"How strange, and how dreadful!" murmured Helen, in a tone of awe. Marie had told her that she was no longer before the public, that she was "passée," and without money; that she had, in fact, "come to the end of her rope." It seemed now almost like a prophecy come true. Helen wondered if she had a friend in the world to be with her, or to do anything for her in this supreme hour of her life.
She sat thinking for a long time, evidently seriously considering some important move, for her face wore a grave and perplexed expression, while every now and then she restlessly changed her position, as if her thoughts annoyed her.
At length she aroused herself, and deliberately tore the paper she had been reading into atoms.
"Dorrie must not see this," she muttered, an anxious look in her eyes. Then she started violently, sprang to her feet, scattering the fragments upon the floor, and went directly to her telephone.
"Good morning, Mr. Alexander! I hoped you would answer me," she said, when the connection she had asked for was made. "Everything is well with you all, I trust? Dorrie not down yet! Well, it is a little early, perhaps. Have you seen the morning papers? Have you read about the shocking accident of last evening?
"Oh, thank you! How very thoughtful! I could not rest until I had asked you to destroy it," she said tremulously, as the answer to her query had come back, assuring her that the paper had already been burned, and Dorothy should be tenderly guarded from every possible chance of seeing the name that could not fail to recall the unhappy past.
They conversed for a moment or two longer; then Helen hung up the receiver, the cloud of anxiety gone from her brow and a great burden from her heart.
She gathered up the pieces of torn paper and threw them into the wastebasket; then, hurriedly dressing for the street, she went out.
Helen hastened to the Mercy Hospital with all possible speed. At the office she gave her name as Mrs. Helen Hungerford, and was quick to observe that a peculiar look flitted over the face of the gentlemanly attendant as she did so.
She inquired for Marie Duncan, and was told that although the woman was comparatively free from pain, and her mind clear, her injuries were of such a nature that she could not live many hours.
"Would it be possible for me to see her?" Helen inquired.
She believed that the once popular favorite was utterly friendless, as well as penniless—in fact, she had practically admitted as much, and with the revulsion of feeling that had followed after Marie had shown the better side of her nature, there had come the desire to help the unfortunate woman in some way. Hence, when she had read of the terrible accident and its probable fatal termination, she had hurried to the hospital to ascertain if she could be of some comfort to her in this bitter extremity, all her aversion and resentment submerged in pity for one who was nearing the dark river of death.
She was not a little surprised, however, when in response to her inquiry the attendant observed:
"It really seems a singular coincidence, madam, but the woman has begged at intervals during the night that we should send for a Mrs. Helen Hungerford; however, as she was unable to give us the address, and it could not be found in the directory, it has, of course, been impossible to grant her request. If you will be seated, I will send some one to ascertain if you can be admitted to the patient," he concluded, as he courteously placed a chair for her.
Helen marveled at what she had heard. What could Marie Duncan want of her? It certainly was a peculiar situation—unique, she believed, in the annals of history, that she, the discarded wife of John Hungerford, should be entreated to come to the bedside of the dying woman who had robbed her of her husband! It was even more strange that she should have been impelled to come to her without a suspicion of Marie's desire for her presence. Perhaps she wished to leave with her some message for John, in case he were still living, and ever sought her again.
Helen shrank with repulsion from the thought, and almost regretted that she had come. She had no desire ever to see him again, much less to be the bearer of any last words from Marie to him. She was beginning to be exceedingly nervous and uncomfortable, the more she thought of the approaching interview, when the messenger returned and said the nurse wished her to come immediately upstairs.
She was presently ushered into a small room on the second floor, at the back of the building, and experienced a great sense of relief upon finding that she was not to be subjected to the trying scenes of a ward, as she had feared.
Marie Duncan, white and wan, but looking far more womanly with the paint and powder of a few days previous removed from her face, threw out an eager hand to her as she drew near her cot.
"Oh, I am sure God must have sent you!" she said weakly. "I have wanted you so, but they"—glancing at the nurse, who, having placed a chair for the visitor, was moving toward an adjoining room—"could not find your name in the directory, and I thought I'd have to go without seeing you."
Almost unconsciously Helen clasped the hand extended to her, and dropped into the rocker beside the bed.
"I came just as soon as I read about the accident," she said.
"Whydid you come?" questioned Marie, her beautiful dark eyes hungrily searching Helen's face.
"I—don't know—unless it was because you told me you had no friends."
"What could it matter to you whether I had or not?" almost sharply demanded the patient. "You must hate me like the d——"
She checked herself suddenly, with a gasp and an appealing look at Helen for pardon, in view of her slip.
Helen bent nearer to her as she replied, with grave gentleness:
"I am afraid I have thought very unkindly of you—at least, until last Sunday. I am glad to say I do not feel the same to-day."
"And I tried toblackmailyou last Sunday!" said Marie, with a bitter curl of her white lips.
"I know; but you also showed me something of your better self, which made me regret that I had not been a little more kind to you. I would have given you some money after that, if you had not left me so suddenly. But," Helen continued, with a glance at the door through which the nurse had disappeared, "I am afraid we are talking too much for your good——"
"Talking won't harm me now," the woman interposed, her brows contracting painfully. "I know I have, at last, really got to the 'end of my rope.' I'm glad, though, it is not an end of my own making. I've sometimes thought that might be the easiest way out of this muddle we call life; but somehow I was ashamed to sneak out of a hard place in such a way, even though I'd leave nobody behind to care."
"They told me downstairs that you were wishing to see me," Helen broke in to change the gruesome subject. "Why did you want them to send for me? Is there anything I can do for your comfort, now that I am here?"
Marie lifted her great eyes and searched her companion's face curiously.
"For my comfort!You!" she cried; then hastened to add: "No, butIwanted to do something for you and your girl. I haven't had a very pleasant time since you told me about that money, and I want to give you those newspapers and photographs, so that they will not fall into the hands of any one else, to make mischief for you. This is my bag, hanging here on the bed; will you open it for me?"
Helen took down the receptacle, and did as she had been requested.
"There is a ring of keys in it. This one"—as Helen handed them to her—"is the house key—number one hundred and one Fourth Street, where I've lived lately; this unlocks the door of my room, and this is the key to my trunk—I've got reduced to one, and there isn't very much that is worth anything in it, either," she interposed, with a bitter smile. "Those newspapers and pictures are at the bottom; take them, and do what you choose with them. My marriage certificate is there, too, in a wallet. I'd like you to destroy it. It hasn't meant very much to me, for I have never felt as if I were really John's wife, or that I had any guarantee in it that he would remain true, and not divorce me, the same as he did you. In my opinion, divorces are worse than Mormonism," she sarcastically interposed, "for Mormons can't shirk their responsibilities after they have got tired of one wife and taken another."
