilarating rides in the bright spring weather, which were so attractive to the younger man, and sat at home watching Gladys, now more absorbingly interesting than ever. He could not but admire the patience, strength, and dignity of the creature; for she made no complaint, showed no suspicion, asked no advice, but went straight on, like one who followed with faltering feet, but unwavering eye, the single star in all the sky that would lead her right. A craving curiosity to know what she felt and thought possessed him, and he invited confidence by unwonted kindliness, as well as the unfailing courtesy he showed her.
But Gladys would not speak either to him or to her husband, who seemed wilfully blind to the slowly changing face, all the sadder for the smile it always wore when his eyes were on it. At first, Helwyze tried his gentlest arts; but, finding her as true as brave, was driven, by the morbid curiosity which he had indulged till it became a mania, to use means as subtle as sinful,—like a burglar, who, failing to pick a lock, grows desperate and breaks it, careless of consequences.
Taking his daily walk through the house, he once came upon Gladys watering the jardinière, which was her especial care, and always kept full of her favorite plants. She was not singing as she worked, but seriously busy as a child, holding in both hands her little watering-pot to shower the thirsty ferns and flowers, who turned up their faces to be washed with the silent delight which was their thanks.
“See how the dear things enjoy it! I feel as if they knew and watched for me, and I never like to disappoint them of their bath,” she said, looking over her shoulder, as he paused beside her. She was used to this now, and was never surprised or startled when below stairs by his noiseless approach.
“They are doing finely. Did Moss bring in some cyclamens? They are in full bloom now, and you are fond of them, I think?”
“Yes, here they are: both purple and white, so sweet and lovely! See how many buds this one has. I shall enjoy seeing them come out, they unfurl so prettily;” and, full of interest, Gladys parted the leaves to show several baby buds, whose rosy faces were just peeping from their green hoods.
Helwyze liked to see her among the flowers; for there was something peculiarly innocent and fresh about her then, as if the woman forgot her griefs, and was a girl again. It struck him anew, as she stood there in the sunshine, leaning down to tend the soft leaves and cherish the delicate buds with a caressing hand.
“Like seeks like: you are a sort of cyclamen yourself. I never observed it before, but the likeness is quite striking,” he said, with the slow smile which usually prefaced some speech which bore a double meaning.
“Am I?” and Gladys eyed the flowers, pleased, yet a little shy, of compliment from him.
“This is especially like you,” continued Helwyze, touching one of the freshest. “Out of these strong sombre leaves rises a wraith-like blossom, with white, softly folded petals, a rosy color on its modest face, and a most sweet perfume for those whose sense is fine enough to perceive it. Most of all, perhaps, it resembles you in this,—it hides its heart, and, if one tries to look too closely, there is danger of snapping the slender stem.”
“That is its nature, and it cannot help being shy. I kneel down and look up without touching it; then one sees that it has nothing to hide,” protested Gladys, following out the flower fancy, half in earnest, half in jest, for she felt there was a question and a reproach in his words.
“Perhaps not; let us see, in my way.” With a light touch Helwyze turned the reluctant cyclamen upward, and in its purple cup there clung a newly fallen drop, like a secret tear.
Mute and stricken, Gladys looked at the little symbol of herself, owning, with a throb of pain, that if in nothing else, they were alike in that.
Helwyze stood silent likewise, inhaling the faint fragrance while he softly ruffed the curled petals as if searching for another tear. Suddenly Gladys spoke out with the directness which always gave him a keen pleasure, asking, as she stretched her hand involuntarily to shield the more helpless flower,—
“Sir, why do you wish to read my heart?”
“To comfort it.”
“Do I need comfort, then?”
“Do you not?”
“If I have a sorrow, God only can console me, and He only need know it. To you it should be sacred. Forgive me if I seem ungrateful; but you cannot help me, if you would.”
“Do you doubt my will?”
“I try to doubt no one; but I fear—I fear many things;” and, as if afraid of saying too much, Gladys broke off, to hurry away, wearing so strange a look that Helwyze was consumed with a desire to know its meaning.
He saw no more of her till twilight, for Canaris took her place just then, reading a foreign book, which she could not manage; but, when Felix went out, he sought one of his solitary haunts, hoping she would appear.
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 “Check-mate,” 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, goodnight.”
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 reassured 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.
“Like a baby.What a high-strung little thing it is. If she had strength to bear the training, she would make a cantatrice to be proud of, Jasper.”
