“The time has come, and this is the place to tell it. Sit there and listen. I must untie or cut the snarl to-night.”
He pointed to the great chair; and, grateful for any thing that could change or stem the dangerous current of his thoughts, Gladys sank down, feeling as if, after this shock, she was prepared for any discovery or disaster. Canaris stood before her, white and stern, as if he were both judge and culprit; for a sombre wrath still burned in his eye, and his face worked with the mingled shame and contempt warring within him.
“I heard and saw this afternoon, when you two talked together yonder, and I knew then what made you so glad to go away, so loath to come back. You have had a secret as well as I.”
“I was never sure until to-day. Do not speak of that: it is enough to know it, and forget it if we can. Tell your secret: it has burdened you so long, you will be glad to end it. He would have done so, but I would not let him.”
“I thought it would be hard to tell you, yet now my fault looks so small and innocent beside his, I can confess without much shame or fear.”
But it was not easy; for he had gone so far into a deeper, darker world that night, it was difficult to come to lesser sins and lighter thoughts. As he hesitated for a word, his eye fell upon the purple-covered book, and he saw a way to shorten his confession. Catching up a pen, he bent over the volume an instant, then handed it to Gladys, open at the title-page. She knew it,—the dear romance, worn with much reading,—and looked wonderingly at the black mark drawn through the name, “Felix Canaris,” and the words, “Jasper Helwyze,” written boldly below.
“What does it mean?” she asked, refusing to believe the discovery which the expression of his averted face confirmed.
“That I am a living lie. He wrote that book.”
“He?”
“Every line.”