She paused to rest for a moment or two; then resumed:
"I have never used his name very much, and I would prefer no one else to see the certificate; most people have always called me, and I am perfectly willing to have them remember me only as, Marie Duncan."
Helen was surprised and deeply touched as she listened to her. What she had said hinted at more depth of character than she had ever given her credit for; while her wish to have only herself see the certificate, and her evident desire to be remembered only by her stage name, betrayed a delicate consideration for her and Dorothy that caused her to feel even more kindly toward her.
"I know it will not be a very pleasant task for you to do what I ask," Marie went on apologetically; "but I thought you would like to have those papers——"
"I would, indeed," said Helen earnestly, "and it is very thoughtful in you to arrange for me to get them. I will do anything else you wish that will be of any comfort to you."
"The daughter of the woman with whom I have lived has been very good to me, and you can give her everything in the room and trunk belonging to me," said Marie, after thinking a moment. "My jewelry is all gone; this one ring"—holding up her left hand, on which there was a plain band of gold—"is, like my trunk, all I have left, and it can stay just where it is. But I have one nice stone in my purse"—glancing at the bag in Helen's lap.
Helen drew forth the purse and searched until she found a small wad of tissue paper tucked into an inside pocket. Removing the wrapping, a diamond worth, perhaps, two hundred dollars fell into her hand; and there were also a few dollars in money in the purse.
"I have kept that for—for such a time as—this," Marie faltered, "though there have been times when I've thought I would have to let it go. I'd like you to hand it, with what money there is, in at the office downstairs, to—to——"
"I will; but pray do not try to talk any more now," interposed Helen, for she saw that, in spite of the brave front the woman was trying to keep up, she was stricken with terror whenever she thought of the fast-approaching end.
The nurse now entered the room with a cup of nourishment in her hand.
Helen arose to make room for her, saying inquiringly:
"I think perhaps I ought to go now?"
"No! Oh, please do not!" weakly pleaded Marie.
"If youcanstay, it will be a comfort to her, and"—with a significant look which her patient could not see—"it will do her no harm."
"Very well, then, I will remain for a while longer," Helen returned, as she moved to a window and stood looking out upon the grounds below while the nurse fed her patient.
What a strange experience! she said to herself. What mysterious influence could have guided her steps thither that morning, in direct answer, as it seemed, to Marie's desire to see her? She could understand how Marie, awed and softened by the knowledge that she was soon to go out into the great beyond, might wish to make some restitution for the wrong in which she had been a partner, by trying to protect her own and Dorothy's future from the old scandal; but she could not account for the revulsion of feeling that had obliterated all ill will and resentment from her own consciousness, making her oblivious to everything but the fact that her rival was a suffering, dying woman, alone in a great extremity, and in sore need of being comforted and sustained as the shadows closed around her.
A great peace fell upon her, and she was glad that she had come. Perhaps, she thought, she was beginning to learn something of the love of which Mrs. Everleigh had told her the previous Sunday—the desire to do good for the sake of doing good.
When she looked around she found the nurse had gone, and Marie was in a light sleep.
She went noiselessly back to her chair by the bed, to wait for her to waken, and as she studied the colorless face upon the pillow she was impressed more than ever by the remarkable beauty with which she had been endowed. The features were very symmetrical, and just now seemed more refined than she had ever seen them.
She had smooth, shapely brows, and an abundance of dark-brown hair, while the tips of her white, still perfect, teeth were just visible between her slightly parted lips. She did not seem at all like the coarse, defiant, passée person, in tawdry attire, whom she had met only a few days before.
Suddenly Marie opened her eyes; there was a wild, terrified look in them; but they at once softened into an expression of content as they rested upon Helen.
"Oh, youarehere!" she breathed. "How good of you! I dreamed it was growing dark, and I could not find you."
"I will stay as long as you wish me to," Helen assured her.
"I am—afraid!" said Marie, after a moment of silence, a gray pallor settling over her face. "I haven't been a very good woman. What is there beyond? Oblivion, or doom?"
"Neither," said Helen, with gentle compassion; "but, instead, an awakening to larger, better experiences and fresh opportunities."
"How do you know?" And her listener's face and voice were full of eagerness.
"I cannot say that I really 'know' anything about what is beyond us when we go away from here," Helen gravely returned; "but I have grown to think that we are like children going to school. We have our various classes, or grades, and merge from one into another, according as we have done our work ill or well——"
"I think that is beautiful!" broke in Marie, a thrill of something like hope in her tone. "Then, if one has wasted one's time, and learned nothing good here, one can begin all over again—one will have another chance?"
"I believe so," Helen replied.
"I believe it, too!" said Marie, after another interval of silence. "It seems reasonable, and surely all nature teaches it. A man may sow poor seed to-day and reap a poor harvest; but he will see his mistake, and have a chance to do better another season. I am so glad you told me—I don't seem to mind what is coming quite so much."
She lay quietly thinking for a while, and Helen hoped she would fall asleep, but presently she resumed:
"I have done you a great wrong, Helen Hungerford, for I knew about you in Paris; but I liked a good time, and I led John on—away from you. I am sorry now. And your daughter! I have never forgotten her face, that day in San Francisco, when my auto was detained beside the car she was in, and she saw her father with me—it was so ashamed, so distressed——"
"I am sure you ought to rest—do not talk any more now," Helen again pleaded, for Marie was showing signs of weakness, while she herself shrank from these references to her unhappy past.
She leaned forward to straighten her covering, which had become slightly disarranged, when Marie lifted a corner of the lace scarf she was wearing, and humbly laid it against her lips. Then she closed her eyes wearily, and was presently asleep.
The nurse, coming in soon after, felt her pulse, and, turning to Helen, observed:
"If you would like to go, I think you may; I do not believe she will waken again."
"Perhaps I will, a little later," said Helen, who was not quite ready to forsake her post so soon after telling Marie that she would remain as long as she wished her to.
An hour slipped by almost in silence, when, without a movement to show that she had wakened, Marie's white lids were lifted, and the ghost of a smile curled her lips, as her dark eyes met Helen's.
"I—shall have another—chance! I shall—begin all over—again," she breathed weakly, but with no sign of fear.
Once more she seemed to sleep, and at the end of another hour Helen went home.
