Produced by Al Haines
MAY BROOKE
by
MRS. ANNA H. DORSEY
P. J. KENEDY & SONS
NEW YORK AND PHILADELPHIA
Copyright, 1888,
BY
P. J. KENEDY.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
I.--UNCLE STILLINGHAST
II.--MAY BROOKE
III.--THE MORNING ERRAND
IV.--AUNT MABEL
V.--PAST AND PRESENT
VI.--HELEN
VII.--THINGS OF TIME AND ETERNITY
VIII.--TROUBLED WATERS
IX.--TRIALS
X.--THE WARNING
XI.--THE MIDNIGHT MESSENGER
XII.--REPENTANCE
XIII.--THE NEW WILL
XIV.--THE SECRET SIN
XV.--THE DISCOVERY
XVI.--THE DEATH DREAM
XVII.--REMORSE
XVIII.--REPENTANCE
XIX.--CONCLUSION
CONSCIENCE;
OR,
THE TRIALS OF MAY BROOKE.
CHAPTER I.
UNCLE STILLINGHAST.
"Do you think they will be here to-night, sir?"
"Don't know, and don't care."
"The road is very bad,"--after a pause, "that skirts the Hazel
property."
"Well, what then; what then, little May?"
"The carriage might be overturned, sir; or, the horses might shy a
little to the left, and go over the precipice into the creek."
"Is that all?"
"Is it not dreadful to think of, sir?"
"Well, I don't know; I should be sorry to lose the horses--"
"Oh, sir! and my cousin! Did you forget her?"
"I _care_ nothing about her. I suppose my forefathers must have
committed some crime for which I am to suffer, by being made,
willy-nilly, the guardian of two silly, mawkish girls."
"But, sir, you have been very kind to me, and it shall be the endeavor
of my life to prove my gratitude."
"Very fine, without being in the least consoling! I'd as lief have two
African monkeys under my care--don't laugh--it exasperates, and makes
me feel like doing as I should do, if I had the cursed animals--"
"How is that, sir?"
"Beat you. I hate womankind. Most of all do I hate them in their
transition stages. They are like sponges, and absorb every particle of
evil that the devil sprinkles in the air, until they learn to be young
hypocrites--triflers--false--heartless."
"Oh, dear uncle! has such been your experience? Have you ever met with
such women?"
"Have I ever met with such women, you holy innocent? I have never met
with any other. Now, be still."
"Oh! Uncle Stillinghast--"
"What!"
"I pity you, sir; indeed, I pity you. Something very dreadful must in
times past have embittered you--"
"You are a fool, little May. Don't interrupt me again at your peril."
"No, sir."
And so there was a dead silence, except when the rain and sleet lashed
the window-panes, or a lump of coal crumbled into a thousand glowing
fragments, and opened a glowing abyss in the grate; or the cat uncurled
herself on the rug, and purred, while she fixed her great winking eyes
on the blaze. The two persons who occupied the room were an old man
and a young maiden. He was stern, and sour-looking, as he sat in his
high-back leather chair, with a pile of ledgers on the table before
him,--the pages of which he examined with the most incomparable
patience. A snuff-colored wig sat awry on his head, and a
snuff-colored coat, ornamented with large horn buttons, drooped
ungracefully from his high, stooping shoulders. His neckcloth was
white, but twisted, soiled, and tied carelessly around his thin, sinewy
throat. His legs were cased in gray lamb's-wool stockings, over which
his small-clothes were fastened at the knees with small silver buckles.
His face was not originally cast in such a repulsive mould, but
commerce with the world, and a succession of stinging disappointments
in his early manhood, had woven an ugly mask over it, from behind which
glimpses of his former self, on rare occasions, shone out. Such was
Mark Stillinghast at the opening of our story: old, cynical, and rich,
but poor in friendship, and without any definite ideas of religion,
except, that if such a thing really existed, it was a _terra
incognita_, towards which men rather stumbled than ran.
Opposite to him, on a low crimson chair, as antique in its pattern as
the owner of the mansion, sat a maiden, who might have passed her
seventeenth summer. She was not beautiful, and yet her face had a
peculiar charm, which appealed directly to the softer and kindlier
emotions of the heart. Her eyes, large, gray and beautifully fringed
with long, black lashes, reminded one of calm mountain lakes, into
whose very depths the light of sun and stars shine down, until they
beam with tender sweetness, and inward repose. There was a glad, happy
look in her face, which came not from the fitful, feverish glow of
earth, but, like rays from an inner sanctuary, the glorious realities
of faith, hope, and love, which possessed her soul, diffused their
mysterious influence over her countenance. Thick braids of soft, brown
hair, were braided over her round, childlike forehead: and her dress of
some dark, rich color, was in admirable harmony with her peculiar
style. Her proportions were small and symmetrical, and it was
wonderful to see the serious look of dignity with which she sat in that
old crimson chair, knitting away on a comfort, as fast as her little
white fingers could shuffle the needles. For what purpose could such a
fragile small creature have been created? She looked as if it would
not be amiss to put her under a glass-case, or exhibit her as a
specimen of wax-work; or hire her out, at so much per night, to
fashionable parties, to play "_fairy_" in the Tableaux. But the wind
howled; the leafless branches of the old trees without were crushed up,
shivering and creaking against the house; the frozen snow beat a wild
_reville_ on the windows, and May's face grew very sad and thoughtful.
