Olive was far too ill to have any feeling of self-betrayal or shame; nor was there any consecutive memory in her exhausted mind. She only stretched out her hands to Harold's mother with a sense of refuge and peace.
“Take care of me! Oh, take care of me!” she murmured; and as she felt herself drawn lovingly to that warm breast—the breast where Harold had once lain—she could there have slept herself into painless death, wherein the only consciousness was this one thought of him.
But, after an hour or two, the life within her grew stronger, and she began to consider what had happened. A horrible doubt came, of something she had to hide.
“Tell me, do tell me, Mrs. Gwynne, have I said anything in my sleep? Don't mind it, whatever it be. I am ill, you know.”
“Yes, you have been ill for some days. I have been nursing you.”
“And what has happened in this house, the while? Oh, where is Christal,—poor Christal?”
There was a frown on Mrs. Gwynne's countenance—a frown so stern that it brought back to Olive's memory all that had befallen. Earnestly regarding her, she said, “Something has happened—something awful. How much of it do you know?”
“Everything! But, Olive, we must not talk.”
“I must not be left to think, or I should lose my senses again. Therefore, let me hear all that you have found out, I entreat you!”
Mrs. Gwynne saw she had best comply, for there was still a piteous bewilderment in Olive's look. “Lie still,” she said, “and I will tell you. I came to this house when that miserable girl was rushing from it. I brought her back—I controlled her, as I have ere now controlled passions as wild as hers, though she is almost a demon.”