The next four months slipped swiftly away. They were filled full with joyous anticipations and pleasant occupations, while Helen, now that she no longer feared Dorothy's happiness or prospects would be disturbed, regained her accustomed serenity, and once more became absorbed in the numberless details involved in making ready for a wedding.
A great burden had been lifted from her heart, for all those menacing newspapers and photographs, with every other telltale evidence of the unhappy past, that had been treasured by the once popular opera favorite, had been destroyed, and nothing remained that could even remotely bear witness to it, save a small tablet, bearing the name of "Marie Duncan," that had been placed in a quiet corner of a distant churchyard outside the city.
The months of August and September Dorothy and her mother spent in the Berkshires, on a pleasant farm adjoining "Avondale," the fine estate and summer home of the Alexanders.
This arrangement was made for the benefit of the lovers, in order to enable them to see each other every day, and enjoy the pleasures of country life together, during the brief interval previous to their marriage.
The wedding had been set for the first of October, and, at the request of the bride-elect, who shrank from the confusion and excitement of a society function, was quietly solemnized at noon on that date, in the pretty near-by village church. Here Helen gave her daughter away to the man whom she believed to be in every way worthy of her one treasure, and the simple ceremony was followed by a reception and an elaborate breakfast at Avondale for the limited number of friends who were bidden to grace the occasion.
Thus, with apparently nothing to cast a shadow over her future, Dorothy Ford became the wife of Clifford Alexander, and the happy couple went away for a month or two of travel, while a beautiful home, adjoining the Alexander estate on the Hudson, was being prepared for their occupancy upon their return.
Mr. and Mrs. Alexander, Senior, returned immediately to their home on the Hudson, and Madam Ford to New York to resume her work and prepare for her winter engagements.
In planning his new residence, Clifford Alexander had arranged for a delightful suite of rooms which he placed at Helen's disposal, with a pressing invitation that she would make her future home with Dorothy and himself.
Helen was deeply touched by this evidence of his sincere regard for her, but she gently declined, telling him she thought a newly wedded couple should begin their life and home making alone with each other; while, too, she would not be willing to give up her work for a long while yet; hence she must have her studio in the city, and it would be better for her to live there, as usual.
"But you have labored continuously for many years—you have spent your life for this dear girl"—bending a fond look upon his fiancée—"whom I have won away from your nest. Now come and rest, andplaywith us—at least, for a while," the young man had urged.
And Dorothy had also pleaded:
"Do come, mamma, dear; it will be lovely to have you with us."
"I do not deny that my 'nest' will be lonely without her," Helen had replied, smiling bravely through a mist of sudden tears; "but I could not be idle, and the nestling must learn to use her own wings. All the same," she went on, more brightly, "I am not going to allow you to forget in the days to come that you have added a mother-in-law to your list of responsibilities, and I warn you that I intend to drop in upon you often enough to keep you both upon your best behavior."
"Well, madam mother-to-be," said Mr. Alexander, smiling at her threat, "the rooms are there—they were planned foryou, and I hope some time to see you very comfy in them. I would not impose any sense of obligation upon you; I wish you to be happy in your own way, but please bear in mind always that it would give us great pleasure to have you with us."
Helen lifted a searching look to his face.
"Pardon me; but are you sensitive regarding my occupation—my career?" she inquired.
He laughed out softly as he read her meaning.
"Pray do not fret yourself about that," he said. "I do not quite dare to tell you how exceedinglyproudI am of you and your career. I sometimes wish, though, that you did not keep so busy withpupils—I assure you there is not the slightest need——"
"Oh, but I love the dear things!" Helen eagerly interposed. "They bring so much brightness and joy into my life."
"Of which, believe me, I would not rob you in the least degree," the gentleman earnestly replied, and, seeing she was very much in earnest, he pressed the matter no further.
So Helen resumed her work, as usual, upon her return to New York. She was in perfect health, and still a very beautiful woman. She was also happy in Dorothy's happiness; life seemed very bright, and she looked forward to the coming season with much of anticipation, even enthusiasm.
One morning, about a week after the wedding, she went up the river to the new home, which was fast nearing completion. It was now in process of being decorated and furnished, under the supervision of Mr. and Mrs. Alexander, Senior, who insisted upon having her join them whenever she could spare the time, to give them the benefit of her taste and knowledge regarding Dorothy's preferences.
They spent a delightful day together, overseeing the placing of china and bric-a-brac, the hanging of draperies, pictures, et cetera, and attending to numerous other details. At noon they enjoyed a dainty lunch, prepared and sent over by the cook at the other house, in Dorothy's bright, luxuriously appointed kitchen; then they resumed their pleasant occupations, working busily until it was time for Helen to go, when she was whirled down to the steamer landing in Mr. Alexander's fine limousine, just in time to catch the early evening boat back to the city.
It was a balmy, almost summerlike, evening in spite of the fact that it was on the verge of November, and Helen, securing a camp chair, made her way to a sightly spot on the stern deck, and seated herself to enjoy the delightful atmosphere and lovely scenery as the steamer glided smoothly down the river. She was in a most harmonious frame of mind, for her heart was at rest and the future full of hope. There was a joyous light in her eyes, and a happy smile on her lips, as, in imagination, she looked forward to Dorothy's home-coming, and the delight she would experience in taking possession of that luxurious nest awaiting her among yonder beautiful hills, away from the dust and turmoil of the busy metropolis. As the boat drew near to its pier she rose and leisurely made her way inside to descend to the lower deck. She had just reached the head of the stairs, where she was forced to pause a moment because of the crowd ahead of her, when some one behind her gave utterance to a startled, but quickly repressed, exclamation.
Involuntarily she glanced back over her shoulder at the sound, when her features suddenly froze into a look of horror.
"Helen!" faltered a voice she could not fail to recognize, notwithstanding it was tremulous from emotion and hoarse from a heavy cold.
But the man! Could that haggard, white-faced creature—that emaciated, poorly clad figure, with his shabby hat, neglected beard and hair, ever have been the cultured, debonair, elegant John Hungerford, who had wooed and won her girlish heart and hand more than twenty-five years ago?
Instinctively she shrank away from him, and he, observing this involuntary act of repugnance, flushed scarlet from mingled pain and shame. Then the crowd surged in between them, and Helen, with a wildly throbbing heart and a sense of despair and hot rebellion almost suffocating her, forced her way on shore with all possible speed, sprang upon the first car she saw, and hoped she had effectually evaded that startling apparition.
But her peace of mind had been destroyed. All the brightness and joy of that happy day were suddenly blotted out, swallowed in by the terror inspired by this unlooked-for calamity which now threatened anew both herself and Dorothy.
