THE WARNING.
One morning Mr. Stillinghast was sitting alone in his counting-room,
when Michael, the porter, came in, and informed him that a man wished
to speak to him.
"Tell him to come in," he replied, moodily.
"Here he is, sir," said Michael, returning in a few minutes with a man,
who had a saw slung over his arm.
"What is your business with me?" said Mr. Stillinghast.
"And didn't your honor sind afther me?"
"I never heard of you in my life before," he stormed.
"And then, sir, you may blame the _ommadhauns_ that sent me; for, by
this and by that, they tould me at the wood-yard, foreninst, that your
honor was inquiring for me," replied the man, slinging his saw up over
his shoulder.
"At the wood-yard? I remember; but it is too late, now--it makes no
difference," said Mr. Stillinghast, speaking slowly, and frowning.
"I'd have come before, only the day afther the young lady took me to
saw wood for the ould nagur, I got the pleurisy, and didn't lave my bed
these five weeks," said the man, lingering about the door.
"Come in here, and close the door," said Mr. Stillinghast, while his
stern, forbidding countenance wore a strange look of anxiety; "do you
remember the young lady; and can you direct me to the place where you
sawed the wood?"
"Oh, yes, your honor. I shall never forget her to my dying day. She
was a little, bright-eyed lady, with a smile of an angel on her, by
dad!"
"May," muttered the old man, "there is only one May. But I have a
reason," he said, turning to the man, "for wishing to see this old
woman; can you conduct me to the place?"
"I'm at your service intirely, sir. It's a good stretch, though," said
the man, who looked weak from his recent illness.
"Is it near an omnibus route?"
"Yes, your honor, it is close by where they stop. You'll not have to
walk far."
"Leave your saw here, then, and let us go. I have no time to spare on
walks," said Mr. Stillinghast, in his peremptory way. His real object,
however, was not so much to save time, as to afford the man an
opportunity to avoid a long and fatiguing walk. "Tell Mr. Jerrold I
will be back in the course of an hour," he said to Michael, as he
passed out.
"Very well," replied Michael, heaving, with Titan strength, a bale on
the truck; "and there goes a pair of 'em. My boss can afford to walk
with a poor wood-sawyer; he looks like one hisself, and it's hard to
tell 'tother from which;" and he planted his brawny hands on his
thighs, and looked after them, with a broad smile on his honest
countenance, until they got into the omnibus, and were whirled out of
sight. At the _depôt_, which is in the northern part of the city, they
got out, and the two men pursued their way in silence. It was one of
those cold, but calm, bright days in winter, when the very air seems
filled with silent ripples of gladness; when the sunshine rests like a
glory on the leafless trees, and bright-eyed robins chirp and peck the
moss, as they hop from bough to bough; when the light of heaven is so
over all, that even the dun-colored earth, the decayed leaves and
rotten branches, which the autumn blast has laid low, look beautiful,
and seem to whisper _resurgam_; when a cold, bracing wind sends the
warm blood bounding through our hearts--tinting our cheeks, and warming
our extremities, until we bless it, as we do the strong hand which
leads us in childhood; and we listen, with docile tenderness, to its
teachings, for it tells with pathos, of suffering in the hovels of the
poor, and want, and poverty, and bids us thither like a winged angel.
Down, beneath the rustic bridge, boys were shouting and skating on the
frozen stream, their laughter echoing like music through the old woods;
anon, the sharp crack of rifle, or the distant barking of dogs, rung on
the still air, while the bells of the city, and the hum rising up from
its crowded streets, blending with the clear echoes, made a concert of
merry and harmonious sounds. Mr. Stillinghast paused on a knoll, and
looked around him. There lay the rolling country, with its undulations
of hill and vale, all interspersed, and adorned with picturesque
cottages and elegant villas. Towards the east, up rose the splendid
city, with up-hill and down-hill streets; its marble monuments,
commemorative of great men and great deeds; its magnificent domes,
raised in honor of the Most High God; its lofty towers, its princely
mansions; while far beyond, stretching to the verge of the horizon,
slumbered the quiet and beautiful bay, sparkling like a sea of
_ultramarine_ and diamonds, over whose waters hundreds of sails were
hovering like white sea-fowl.
