PAST AND PRESENT.
The day waned; and that soft, silent hour, which the Scotch so
beautifully call the "_gloaming_" was over the earth. Subdued shadows
crept in through the windows, and mingled with the red glow which the
fire-light diffused throughout the room, and together they formed a
phantasmagoria, which seemed to ebb and flow like a noiseless tide. And
with the shadows, memories of the past floated in, and knocked with their
spirit-hands softly and gently against the portals of those two hearts
which life's tempest had thrown together. Helen wept.
"Do you remember your mother, dear Helen?" asked May, while she folded
her hand in her own.
"No and yes. If it is a memory, it is so indistinct that it _seems_ like
a dream; and yet, how often at this hour does a vision come to my mind of
a dark-eyed, soft-voiced woman, holding kneeling child against her bosom,
to whom she taught a whispered prayer to the madonna! And the child
seems _me_--and the lady, my mother; but it flits away, and then I think
it is a dream of long ago."
"Angel mothers! Oh, how beautiful the thought--angel mothers!" said May,
in a low, earnest tone. "Do you know, I think with so much pleasure of
going to mine! Even when I was a little child, it was sufficient for my
old maummy to say, 'Ah, how grieved your poor mamma would be, if she was
here!'"
"Do you remember her?"
"Not at all. She died when I was a little wailing infant. Four months
afterwards, my father, who was an officer in the navy, died at Canton.
He never saw me."
"And you have been here ever since?"
"Ever since. A faithful servant of my mother's, who had been many years
in the family, brought me in my helplessness to my uncle for protection.
But he, unused to interruptions, would not have received me, only the
news which came of my father's death, left him no alternative; so my old
maummy remained to nurse me, and keep house for him. I can never express
how much I owe her. She was ignorant in worldly knowledge, and only a
poor slave; but in her simple and earnest faith, she knew much of the
science of the saints. With a mother's tenderness, she shielded me from
spiritual ignorance and error, and led my soul to the green pastures of
the fold of Christ."
"Had you no other instructor?" inquired Helen.
"Oh yes. Father Fabian. He instructed me in the divine mysteries of our
holy faith. He has been my director ever since I was a little child.
But how was it with you, dear Helen?"
"I have lived a great deal with Protestants, May," replied Helen, after a
short pause. "_My_ father was a major in the army--the only brother of
the old man here. He was a Catholic, but he was always so full of
official business that he had very little time to attend to religion, and
all that kind of thing. His official duties engrossed his time entirely.
But he always impressed it on my mind that it would be extremely
dishonorable not to avow myself a Catholic when occasions demanded it;
and I believe he would have been pleased to see me practise my faith. I
was sent to a convent school in Louisiana when I was ten years of age,
but was suddenly removed, to accompany my father to Boston, to which
place he was ordered. _There_ I was surrounded by persons of fashion and
position, who made eyes at me when I told them I was a Catholic, and
declared I would lose _caste_ if I went to a church which was attended
only by the 'low Irish, and servant girls.' Then I heard Catholics
derided as superstitious and ignorant, until, I must confess it, I grew
_ashamed_ of being one. My father was too busy to think of me,--he
always saw me well-dressed and in good company, and imagined that all
else was going well with me; while _I_, proud, flattered, and enjoying
the world, fancied that it was of little importance while I was so young.
My poor father was a brave and gallant officer; and I think when he
sometimes declared with a dignified air that 'he and his daughter were
Catholics,' it was more from the feeling which makes a soldier swear by
his flag, than any higher motive. This has been my religious training;
but my dear, indulgent father is dead--gone for ever, and I am
_here_--here--Oh, May!" and Helen wept on May's shoulder.
"And _how_, dear Helen, did my uncle die?" said May, in a tone of tender
sympathy.
"Very suddenly. He was not conscious from the moment he was taken ill
until he died," she replied.
May could not utter a word. Her heart was filled with a strange horror
at the idea of that sudden and unprovided death. She could have cried
out with anguish for that soul, which, in the midst of its careless pride
and criminal indifference, had been summoned by an inexorable decree to
the tribunal of judgment! where it appeared _alone--alone--alone_, to be
weighed in the balance of justice. "But, perhaps, sweet Jesus!" she
whispered; "oh, perhaps, Thou didst in the last struggle hear it from its
abyss of misery plead for mercy; perhaps, through thy bitter passion and
death Thou didst rescue him from eternal woe--"
"What are you saying, May! No doubt I have shocked you; you are so very
pious!"
"_Pained_ me, dear Helen; but you will do better now. You _feel_, I am
very sure, that a life of prevarication and indifference does not answer
for a Catholic; and now there will be nothing to hinder you."
"Perhaps so, dear May. I really wish to do right--but what, in the name
of mercy, is that noise!" cried Helen, starting up.
"It is Uncle Stillinghast coming in. He is beating the snow from his
feet," said May, lighting the candles. By this time Mr. Stillinghast had
thrown off his wrappings, hung up his hat, and come in. He was evidently
in no amiable mood, and to the greetings of his nieces condescended no
reply.
"It is colder this evening, Sir, is it not?" said May, flitting around
the tea-table.
"Yes."
"Shall I get your tea now, uncle?"
"Yes."
"Here it is, sir; it is very nice and hot; every thing is ready. Come,
Helen," said May, placing the chairs. They took their seats in silence.
"What's your name?" Mr. Stillinghast said abruptly, turning to Helen.
"Helen."
"Can you make bread?"
"No, sir," replied Helen, in trembling tones.
"_Learn_, d'ye hear?"
"Yes, sir."
"Can you sweep--make a shirt--wash--iron?" he burst out.
"No, sir," she said, trembling.
