“I was doing it for your sake,—all for you; and I thought this time it would be very good, since my purpose was a just and generous one. But it is not, and I hate it!”
With a passionate gesture, Canaris hurled a pile of manuscript into the further corner of the room, and pushed his wife from him, as if she too were an affliction and a disappointment. It grieved her bitterly; but she would not be repulsed; and, holding fast in both her own the hand that was about to grasp another sheaf of papers, she cried, with a tone of tender authority, which both controlled and touched him,—
“No, no, you shall not, Felix! Put me away, but do not spoil the book; it has cost us both too much.”
“Not you; forgive me, it is myself with whom I am vexed;” and Canaris penitently kissed the hands that held his, remembering that she could not know the true cause of his effort and regret.
“I shall be jealous, if I find that I have given you up so long in vain. I must have something to repay me for the loss of your society all this weary time. I have worked to fill your place: give me my reward.”
“Have you missed me, then? I thought you happy enough with Helwyze and the books.”
“Missed you! happy enough! O Felix! you do not know me, if you think I can be happy without you. He is kind, but only a friend; and all the books in the wide world are not as much to me as the one you treat so cruelly.” She clasped tightly the hands she held, and looked into his face with eyes full of unutterable love. Such tender flattery could not but soothe, such tearful reproach fail to soften, a far prouder, harder man than Canaris.
“What reward will you have?” he asked, making an effort to be cheerful for her sake.
“Eat, drink, and rest; then read me every word you have written. I am no critic; but I would try to be impartial: love makes even the ignorant wise, and I shall see the beauty which I know is in it.”
“I put you there, or tried; so truth and beauty should be in it. Some time you shall hear it, but not now. I could not read it to-night, perhaps never; it is such a poor, pale shadow of the thing I meant it to be.”