man, pause?
How dare he throw such defiance in the face of Almighty God over his
unrighteous gains!--yes, unrighteous gains, for mammon held them in
trust. None had ever gone into the treasure-house of God to relieve
the suffering, or aid the indignant. The few good acts of his life had
been _wrested_ from him, and the recollection of them filled him with
bitterness instead of joy.

"That is wise and prudent, sir," observed Mr. Jerrold.

"Of course it is. But now to the point. I will take you into
partnership on condition that you, as my successor, marry my niece,
Helen Stillinghast, and promise on your honor to endeavor to overcome
her Catholic tendencies. She is not very strong in her faith, but as I
intend to leave her a considerable amount of property, I do not wish it
to go to the support of a creed I detest--not one copper of it. What
do you say?"

"What amount of capital do you require, Mr. Stillinghast?"

"Whatever you have, sir. If it is much, well; if nothing, it makes no
difference: but, do you hesitate? I suppose the girl is an obstacle."

"None in the least, sir. But I am overwhelmed by your generosity, sir;
the advantages you offer place me in a position which it would have
taken me years of toil to attain, and I must confess, that I am quite
thrown off my balance. Will you allow me at least a few hours to
_think_?" said Walter Jerrold, highly excited.

"Your caution is no discredit to you. I see that I am not deceived,"
said Mr. Stillinghast, with a grim smile. "To-morrow evening I shall
expect an answer; at which time you can come to my house, and take your
tea, and look at my niece."

"You will certainly see me then, sir, and hear my decision." And the
young man, with steps that scarcely felt the earth he trod on, hurried
away, nor paused an instant, until he reached home. Mrs. Jerrold was
standing on her marble carriage-step, just ready to get into her
luxurious coach to take a drive. He whispered a word or two to her;
the carriage was dismissed, and mother and son went up stairs to
analyze the sudden promise of fortune which had burst, like the bow of
heaven, around them. And together we will leave them--the worldly
mother and the worldly son, to grow elate, and almost wild, at the
prospect which Mr. Stillinghast's eccentric liberality had opened to
their view. At any rate, it was eligible in every respect, with, or
without a matrimonial appendage; and Cedar Hall was secured to the
Jerrolds.

Father Fabian, true to his promise, had visited old Mabel, and found
her so well disposed, and of such docile faith, that he had promised,
as soon as he finished her general confession, to give her holy
baptism. Two or three times a week he dropped in, and was much edified
by the fervor and humility with which she received his instructions.
It all seemed like a new world dawning around her, as if through the
chinks of her lowly dwelling bright visions of heaven stole in to
gladen her, while her soul in its humble love traversed back and forth
with angel messengers. May had not seen her for some days, and now
went to take her money to pay the rent of her poor cottage, and
purchase a supply of provisions. Mrs. Tabb had disposed of her fancy
knitting, and sent her son early that morning with the proceeds, some
six or seven dollars, to May. Rejoicing in the power to do good, and
leaving all her vexations and trials at home, she sought old Mabel's
lowly dwelling, to impart and receive consolation.

"That's Miss May! Here, Nellie, fetch that stool over thar for Miss
May," exclaimed the old woman, as soon as the door opened. "How is
you, honey?"

"I am quite well, Aunt Mabel. I think you are looking better," replied
May, sitting down beside her.

"Oh, honey, it's blessed times with me now. I bin blind all my life; I
never see nuffin till now. Ah, honey, that good priest you send me
aint like the buckra parsons I used to know. _He_ aint too proud to
sit down by a poor nigger, an' take her lame hand in his'n, and rub it
with some sort of liniment he fotch. And thar's a bottle of wine he
left 'cause the doctor said I must have some. _He_ don't stand off as
if he was afeard I would pizen him, and fling the gospel at me like
stingy people throws bones to dogs. He makes me _feel_ that I'm a
child of God as well as white folks, by _treating_ me like one, honey."

"I'm very glad, Aunt Mabel, that you are comforted by Father Fabian's
visits," said May, smiling at her unsophisticated statement.

"Yes, he comforts me mightily, Miss May; and he talk so simple and
beautiful, that I understand every word he says."

"What does Father Fabian tell you, Aunt Mabel?"

"He read one thing to me out of my ole Bible thar. You know I can't
read myself, Miss May, but I keep it 'cause it belonged to my missis.
He asked me if I ever been baptized?' I told him, 'No, sir.' Then he
ask me how I knew, and I tell him that too. Then he read what Jesus
Christ said, 'Unless you be born again, of water and the Holy Ghost,
you shall not enter the kingdom of heaven;' and, honey, it was enough,
for me to know he said it. And then he told me about the power our
Lord left with his Church to forgive sins, and I didn't dar doubt it,
'cause who can be so presumptuous as to contradict Jesus Christ when he
lays down the way and the truth? But oh, Miss May, when the day comes
for me to receive in my ole heart the dear Lord hisself--my poor ole
tired, aching heart--then I lived long enough, 'cause the glory of God
will be with me."

