THINGS OF TIME AND ETERNITY.
In a small and elegant _boudoir_, which opened into a conservatory, and
was crowded with articles of taste and _vertu_,--the gleanings of a tour
through Europe,--a lady, somewhat past the prime of life, leaned over an
_Or-molu_ table, arranging with exquisite touches, a quantity of splendid
flowers in a basket of variegated mosses which stood on it. There was a
look of high-bred indolence about her, and an expression of pride on her
countenance _so_ earthly, that even the passing stranger shrunk from it.
And, while with a fine eye for the harmony of colors, she blended the
gorgeous flowers together, weaving the dark mosses amidst them, until
they looked like a rare Flemish painting, the door opened, and a
distinguished-looking young gentleman came in--called her mother--kissed
her on the cheek, and threw himself with an easy air into a _fauteuil_.
"You see how busy I am, Walter, and until I am disengaged, look over
these new engravings. They are just from Paris," said the lady.
"I see, dear mother, that you have the affairs of a nation on your
shoulders. I hope, for your health's sake, you have no other momentous
concerns to look after this morning," he said, playfully.
"One more, Walter; my goldfinch is half-starved, and the mocking-bird is
really on his dignity, because he has not had egg and lettuce for his
breakfast; but, _apropos_, what success had you with old Stillinghast?"
"Faith, mother, it is hard to tell. He is a tough personage to deal
with. I got in, however, and saw the two nieces."
"Well?"
"One of them is extremely beautiful. I shall have no objections to
making her Mrs. Jerrold, provided--"
"The old miser makes her his heiress," interrupted Mrs. Jerrold.
"Exactly. The other one is a nice, graceful, little thing, with _such_ a
pair of eyes! She has a spirit of her own, too, I fancy."
"I have been thinking over our plan to-day, and it really seems to be a
feasible one, Walter, if you can only win Mr. Stillinghast's confidence.
How do they live?"
"I presume they consider it comfortable;--it would be miserable to me.
The old man appeared quite flattered this morning, when I got him to
invest that money for me; and shook my hand warmly when I inveighed
against the present mania for speculating in fancy stocks."
"You have _tact_ enough, Walter, if you will only use it properly and
_prudently_. The mortgage on Cedar Hall has nearly expired; I have not a
solitary dollar to pay it, and the consequence will be--a foreclosure,
unless some miracle occurs to redeem it. _Your_ business must not be
broken down, by drawing on your capital!" said Mrs. Jerrold, pressing the
yolk of a hard-boiled egg through the gilded wires of her mocking-bird's
cage.
"I'll move heaven and earth, mother, before Cedar Hall shall go out of
the family. If I can bring things to pass with old Stillinghast, I
might, on the credit of marrying one of his heiresses raise the money at
a ruinous interest. At any rate, Cedar Hall, goes not from the
Jerrolds," he exclaimed.
"But, Walter, I understand that both of those girls are Catholics?"
"That's bad; but I fancy I shall be able to put down all that sort of
thing, in case I win the lady," he said, twirling an opal seal.
"And _who_ are they? I have a horror of low families."
"Make yourself easy on that score, they are our equals, I imagine. I am
very certain that none of them have been hung, or sent to the
penitentiary; and I presume there have been more _gentlemen_ in the
family, than self-made men, from the simple fact, that both of those
girls have been left quite penniless, and dependent on their uncle. I
believe, however, that the father of one was a major in the army; the
other, a captain in the navy," said Mr. Jerrold, laughing.
"I am glad to hear it. I assure you that _family_ is no unimportant
consideration with me," observed the lady.
"Dear lady mother, I had not the remotest suspicion that it was; but I
must be off," he replied, while he consulted his watch. "I got a private
despatch this morning from New York, giving me the very pleasant
information of a failure in the coffee crop; and I am going to attend a
sale at _ten_ o'clock, and expect to purchase largely at the present
prices. At _one_, my investment will double its value."
