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.