"It will be a most happy day, Aunt Mabel," said May, dashing a tear
from her cheek. "Now tell me something about our Immaculate Mother.
Do you ever think of her?"

"Oh, Miss May! how can I think of _Jesus Christ_--how can I love him,
without thinking of, and loving her? If I go down to the manger, thar
she is, watching over him, or holding him on her bosom; if I go through
Salem's marble city, honey, thar she is, close by her divine Son; if I
go to Calvary, what do I see?" said old Mabel, lifting her shrivelled
hand, and dim eyes to heaven, while tears flowed over her swarthy
cheeks; "I see the Son of God, and the Son of Mary--Jesus Christ,
hanging on the rough wood; his head, his hands, his feet, his side,
dropping blood from the torn flesh. I see him dying for me; and down
at his feet, his mother suffering with him. Ah, honey, it was a heavy
burden she bore that dark day! The suffering of her son--her own
pangs--the sins of the world, for which both suffered, as it 'pears to
me, was too much for one human heart. Oh, don't any body talk to me
'bout not loving the Blessed Virgin! With one breath, I say, 'Have
mercy on me, sweet Jesus!' with the other, I say, 'Pray for me, Virgin
mother, without sin!' It's the last thing I say at night, and the
first I say in the morning."

"But you don't worship the Blessed Virgin, Aunt Mabel?" said May, with
a smile.

"Worship her, honey? No! but God honored and loved her. SHE was the
mother of the dear Jesus; the 'mount of her sufferings was for him and
us, and _I_ love her--_I_ honor her, and I go to her like a little
child, and ask her to _pray for me_, and ask Him, who never refused her
any thing, for what I want."

"She is a tender friend--the refuge of sinners--the health of the
weak--the help of Christians!" said May, astonished at old Mabel's
language; "and I am glad you have recourse to her. She will lead you
along until all is well with you. Shall I read to you now? Father
Fabian requested me to read over the catechism to you. To-day I will
read the instructions on Confession and Baptism."

"I can't hear too much, Miss May," said the old woman, leaning forward
to listen, with an eager and anxious expression. May read, and
explained, until she heard the cathedral bell toll the Angelus. It was
time for her to go; so kneeling down, she said with heartfelt devotion
the beautiful prayer, which celebrates so worthily and continually the
wondrous mystery of the Incarnation. After which she left her purse
with old Mabel, containing the amount of her rent, which would be due
the next day, and promising to send her tea, sugar, and other
necessaries, called little Nellie in, and telling her to sit with her
grandmother, hurried away with a lighter heart than when she came out.
She made her purchases on her way home, and left directions where they
were to be sent. After assuring herself that there would be no
mistake, and obtaining a promise from the clerk who weighed the
groceries that they should be delivered in the course of an hour, she
proceeded homewards. She found Helen haughty and silent, evidently
determined to avoid all conversation on the event of the morning. Two
or three times May endeavored to expostulate with her, but found
herself rudely repulsed.

That night, when Mr. Stillinghast came in, Helen officiously placed his
chair in its usual corner, and handed him his slippers. May made two
or three observations to him in her own cheerful way, but he barely
replied, and desired her not to interrupt him again. Her heart
swelled, and her cheeks flushed, but she remembered the _aim of her
life_, and was silent.

"Do you play on the piano?" said Mr. Stillinghast, abruptly, to Helen.

"No, sir; I play on the harp," she replied, amazed.

"Do you play well?"

"My master thought so, sir."

"I will order one for you to-morrow. I expect company to tea to-morrow
evening, so put on any fandangos you have got."

"Yes, sir," she replied, while her face sparkled with delight; "I can
never thank you, sir."

"I don't want you to, so be quiet, and do as I bid you," he replied,
roughly.

"Poor Helen!" thought May; "poor--poor Helen! 'they seek after her
soul,' and she, oh, weak one! _how_ will she resist without the
sacraments?"

After Mr. Stillinghast retired, and they were left alone, Helen again
opened a French novel to resume her reading, without exchanging a word
with her cousin. Thoughts and emotions were flooding May's soul with
impulses she dared not resist. She must warn her. She must stretch
out her arm, weak though it was, to save her.

"Helen! dear Helen, listen to me!" she said, kneeling before her, and
throwing an arm around her neck, while she laid her hand on her
cousin's. Helen, astonished, dropped her book, and remained passive,
while May besought her by her hopes of heaven to accompany her the next
morning to confession, or go alone, as both could not leave home
together; then set before her in eloquent and soul-touching language
the peril into which her prevarications were leading her.

"You are mad, May.--decidedly mad; I intend to better my condition if I
can, and be a Catholic too. I am only conciliating this crusty old
wretch, who has us both in his power; then, you know, we may bring him
around after awhile," she said, carelessly.