"What _are_ you good for, then?" he inquired, sternly.
"I don't know, sir; I can play on the harp," faltered Helen.
"Play the devil! You are a pretty, curly wax doll--good for nothing, and
cumbering the very earth that you live on."
Helen said nothing, but tears rolled over her cheeks.
"But I will have no idlers about me. You shall learn to be useful and
industrious. D'ye understand?"
"I will try, sir."
"Very well. And now, miss, what were _you_ doing parading about with old
Copeland down town?" he said, turning suddenly to May; "a man I detest
with all my soul."
"I do not know any individual of that name, sir. I missed my way this
morning, and inquired of an old gentleman who was passing the address of
a person I had business with. Then he offered to show me, as he was
going past the place," said May, lifting her clear, truthful eyes, to his
face.
"And _what_ business, pray, led you to a part of the city so little
frequented by the respectable of your sex?"
"If you will excuse me, sir, I would prefer not telling you," she said,
gently.
"I insist on knowing," he exclaimed, angrily.
"You will excuse me, sir, when I tell you that it was quite a little
affair of my own," replied May, in a low voice.
"Very well, madam!" said Mr. Stillinghast, bowing with a sneer; "but
depend on't I shall sift this matter--it shall not rest here."
"I am grieved, dear uncle, to have offended you," began May.
"Be silent! You are full of popish tricks; I suppose you were engaged in
one this morning. Go, answer the bell!" Glad to escape, May stepped the
hall to open the door, and ushered in a tall, fine-looking man, who said
he had business with Mr. Stillinghast. He bowed with a well-bred air to
May and Helen, then to Mr. Stillinghast, who invited him to be seated.
"My name is Jerrold, sir--Walter Jerrold, and I have come to bring you
rents due for the property belonging to you which I occupy."
"Which of my houses is it?" inquired Mr. Stillinghast, gruffly.
"One on C---- Street, sir; and the warehouse on Bolton's Wharf. Here are
the bills, which I hope you will find satisfactory," replied the young
man, handing him a roll of notes, which he inspected carefully one by one.
"All right, sir: but the fact is, Mr. Jerrold, this is a very irregular
way of doing business. The next time we can settle our matters better at
my counting-room," said the old man, folding the notes away; after which
he wrote a receipt, and handed to him. "Many things might happen: you
_might_, have been robbed on your way hither; I _may_ be robbed to-night."
"We young fellows are sadly deficient in prudence, Mr. Stillinghast, but
your suggestions shall not be lost on me," replied Mr. Jerrold,
pleasantly. Although Mr. Jerrold's visit was ostensibly one of business,
he was not at all inattentive to the presence of the cousins. His eye
lingered on the faultless face of Helen, until she lifted her large brown
eyes, and caught his glance, when a soft blush tinted her cheeks, and the
long fringed lids drooped over them. May dropped her handkerchief, which
he picked up, and handed to her with a courteous bow.
"I fear, ladies, that my awkward visit has interrupted some domestic
arrangement," he said, observing the tea-table.
"Not at all, sir," replied May, frankly.
"I beg a thousand pardons if I have; but good evening--good evening, Mr.
Stillinghast. I shall beg your permission, sir, to-morrow to consult you
about the investment of some funds I have lying idle."
"Of course, sir;" said Mr. Stillinghast, following him to the door. "A
rising young man! Come, come, make haste, and clear off the table; I
have accounts to look over."
"Come, dear Helen, it will be better for you to help a little," whispered
May. "Here is the evening paper, sir, and your pipe when you are ready,"
she said to her uncle.
"Humph!" was the only reply she received. When every thing was finished,
they bade him good night, and ran up to their chamber.
"_Where_ were you to-day, May?" inquired Helen, as soon as May closed the
door.
"I was at church--down town--up town--then I came home," said May,
cheerfully; "and more than that I do not think proper to disclose. But
let us prepare for bed. Dear Helen; we shall have to rise early in the
morning, and you must get all the sleep you can."
"May, my firm impression is that this sort of life will extinguish me,"
said Helen, solemnly; "that horrid old man will certainly tear me to
pieces, or bite off my head. Indeed--indeed, I am more afraid of him
than any thing I ever saw."
"What nonsense! It will do you good. You will soon learn to have an aim
in life; it will drive you for comfort where only comfort can be found,
and you will learn patience, forbearance and meekness, long-suffering,
and charity."
"Like yourself, I presume!" said Helen, with a slight sneer.
"Oh, no! oh no, dear Helen; did I say any thing like that? I did not
mean it, for I am very often angered and impatient, and on the very eve
of breaking out; but I don't."
"And why don't you? Do you expect to inherit the old man's gold?"
"Helen, I never think of it. I have a higher motive, I trust. My
peculiar trials give me so many opportunities of learning the rudiments
of Christian virtue; therefore, after the first sting is over, I feel
thankful and happy."
"Help us all! I shall never attain such perfection."
"Nor do I ever expect to arrive at perfection. Oh, no! I am too
imperfect; too full of infirmities and faults!" said May, earnestly.
"But shall I read the night prayers, or do you prefer reading them alone?"
"Oh, read them by all means; but don't begin until I get on my cloak--it
is freezing cold here," said Helen, shivering.
May read the beautiful prayers and litany of our Blessed Lady with such
fervor and piety that Helen was touched in spite of herself, and
responded with heartfelt earnestness; and at the _De Profundis_, she
thought of her dead father, and wept bitterly.
"I am very, very sad, May," said Helen, when May kissed her good-night.
"To-morrow, dear Helen, we will seek a heavenly physician; He who comes
to the lowly and repentant, and dispenses healing and divine gifts from
his throne--the altar!" whispered May.
Helen sighed deeply, but made no reply.