REMORSE.
It was near day-dawn. A splendid carriage, drawn by a span of
thorough-paced horses, whose black coats shone in the moonlight like
jet, while they champed their silver bits, and blew the white froth
with the breath of their proud nostrils out like spray over the rich
trappings of their harness, rolled with a rapid, but almost noiseless
motion, through one of the broad streets of a fashionable quarter of
the city. The light which flickered down from the silver coach-lamps
revealed magnificent hangings of brocade and velvet, looped back with
twisted cords of silk and silver thread. The driver and footman were
clad in livery which corresponded with the elegant style of the
equipage. They turned in a broad, aristocratic-looking square, and
drew up in front of a handsome and spacious mansion. The officious
footman sprung to the pavement, swung back the carriage-door, and held
out his gloved hand to assist a lady, who was within to get out.
"No need, sirrah," she said, haughtily, as she stepped lightly out, and
ran up the broad marble steps of the mansion, where, heedless of her
stainless and delicate gloves, she seized the bell-knob, and rung
violently. During the few moments she waited for admission, her foot,
clad in white satin, beat the threshold with a light, but restless
motion. Her brocade-robe about which costly laces hung in gossamer
clouds, rustled down in rich folds to the marble floor of the
vestibule, while with every pulsation of her heart, and movement of her
body, gems flashed out in the moonlight. Long, shining curls, slightly
tossed by the night breeze, floated down over her cheeks and bosom,
half concealing the rare beauty of her face. It was Helen! The door
was at length opened, and attended by her drowsy maid, she hurried up
to her chamber. It was a lofty, and beautifully proportioned room,
filled with every thing the most luxurious fancy could desire, and
arranged with fastidious taste and elegance. Flowers were heaped up in
Eastern vases, near the open window, and deep-cushioned chairs, and
softly pillowed lounges, covered with pale, saffron-colored silk, were
arranged here and there throughout the gorgeous room. The low, and
exquisitely carved French bedstead was half hidden by a flowing drapery
of embroidered lace, which, depending from a small hoop of
mother-of-pearl in the ceiling, hung like a tent over it. The
toilette-table was elaborately furnished. Between its twisted rosewood
pillars, which were inlaid with pearl, in graceful device, swung an
immense oval mirror, set in a frame of the same materials. Near it
stood a small marble table, supported by an alabaster Psyche, around
which were strewn perfumes, jewel-cases, and various costly articles
for toilette uses. On each side of the mirror projected gas-burners in
the form of clusters of lilies--the flowers being of the purest
porcelain, and the rest highly gilt and embossed. Helen threw herself
down wearily in a large chair, while her maid turned up the light,
which was burning dimly, to a brighter flame, which revealed more
minutely the splendors of the room. Over the toilette-glass hung a
picture--there were no others on the frescoed walls; it was set far
back in a superb oval frame of ivory and gold, and as the brilliant
glare of lights shot upwards, an exquisite painting of the _Mater
Dolorosa_ could be distinctly seen--a strange companion, or presiding
genius, or ornament for the shrine for pride and vanity.
"You can go now, Elise," said Helen languidly.
"Shall I not undress madame's hair, and put her jewels away?" inquired
the Frenchwoman with an air of amazement.
"No--leave me at once," she replied, impatiently.
"Deshabillez-vous," muttered the woman. "To tell me go! I who was
_fille-de-chambre_ to une Grande Duchesse! Mon dieu! la chaleur est
tres-incommode! _Ingrat--parvenu_! _Un_--deux--trois! Il est temps
de se coucher." Helen had just touched her repeater, and with its
soft, silvery chime, it struck three. Elise hurried away from the
door, where she had lingered, in hopes of being recalled, to comfort
herself with a glass of _eau-de-sucre_, ere she returned to her pillow.
Helen got up and locked her door, and began to walk to and fro. By and
by the past, mingling with the present, made such a torrent of bitter
memories seethe and sweep through her desolate soul, that she wrung her
hands, and rushed backwards and forwards like one mad. In her wild
mood, she saw the glitter of her jewels, as she swept by the large
mirror of her toilette. She paused, gazed at herself a moment, then,
with a frantic gesture, tore the diamonds from her hair and neck, and
with a bitter laugh dashed them from her. Her beautiful face, as white
as the alabaster Psyche near her, was full of wild and demoniac
expressions, which chased each other with the velocity of clouds over
her countenance. Remorse, anguish, and despair settled like a brooding
tempest on her forehead; then wringing her hands, she again commenced
her walk.
