“No, not even that. I will have only one God, and you may keep your idols for those who believe in them. My faith may not be the oldest, but it _is_ the best, if one may judge of the two religions by the happiness and peace they give,” answered Gladys, taking refuge in a very womanly, yet most convincing, argument, she thought, as she pointed to the mirror, which reflected both figures in its clear depths.
Helwyze looked, and though without an atom of vanity, the sight could not but be trying, the contrast was so great between her glad, young face, and his, so melancholy and prematurely old.
“Satma, Tama—Truth and Darkness,” he muttered to himself; adding aloud, with a vengeful sort of satisfaction in shocking her pious nature,—
“But _I_ have no religion; so that defiant little speech is quite thrown away, my friend.”
It did shock her; for, though she had suspected the fact, there was something dreadful in hearing him confess it, in a tone which proved his sincerity.
“Mr. Helwyze, do you really mean that you believe in nothing invisible and divine? no life beyond this? no God, no Christ to bless and save?” she asked, hardly knowing how to put the question, as she drew back dismayed, but still incredulous.
He was both surprised, and rather annoyed, to find that it cost him an effort to give even that short answer, with those innocent eyes looking so anxiously up at him, full of a sad wonder, then dim with sudden dew, as she said eagerly, forgetting every thing but a great compassion,—
“O sir, it is impossible! You think so now; but when you love and trust some human creature more than yourself, then you will find that you do believe in Him who gives such happiness, and be glad to own it.”
“Perhaps. Meantime _you_ will not make me happy by letting me give you any thing; why is it, Gladys?”
The black brows were knit, and he looked impatient with himself or her. She saw it, and exclaimed with the sweetest penitence,—
“Give me your pardon for speaking so frankly. I mean no disrespect; but I cannot help it when you say such things, though I know that gratitude should keep me silent.”
“I like it. Do not take yourself to task for that, or trouble about me. There are many roads, and sooner or later we shall all reach heaven, I suppose,—if there is one,” he added, with a shrug, which spoiled the smile that went before.