“I like it. Do not take yourself to task for that, or trouble about me. There are many roads, and sooner or later we shall all reach heaven, I suppose,—if there is one,” he added, with a shrug, which spoiled the smile that went before.
X.
Gladys stood silent for a moment, with her eyes fixed on the little figures, longing for wisdom to convince this man, whom she regarded with mingled pity, admiration and distrust, that he could not walk by his own light alone. He guessed the impulse that kept her there, longed to have her stay, and felt a sudden desire to reinstate himself in her good opinion. That wish, or the hope to keep her by some new and still more powerful allurement, seemed to actuate him as he hastily thrust the gods and goddesses out of sight, and opened another drawer, with a quick glance over his shoulder towards that inner room.
At that instant the clock struck, and Gladys started, saying, in a tone of fond despair,—
“Where is Felix? Will he never come?”
“I heard him raging about some time ago, but perfect silence followed, so I suspect he caught the tormenting word, idea, or fancy, and is busy pinning it,” answered Helwyze, shutting the drawer as suddenly as he opened it, with a frown which Gladys did not see; for she had turned away, forgetting him and his salvation in the one absorbing interest of her life.
“How long it takes to write a poem! Three whole months, for he began in September; and it was not to be a long one, he said.”
“He means this to be a masterpiece, so labors like a galley-slave, and can find no rest till it is done. Good practice, but to little purpose, I am afraid. Poetry, even the best, is not profitable now-a-days, I am told,” added Helwyze, speaking with a sort of satisfaction which he could not conceal.
“Who cares for the profit? It is the fame Felix wants, and works for,” answered Gladys, defending the absent with wifely warmth.