THE MIDNIGHT MESSENGER.
May listened, and heard Mr. Stillinghast moving to and fro in his room
with slow and regular footsteps for a while, then all was silent, and
she supposed he had gone to bed. Still waiting for Helen, she recited
the rosary for his conversion. She knew that all things are possible
with Almighty God, and that dear to him, and precious in his sight, is
the conversion of sinners. She also knew that Jesus Christ ever turns
a propitious ear to the intercession of his Immaculate Mother, and it
was with tender confidence, and earnest faith, that she implored her to
obtain from her Divine Son the conversion of her uncle. At last a
carriage stopped, and May heard Helen's voice at the door conversing
gayly with Walter Jerrold. She wrapped her shawl about her, and went
out to admit her. She sprang into the hall, singing wild thrills from
_Lucia de Lammermoor_, and without stopping, flew to her harp, and ran
her fingers over the strings, preluding brilliantly,
"Oh, May, you should have been there--the most divine opera! Sontag
sung like an angel."
"Dear Helen," said May, interrupting her, and laying her hand on her
arm, "don't! you will disturb Uncle Stillinghast; he is not well."
"You don't say so!" exclaimed Helen, turning her face towards her,
while a gleam of almost ferocious pleasure shone in her eyes. "Oh, you
don't say so! Is he very sick?"
"A slight cold, I believe; at any rate, do not let us disturb him,"
said May, surprised and shocked at her evident pleasure.
"What nonsense!" cried Helen, laughing hysterically; "he'll live until
you and I are both dead, May. He's as tough as gutta percha. But,
would it not be a nice thing if he'd pop off suddenly, and leave us his
money?"
"Do not say _us_, Helen. I expect nothing, and desire nothing. As for
you, be satisfied; you are handsomely provided for."
"I know it; I know it. _I have read the will_!" exulted Helen.
"_Read the will_, Helen! How? When?"
"Oh, I did not mean _that_ exactly," said Helen, much confused; "you
really take me up so quick, that it is terrible. I should have said
that Walter told me something of the old man's intentions."
"May it be blessed to you, Helen, come when it will; but while _he_
lives, let his generous intentions in your favor purchase at _least_
your respect," said May, in a tone of bitter reproof, for at the moment
she recollected Helen's threat some weeks before to get into her
uncle's chamber, if possible, and she feared that she had accomplished
her object at the expense of all that was honorable in feeling, and
just in principle.
"May, you won't say anything--about--about what I just blundered out
concerning the--" said Helen, confused and stammering.
"No, Helen; I have nothing to say. It was natural, though not
delicate, for Mr. Jerrold to impart such information to you. No doubt
he thought it would enhance your happiness," said May, settling herself
in her uncle's chair.
"That's a good May. Oh, May, if you were not such a little fanatic how
I should love you," said Helen, stooping over to kiss May's forehead;
but she put up her hand, and the kiss fell on the tips of her fingers.
But her very indignation, although just, humbled her, for with a flash
of thought, she was in Gethsemane, and saw the meek and Divine Jesus
receive the kiss of Judas. "Why, then," she thought, "should _I_
shrink back from one who needs my pity more than my hate?"
"I shall sit up a little longer, Helen. I feel quite uneasy about
Uncle Stillinghast. Good night," she said, holding out her hand to
Helen.
"What a curious little one you are, May," said Helen, holding the tiny
hand a moment in her own; "but do come up soon, for really I am afraid
to be up there alone."
And Helen went up to their chamber, and closed the door. She was
alone, and had inadvertently placed her candle on May's table before
the old Spanish crucifix. A small circle of light was thrown around
it, from the midst of which the sorrowful face, in its depicted agony
of blood and tears, and the measure of a world's woe stamped on its
divine lineaments, looked on her. Terrified and silent, she stood
gazing on it--her hands clasped--her lips apart, and trembling. The
crown of thorns--the transfixed hands and feet, from which the blood
seemed flowing--the wounded side--the sorrowful eyes, appealed to her.
"For thee!" whispered the angel conscience; "it was all for thee!--this
ignominy--this suffering--this death--oh, erring one! It was all for
thee Divine Jesus assumed the anguish and bitterness of the cross! Oh,
wanderer! why add new thorns to that awful crown of agony? Why insult
the son of God, who suffers for you, by your derelictions and betrayal?"