“Ah, but she never would! Fancy that modest creature on a stage for all the world to gape at. She was happiest in the nun’s gown tonight, though simply ravishing as Vivien. The pretty, bare feet were most effective ; but how did you persuade her to it?”
“I had no sandals as a compromise: I therefore insisted that the part must be so dressed or undressed, and she submitted. People usually do, when I command.”
“She was on her mettle: I could see that; and well she might be, with you for a rival. I give you my word, Olivia, if I did not know you were nearly forty, I should swear it was a lie; for ‘age cannot wither nor custom stale’ my handsome Cleopatra. We ought to have had that, by the by: it used to be your best bit. I could not be your Antony, but Felix might: he adores costuming, and would do it capitally.”
“Not old enough! Ah! what happy times those were;” and Olivia sighed sincerely, yet dramatically, for she knew she was looking wonderfully well, thrown down upon a couch, with her purple skirts sweeping about her, and two fine arms banded with gold clasped over her dark head.
Helwyze had flattered with a purpose. Canaris was in the way, Gladys might betray herself, and all was not safe yet; though in one respect the experiment had succeeded admirably, for he still tingled with the excitement of the evening. Now he wanted help, not sentiment, and, ignoring the sigh, said, carelessly,—
“If all obey when you insist, just make Felix go home with you.The drive will do him good, for he is as nervous as a woman, and I shall have him fidgeting about all night, unless he forgets his fright.”
“But Gladys?”
“She will be the better for a quiet nap, and ready, by the time he returns, to laugh at her heroics. He will only disturb her if he sits there, like a mourner at a death-bed.”
“That sounds sensible and friendly, and you do it very well, Jasper; but I am impressed that something is amiss. What is it? Better tell me; I shall surely find it out, and will not work in the dark. I see mischief in your eyes, and you cannot deceive me.”
Olivia spoke half in jest; but she had so often seen his face without a mask, that it was difficult to wear one in her presence. He frowned, hesitated, then fearing she would refuse the favor if he withheld the secret, he leaned towards her and answered in a whisper,—
“I gave Gladys hasheesh, and do not care to have Felix know it.”
“Jasper, how dared you?”
“She was restless, suffering for sleep. I know what that is, and out of pity gave her the merest taste. Upon my honor, no more than a child might safely take. She did not know what it was, and I thought she would only feel its soothing charm. She would, if it had not been for this masquerading. I did not count on that, and it was too much for her.”
“Will she not suffer from the after-effects?”
“Not a whit, if she is let alone. An hour hence she will be deliciously drowsy, and to-morrow none the worse. I had no idea it would affect her so powerfully; but I do not regret it, for it showed what the woman is capable of.”
“At your old tricks.You will never learn to let your fellow-creatures alone, till something terrible stops you. You were always prying into things, even as a boy, when I caught butterflies for you to look at.”
“I never killed them: only brushed off a trifle of the gloss by my touch, and let them go again, none the worse, except for the loss of a few invisible feathers.”
“Ah! but that delicate plumage is the glory of the insect; robbed of that, its beauty is marred. No one but their Maker can search hearts without harming them. I wonder how it will fare with yours when He looks for its perfection?”
Olivia spoke with a sudden seriousness, a yearning look, which jarred on nerves already somewhat unstrung, and Helwyze answered, in a mocking tone that silenced her effectually,—
“I am desperately curious to know. If I can come and tell you, I will: such pious interest deserves that attention.”
“Heaven forbid!” ejaculated Olivia, with a shiver.
“Then I will not. I have been such a poor ghost here, I suspect I shall be glad to rest eternally when I once fall asleep, if I can.”
Weary was his voice, weary his attitude, as, leaning an elbow on either knee, he propped his chin upon his hands, and sat brooding for a moment with his eyes upon the ground, asking himself for the thousandth time the great question which only hope and faith can answer truly.
Olivia rose. “You are tired; so am I. Good-night, Jasper, and pleasant dreams. But remember, no more tampering with Gladys, or I must tell her husband.”
“I have had my lesson. Take Felix with you, and I will send Mrs. Bland to sit with her till he comes back. Good-night, my cousin; thanks for a glimpse of the old times.” Such words, uttered with a pressure of the hand, conquered Olivia’s last scruple, and she went away to prefer her request in a form which made it impossible for Canaris to refuse. Gladys still slept quietly. The distance was not long, the fresh air grateful, Olivia her kindest self, and he obeyed, believing that the motherly old woman would take his place as soon as certain housewifely duties permitted.