"You were fortunate, indeed," said Mrs. Jerrold. He kissed her cheek
once more, said "good-by," and was gone. Neither mother nor son imagined
they had been saying or doing any thing contrary to the laws of honor or
morality. Had any one suggested such an idea, _he_ would have felt
grossly insulted; and that red spot of pride on _her_ forehead would have
glowed into a flame of resentment. They were only keeping a sharp eye on
their interests. Thus, at least, they would have defined their plans.
Protestants, practical and nominal, think of the judgment as an idea too
remote to influence the acts of their daily life. They have no
confessionals for ever reminding them of the right principles of a true
rule of faith; and no spiritual guides, whose duty it is to probe the
erring conscience, and heal, with divine gifts, the repentant soul. But
we will leave Mrs. Jerrold's _recherché boudoir_, and accompany May from
the Cathedral to Father Fabian's parlor. She was disappointed at not
finding him there, but determined to wait, as the servant informed her
that he had been sent for just as mass was over, to carry the Holy
Viaticum to a laborer who had fallen from a scaffolding in the next
square, and was dying from the effect of his injuries.
"I will go Into the church and wait. Will you please to call me when
Father Fabian comes in? I have something of importance to say to him,"
said May, while awe and tender charity filled her heart.
"I shall certainly call you, ma'am," replied the respectable domestic.
And May went back and knelt in her accustomed place near the altar--that
altar, which, to her clear faith, was a throne of majestic and clement
love, where the Shepherd of souls was for ever present, to make
intercession for those who, through His bitter passion and death, hoped
for eternal life. Earnestly she besought His mercy for that soul in its
last sudden agony. She besought the Queen of Sorrows, by the pangs she
endured on Calvary, to come to his aid and obtain from her divine Son the
grace of a good death! She implored the saints, who had gone up through
much tribulation, and who pity those who suffer and weep in this valley
of tears, to pray for him, that he might not be overcome in the hour of
trial by the enemy of souls. In her earnest charity she took no heed of
time, and was startled when the servant, kneeling beside her, informed
her that Father Fabian had returned, and would see her. When she went
in, he was taking a cup of coffee and some toast, which it was very
evident, from his pale, excited countenance, he needed. His Breviary was
lying open near him.
"Ah, my dear child!" he said, holding out his hand to May, "I am very
glad to see you. How are you?"
"Quite well, father. But do not let me disturb you; you need refreshment
after the late melancholy scene," she replied.
"Melancholy, indeed; but oh, so full of consolation!" observed Father
Fabian, while his eyes filled up. "We priests, like physicians, are
called on to witness a great many distressing scenes, which many a time
appal our weak human nature, and almost overcome our charity by terror.
This affair was truly heart-rending. When I arrived at the spot, I found
the poor man lying on the sidewalk, crushed, and almost speechless. A
crowd, collected together by curiosity, surrounded him. I asked a
physician, who was examining the extent of his injuries, 'whether or not
he could be removed?' 'He has not fifteen minutes to live, poor fellow,'
was his reply! I threw on my stole, requested the crowd to stand back a
little, and knelt on the bricks beside him, and bowed my ear close to his
lips. He had recognized me, and his eyes already dim, lit up with joy;
and in faltering and whispered words, he made his short confession.
Happily, his conscience was not burdened with mortal sin. He was one of
my penitents, and I knew how regular and pious his daily life had been.
Quickly I gave him absolution, after which I administered the Holy
Viaticum, which he received with great fervor. 'I am resigned; but,
sweet Jesus, pity my little ones,' he whispered. Then, in a little
while, with our dear Lord to conduct him, he passed into eternity. I
doubt not that his sentence was full of mercy." There was a pause of
several moments, during which May dashed more than one tear from her
cheek.
"But who, think you, I saw, when I lifted my eyes from that dying
countenance?"
"I cannot imagine, father."
"Your uncle. Yes, indeed! he stood watching the scene with a most intent
and singular expression of countenance," said Father Fabian.