Towards the north-western boundary of the city, he saw the dark,
massive founderies and manufactories, which, from their
palatial-looking walls, sent out the never-ceasing clang of labor, and
the tireless song of steam, to which thousands of stout arms and brawny
sinews kept time. And far beyond these, out on the quiet hills, the
scene terminated in a Marble City,[1] where, beneath trees of centuries
growth, its inhabitants slumber silently through the long, cold night
of death, until the revivifying beams of the resurrection day shall
dawn on the earth-mantle that wraps their clay. But over all shone the
glad beauty of the day. It poured down its effulgence alike on the
city of the dead and the city of the living! Mr. Stillinghast had not
looked on the like for years, long, dusty, dreary years; and he felt a
tingling in his heart--a presence of banished memories, an expansion of
soul, which softened and silenced him, while gradually it lifted from
his countenance the harsh, ugly mask he usually wore.
"Here we are," said the man, pointing to old Mabel's cottage; "this is
the place."
Then it occurred to Mr. Stillinghast, for the first time, that he had
come there without any particular object in view--he had obeyed an
impulse which he did not pause to analyze, and now, somewhat
embarrassed he stood still, uncertain what to do.
"You may return," he said to the man, to whom he gave a dollar; "this
will pay you for the time you have lost." The man thanked him, and
went his way, rejoicing in the reward of such pleasant and easy labor.
"Why not go in?" he murmured, "I am here on a fool's errand, after all.
But why not enter? If this old beggar is so destitute, I can leave her
something to buy a loaf; but what business is it of mine? A plague on
it all! What do I here--_why_ are you here, Mark Stillinghast?" Then
he opened the door very softly, and, as he did so, he heard these words
repeated in a clear, sweet voice,--"_For what shall it profit a man, if
he gains the whole world, and lose his own soul!_" then he saw May
seated beside the old negro, reading from some pious, instructive book,
of Christian doctrine. And those words came ringing down into his soul
like the blast of ten thousand trumpets! He staggered back; his old,
withered cheek, grew pallid, and he turned away and fled--but they
pursued him. "Profit--gain--loss. Profit--gain--loss.
Profit--gain--loss. I understand them!" he gasped. "_I_ have heaped
up gains; of earthly profit I have my share; and now, at the eleventh
hour, it is summed up, and what is it--yes, what is it? IT IS LOSS.
For all that is mortal, I have toiled my best hours away; for all that
is _immortal_, not one hour have I spared. It is loss--loss--eternal
loss." And so he went on muttering--back to his den in the city, where
the leaden waves of business again came surging, breast high, around
him; but through the dull, heavy sounds, the warning still rung, like
distant knells, through his soul.
On his homeward way that night, the farther he receded from the noise
of the city, the more it distinctly sounded, with its requiem wail,
through the dreary chambers of his heart; and, somehow, he suddenly
remembered, as he paused to rest, that it was on this very spot that he
had seen Father Fabian administering the last rites of the church to a
dying penitent; and he trembled, and hurried on, until he came to his
own door. May was sitting up alone for him; and when she opened the
door, and the rays from the hall lamp fell on his features, she saw
that he looked ill and weary.
"Let me assist you, dear uncle," said May, taking his hat and returning
to help him draw off his coat. "I fear you are not well."
"It is very cold," he replied, shivering, and yielding to her wishes.
"You will soon feel better, sir; see what a nice fire here is--and I
have a piping-hot cup of tea and hot muffins for your supper."
"May Brooke," said the strange old man, while he laid his cold, heavy
hand on her shoulder, "stop; answer the questions I shall ask you,
truly and honestly."
"I will endeavor to do so, sir," replied May, lifting her clear, bright
eyes to his.
"You can, and _must_. What object have you in providing for that old
negro woman, on the outskirts of the city?"
"I pity her, sir, because she is poor and helpless, and do it, I hope,
for the love of God," she said, amazed, but quiet.
"Very well. And now, for the love of God, answer _this_," he said,
with anxiety; "tell me _how_, you provide for her--_how_ you get means
to buy wood and necessaries?"
"Dear uncle, I am sorry you have found it out. I do not like to speak
of it--indeed, I would prefer not--it seems--so--yes--it seems like
boasting, or talking too much about myself," said May, while her cheeks
flushed crimson.