Then Helwyze did an evil thing,—a thing few men could or would have done. He deliberately violated the sanctity of a human soul, robbing it alike of its most secret and most precious thoughts. Hasheesh had lulled the senses which guarded the treasure; now the magnetism of a potent will forced the reluctant lips to give up the key.
Like a thief he stole to Glady’s side, took in his the dimpled hands whose very childishness should have pleaded for her, and fixed his eyes upon the face before him, untouched by its helpless innocence, its unnatural expression. The half-open eyes were heavy as dew-drunken violets, the sweet red mouth was set, the agitated bosom still rose and fell, like a troubled sea subsiding after storm.
So sitting, stern and silent as the fate he believed in, Helwyze concentrated every power upon the accomplishment of the purpose to which he bent his will. He called it psychological curiosity; for not even to himself did he care confess the true meaning of the impulse which drove him to this act, and dearly did he pay for it.
Soon the passive palms thrilled in his own, the breath came faint and slow, color died, and life seemed to recede from the countenance, leaving a pale effigy of the woman; lately so full of vitality. “It works! it works!” muttered Helwyze, lifting his head at length to wipe the dampness from his brow, and send a piercing glance about the shadowy room. Then, kneeling down beside the couch, he put his lips to her ear, whispering in a tone of still command,—
“Gladys, do you hear me?”
Like the echo of a voice, so low, expressionless, and distant was it, the answer came,—
“I hear.”
“Will you answer me?”
“I must.”
“You have a sorrow,—tell it.”
“All is so false. I am unhappy without confidence,” sighed the voice.
“Can you trust no one?”
“No one here, but Felix.”
“Yet he deceives, he does not love you.”
“He will.”
“Is this the hope which sustains you?”
“Yes.”
“And you forgive, you love him still?”
“Always.”
“If the hope fails?”
“It will not: I shall have help.”
“What help?”
No answer now, but the shadow of a smile seemed to float across the silent lips as if reflected from a joy too deep and tender for speech to tell.
“Speak! what is this happiness? The hope of freedom?”
“It will come.”
“How?”
“When you die.”
He caught his breath, and for an instant seemed daunted by the truth he had evoked; for it was terrible, so told, so heard.
“You hate me, then?” he whispered, almost fiercely, in the ear that never shrank from his hot lips.
“I doubt and dread you.”
“Why, Gladys, why? To you I am not cruel.”
“Too kind, alas, too kind!”
“And yet you fear me?”
“God help us.Yes.”
“What is your fear?”
“No, no, I will not tell it!”
Some inward throe of shame or anguish turned the pale face paler, knotted the brow, and locked the lips, as if both soul and body revolted from the thought thus ruthlessly dragged to light. Instinct, the first, last, strongest impulse of human nature, struggled blindly to save the woman from betraying the dread which haunted her heart like a spectre, and burned her lips in the utterance of its name. But Helwyze was pitiless, his will indomitable; his eye held, his hand controlled, his voice commanded; and the answer came, so reluctantly, so inaudibly, that he seemed to divine, not hear it.
“What fear?”
“Your love.”
“You see, you know it, then?”
“I do not see, I vaguely feel; I pray God I may never know.”
With the involuntary recoil of a guilty joy, a shame as great, Helwyze dropped the nerveless hands, turned from the mutely accusing face, let the troubled spirit rest, and asked no more. But his punishment began as he stood there, finding the stolen truth a heavier burden than baffled doubt or desire had been; since forbidden knowledge was bitter to the taste, forbidden love possessed no sweetness, and the hidden hope, putting off its well-worn disguise, confronted him in all its ugliness.
An awesome silence filled the room, until he lifted up his eyes, and looked at Gladys with a look which would have wrung her heart could she have seen it. She did not see; for she lay there so still, so white, so dead, he seemed to have scared away the soul he had vexed with his impious questioning.
In remorseful haste, Helwyze busied himself about her, till she woke from that sleep within a sleep, moaned wearily, closed the unseeing eyes, and drifted away into more natural slumber, dream-haunted, but deep and quiet.
Then he stole away as he had come, and, sending the old woman to watch Gladys, shut himself into his own room, to keep a vigil which lasted until dawn; for all the poppies of the East could not have brought oblivion that night.
XV
“Back again, earlier than before. But not to stay long, thank Heaven! By another month we will be truly at home, my Gladys,” whispered Canaris, as they went up the steps, in the mellow September sunshine.