It was a terrible, a crushing, blow. She could not sleep that night; she could not apply herself to work of any kind the following day; she dared not go out of the house, lest she meet that ghost of the past again, and every time her bell rang a shock of fear that he might be without, seeking entrance, went quivering through all her nerves.
"Would he hunt her down?" she was continually asking herself. "Would he dare intrude himself upon her life again, after all these years?" She turned faint and heartsick at the thought. But the day waned, the dinner hour passed, and, with the curtains drawn and lights all about her, she began to experience more of a feeling of security; to take courage, and try to assure herself that she had successfully eluded him, and he would not be able to ferret her out in that great city, even if he tried.
She had just settled herself for the evening with a new book—one of several that Dorothy had given her before going away, telling her, with a suspicion of tears in her voice: "For your evenings, mamma, dear, so you will not miss me quite so much"—and was beginning to get really interested in the plot of the story when her bell rang a sharp, shrill peal.
Her maid, who had been with her for several years, had sailed for Scotland for a long-promised visit home, when Helen went into the country for the summer, and, not yet having secured another to take her place, she was obliged to answer the summons herself, which she did with a quaking heart.
"A message for Mrs. Ford," came up through the tube.
Helen's fear was instantly turned into joy.
"A message from Dorothy," she thought, for she had received either a letter or a telegram from the happy bride almost every day since her departure.
"Come up," she eagerly responded, as she pressed the button governing the lower entrance. Presently, hearing steps on the stairs, she swung open the door of her suite, when, with a gasp of dismay, she found herself face to face with John Hungerford.
She would have shut the door upon him, but he was too quick for her. He forced his way inside, and then closed it himself.
"I must see you, Helen," he panted, as he sank, pale and breathless, upon a chair in the reception hall.
"Oh, why have you come?" she demanded, with white lips.
"Because I could not bear it any longer; I was starving to see you and Dorothy. Where is she?"
"She is married."
"Married! Dorothy married! When?"
"Two weeks ago yesterday."
"To whom?"
Helen straightened herself resolutely.
"I shall not tell you that," she replied, with sharp decision. "She is happy, and I will not have her life clouded by anything to recall the troubles of the past."
The man shivered at her words. He was but a miserable shadow of the John Hungerford of ten years ago. His form was shrunken, his clothing faded and worn, his face was pale, his cheeks hollow, and his eyes sunken and lusterless.
"But, Helen, I want to see Dorothy—she is my child. I must see her!" he faltered, a note of agonized appeal in his tones that ended abruptly in a hoarse, hollow cough.
"You mustnotsee her!" Helen emphatically returned, and thinking only of shielding Dorothy from the pain and shame of such a meeting.
Her words and her apparent indifference to the uncontrollable yearning within him seemed to anger him.
"She is as much my child as she is yours," he shot back, with a flash of his old-time doggedness.
Helen flushed an indignant scarlet.
"As much your child as she is mine!" she scathingly exclaimed. "You claim that! You, who deserted us both; who robbed her of her little fortune, and left me in poverty to rear and educate her as best I could, while you wasted your stolen thousands upon that woman and your degrading and sinful pleasures! Your child!Whathave you ever done for her that entitles you to make the shameless boast?"
The man cringed abjectly beneath her words, but made no attempt to reply, and Helen resumed, her indignation still at the boiling point:
"I have spent my life for her; I have spared nothing to give her every advantage, to make her a noble, cultured woman, and to shield her from every sorrow. During the last ten years of her life she has known nothing but happiness; she has married a good man, and a gentleman in every sense of the word. He is prosperous, and belongs to a much-respected and well-known family here in New York. So Dorothy's future is very promising, and I will never allow you to cast a shadow upon it, or mar her joy in any way."
Her listener shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
"You seemed rather happy yourself, when I saw you yesterday," he observed, with a covert sneer, after an interval of awkward silence; "and"—glancing curiously about him—"you appear to be remarkably prosperous, also."
"I am prosperous; I am well established in my profession here."
"As 'Madam Ford,' I perceived, as I rang your bell. So you dropped the old name?" said John Hungerford, in a tone of exceeding bitterness.
"Yes, the first half of it, as I also dropped that half of my life for all time; but for Dorothy, I would have retained no part of it," said Helen tersely.
Her companion's lips twitched, while his bony hands gripped the arms of his chair convulsively.
"You are handsomer than ever, Helen; you don't begin to show your years," he presently observed, as he swept her face and figure with yearning but gloomy eyes.
She did not deign to reply, although she moved restlessly where she stood, as if his words annoyed her beyond endurance.
"I suppose you haven't much love left for me?" he falteringly resumed, after a minute, the silence between them becoming embarrassing again.
"Love—foryou!" she retorted, with an emphasis that caused him to shrink as from a blow.
"Well, I'm not claiming that I deserve anything of the kind from you," he remarked, in a weak voice, at the same time drawing in a quick, deep breath. "However, there is some solace in remembering that you were once fond of me. Maybe, not having heard from me for so long, you have believed me dead?"
"I have, of course, had no means of knowing whether you were living or dead," Helen coldly replied.
"Perhaps it might have been a relief to you if I had died," said John, as, with hopeless eyes, he searched her frozen face for some sign of the old-time gentleness. She made no answer. She was not quite heartless enough, even in her despair over his reappearance, to confirm this gruesome suggestion; yet she was keenly conscious that his presence was almost intolerable to her.
A low, bitter laugh escaped him at her silence, and again a cruel cough racked him.
"Have you a picture of Dorothy?" he inquired, when he recovered his breath.
"Yes, several."
"I want to see them," the man exclaimed, a mighty yearning in his voice; and, rising from his chair, he began to look eagerly around the room for some likeness of his child.
Helen neither moved nor spoke to hinder him. She felt dazed, helpless in this terrible dilemma. She was frightened, rebellious, desperate to be thus confronted with this appalling skeleton of her past, this menace to Dorothy's bright hopes. John Hungerford passed from the reception hall into the parlor, a lovely room, most artistic and dainty in its coloring, decorations, and furnishings; and, shoving his hands into his coat pockets, as if to brace himself against a consciousness of intrusion and rudeness, he began his search for Dorothy's pictures.
Helen, who had followed him, sank, quaking, upon a chair, too weak and unnerved to remain standing a moment longer, and wondering miserably what would be the outcome of this harrowing interview.
Suddenly the man paused, an exclamation of delight escaping him. He had espied a full-length photograph of Dorothy, taken in her wedding robes.
"This is——" he began tremulously, and turning a face quivering with uncontrollable emotion to Helen.