"A lie," she muttered, "a splendid, living lie. Widows and orphans
wronged--the poor defrauded--the church wounded and robbed by thee,
Helen! A husband who trusts me--who believes me--honorable and true
himself--confiding in a nature _utterly_ false--and leaning on a heart
rotten to the core! Oh, Helen! eternal loss will surely be thine--so
it is better to _die_ ere madness comes, and divulges the dark secret.
Walter is away; he will be here at sunrise. Better for him to find
thee, Helen, calm and cold in the beauty of which he is so proud, than
live to know that thou art _all a lie_--which he would tear away from
his honest heart, and throw to the very dogs!"
While these dark thoughts swept through the heart of the tempted and
despairing one, she unlocked a secret drawer in her jewel-case, and
took from it a small silver casket, which she opened. It contained a
crystal _flacon_, filled with a liquid, transparent, and of a pale
rose-color. "One drop of it," she whispered, "one single drop, and
without a pang, this unrest and anguish will be over. That which is
_beyond_ cannot be worse!" Just then a strong current of air rushed in
through the open window, and blew the jet of gas, in a stream of
brilliance, up towards the picture of the _Mater Dolorosa_. The sudden
glare arrested the attention of the wretched, sin-stained one. She
looked up, and her eyes, glaring with the frenzy of evil, met the
ineffably tender and sorrowful face of MARY; which, with its tears, and
expression of submissive and sublime woe, its folded hands, its meek
brow, seemed bowed towards her. She paused, while, with the
distinctness of a whisper, these thoughts passed through her soul.
"Wretched one, forbear! Wound not again my Divine Son, whose body is
already covered with stripes and bruises for thee. Open not my heart
again, which is already pierced for thy salvation! Hope! It was for
such as thee that my Son, Jesus, suffered on the cross; for such as
thee, that I immolated my soul, my nature, my maternal love, on that
bloody altar with Him."
"Was it the wind? No! the sweetest winds of earth could not have drawn
such language from the corrupt and frenzied chords of my spirit. No
demon whispered it!" exclaimed Helen, still gazing upwards. "Was it a
heavenly warning _for me_, the most miserable outcast on the wide
earth?" The mad tempest was dispersed; it rolled back its sullen
clouds from her soul; and, with a trembling cry for mercy, she
staggered towards a large chair, into which she fell, fainting and
exhausted.
As the sun was rising, Walter Jerrold, who had travelled all night from
New York, whither he had been on business of importance, opened his
house-door with a private key, and entered without disturbing the
servants. He ran up to Helen's door, and finding it locked, opened his
dressing-room, which adjoined hers, with the same key, and pushing back
the silk draperies which hung between them, went in, and, to his alarm
and amazement, saw her, still arrayed in her festal robes sleeping in
the chair, into which she had fallen. Her face was as white as the
drooping roses on her bosom, and her countenance wore an expression of
pain.
"Helen!" he whispered, as he leaned over and kissed her cheek. "Helen,
are you ill?"
"Will! It was burnt. Will!" she cried, starting up, and looking
wildly around her. "Oh, Walter! I am so glad you are here at last. I
have had a frightful dream."
"Helen, you are ill, I fear. What means this unwonted confusion;--have
you been out, and just come in? What is the meaning of it all--and
_what is this_?" he said, while he stooped down to pick up the crystal
_flacon_ which had dropped out of its case on the floor.
"Dear Walter, don't open it, for the world! It is a cosmetic. I am
too white, sometimes, and touch my cheeks with it," exclaimed Helen,
starting up; "do give it to me."
"No, Helen; my wife must be _real_ in all things. I do not approve of
artificial coloring; so, to save you from temptation, I shall put it
out of your reach!" replied her husband, throwing the _flacon_ out into
the street. A lean, hungry dog, prowling about in search of food,
rushed to the spot--hoping, no doubt, that it was a morsel from the
rich man's table--but no sooner had his nose touched the spot, then,
uttering a loud howl, he fell dead.
"Helen! explain this mystery!" he exclaimed, grasping her hand, and
drawing her to the window. "Are your cosmetics all poisons as deadly
as that?"
"Walter! this is horrible! Poison? Why, Walter, it might have killed
me!" she gasped, hiding her pallid face in his bosom.