“I hope so!” she answered, fervently, and paused an instant before entering the door; for, coming from the light and warmth without, it seemed as dark and chilly as the entrance to a tomb.
“You are tired, love? Come and rest before you see a soul.”
With a new sort of tenderness, Canaris led her up to her own little bower, and lingered there to arrange the basket of fresh recruits she had brought for her winter garden: while Gladys lay contentedly on the couch where he placed her, looking about the room as if greeting old friends; but her eyes always came back to him, full of a reposeful happiness which proved that all was well with her.
“There! now the little fellows sit right comfortably in the moss, and will soon feel at home. I’ll go find Mother Bland, and see what his Serene Highness is about,” said the young man, rising from his work, warm and gay, but in no haste to go, as he had been before.
Gladys remembered that; and when, at last, he left her, she shut her eyes to re-live, in thought, the three blissful months she had spent in teaching him to love her with the love in which self bears no part. Before the happy reverie was half over, the old lady arrived; and, by the time the young one was ready, Canaris came to fetch her.
“My dearest, I am afraid we must give up our plan,” he said, softly, as he led her away:“Helwyze is so changed, I come to tell you, lest it should shock you when you see him. I think it would be cruel to go at once. Can you wait a little longer?”
“If we ought. How is he changed?”
“Just worn away, as a rock is by the beating of the sea, till there seems little left of him except the big eyes and greater sharpness of both tongue and temper. Say nothing about it, and seem not to notice it; else he will freeze you with a look, as he did me when I exclaimed.”
“Poor man! we will be very patient, very kind; for it must be awful to think of dying with no light beyond,” sighed Gladys, touching the cross at her white throat.
“A Dante without a Beatrice: I am happier than he;” and Canaris laid his cheek against hers with the gesture of a boy, the look of a man who has found the solace which is also his salvation.
Helwyze received them quietly, a little coldly, even; and Gladys reproached herself with too long neglect of what she had assumed as a duty, when she saw how ill he looked, for his summer had not been a blissful one. He had spent it in wishing for her, and in persuading himself that the desire was permissible, since he asked nothing but what she had already given him,—her presence and her friendship. It was her intellect he loved and wanted, not her heart; that she might give her husband wholly, since he understood and cared for affection only: her mind, with all its lovely possibilities, Helwyze coveted, and reasoned himself into the belief that he had a right to enjoy it, conscious all the while that his purpose was a delusion and a snare. Olivia had mourned over the moody taciturnity which made a lonely cranny of the cliffs his favorite resort, where he sat, day after day, watching, with an irresistible fascination, the ever-changing sea,—beautiful and bitter as the hidden tide of thought and feeling in his own breast, where lay the image of Gladys, as placid, yet as powerful, as the moon which ruled the ebb and flow of that vaster ocean. Being a fatalist for want of a higher faith, he left all to chance, and came home simply resolved to enjoy what was left him as long and as unobtrusively as possible; since Felix owed him much, and Gladys need never know what she had prayed not to know.
So the old life began again, at least in outward seeming; but it was impossible for it to last long.The air was too full of the electricity of suppressed and conflicting emotions to be wholesome; former relations could not be resumed, because sincerity had gone out of them; and the quiet, which reigned for a time, was only the lull before the storm.
Gladys soon felt this, but tried to think it was owing to the contrast between the free, happy days she had enjoyed so much, and uttered no complaint; for Felix was busy with his play, sanguine as ever, inspired now by a nobler ambition than before, and happy in his work.
Helwyze had flattered himself that he could be content with the harmless shadow, since he could not possess the sweet substance of a love whose seeming purity was its most delusive danger. But he soon discovered “how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man’s eyes;” and, even while he made no effort to rob Canaris of his treasure, he hated him for possessing it, finding the hatred all the more poignant, because it was his own hand which had forced Felix to seize and secure it. He had thought to hold and hide this new secret; but it held him, and would not be hidden, for it was stronger than even his strong will, and ruled him with a power which at times filled him with a sort of terror. Having allowed it to grow, and taken it to his bosom, he could not cast it out again, and it became a torment, not the comfort he had hoped to find it. His daily affliction was to see how much the young pair were to each other, to read in their faces a hundred happy hopes and confidences in which he had no part, and to remember the confession wrung from the lips dearest to him, that his death would bring to them their much-desired freedom.
