“Then you are wiser than I. Pray impart the secret;” and, putting down his cup, Helwyze regarded her intently, for he saw that the spirit of the woman was roused to defend her wifely rights.
“Nay, I owe it to you; and, since it has prevailed against your enchantress, I should thank you for it.”
The delicate emphasis on the words, “your enchantress,” enlightened him to the fact that Gladys divined, in part at least, the cause of Olivia’s return. He did not deny, but simply answered, with a curious contrast between the carelessness of the first half of his reply, with the vivid interest of the latter,—
“Olivia has atoned for her sins handsomely. But what do you owe me? I have taught you nothing. I dare not try.”
“I did not know my own power till you showed it to me; unintentionally, I believe, and unconsciously, I used it to such purpose that Felix felt pride in the wife whom he had thought a child before. I mean the night I sang and acted yonder, and did both well, thanks to you.”
“I comprehend, and hope to be forgiven, since I gave you help or pleasure,” he answered, with no sign of either confusion or regret, though the thought shot through his mind, “Can she remember what came after?”
“Questionable help, and painful pleasure, yet it was a memorable hour and a useful one; so I pardon you, since after the troubled delusion comes a happy reality.”
There was a double meaning in her words, and a double reproach in the glance which went from the spot where she had played her part, to the garland still about her neck.
“Your yoke is a light one, and you wear it gracefully. Long may it be so.”
Helwyze thought to slip away thus from the subject; for those accusing eyes were hard to meet. But Gladys seemed moved to speak with more than her usual candor, as if anxious to leave no doubts behind her; and, sitting in the self-same place, uttered words which moved him even more than those which she had whispered in her tormented sleep.