"Yes," she briefly replied.
"How beautiful she is! She looks as you looked the evening we were——"
Helen shivered, and her white teeth came together with a snap that arrested the word on his lips.
"Whom did she marry?" he demanded, almost fiercely, after studying the picture for a minute or two.
"I shall not tell you," Helen doggedly reiterated, and unutterably thankful that Mr. Alexander's likeness was not beside the other to tell its own story. She had found it was, for some reason, beginning to curl, and she had taken it down and laid a heavy book on it only that morning. "But I will tell you this," she presently resumed: "Her husband is a man to whom any father or mother might be proud to give a daughter, and Dorothy will never know a care or sorrow which an absorbing affection and most unselfish devotion can avert."
John Hungerford flushed suddenly crimson; then paled to a sickly hue at Helen's words.
Evidently her statement that Dorothy's life and happiness would be most tenderly shielded by a considerate and devoted husband aroused memories of the past that were far from pleasant. He stood silently studying the photograph for several minutes, his face showing evidence of deep inward emotion. Finally replacing it upon the mantel, he moved on, curiously observant of the handsome furniture, choice bric-a-brac, draperies, and pictures that were tastefully arranged about the room.
As he drew near a door leading into an adjoining apartment that was used as a library, he paused, and stood irresolute.
"Helen—may I look through the suite?" he eagerly questioned, but with evident embarrassment. "May I see Dorothy's room? I—I would like to know how you two have been living; it will be something to—to remember."
Helen's head sank wearily back against her chair. She was white to her lips from her efforts at self-control.
"I don't care—go where you like," she breathed, in a scarcely audible voice.
The man passed noiselessly into the library, where he was no less observant of what it contained than he had been in the parlor. Presently he moved out into the hall, and on to a chamber which he realized at a glance must be Helen's. Leading from it was another and smaller one, and this, he was sure, as he entered it, had been Dorothy's.
It was the daintiest room imaginable. Excepting the bed, which was of brass, the furniture was all of white enamel and willow ware in graceful designs. Spotless draperies of muslin over white shades hung at the windows, and were slightly looped with broad blue ribbons. A beautiful blue-and-white rug lay upon the light hardwood floor, and the fireplace was also tiled in the same colors.
Here John Hungerford lingered for a long time, moving silently, and treading softly, as if he felt himself intruding upon some sacred place. He paused before each piece of furniture, noting every detail in outline and upholstery. Not an article of the frosted-silver toilet set upon the pretty dresser escaped his notice; he even noted her class pin and two small baby pins which he remembered seeing Dorothy wear as a child, that were stuck into the blue-and-white satin pin-cushion under the looking-glass. He examined all her books, the pictures on the walls, and studied the photographs of her friends and schoolmates, of which she had many.
Now and then he would softly touch and caress a vase or an ornament with reverent, trembling fingers. A little workbasket, made of sweet grass, and sending its delicate perfume to his nostrils, stood upon a table, and some great tears splashed into it as he bent over it and noted a small silver thimble lying among its other implements. When he came to the pretty brass bed, with its dainty lace spread and shams, he seemed almost overcome. His head sank heavily upon his breast, and, reaching out a trembling hand, he gently patted one of the pillows, a great sob heaving his chest and shaking his entire frame as he did so. Then, with a gesture of despair that seemed also to imply the renunciation of some previous purpose, he turned abruptly away, and went back to a group of photographs fastened to the wall, where he had noticed a likeness of Dorothy. It was a class picture that had been taken of her in her graduating dress, just before leaving Vassar.
The man studied it intently, his hungry, yearning eyes devouring its every detail. At last, with a stealthy glance over his shoulder, he reached up, took it down, pressed it passionately to his lips; then, hastily concealing it inside his coat, he left the room.
He merely glanced into the pretty dining room beyond, without attempting to go farther, after which he slowly retraced his steps through the hall to the reception room, and paused in the doorway leading to the parlor, where Helen was still sitting.
"I am going now, Helen," he observed, in a spiritless tone. "Thank you for letting me look around."
She rose and went toward him. He was standing where the light fell full upon his face, and she was shocked to see how ghastly and ill he looked.
"Where are you going?" she briefly inquired.
"I don't quite—know; I——"
"How did you find me?"
"You didn't think I would lose sight of you, did you, after once getting a glimpse of you? I had to know something about Dorothy; I couldn't stand it—the silence and the uncertainty—any longer."
"You will not come here again?"
There was a note of blended authority and appeal in Helen's tone.
"No, I will never trouble you again. I don't think I'll trouble anybody long," he said grimly. "But, Helen"—a scarlet streak shot vividly across his forehead—"could you let me have a little money? I have only a few cents, and I haven't had anything to eat since——"
He broke off suddenly, and began to cough distressingly, his head bowed low in humiliation because of his destitution.
Helen's heart bounded into her throat.
John Hungerford hungry—begging for something to eat! The epicure, the prodigal, who, in days gone by, had never denied himself any luxury that he had craved, now absolutely penniless and shabby, almost starving! And that cough—how it racked him!
A thrill of horror ran through her; she clenched her hands in an effort to repress the cry of dismay that arose to her lips.
"Where are you staying?" she forced herself to inquire, with an appearance of composure.
"I don't know where I shall stay to-night," he faltered. "To-morrow I am going back to San Francisco; Uncle Nathan has sent me a ticket."
So he had not even a place to lay his head that night, and the few cents which he claimed to have surely would not provide him the humblest lodging, let alone something to appease his hunger.
"Wait," said Helen, and, turning abruptly from him, a choking sensation in her throat, she swept into the library. Going to her desk, she wrote a few words upon a blank card, after which she opened a drawer, drew forth a crisp new bank note, and hastily folded it, with the numerals out of sight. She then returned to the hall, and slipped the card, with the money underneath, into the man's hand.
"Here is the address of a good woman who sometimes works for me," she said. "She lives not far from here; take the first turn to the right, going downtown; the third street from there is Broad Street. Turn to your left, find number ninety-five, and Mrs. Harding lives on the lower floor. She will give you a comfortable room for the night and a good breakfast in the morning."
As she concluded, Helen turned the catch and opened the door leading to the outer hall. She was trembling violently, and her face was as colorless as marble.
John Hungerford stood for a moment, regarding her with a hopeless, heartbroken look; then, with bowed head and faltering steps, he passed out upon the landing.
"Thank you; good-by—Helen," he breathed hoarsely.
"Good-by, John," she mechanically returned, and the door was shut between them.