"Oh, Helen! we _cannot_ serve two masters, even for a season; nor can
we handle pitch without becoming defiled. Believe me, this kind of
conciliation, as it is called, is fraught with evil," said May,
earnestly.

"You are right about the pitch, May. He is truly as disagreeable as
pitch; but, indeed, I will endeavor to handle him with gloves on," said
Helen, laughing; "and I _won't_ go to confession until I am ready."

"I alluded to my uncle's opinions and principles, for, Helen, he is an
unbeliever!" said May, sighing, as she turned away to go up to bed.

"Don't make any more scenes, little dear; really, you startle one
almost into spasms," continued the heartless and beautiful one. "I
have a very strong, high spirit, and a _will_; no iron or rock is
harder."

"Be warned, Helen! I have a will, too, and shall not cease to admonish
you--to warn you--to pray for you, until life ceases."

"Pshaw! you are a fanatic. Good night, my dear."




CHAPTER IX.

TRIALS.

When May awoke the next morning at her usual hour, she discovered, to
her great surprise, that Helen was up and dressed; but how occupied she
could not conceive, until rising, she saw her sitting beside her open
trunk, with a lighted candle on a chair near her, looking over various
ornaments and articles of dress which it contained. With a small
hand-glass she tried the effect of jet and pearls in her ears; of black
velvet, or satin rosettes, in her soft wavy brown hair; of white crape
and illusion on her throat and wrists--glancing all the time with an
expression of pleased triumph at the reflection on her faultlessly
beautiful face.

"Thank God, I am _not_ beautiful," thought May, without a dash of envy.
"I might--yes, I am so weak--I might worship myself instead of God."
But she said nothing, and performed her morning devotions, and made her
meditations as usual; then dressed quickly and neatly, and asked Helen
if she was ready to go down.

"I declare, May, you are a perfect little mouse. I did not know you
were up. Yes; I am ready now. I had quite forgotten that it was my
morning to make breakfast," she replied, returning the things to the
trunk without the least possible hurry.

"If you have any thing else to do, dear Helen; I mean--if--you have not
said your prayers yet, I will go down and get things in train for you,"
said May, timidly.

"Thank you, May, but I keep my own conscience. I have no time for my
prayers now--after breakfast will do," she replied, carelessly.

"Dear Helen, consider--"

"Dear May, I _won't_ consider," she interrupted her, "for I am in such
a ferment of delight, what with the idea of company, and having a harp
once more, I am really half wild, and could not pray for the life of
me--at least, as people _ought_ to pray. Oh, what different times we
shall have! Really, May, I have an idea that I shall have our old
savage dancing the Tarantula before to-morrow night," she exclaimed,
almost shrieking with laughter.

"Helen," began May, but checked herself, and burst into tears, which
she endeavored to conceal--such tears as angels shed over the
derelictions of the souls they are appointed to guard. Helen did not
observe them; giddy and selfish, she derived amusement from that which
was luring her soul further away from God; and, while May wept over her
peril, she thought only of the transient and fleeting enjoyments of the
present. Gayly humming the _Tarantula_, she ran down to the kitchen,
where she got breakfast, or, rather claimed the reputation of getting
it, by assisting May, who was really the practical cause of its being
made at all tolerably.

"What sort of gimcracks must one have for supper? I have invited a
friend with whom I have business relations of some importance, to tea,
and I wish to know what is usual," said Mr. Stillinghast, addressing
Helen, after breakfast.

"I don't know, sir," she said, looking down, with the half-frightened
expression her face always wore when he addressed her; "people
generally have cake, and other nice things."

"Very well, make a supper to suit yourself," said Mr. Stillinghast,
tossing her a five dollar note.

"We _ought_ to have silver forks, sir," she suggested.

"Silver devils! well, wait--" He went up to his chamber, and returned
with a package, which he laid carefully on the table, saying, "There
they are--be careful with them," and went out without noticing May even
by a look, who felt the neglect more keenly than any trial he had ever
caused her. To find that Helen, who hated as much as she feared
him--whose life was so aimless and useless--preferred before her,
caused sharp and bitter emotions. The flagrant injustice of his
treatment galled, as much as his unmerited contempt humiliated her.
For a little while her feelings bore her along on their rough but
silent torrent, while the hot winds of evil heated her veins with fire,
and caused a hot flush to burn on either cheek. Ho! how exulted the
tempter now; he had long laid in wait for her soul, and now, while it
oscillated and wavered, how triumphant he was; how defiantly he lifted
his lurid brow towards the Almighty, while he spread out the snare for
that tempted, trembling one! but let us listen--for angels guard her,
and watch, with sorrowful eyes, the dread conflict, while they pray for
heavenly strength to sustain her--let us listen to the words which go
up from that heart, so stilly and whispered that they scarcely reach
our ears, while in Heaven they ring out clear, and sweet, and
sorrowful,--"Sweet Jesus! merciful Jesus! suffering, calumniated dying
Jesus, pity me--rescue me," she murmured, folding her cold hands
together. Far away fled the powers of darkness, and left only the
sweetness and peace of that potent deliverer, JESUS, in her soul. Once
more the angels of her life looked up rejoicing, and spread their wings
of light about her way. _Without_, there had been an exterior calm;
but it was like that gray, sad stillness, which mantles the storm. Now
there was sunshine as well as calm.

