“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.”
“Let me read it,” said a voice behind them; and Helwyze stood upon the threshold, wearing his most benignant aspect.
“You?” ejaculated Canaris; while Gladys shrunk a little, as if the proposition did not please her.
“Why not? Young poets never read their own verses well; yet what could be more soothing to the most timorous or vain than to hear them read by an admiring and sympathetic friend? Come, let me have my reward, as well as Gladys;” and Helwyze laid his hand upon the unscattered pile of manuscript.
“A penance, rather. It is so blurred, so rough, you could not read it; then the fatigue,”—began Canaris, pleased, yet reluctant still.
“I can read any thing, make rough places smooth, and not tire, for I have a great interest in this story. He has shown me some of it, and it _is_ good.”