"Helen, answer me, by the love and trust I bear you, did you know that
the contents of that _flacon_ were poisonous? Look up, dear Helen, and
answer me, yes or no."
"No, Walter--on my honor, no. You have saved me from a horrible
death," she replied, raising her head, and looking, with a strong
effort into his eyes.
Thus was Helen driven, with scourges, by her task-master, the great
tempter of souls, into slough after slough, from which, there was but
one escape, and that lay through a rugged way, called REPENTANCE. But
repentance, to her vision, was like a shoreless ocean, or a fierce
deity to whose exacting nature she must sacrifice all that she held
dear on earth, or perish. But her husband's love and esteem--her
ill-gotten riches--her position--her luxuries! Could she live without
them? _If she could repent without making restitution_, she would.
But she well knew that such repentance would be fruitless. And thus,
while, to the world, she moved calmly in her proud beauty, and was
envied by the miserable, for the apparent happiness and splendor of her
lot, a fierce beast was tugging at her heart-strings, more savage than
that which tore the vitals of the boy of Lacedaemon. It was remorse.
"Helen!" said Walter Jerrold, calmly, "have you any grief or mystery
hidden from me, my wife? I am like a helpless child, now in your
hands; you may deceive me, and triumph in your concealment--but do
not--do not, Helen, for God's sake, do it. Open your whole heart to
me. I love you well enough to lift the burden, if there be one, from
it, to my strong shoulders; and if--if--if--you have ever erred, let me
hear it from no lips but your own."
Helen would have cast herself at his feet and told him all, but she
feared he would spurn her--she longed to deserve the love of his manly
and honest heart, but too weak, too much a coward, she shrunk from the
agony and peril of a confession of her guilt. And Jerrold! was he not
mad to expect to find a true and loving spouse in one who had cast off
her allegiance to God?
"You are mistaken, Walter. Really, you have made quite a scene! I
fear that you are romantic! For, really except when my nervous moods
come over me, I am not aware that there is any thing unusual in my
conduct. I am excessively nervous and excitable. I was dancing all
night. I went with your mother to Mrs. Woodland's ball, which was a
most brilliant affair. It was after two o'clock when I came home. You
may be sure I was tired. Then I concluded to give you a little
surprise by waiting up for you; and, as I looked very haggard, took out
that precious cosmetic to tint my cheeks--all, dear Walter, to welcome
you; but I was too much fagged, and went off into a sound, vulgar
sleep!" said Helen, going to her toilette-table to adjust her hair,
while she laughed as if the whole thing had been an amusing adventure.
"It will learn you to run off again," she continued.
"Well, well--perhaps I am exacting; but understand one thing, Helle,
about me," said Walter Jerrold, gravely, "I can bear with, and forgive
_errors_--but deception, _never_."
"Walter!" said Helen, reproachfully, while tears suffused her fine eyes.
"Forgive me, Helle, if my words grate on your feelings. It is best for
married folk to understand each other's peculiarities as early as
possible. Shall I ring for Elise, for you are tangling and tearing
your hair to pieces?"
"If you please. I will soon join you, if you will tell me where to
find you," she replied, with assumed composure.
"At the breakfast table, I trust," he said, pleasantly; "I am thirsting
for a cup of mocha, after my long journey."
"I suspect you will find it ready. I ordered them to have it ready
early;--but see, Walter! have you any special engagement this forenoon?"
"Nothing _very_ particular after ten, Helen. Why?"
"Why, you know that _Matinées_ are all the rage now. I hold my first
one to-day.--All the world have promised to come!"
"You don't want me, then?" he said, laughing.
"Of course I do. It will look proper for you to be present at the
_first_. People can't be ill-natured then. I've heard a great many
queer stories about the _Matinées_."
"It is well to be prudent in these fashionable follies, Helle--touch
some of them with gloves on. I do not like this new style of thing,
but if it's the fashion, we must fall in. I'll come, provided there is
no scandal and high play," he said, laughing.
As the hour for the _Matinée_ approached, Helen's drawing-rooms
presented a _coup d'oeil_ of splendor and elegance. Daylight was
carefully excluded; and alabaster lamps threw a soft, moon-lit
radiance, through flowers and garlands, over the scene. The costly
mirrors, the magnificent furniture, of the time of _Louis le Grande_,
the lofty, frescoed ceiling, the exquisite statuary, and rare
paintings, were all in fine keeping with each other, and gave, what an
artist would call, tone and harmony to the scene. Attired in white
crape and pearls, Helen had never looked more lovely; and of all who
crowded with compliments around her, there was not one to rival her.