At times he was minded to say “Go,” but the thought of the utter blank her absence would leave behind daunted him. Often an almost uncontrollable desire to tell her that which would mar her trust in her husband tempted him; for, having yielded to a greater temptation, all lesser ones seemed innocent beside it; and, worse than all, the old morbid longing for some excitement, painful even, if it could not be pleasurable, goaded him to the utterance of half truths, which irritated Canaris and perplexed Gladys, till she could no longer doubt the cause of this strange mood. It seemed as if her innocent hand gave the touch which set the avalanche slipping swiftly but silently to its destructive fall.
One day when Helwyze was pacing to and fro in the library, driven by the inward storm which no outward sign betrayed, except his excessive pallor and unusual restlessness, she looked up from her book, asking compassionately,—
“Are you suffering, sir?”
“Torment.”
“Can I do nothing?”
“Nothing!”
She went on reading, as if glad to be left in peace; for distrust, as well as pity, looked out from her frank eyes, and there was no longer any pleasure in the duties she performed for Canaris’s sake.
But Helwyze, jealous even of the book which seemed to absorb her, soon paused again, to ask, in a calmer tone,—
“What interests you?”
“ ‘The Scarlet Letter.’ ”
The hands loosely clasped behind him were locked more closely by an involuntary gesture, as if the words made him wince; otherwise unmoved, he asked again, with the curiosity he often showed about her opinions of all she read,—
“What do you think of Hester?”
“I admire her courage; for she repented, and did not hide her sin with a lie.”
“Then you must despise Dimmesdale?”
“I ought, perhaps; but I cannot help pitying his weakness, while I detest his deceit: he loved so much.”
“So did Roger;” and Helwyze drew nearer, with the peculiar flicker in his eyes, as of a light kindled suddenly behind a carefully drawn curtain.
“At first; then his love turned to hate, and he committed the unpardonable sin,” answered Gladys, much moved by that weird and wonderful picture of guilt and its atonement.
“The unpardonable sin!” echoed Helwyze, struck by her words and manner.
“Hawthorne somewhere describes it as ‘the want of love and reverence for the human soul, which makes a man pry into its mysterious depths, not with a hope or purpose of making it better, but from a cold, philosophical curiosity.This would be the separation of the intellect from the heart: and this, perhaps, would be as unpardonable a sin as to doubt God, whom we cannot harm; for in doing this we must inevitably do great wrong both to ourselves and others.’ ”
As she spoke, fast and earnestly, Gladys felt herself upon the brink of a much-desired, but much-dreaded, explanation; for Canaris, while owning to her that there was a secret, would not tell it till Helwyze freed him from his promise. She thought that he delayed to ask this absolution till she was fitter to bear the truth, whatever it might be; and she had resolved to spare her husband the pain of an avowal, by demanding it herself of Helwyze. The moment seemed to have come, and both knew it; for he regarded her with the quick, piercing look which read her purpose before she could put it into words.
“You are right; yet Roger was the wronged one, and the others deserved to suffer.”
“They did; but Hester’s suffering ennobled her, because nobly borne; Dimmesdale’s destroyed him, because he paltered weakly with his conscience. Roger let his wrong turn him from a man into a devil, and deserves the contempt and horror he rouses in us.The keeping of the secret makes the romance; the confession of it is the moral, showing how falsehood can ruin a life, and truth only save it at the last.”
“Never have a secret, Gladys: they are hard masters, whom we hate, yet dare not rebel against.”
His accent of sad sincerity seemed to clear the way for her, and she spoke out, briefly and bravely,—
“Sir, you dare any thing! Tell me what it is which makes Felix obey you against his will. He owns it, but will not speak till you consent. Tell me, I beseech you!”
“Could you bear it?” he asked, admiring her courage, yet doubtful of the wisdom of purchasing a moment’s satisfaction at such a cost; for, though he could cast down her idol, he dared not set up another in its place.
“Try me!” she cried: “nothing can lessen my love, and doubt afflicts me more than the hardest truth.”
“I fear not: with you love and respect go hand in hand, and some sins you would find very hard to pardon.”
Involuntarily Gladys shrunk a little, and her eye questioned his inscrutable face, as she answered slowly, thinking only of her husband,—
“Something very mean and false would be hard to forgive; but not some youthful fault, some shame borne for others, or even a crime, if a very human emotion, a generous but mistaken motive, led to it.”