She stood listening until she heard him leave the house. Then, after carefully fastening the burglar chain, she staggered to her chamber, where, falling face downward upon her bed, she collapsed in violent hysterics.
"Oh, if it were only a horrible dream from which I could wake!" she moaned. "It cannot—cannot be possible that I have seen him again, and in such a miserable plight!"
How would it all end? she wondered, as she lay there in abject misery. Would the shameful past, which she had believed forever annihilated, by the death of Marie Duncan and the destruction of those menacing newspapers and photographs, be resurrected, and the fair fabric of social prestige, almost of celebrity, which she had reared for herself and her child during the last ten years be ruthlessly overthrown, and crush them both to earth beneath the ruins?
She had firmly believed for many years that she would never again meet the faithless man who had once been her husband. She had fondly imagined that she was absolutely free to live out the beautiful future she had grown to anticipate without once having her peace disturbed by any fear that he would ever cross her path again. But, alas, for the frailty of human hopes! To be sure, he had told her that he would never trouble her again, and there had been a hopeless finality in both his manner and words when he left her to-night, that seemed convincing. But would he keep his word? Would he—oh, would he?
And to what depths he had fallen!
Could that homeless, penniless, pitiful tramp be the once light-hearted, care-free John Hungerford? The man who had been her husband, and in whose companionship she had once believed herself to be supremely happy! And now—she cringed with shame and repugnance at the mere remembrance of his presence.
How could he ever have sunk so low? Ah, she knew but too well! He had always depended upon some one else to make life easy for him, to help him over hard places, to care for his comfort, and cater to his entertainment; while he gathered only the honey along the way, shirking every manly duty, ignoring every sacred responsibility; and when his props, one by one, had fallen away from him, he had drifted aimlessly and helplessly with the current, sinking lower and lower, until, ill, hungry, and desperate, he had—as a last shameless resort—turned to her, his divorced wife, for help.
Helen spent a wretched night. To sleep was impossible, with that gaunt figure, haggard face, and racking cough continually haunting her. Again and again she wished that she had given John twenty, instead of ten, dollars. How was he ever to get to California with any degree of comfort upon so small a sum? He certainly could not take a sleeper; he would have to ride all the way in a day coach, or go hungry—unless, perchance, his uncle had also sent him a ticket for a berth, which was doubtful. And what would become of him upon reaching San Francisco? He did not look fit for work, and she knew well, from past experience, that Nathan Young was not likely to tolerate laggards in his employ.
What possible hope could the future hold for him—sick, spiritless, and with not a friend in the world to really care what became of him? She shivered as a vision of the home for the poor arose before her. Would he be driven to that? Or, something even worse, perhaps—the coward's refuge—suicide?
These were some of the distracting thoughts that thronged her brain and drove sleep from her pillow during that long night.
At the same time she was greatly relieved to know that the continent would separate them. He had promised that he would never trouble her again, and if he kept his word he would be gone to-morrow, and Dorothy need never know aught of this night's dreadful experience.
Somewhat calmed by these reflections, she finally, just as day began to dawn, dropped into a profound slumber, from which she did not awaken until nearly ten in the morning.
Fortunately it was Saturday; she had no pupils for that day, and her time was her own. But she was far from happy as she tried to busy herself with some light duties about the house. Her thoughts constantly reverted to her interview with John, and a sense of self-condemnation began to fasten itself upon her, in view of the attitude she had maintained toward him.
She knew that she had not been kind to him; she had flung scorn and taunts at him when he was already crushed beneath a heartrending load of misery and shame. She had manifested antagonism, bitterness, and resentment toward him. These, summed up, meant hate, and hate meant—what? "He that hateth his brother is a murderer," was the text that came to her again with a revolting shock, in reply. John had implied that perhaps she had wished him dead. She knew, now, that she had, and involuntarily she passed her hand across her forehead as she thought of that old-time brand upon the brow of Cain. Had she fallen so low as that? Had she been simply a whited sepulcher all these years, showing an attractive, gracious, irreproachable surface to the world, while in her heart she had been nursing this deadly viper, hate? John had deeply wronged her, but he had wronged himself far more, and now his sins had brought their own punishment—had stripped and left him wounded by the wayside; while she, instead of binding up his wounds, pouring in the oil of kindness and the wine of cheer and good will, had smitten him afresh. Surely she would not have treated the veriest stranger like that! True, she had given him money, but how had she given it—what had been the motive? She knew it had been merely to get rid of him and to save herself the pain of thinking of him as a starving man.
All this was something similar to, though more effective than, the sifting she had experienced that never-to-be-forgotten Sunday in church, so long ago. She realized now that she had not rooted out, but simply buried a little deeper, for the time being, the corroding bitterness within her heart. Her interest in Marie Duncan, the kindness and sympathy she had shown her during her last hours, the change in her own and in the woman's mental attitude toward each other, together with Marie's surrender of the menacing newspapers and photographs, which had eliminated all fear of exposure, had brought to her a deceptive peace, which she had believed to be a purified conscience. But the test that had come to her now proved to her that the serpent had only been sleeping, that she still had her battle to fight, her victory to win, or the evil would recoil upon herself, warp her nature, and poison her whole future.
It was a season of sackcloth and ashes for Helen, but the searching introspection to which she subjected herself had uncovered the appalling effects which long years of secret brooding, self-pity, and self-righteousness had produced upon her, and awakened a wholesome sense of self-condemnation and repentance, thus opening the way for a more healthful mental condition and growth.
She realized all this, in a way; but she did not know how to begin to tread down the conflicting forces that were rampant within her; how to silence the mental arguments that were continually affirming that she had been deeply wronged—that she might, perhaps, forgive, but could never forget; that John had made his own bed and must lie in it—he had no legal or moral right to expect either aid or sympathy from her—and so on to the end of the chapter—or, rather, the chapter seemed to have no end.
"What shall I do?" she finally exclaimed, with a feeling of exhaustion. "The evil talks to me incessantly, and I do not know how to get the better of it."
Suddenly she started from her chair, and, going to her desk, opened a drawer and found a card.
"Mrs. Raymond B. Everleigh, number —— Riverside Drive, New York," she read aloud, and then stood gravely thinking for a minute or two.
Then she opened her telephone book, found the name and address she wanted, and called the number opposite over the phone.
"Is this Mrs. Raymond B. Everleigh?" she inquired, when the connection had been made.
The answer came back: "Yes, I am Mrs. Everleigh."
"Does Mrs. Everleigh remember the lady who sat with her in church the third Sunday in May, and to whom she gave her card, asking her to come again?" Helen questioned.