Group after group of the _beau monde_ made their way to the head of the
room, where she, with her high-bred worldly air, received them with a
smile and pleasant passing words.
"Your _Matinée_ is the most brilliant of the season, Mrs. Jerrold,"
said a fashionable old lady, with a dowager air--such a one as we meet
with constantly in society, who, tangled up in laces, false hair, and a
modish style of dress, look like old faries at a christening, and who
impress the young and inexperienced by their affected zest that the
fleeting pleasures of life are immortal. "Your _matinée_ is really
splendid! Such a fashionable company--so much beauty--really, it
reminds me of old times. But, my dear creature, did you know there is
the greatest sensation in town now about religion?"
"How?" asked Helen, smiling.
"The Romanists are holding something they call a _mission_ at the
cathedral, and really, I am told, that the performances are very
impressive. It is quite the fashion to go for an hour."
"It is never considered _outre_ to go to the cathedral, as the very
_élite_ of our society are Catholic, and attend there; but _entre
nous_, shall _you_ go, Mrs. Jerrold?" observed a lady near them.
"Yes," continued the dowager, with a spiteful air; "and very few
parvenues amongst them. Most of them sprung from something better than
low trades-people."
"Granted. No doubt they enjoy their pedigree as much as I do the
substantial fortune my grandfather acquired by trade," said the lady,
pleasantly. "But, Mrs. Jerrold, the music is fine, the preacher
superbly eloquent, and every body goes now, instead of attending the
opera!"
This grated on Helen's ears. Classing the Church with the opera! But
what right had she, who trampled it under foot, to complain?
"Really, I have heard nothing of this mission before!" she said, with
an indifferent air. "What is it?"
"I really cannot tell exactly. Thousands go, and thousands come away
because they can't be accommodated with seats. Altogether with the
music, the eloquent preaching, and the crowd, it is quite a
_spectacle_."
"Yes," put in the dowager; "and that is all. It is a _spectacle_!"
"Judge Craven's wife and Major Boyd are amongst the converts; and the
Rev. Allan Baily," said the lady, with a wink at Helen.
"Oh, my God!" exclaimed the dowager; "Mr. Baily! It must be a lie--I
declare it must!"
"Will you have my _sal-volatile_, madam?" said the malicious lady,
enjoying the scene, while she offered her vinaigrette.
"I won't believe it. Who told you, Mrs. Grayson?"
"Himself," replied Mrs. Grayson, calmly.
"He's crazy! He's been flighty these two years, with his long coats,
and fast-days, and confession," cried the dowager, fanning herself
violently, and snuffing the _sal-volatile_, until she grew purple in
the face. "As to the others, they are doting. I'll go this moment, if
you'll excuse me, Mrs. Jerrold, and make my coachman drive me there;
and if he has done so, I'll rouse him, as sure as I have a tongue in my
head. I knew him when he was a boy, and I protest against it," she
said, screaming like an angry macaw, as she fluttered out.
"The town's crazy about Mr. Baily's conversion. I am not surprised at
Mrs. Fanshaw's excitement. But let us make up a party, and go tonight,
Mrs. Jerrold. The gentleman who conducts this thing, and pulls the
wires, is a man of irresistible eloquence. He was one of us a few
years ago."
"It would be dangerous to venture, I should think," said Helen, with a
dim smile; "but if Mr. Jerrold has no other engagement--"
"Is it of the famous 'Mission' you are speaking, Helen?" interrupted
her mother-in-law, rustling in silk and jewels, "Yes; of course we must
go. We shall be quite out of the fashion, if we do not. The most
_distingué_ persons in town are to be there this evening."
"I fear the opera and assembly will have but a slim attendance," said
Walter Jerrold in his pleasant, sarcastic way.
"Oh, we shall get away in time for the assembly, which, by the by, is
the last of the season," replied Mrs. Jerrold. "Helen, you look
charmingly this morning. I declare you are the happiest couple I know
of in the world."
Cards, scandal, chocolate, and ices, filled up the routine of the
_Matinée_; then the guests rolled away in their carriages to dress for
dinner, or leave cards at the doors of people, who they knew were out.
