As Olivia predicted, however, power was a dangerous gift to such a man; and, having come to feel that Canaris belonged to him, body and soul, he was ill-pleased at losing him just when a new interest was added to their lives.
Yet losing him he assuredly was; and something like wonder mingled with his chagrin, for this girl, whom he had expected to mould to his will, exerted over him, as well as Canaris, a soft control which he could neither comprehend nor conquer. Its charm was its unconsciousness, its power was its truth; for it won gently and held firmly the regard it sought. She certainly did possess the gift of surprises; for, although brought there as a plaything, “little Gladys,” without apparent effort, had subjugated haughty Olivia, wayward Felix, ruthless Helwyze; and none rebelled against her. She ruled them by the irresistible influence of a lovely womanhood, which made her daily life a sweeter poem than any they could write.
“Why did I not keep her for myself? If she can do so much for him, what might she not have done for me, had I been wise enough to wait,” thought Helwyze, watching the bright-haired figure that stood looking up to the green roof whence Canaris was gathering passion-flowers.
As if some consciousness of his longing reached her, Gladys turned to look into the softly lighted room beyond, and, seeing its master sit there solitary in the midst of its splendor, she obeyed the compassionate impulse which was continually struggling against doubt and dislike.
“It must seem very selfish and ungrateful in us to be so glad. Come, Felix, and amuse him as well as me,” she said, in a tone meant for his ear alone. But Helwyze heard both question and answer.
“I have been court-fool long enough. ’Tis a thankless office, and I am tired of it,” replied Canaris, in the tone of a prisoner asked to go back when the door of his cell stands open.
“I must go, for there is Jean with coffee. Follow, like a good boy, when you have put your posy into a song, which I will set to music by and by, as your reward,” said Gladys, turning reluctantly away.
“You make goodness so beautiful, that it is easy to obey. There is my posy set to music at once, for you are a song without words, cariña;” and Canaris threw the vine about her neck, with a look and a laugh which made it hard for her to go.
Jean not only brought coffee, but the card of a friend for Felix, who went away, promising to return. Gladys carefully prepared the black and fragrant draught which Helwyze loved, and presented it, with a sweet friendliness of mien which would have made hemlock palatable, he thought.
“Shall I sing to you till Felix comes to give you something better?” she asked, offering her best, as if anxious to atone for the sin of being happy at the cost of pain to another.