“Then this secret is better left untold; for it would try you sorely to know that Felix had been guilty of the fault you find harder to forgive than a crime,—deceit. Wait a little, till you are accustomed to the thought, then you shall have the facts; and pity, even while you must despise, him.”
While he spoke, Gladys sat like one nerving herself to receive a blow; but at the last words she suddenly put up her hand as if to arrest it, saying, hurriedly,—
“No! do not tell me; I cannot bear it yet, nor from you. He shall tell me; it will be easier so, and less like treachery. O sir,” she added, in a passionately pleading tone, “use mercifully whatever bitter knowledge you possess! Remember how young he is, how neglected as a boy, how tempted he may have been; and deal generously, honorably with him,—and with me.”
Her voice broke there. She spread her hands before her eyes, and fled out of the room, as if in his face she read a more disastrous confession than any Felix could ever make. Helwyze stood motionless, looking as he looked the night she spoke more frankly but less forcibly: and when she vanished, he stole away to his own room, as he stole then; only now his usually colorless cheek burned with a fiery flush, and his hand went involuntarily to his breast, as if, like Dimmesdale, he carried an invisible scarlet letter branded there.
Jo’s Boys (1886), published two years before her death, was Louisa May Alcott’s last novel and the only one to be completed in the 1880s. Increasingly hampered by ill health, as well as by family responsibilities, she found the book difficult to write, and in her preface, she apologizes for its lack of liveliness.Yet it is actually one of her more interesting juvenile novels and important if for no other reason than that it provides readers with a last view of the now extended March family, including Alcott’s most memorable creation, Jo. In Little Men (1871), the first sequel to Little Women, Alcott depicts life at Plumfield, the boarding school for boys founded by Jo and Professor Bhaer on the former estate of Jo’s Aunt March. Jo, in this book, has given up writing altogether and is content to mother a dozen boys, including two of her own, and mentor the school’s two girls, including Meg’s daughter, Daisy.The novel is episodic, tracing the development of several of the children over the course of a year. It tends to focus, however, on two problem inmates of the school and their relationships with Jo: “Naughty Nan,” a tomboy who aspires to be a doctor, resembles the young Jo in her determination to do everything her male peers do; Dan, the oldest boy, is a disruptive force and is never fully assimilated into Plumfield. Jo’s championing of these two, often in opposition to Professor Bhaer, suggests the tensions in their marriage and the limitations of Plumfield, which some scholars have seen as representing Alcott’s utopian vision and a feminist revision of her father’s Fruitlands. Jo’s poignant relationship with Laurie, the school’s principal benefactor, further hints at a lack of complete fulfillment in Jo’s life.
In Jo’s Boys, published fifteen years later, we find that Jo has become a popular writer of children’s books, that Laurence College now flourishes on the Plumfield campus, and that the widowed Meg, Laurie and Amy, and their children all live there, the Laurences in their elegant home, Parnassus. Nan, an ardent feminist, is studying medicine, Dan is seeking his fortune out West, Meg’s younger daughter, Josie, is determined to become an actress, and Amy’s daughter, Bess, is a talented sculptor. In the following pair of chapters from Alcott’s last novel, we encounter two of her most characteristic scenes: amateur theatricals and “a league of sisters.” In chapter 14, “Plays at Plumfield,” Jo and Laurie collaborate on a play in which Meg and Josie win the approbation of a celebrated actress in the audience, Miss Cameron. But although Meg happily submerges her own theatrical triumph in that of her daughter, Jo cannot help yearning for the limelight of a wider stage. And in his tableaux “The Owlsdark Marbles,” Laurie hints at the marital discord created by Jo’s unfulfilled longings. Chapter 17, “Among the Maids,” on the other hand, finds Jo in her element, leading discussions of literature, alternatives to marriage, and women’s rights and reforms. Lady Ambercrombie’s parting remark about “Penelope among her maids,” however, seems an ambiguous comment on Jo’s consciousness-raising circle, for although Homer’s Penelope did succeed in outwitting her suitors and thus can be viewed as a model of female resistance, her labor was that of endless doing and undoing, her role the gendered one of passive waiting. In Jo’s Boys, Jo’s boys go west, to Europe, and to sea, but Jo and her girls remain at home. In the final chapter of the book, Alcott characterizes herself as a “weary historian” tempted to have an earthquake “engulf Plumfield and its environs . . . in the bowels of the earth.”Instead, her final sentence reads like a valediction:“Let the music stop, the lights die out, and the curtain fall forever on the March family.”