Stricken and afraid, she would have fled from the spot, but she could
not move; her temples throbbed and her limbs trembled, when, lifting
her eyes, she beheld a portrait of the mother of Sorrows, whose
countenance, sublime in its blended tenderness and grief, seemed to
look down with pity on her. She sunk weeping to the floor, and
murmured, "Intercede for me, oh, Lady of Sorrows! I have wounded thy
Divine Son by my transgressions; I fear to approach Him, who is my
terrible Judge; pity me, then, that I may not become utterly cast
away!" Then she wept softly, and it seemed that, in this hour of keen
repentance, the errors of the past would be atoned for--that a new life
would dawn around her; that in prodigal's attire of repentance and
tears, she would return humbly to her Father's house. But the spirit
of the world had wound its deadly fetters too closely around her; the
time of her return and purification, and welcome--if it ever came, was
veiled in the future; but that passionate soul-felt appeal to the
Refuge of Sinners was registered where it would return in benedictions
when the soul weary of its wanderings, sought for forgiveness and
peace--if it ever did. And, after all, ere sleep visited her eyelids,
she was plunged again in plans of petty ambition, vanity, and the pride
of life,--so impotent is the human heart, unsupported by the grace of
God.
Twelve o'clock chimed from the old French clock over the mantel, and
May, all unconscious of Helen's struggle with conscience, still waited
to hear any sound that might come from Mr. Stillinghast's chamber: but
everything remained quiet, and she was wrapping her shawl around her to
go up to bed, when she thought she heard a groan--then footsteps,
followed by a peculiar muffled sound. In a moment she was in the hall,
where she heard it more distinctly, and springing up the staircase,
rushed into her uncle's room. By some rare forgetfulness, or
bewilderment, he had left his door unfastened. The candle was still
burning, and May saw him lying on the floor, where he had fallen in his
endeavor to reach the door to call for assistance; his face purple and
swollen, and his breath gurgling up with a choking, spasmodic sound.
"Great God, help me!" cried May, throwing up her arms wildly. "He will
die before I can obtain help!" But she was not the one to stand
lamenting when aught was to be done, so, collecting her scattered
senses, she bethought herself of the watchman, who was just at that
moment crying the hour at the corner. She flew down, unlocked the
hall-door, and springing out into the freezing mist and darkness, she
found him, seized his hand, and told her story. "Go, for God's sake!
for the nearest doctor; do not delay an instant."
"Who are you, you wild witch, grabbing a fellow like a cat! Who are
you?" cried the watchman, shaking her off.
"I am the niece of old Mark Stillinghast. He is dying, I fear," she
cried, wringing her hands.
"Zounds! the old man dying! Yes, I'll go directly," said the watchman,
moving off. He had been on the beat twenty years, and felt an
individual interest in all those whose property and lives he guarded.
Then May, thankful for his promptness, remembered to have heard that
ice applications to the head were good in cases like this, and rushing
back into the yard, she groped her way to the rain-barrel, and stooping
over, seized the jagged edges of the ice, which she had broken that
very day, and tearing it away from the sides, hastened back, and up to
the chamber of death, with her prize in her bleeding hands. Stripping
a case from a pillow, she threw in the ice--pounded it with the
tongs--shook it together, and lifting up her uncle's insensible head,
laid the icy pillow under it, and gathered the ends over his forehead,
as well as she could. Then she chafed his hands, exclaiming all the
time, "Merciful Jesus, pity him! Merciful Jesus, help me, and
strengthen me!" But his breathing became more and more difficult, and
his limbs began to be agitated with horrible convulsions. A sudden
thought suggested itself. She untied her silk apron, tore off the
strings--ripped up the sleeve of Mr. Stillinghast's shirt, and wound
the ribbon tightly around his arm above the elbow; and while waiting
for the vein to swell, she took a small penknife from her pocket, and
opened the blade--it was thin, keen, and pointed. She had found it
among her father's papers years ago, and kept it about her to scrape
the points of her ivory knitting-needles. In another moment, invoking
the aid of Heaven, she had made an incision in the vein. A few black
drops of blood trickled down--then more; then fast and faster flowed
the dark stream over her dress, on the floor, for she could not
move--her strength was ebbing away. Presently the brain of the
stricken man, relieved of the pressure on it, began to resume its
functions; the spasms and convulsions ceased, and a low moan escaped
his lips. At that moment the watchman, accompanied by a physician,
entered the room, and May remembered nothing more.