"Yes, indeed; and I have hoped to see her again—wondered why I have not."
"It is she who is talking with you now. May I come to see you to-day? I know it is asking a great favor from a stranger, but——"
Helen's appealing voice ceased while she listened to something that came from the other end.
"At two o'clock? Oh, thank you! I will be there," she gratefully returned, as she hung up her receiver and hastened to her room to dress for the street.
At two o'clock Helen rang the bell of Mrs. Everleigh's palatial home on Riverside Drive. A man in livery admitted her, swept herself and her card with a comprehensive glance as she laid the bit of pasteboard upon his tray, obsequiously bowed her into an elegantly appointed reception room, and disappeared.
Five minutes later Mrs. Everleigh came to her. Helen had thought her a rarely beautiful woman when she had seen her in church, more than four months previous; but she seemed a hundredfold more lovely now, dressed all in simple white, her abundant snowy hair coiled becomingly about her head, her only ornament an exquisite chain of turquoise set in silver and almost the color of her peaceful eyes, and her lips wreathed in sunny, welcoming smiles.
"Mrs. Ford, I am more than glad to see you," she said, as she cordially clasped Helen's hand. "And now, if you will allow me to waive the formalities of a first call, I am going to ask you to come up to my private sitting room, where we can be wholly by ourselves."
Helen thanked her, and followed her up the grand stairway, noting the costly furnishings of the great hall, the rare paintings, statuary, bric-a-brac, et cetera, on every hand; and almost gave vent to an exclamation of childish delight as she was ushered into an exquisite boudoir on the second floor, and which was furnished throughout in blue and white; the great chandelier in the center of the ceiling, and other appliances for lighting, together with many beautiful vases, being all of crystal or expensive cut glass.
"What an ideal setting for an ideal woman!" she said to herself, as she entered the room.
"Come and sit here, Mrs. Ford," said Mrs. Everleigh, as she preceded her to a great bow window, where there were two inviting rockers, with hassocks to match, a pretty onyx table on which rested a small easel supporting the photograph of a beautiful young girl, and, standing beside it, a costly cut-glass vase filled with fresh forget-me-nots.
"What a lovely nook!" was Helen's involuntary tribute, as she sank into the luxurious chair offered her. "And, oh, that view!" she added, with a quick indrawn breath, as her glance fell upon the scene without, where, between splendid great trees, all glorious in their brilliant fall attire of red, yellow, and green, glimpses of the river, flashing in the sunlight, with the darker hills beyond, made a picture that one could never forget.
"Yes, it is a scene of which I never tire," returned her hostess, as she took the other rocker, and thoughtfully pushed a hassock nearer her guest.
"I hope, Mrs. Everleigh, I have not seemed intrusive in asking to come to you?" Helen observed, after a moment or two, during which she sat silently drinking in the beauty before her. "But your kindness to me that day in church emboldened me to beg the favor."
"My dear, I am happy to have you come—I am glad to be helpful to any one, as opportunity offers," the elder lady graciously replied.
Helen lifted a glance of surprise to her. She had not hinted that she was unhappy, or needed help of any kind.
Mrs. Everleigh met her look with her winning smile.
"Your voice told me over the phone, dear, that you were in trouble," she said. "Now, open your heart to me. What can I do for you?"
Her tone was so kind, her smile and manner so loving, Helen's forced composure melted like wax in the sun, and a sudden flood of tears rendered her utterly helpless to respond for the moment.
The strain and excitement of the last forty-eight hours had been very great, and the loss of two nights' sleep, together with the relentless mental vivisection to which she had since subjected herself, had robbed her of both strength and self-control.
"Dear heart," gently entreated her companion, "let the bitterness all out; then there will be room to pour in the balm and oil."
She leaned back in her chair, and sat silent, with bowed head and averted eyes, until Helen's weeping ceased, and she began to regain something of her customary self-possession.
"Dear Mrs. Everleigh," she at length said, as she lifted her tear-stained face to her, "you have not attempted to question or comfort me, and yet it seems to me you have been pouring peace into my heart every moment since I came into this room; my trouble is the old puzzle regarding love and hate."
"How is it a puzzle?"
"All my life," Helen explained, "I have believed myself to be a good woman, a devoted wife and mother, faithful to my duties, charitable, conscientious, God-fearing, self-sacrificing to a fault, and absolutely loyal to my friends. I believed all this to be love. When trouble came, I bore it patiently, taking up my burdens with courage, and setting my face steadfastly toward the work of regaining for myself and my child that of which we had been cruelly robbed—home, position, and an honorable name. I thought I had won, that the goal had been attained, that I had so firmly established myself no taint of the past could touch me; and I believed I was happy in what I had achieved, until I suddenly awoke to the fact that all the fair fabric I had constructed and believed unassailable was only an outward show, built upon pride and self-righteousness; until I began to realize that I had all the time been possessed of a subconscious hate, the hate that wishes people dead and powerless to cross your path again! Does the picture appall you?"
Helen paused, almost breathless from inward emotion and rapid speaking.
"My dear, you have uncovered all this in connection with yourself?" gravely queried Mrs. Everleigh.
"Somethinghas uncovered it," said Helen, with a bitter sigh.
"And what is the result of such searching introspection?"
"I feel like a whited sepulcher. I am appalled, shocked beyond measure at myself," said Helen, with a gesture of repugnance.
"Do you think it was your real self who was nursing all the evil you have portrayed?" gently inquired her companion.
Helen lifted a look of surprise to her.
"My real self?" she repeated, in perplexity.
"The real self is the purity—the innate consciousness that shrinks from evil, and would be clothed upon with the garment of righteousness, of right thinking and right living," said Mrs. Everleigh.
"Then the evil-thinking is the unreal self, and every one possesses a dual nature? I recognize that—it is the old story of Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde—but when one wakes up to find that even the good hethinkshe has done is evil, because of the worm at the core, it becomes a mocking paradox," said Helen bitterly.
"No, dear; not the good he thinks and has done," opposed her companion gently, "for every good thought that has taken form in your consciousness, every good deed that has been the outgrowth of that thought, belongs to your true self, and nothing can rob you of it. Your efforts to conquer adverse circumstances, your determination to achieve success in your profession—I have recently heard Madam Ford sing, and have learned something of her career," the lady smilingly interposed—"and an honorable name and position for yourself and your child are all justifiable and praiseworthy. We have a right to set our standards high and do our utmost, with right motives, to attain them. But the undercurrent of bitterness, the sense of resentment, self-pity, self-righteousness—the thinking that is continually arguing about the faults and sins of the wrongdoer—everything that tends to self-justification by the condemnation of another is all wrong, and must be put out, if we hope ever to attain to our ideals, and know real peace of mind. It matters not how fair our outward living may seem, if the thinking is wrong."
