“Dear Walter—­dear May!” said Helen, lifting her white face up from the pillows, “the struggle is over.  I must now, or never, yield to these impulses and warnings.  Oh, Mother—­oh, Mother!” she exclaimed, turning a look of agony towards the picture; “aid me in this mortal struggle!  I can bear this no longer—­this mystery and burden—­this mantle of hypocrisy must be torn off, if it costs me your love, Walter, and my life! I must be free.  I thought I was strong; I thought I could walk steadily along the way I have hewn out, but I have been haunted by a remorse which is inexorable, and that—­that sacred, sorrowful face over which my sins forced so many bitter torrents.  It has never left me day or night.  In my revels and worldliness—­in my dreams—­in my solitude, it has followed me.  I believe if my heart were opened, it would be found graven there,” she gasped out.

“Oh, dear Helen, respond at once to that tender love which has so patiently pursued you.  Remember that no one was ever lost who had recourse to her.  She has placed herself between you and divine justice, by adopting—­taking possession, as it were, of your heart; and uniting her dolors with those of her Divine Son, has given you no rest, until you seek it at the foot of the cross!” broke out May, with ardor.  “Oh, Mother of Sorrows! pity this, thy poor child, who flies wounded and weeping to thy bosom.”

Helen wept convulsively.  A dark cloud had gathered on her husband’s face.  Her words had fallen like cold drops of lead into his heart.  He knew not to what she alluded, and imagined strange and horrible things.

“Helen,” he said, at last, “your words have a dark meaning! your language is strange for a wife, who has been so loved and trusted, to use!”

“There is the sting, Walter.  I have been loved and trusted without deserving it; and what breaks down my proud nature most of all, is, to think that Heaven, who knows all my guilt, still bears with me,” she said, while every feature worked with the agony this trial was causing her.

“You will set me mad, woman!  Let me hear what this guilt is, of which you so often accuse yourself.  By Heavens! all the wealth of India shall never cloak dishonor!  I will tear it away, and throw it—­with one who has dared to bring a stain on my name—­off, as I would a soiled garment.  Do you understand me?” he said, in a fury.

Helen started up, the red blood rushing in crimson tides to her cheeks and bosom, dyeing her arms down to the very tips of her fingers, at the imputation.  “It is not that, Walter, thank God!” she said, in a firmer voice.  “But there is no true repentance without restitution.  In a few moments you shall know all my sin.”  She went into her dressing-closet; when she came back, she held a small package in her hand, which she laid on May’s knee.  “Take it, May—­it is yours.  I stole it from the closet the night Uncle Stillinghast was dying, while you slept.”