"It is, I believe, one of the first _practical_ fruits of the Catholic
faith he ever saw," said May, quite forgetting her own humble, patient
example.
"Probably!" said Father Fabian, smiling; "but tell me now what is it you
want. I have to run away out to the north-western limits of the city."
"That will suit precisely, dear father. It is a poor, paralytic old
woman, I wish to direct you. She has determined to become a Catholic,
and wishes to see you. She needs instruction; but her faith is so
docile, that I do not think you will hesitate long to grant the ardent
desire of her soul, which is, admission into the church of God."
"And where does our neophyte live?" asked Father Fabian.
"In the first of those small cottages west of Howard's Woods; but please,
Father Fabian, don't mind any thing she may say about me," said May,
blushing, and looking embarrassed. "She is so very grateful, that she
imagines that I have done a great deal for her, and really makes me
ashamed of the trifling amount of good I have extended to her. Will you
give me your blessing, father?"
"I shall certainly go, my dear child--meanwhile, pray for me," said
Father Fabian, as she rose up from receiving his blessing.
"Will you pray for my uncle's conversion, father? and, oh! I had almost
forgotten! My cousin has arrived; shall I bring her to see you soon?"
said May, standing at the door.
"Whenever you please to;" and May went away, feeling quite happy.
Mr. Stillinghast had not forgotten May's refusal to explain the cause of
her appearance, the day before, on the wharf; and being determined to
discover it, he stopped, on his way down to his counting-house, at the
wood-yard office, and inquired "if a young lady had been in there to
purchase wood yesterday?"
"Well, sir, I hardly know how to reply to your question;--but I believe
there were several young ladies in here to buy wood yesterday," said the
young man, looking highly amused.
"But there was one who came with old Copeland; she had on a purple merino
dress--and--something, I don't know what else she had on," said Mr.
Stillinghast, _feeling_ ridiculous.
"Was she very small, sir, with bright hazel eyes?"
"I know nothing about the color of her eyes, but she's something higher
than my walking stick," replied the irascible old man.
"The same, sir. _She_ came with Mr. Copeland; and if her eyes didn't
make me dance in and out, it's a wonder!" observed the clerk.
"Well, what in the deuce did she want here?"
"She bought a quarter of a cord of oak wood, and paid for it!"
"What did _she_ want with oak wood?" cried Mr. Stillinghast, becoming
more impatient every moment.
"To burn, I presume," replied the young man, paring off a chew of
tobacco; "but the fact is, sir, we didn't ask her. We always take it for
granted that people buy wood to burn."
"_Who_ does know any thing about it?" was the sharp response.
"The sawyer, I fancy, if he can be found. I have not seen him about
to-day, however," said the young man, with a broad grin, which he
speedily changed, when his strange visitor burst out with,
"When he comes, send him to me.--My name is Stillinghast."
"Certainly, Mr. Stillinghast, certainly. Excuse me, sir, for not
recognizing you," stammered the clerk.
"I'm determined," muttered the old man, going out and slamming to the
door, without noticing the young man's apologies, "I'm determined to sift
this matter. If I had a feeling of humanity left, it was for that
girl--papist though she be; if I loved or cared a tithe for any living
being, it was she! I intended--but never mind _what_ I intended. She
has been doing wrong and I'll find it out. She has tried to deceive me,
but _I'll_ convince her that she has mistaken her dupe. Where did she
get the _money_ to buy wood with?" And at that thought, such a fierce,
sudden suspicion tore through that old, half ossified heart, that he
paused on the flags, and gasped for breath. "My God!" he murmured, "has
she robbed me?" And during the remainder of that miserable day, his
ledgers were almost neglected. Foul and ungenerous suspicion held
possession of his mind; and inflamed with a malicious anger, he plotted
and schemed his revenge until he had defined a plan that well suited his
present mood. "If she plots," he muttered, rubbing his dry, yellow hands
together, with grim delight, "I will _counter_-plot. It is not the
wrong, _but the person who inflicts it_, that stings me. But the
_serpent's tooth_ has been gnawing these many years at my heart--why
complain now?"