She dropped her knitting, and with lips apart listened intently.
"Thank God! They are come. I am sure I hear carriage-wheels, uncle!"
she exclaimed, clasping her hands together.
"Of course; I knew they would come. There was to be no such good luck
as their _not_ coming," said Mr. Stillinghast, looking annoyed. "One
sister ran off--married a papist--died, and left _you_ on my hands. I
was about sending you off again, when news came that your father had
died on his voyage home from Canton, and been buried in the deep: so
here you stayed. Brother--spendthrift, shiftless, improvident--marries
a West Indian papist; turns one; dies with his wife, or, at least, soon
after her leaving another ne'er-do-weel on my hands. I wish you'd all
gone to purgatory together. To be shut up in my old days with two wild
papists is abominable!" muttered the old man, slamming the ledgers
together, until every thing on the table danced. He pushed back his
chair, and in another moment the door opened, and a tall, slender,
beautiful girl entered, clad in deep mourning, with a wealth of golden
curls rolling over her transparently fair cheeks. She came with a
graceful, but timid air, towards Mr. Stillinghast; and holding out her
hand, said in a low, sweet tone,
"My uncle?"
"Yes, I have the misfortune to be your uncle; how do you do?"
"I am well, sir, I thank you," she replied, whilst she cast down her
eyes to conceal the tears which suffused them.
"I won't pretend," he said, at last, "to say you are welcome, or that I
am glad to see you, because I should lie; but you are here now, and I
can't help it, neither can you, I suppose; therefore, settle yourself
as quickly as possible in your new way of living. _She_ will show you
what is necessary, and both of you keep as much out of my way as
possible." He then took his candlestick, lighted his candle, and
retired, leaving the poor girl standing with a frightened, heart-broken
look, in the middle of the floor. For a moment she looked after him;
then a sharp cry burst from her lips, and she turned to rush out into
the wintry storm, when she suddenly felt herself enfolded in some one's
arms, who led her to the warmest corner of the sofa, untied her bonnet,
folded back the dishevelled curls, and kissed the tears away from her
cold, white cheeks. It was May, whose heart had been gushing over with
tenderness and sympathy, who had longed to throw her arms around her,
and, welcome her home the moment she entered the house, but who dared
not interfere with her uncle's peculiar ways, or move until he led.
"Do not mind him, dear Helen; it is his ways: he seems rough and stern,
but in reality he is kind and good, dear," she exclaimed.
"You are very kind; but, oh, I did not expect such a reception as this.
I hoped for something very, very different. I cannot stay here--it
would kill me," she sobbed, struggling to disengage her hand from
Mary's.
"Yes you will, dear," pleaded May. "Uncle Stillinghast is like our old
clock--it never strikes the hour true, yet the hands are always right
to a second. So do try, and not to mind."
"Who are you?"
"I?" asked May, looking with a smile of astonishment at her. "I am
your cousin, May Brooke; an orphan like yourself, dear, to whom our
uncle has given house and home."
"Are you happy here?"
"Very happy. I have things to contend with sometimes which are not
altogether agreeable, but I trip along over them just as I do over
muddy places in the street, for fear, you know, of soiling my robe, if
I floundered in them!" said May, laughing. Helen did not understand
the hidden and beautiful meaning couched under May's expressions; she
had heard but little of her baptismal robe since the days of her early
childhood, and had almost forgotten that she was "to carry it unspotted
to the judgment-seat of Christ."
"I am glad you are here--such a nice, soft-voiced little one," said
Helen, passing her long, white hand over May's head.
"I am glad, too; so come with me, and take something warm. Your supper
is on the kitchen hearth. Come," said May, rising.
"Where--to the kitchen? Do you eat in the kitchen?"
"I lunch there sometimes; it is a very nice one."
"Excuse me; I do not wish any thing."
"But a cup of hot tea, and some nice toast, after your fatiguing, wet
journey," argued May.
"Nothing, I thank you," was the haughty reply.
"Perhaps you wish to retire?"
"Yes! Oh, that I could go to sleep, and never wake again," she cried,
bursting into tears.
"You will feel better to-morrow, dear," said May, gently, "and then it
will soothe you to reflect that each trial has its heavenly mission;
and the thorns which pierce us here give birth to flowers in heaven,
which angels weave into the crown for which we contend!"
"I am not a saint!" was the curt reply.
"But you are a Catholic?" asked May, chilled by her cold manner.
"Yes," she replied, languidly, "but I am too ill to talk."
Refusing all aid, after they got into their chamber, Helen disrobed
herself; and while May's earnest soul was pouring out at the foot of
the cross its adoration and homage, she threw herself on her knees,
leaned her head on her arm, and yielded to a perfect storm of grief and
fury; which, although unacknowledged, raged none the less, while her
burning tears, unsanctified by humility, or resignation, embittered the
selfish heart which they should have sweetened and refreshed.