It is the way of the world.
"I should prefer not to go, Walter," said Helen that evening at tea.
"Nonsense. I have better faith in you, Helen, than to think _one_
evening will put you in peril. Come, don't be a coward. I wish you to
hear this eloquent, half-crazy enthusiast preach; then we can drop into
the opera, or assembly, whichever you wish."
"In my hat and white _pegnoir_--how ridiculous, said Helen, with a
faint smile.
"No; come back and dress, if you choose. It will look ill for us to
stay away when the others expect us and to be frank with you, Helle, I
want to convince the world that my wife is not a _Romanist_."
"Is any one so foolish as to suspect it now, Walter?" she said,
bitterly.
"Of course they do. And they'll be disappointed when they see that you
neither bow down, nor cross yourself." It was not meant, but every
word her husband said told down like drops of fire, into Helen's heart.
"Come, shall we go?"
"Yes," replied the sin-enslaved Helen.
When the gay company arrived at the cathedral door, although it was
early, they could scarcely make their way through the dense crowds
which thronged the isles; but by patiently and gradually moving up
towards the transept of the church, they were at last successful in
finding seats, which commanded a view of the altars and pulpit. Lights
in massive candelabra, and masses of flowers, of rare and rich dyes,
covered the high altar. The tabernacle, which stood amidst this marble
throne, was draped with cloth of gold, and surrounded by clusters of
tube-roses and lilies. Above all, the objects which arrested every
wandering eye, was the carved image of the MAN OF SORROWS--the
suffering son of God! But it was not towards these that every Catholic
soul was drawn. They were only signs, which designated the spot where
the real presence of Jesus lay; where, enshrined in the fairest of
earth's offerings, he invited their adoration. On each side the altar
of the Madonna and the "Good Shepherd" were gorgeously decorated with
lights and flowers.
_Helen did not kneel_. _She did not cross herself_. She merely sat
down, and looked with a haughty, tired air, around her. She did not
observe the priest as he came from the sanctuary, and ascended the
pulpit, until she saw the attention of others directed towards him;
then she lifted her glasses, gazed a few moments at him, thought him a
rather distinguished-looking person, and piqued by her husband's
observation, turned away to watch the movements of a party who were
compelled to resort to walking over the backs of the pews to get to
their seats. But while her eyes roved around in search of novel and
amusing sights--while she nodded to one acquaintance, and smiled at
another--what words are those which ring down into her soul? Why pale
her cheeks, and why tremble the gem-decked fingers of her fair hand?
Why do _tears_--_tears_--strange visitants to that haughty visage, roll
over her cheeks? "_And there stood by the cross of Jesus, Mary, his
mother!_" Again the clear sonorous voice of the speaker, filled with a
tender cadence and solemn sweetness, enunciated the words. Why does
Helen think of her picture at home--of the pitying glance it cast on
her the night she committed that crime, which had almost wrecked her
soul? Why does she think of her interposition that very morning which
had saved her from self-murder? It was from no voluntary will of her
own; but these visions came, subduing and touching the rind of her
weary heart, until it heaved with the throes of a new birth. She
listens now. She cannot do otherwise, for the powerful voice of the
preacher rings out clear, distinct, and impressive. His eloquence
enchains every heart; in burning words, he assails every soul.
Unbelievers, heretics, infidels, and lukewarm Catholics, hang on every
sentence; nor disdain the tears which flow, while he tells of the
dolors of Mary. Almost fainting, Helen leaned forward, and shaded her
face; there was a pent-up agony in her heart, her brain ached, and the
throbbing of her pulses almost suffocated her; and when the preacher
ceased, she leaned back with a sigh of relief. But it was not over
yet. The organ in deep-toned thunders, and notes of liquid music,
wailed forth the dolorous harmony of Stabat Mater, while voices of
surpassing sweetness sung the words.
"I am ill, Walter--take me home," gasped Helen. "I am overcome by the
heat and crowd."
"We must wait a little, Helen. The throng is so great that we cannot
move. Dry your face, and let me fan you. Every body is crying, I
believe--don't let that trouble you. See, Helle, even I have dropped a
tear in memory of those stupendous sorrows," said Walter Jerrold, half
playfully, and half in earnest.
Then Helen leaned her face on her hands, while torrents of tears
dripped over the diamonds and rubies that decked her fingers.