"What shall I do, May?" said Helen, who had been reading the paper.

"We must try and make a nice supper, as my uncle wishes, Helen. I will
make waffles and tea-biscuits, if you wish it, and we can order cake
from Delaro's. I think this, with chipped ham, tea, and coffee, will
be sufficient."

"Thank you, May. I am so ignorant; if you will only do it all for me,
I shall be so obliged to you. You know I shall have to dress, and it
takes me so long to arrange my hair gracefully. I wish, sometimes,
that I had none--it is so troublesome," said the selfish girl.

"Yes," said May, after a little while, "I will attend to it. My dress
is such an every day affair, that I shall be able to have every thing
ready, to take the head of the table in time."

"The head of the table! I rather expect Mr. Stillinghast intends me to
preside."

"Possibly. If my uncle wishes it, Helen, I will certainly resign it to
you; but, as I have always sat there, I shall continue to do so until
he requests me to do otherwise," said May, with becoming firmness.

"Oh, of course! It is quite indifferent to me, my dear;--but what have
we here?" said Helen, taking up the bundle which Mr. Stillinghast had
laid on the table. "See, May, what splendidly chased silver forks!
How heavy they are; and see! here is a crest on them."

"They are very old, I presume," said May, examining them with interest.

"As old as the hills! Where on earth has the old curmudgeon kept them
all this time?" exclaimed Helen. "Do you think he bought, or inherited
them?"

"Inherited them, doubtless. My mother had the same crest on her
silver. Our grandfather was an Englishman of good lineage; but see,
Helen, they require a good cleansing and rubbing. I will go to mass
now, after which I will attend to your commissions. While I am out,
you had better get down the old china, which you will find on that
closet shelf, with some cut glass goblets. You can wash them up with
the breakfast things; or, if you would rather wait until I return, I
will assist you," said May.

"Oh, no! I like such work; but, May, could we not hunt up your old
maummy, if she is not too old, to come and wait?" asked Helen.

"She died two years ago, Helen," said May, turning away her head with a
quivering lip.

"How unfortunate! But, May, have you any fine table linen?"

"Yes; a number of fine damask tablecloths."

"And napkins?"

"None."

"Thank fortune, I have some four dozen East India napkins; they will
look quite splendid on the table this evening. But hurry on, May, I
wish to clear up to make room for my harp; I expect it every moment."

That evening, if Mr. Stillinghast had looked around him, he would
scarcely have recognized the sitting-room as the one he had left in the
morning. The round table, just large enough to seat four comfortably,
was elegantly spread with fine white damask, and crimson and old gold
china, of an antique and elegant pattern; sparkling cut glass, and
silver. Two wax candles burned in the old-fashioned silver
_candelabras_ in the centre, on each side of which stood two clusters
of geranium leaves and winter roses, arranged in small rich vases. The
grate looked resplendent, and a harp, of a magnificent pattern, heavily
carved and gilded, stood in a conspicuous place. Helen looked
exquisitely lovely. Her dress was the perfection of good taste, and
well did its elaborate simplicity suit her style of beauty. A single
white rose, and a few geranium leaves in her hair, with a pearl and jet
brooch, which fastened the velvet around her throat, were the only
ornaments she wore. But Mr. Stillinghast came in growling and lowering
as usual, and without noticing any one, or any thing, threw himself in
his arm-chair, which May had taken care should be in its place; drew
off his boots, and replaced them with the soft warm slippers she had
worked for him some months before; then called for the evening paper,
and was soon immersed in the news from Europe, and the rise and fall of
stocks. About a quarter of an hour afterwards the front door-bell
rung, and May, who happened to be in the hall, went to admit the
visitor, who was no other than Mr. Jerrold. He bowed courteously, and
"presumed he had the pleasure of speaking to Miss Stillinghast?"

"My name is May Brooke," said May, with one of her clear smiles.

"And mine is Jerrold--Walter Jerrold; not so harmonious as yours,
certainly!" he replied, throwing off the large Spanish cloak which was
folded gracefully around him.

"Life would be a sad monotone if every thing in creation resembled each
other; there would be no harmony. But walk in, Mr. Jerrold, my uncle
expects you," said May, throwing open the door.

"How are you, sir?" said Mr. Stillinghast,