"Go on; I will know!" he said, harshly.
"Yes, sir. I earn a trifle every two or three weeks by knitting fancy
articles, which Mrs. Tabb on C---- Street, disposes of for me--"
"And then--"
"And then, sir, I take care of old Mabel with the proceeds; but please,
dear, dear uncle, do not forbid me to continue doing so; pray allow me
the privilege of earning a trifle for her benefit while she lives; and
then, sir, _never_--never speak of it to me or any one else, after
this," she implored.
"I shall not hinder you, child," said Mr. Stillinghast, repressing a
groan of anguish which struggled up from his heart. They went together
into the sitting-room; and May spread his supper before him, but he
only drank his tea, and pushing his plate away, came and sat in his
armchair beside the fire.
"You have taken nothing, sir; pray try and eat this, it is very nice."
"I have such an infernal singing in my ears, that I cannot eat. I can
hardly see. Ding, dong--ding, dong. Great Lord! if this should be
eternal!" he exclaimed, forgetting the presence of May.
"You are not well, sir. Sit here near the fire; put your feet upon
this cushion, so that the soles will be towards the fire, and while you
smoke, I will read the paper to you," said May.
"For what?" he asked, turning his fierce, gray eyes upon her.
"Because you are not well, sir," she said, looking calmly into them.
"Do you know that I have made my will,--cut you off with a few paltry
dollars, not enough to feed you, and left that Helen--that
trifler--that waif, a princely fortune?" he asked, savagely.
"You have a right, sir, to do as you please with your own. You have
sheltered, schooled, and fed me--I have no right to expect more," she
said, gently.
"And if I should be sick--die--what then?" he asked, impatiently.
"Dear uncle, you alarm me. Do you feel ill? If so, oh, dearest uncle,
attend first of all to your eternal concerns--make your peace with God
while it is yet day, and enter into that fold whose Shepherd is Jesus
Christ; where one Lord, one Faith, one Baptism reign!" exclaimed May,
grasping his hand.
"Be silent, you incorrigible papist; what need is there of flying off
at such a tangent?" said Mr. Stillinghast, with a grim smile; "I did
not mean _that_, but what will become of you when I am dead?"
"I have a head, sir, and hands, and great faith in Him, who has
promised to be a father to the orphan. I shall never want. In honest
exertion I shall be happy and content," she said, earnestly.
"And you do not regret or envy the fortune?
"Not on my own account, sir."
"On whose, then?"
"There are many, sir, who might be benefited by it, if properly
applied. I think, _now_, if I had a fortune, I could do a great deal
of good with it."
"You'd do harm, May Brooke--you'd do harm. You'd squander it--you'd
encourage pauperism, and worthlessness, and beggary!" he burst out.
"I shall never have it to do good or evil with, uncle; but if I had, I
would _endeavor_, for God's sake, to bestow it where it was needed; and
because it would be offered for the love of Him, my works would not
fall useless or fruitless to the earth. HE would bless and aid me."
"Profit--gain--loss," again muttered the old man. "But, as you will
never inherit a fortune, I suppose your good intentions must suffice."
"Yes, sir, for the present."
"And, now that you have nothing to expect from me, of course you will
feel quite independent of me and my wishes. If I should be ill, I
suppose you'd take off and leave me to my fate," he said, bitterly.
"No, sir," she said, calmly; "but words and professions are mere
sentences written in sand--the first wave washes them out. I don't
want a fortune. I would not have gold, as I live, sir, except as the
minister of my good purposes, the slave on which I could set my heel,
unless it served me to lay up treasure in heaven. And should you be
ill, dear uncle, I trust you will find no disposition in me to shrink
from my duty."
"There it is again," he murmured, as he got up, and walked to and fro.
"Profit--loss--gain. Give me my candle; I must go to bed--I feel very
weary and tired."
"Shall I get anything for you, sir?"
"No," he replied.
"I shall wait for Helen, sir, and if you want anything, just rap on the
floor, or call, and I will come up instantly."
"Go to bed--go to bed, child," he said, in his old, rough way, as he
went out into the hall to go up to his room.
[1] Greenmount Cemetery.