But several days passed, and he had obtained no clue to the mystery,
which increased his anxiety, and made him more fretful and testy than
usual. He allowed no opportunity to escape, to make May feel his
displeasure. Bitter and contemptuous speeches, coarse allusions to her
religion, fault-finding with all she did, and sudden outbursts of
unprovoked fury, were now the daily trials of her life. Trials which
were sore temptations, and full of humiliation to a proud, high spirit,
like May's; and sharp were the struggles, and earnest the prayers, and
many the scalding tears she shed, ere she subdued the storm of wild and
indignant resentment, which swept like whirlwinds through her soul. But
her talisman--the Cross of Jesus Christ--was her safeguard. Its
splinters inflicted many a sharp wound; but none so sharp, that the balm
it distilled could not heal and beautify them.
Helen, in a fright, kept as much as possible out of sight. Towards her,
Mr. Stillinghast's manner was inconsistent, and variable in the extreme.
At one time almost kind, at another, captious and surly. Sometimes he
called on her for every thing, and perhaps the next moment threatened to
throw whatever he had ordered, at her head. Once he told her, in bitter
tones and language, that "but for wishing to make use of her to effect
certain ends, he would turn her into the street." He had a new lock and
key, of a peculiar construction, fitted on his chamber door, which he
locked every morning carefully, and carried the key away with him.
"This is awful, May. _How_ can you bear it as you do, for you do not
seem the least afraid of him?" said Helen, one morning.
"I am afraid of offending our Lord by spitefulness, and returning
injuries to one who is my benefactor," replied May.
"You _do_ feel spiteful, then, sometimes? Really, it is quite refreshing
to know that you are not perfect," said Helen, in her sneering way.
"Yes I _feel_ so very often. I am full of imperfections. I am _not_
patient, or humble, or even forgiving. I am only _outwardly_--outwardly
calm and silent, because I do not think it right to fan up resentments,
and malice, and bitterness, all so antagonistic to the love of God. I
hope! oh, I hope my motive is, singly and purely to avoid offending Him,"
said May, humbly and earnestly.
"I heartily wish the old wretch would die!" exclaimed Helen.
"Oh, Helen! so unprovided as he is for another world! Unsay that, won't
you?" cried May, clasping her hands together.
"No, May; I mean it. I think he is as much fit to die now as he ever
will be. He has doubtless spent his life in tormenting others, and it
will only be fair when he is tormented in his turn. But, spare those
looks of horror, and tell me, who do you think passed by here this
morning, and looked in, and bowed?"
"I cannot tell," said May, sadly.
"That handsome Jerrold. I hope he may prove a knight-errant, and deliver
me from Giant Despair's castle," said the frivolous girl, while she
twisted her long, shining curls around her fingers.
"Take care, Helen. Romance does very well in books, but it is a
mischievous thing to mix up in the real concerns of life."
"My dearest May, I shall never want a skull to grin ghastly lessons of
morality at me, while I have you," replied Helen, with a scornful laugh.
"Pardon me, Helen; I fear that I do say too much; but let my good
intention be my excuse," said May.
"Yes, it is intolerable. My old Tartar of an uncle swearing and scolding
down stairs, and you preaching and praying, up. It is more than human
nature can bear.--Where are you going?"
"To confession," replied May, in a low tone.
"Very well; but, my dear 'wee wee woman,' don't stay long, for I believe
this rambling, musty old house is haunted."
"Come with me, then?"
"Not to-day; I have an idea of exploring it, and should like, of all
things, to get into the very room which Blue Beard keeps locked up. Is
there any possible way of getting in?"
"Yes."
"How? tell me, quick!"
"Ask Uncle Stillinghast for the key," said May, while a flash of
merriment lit up her eyes.
"Excuse me, ma'am," said Helen, curtseying:
"I leave all such exploits to people who are anxious to become martyrs.
_I_ have no such ambition."