"I began to realize something of this, that Sunday in church," said Helen. "It seemed as if a wonderful searchlight had been turned upon my inner self, revealing lurking demons I never dreamed I was harboring."
"Every one, sooner or later, must be sifted as wheat is sifted—must be refined as gold is refined; the dross and the chaff must be cast out," said her companion.
"Oh, tell me how!" Helen exclaimed. "One yearns to be pure in thought as well as in deed, but the wrong-thinking seems to go on and on of itself. How can it be conquered?"
"By putting self out of sight and giving loving service to others."
"To those who have done us desperate wrong?" panted Helen, with an inward shock.
"Even to those," said Mrs. Everleigh gently. "They need it most of all."
"Oh, you cannot mean that we should take them back into our hearts and lives, and nourish and serve them again as if no wrong had been done, when every law of God and man had been violated, every tendril of affection ruthlessly trampled upon!" Helen's voice was almost inaudible as she concluded.
Mrs. Everleigh did not immediately reply; she sat gravely thinking for several minutes.
"Dear Mrs. Ford," she at length began, "we each have different problems in life to solve, and it is difficult and perhaps unwise for one to say to another what he or she would do under certain circumstances which had never come into one's own experience. Loving service is that which best promotes the welfare of the one served. What might be loving service and helpful for one might be just the reverse for another. The wrongdoer must suffer for his wrongdoing, else he would never recognize or repent his sin; it would be doing irreparable injury to remove his punishment, restoring joys he had forfeited, privileges he had trampled upon. That would be encouraging sin. We are commanded to 'cast not our pearls before swine.' We must not continue to shower blessings and favors indiscriminately upon those who have shown themselves unappreciative and unworthy of past benefits. Having cut themselves adrift, it is theirs to work out their own salvation, and it is not our duty to again put ourselves in contact with the error that has deliberately wronged and wounded us. And yet, there is loving service that we can still render even these; we can think and speak kindly of them, giving honor where honor is due, compassion instead of condemnation for the errors that hold them in bondage. Such an attitude cannot fail to crowd out and conquer the bitterness, self-pity, self-righteousness, condemnation—everything that robs us of our peace. When we attain to this we shall know that we have no partnership with hate."
"I begin to understand something of what love means," Helen said, in a tone of awe. "I feel as if I were just beginning to see how to live. You surely have helped me to empty myself of much of the evil that seemed to be surging within me when I came here this afternoon. You have indeed 'poured in balm and oil,' and given me much food for thought."
She arose to leave as she spoke, holding out her hand, a look of grateful appreciation in her eyes.
"Oh, I am not going to let you go yet! I have not said half I wish," cried her hostess, clasping her extended hand, but forcing her gently back into her chair; and Helen, eager to learn more from the wisdom that fell from her lips, sank restfully down among her cushions again, and they talked on for an hour longer.
"How glad I am you came to me, Mrs. Ford!" Mrs. Everleigh observed, when she finally said she must go. "I hope to see you often after this—I shall make it my way to do so, if you will allow me. I heard you sing at the Wardsworths' shortly after we met in church, and I intended to be introduced to you at that time, but you had left when I asked to be presented. You have a great gift, and I am going to beg you to use it for me some time."
"It will give me great pleasure to do so, Mrs. Everleigh. I would love to show some appreciation of the good you have done me to-day," Helen heartily responded, adding, as her eyes sought those of her companion: "It is a privilege just to look into your peaceful face—one would think that no blight or sorrow had ever touched you in——"
Mrs. Everleigh's hand closed over Helen's almost spasmodically, and her lips whitened suddenly, as her glance sought the beautiful photograph resting on the onyx table beside the vase of forget-me-nots.
"No blight—no sorrow!" she repeated, as she gently drew her visitor a step nearer the likeness. "Oh, no one escapes the tragedies of this mortal life, my dear—they pass none of us by. This is a likeness of my daughter. Is she not beautiful? She was swept from my sight almost before I realized she was in danger. It seemed as if a whirlwind caught her away, and—she was all I had—the apple of my eye, the one darling of my heart. The blow left me with this crown of snow," she went on, touching with tremulous fingers the hair upon her forehead. "It broke my heart, crushed me to earth for the time being, and the battle I had to fight was much the same that you are fighting now. It is only step by step that we conquer in such experiences, but if we are sincere—'honest in mind and intention'—if we keep our armor on, and wield a merciless sword upon our secret foes, we must win in the end."
Helen was very near weeping again as she listened to her. Surely, she thought, the tragedies of earth pass no one by! Those in palace and hovel meet on common ground in these great heart sorrows. She lifted the hand she held, and softly laid her lips against it—she was powerless to speak one word.
But Mrs. Everleigh quickly quelled her momentary emotion, and her peaceful smile seemed like a benediction as she turned again to Helen.
"But she made my life very bright while she was here. I have beautiful things to remember of her; I have very much to be grateful for," she said bravely. "We must not forget to number our blessings, dear Mrs. Ford," she continued gravely, "lest we drift back into the former bitterness and darkness. You still have your lovely daughter, if you have had other trials—I saw her also at the Wardsworths'—be thankful, and, in the light of that and other blessings, forget the wrong and blight of the past."
They went downstairs together, Mrs. Everleigh accompanying her visitor to the door and exacting a promise that she would come again in the near future, for there was more she wished to say to her when the world seemed brighter to her.
Helen went home with a sense of peace in her heart such as she had not known for many weeks. She felt like a different person from what she had been during the last forty-eight hours. She reviewed every step of her interview with Mrs. Everleigh, analyzing her arguments, making a personal application of them, and seeking to attain to a higher understanding of them.
"Loving service for even those who have wronged us most!" This had impressed her more deeply than anything else she had said, and as she conned it o'er and o'er she came to see that to purify her own consciousness of evil-thinking against John—he who had wronged her most, who had put the worst possible humiliation and suffering upon her—would not only release her from the intolerable bondage of mental discord which she had suffered for years whenever he had come into her thought, but would also be obeying the divine command: "Do unto others as ye would they should do unto you."
She might never see or hear from John again—she hoped she would not; he had said he would trouble her no more; but whether he did or not, she knew that the bitterness of hate was past, and in its place there was dawning a peace that comes to all those who realize and practice the greatest of all virtues—"Charity, the love that thinketh no evil."