"I am Mrs. Jerrold's cousin, and have come to see her. Show me her room," said May, with an air of dignity.
"Je vous demande pardon. Madame Jerrold est un peu indisposée. Entrez!" said Elise, throwing open Helen's door, without however, making the least noise. And there, amidst her almost oriental luxuries, she reclined; her heaped-up silken cushions—her ormolu tables—her Eastern vases, filled with spices and rose-leaves, until the air was heavy with fragrance—her rich and grotesque furniture—her rose-colored draperies, through which the light flowed in softly and radiantly—her jewels—her costly attire; amidst it all she reclined—faded, conscience-stricken, and trembling. There was a wild, feverish light in her eyes, and her white lips quivered incessantly.
"Helen—dear Helen!" said May, holding out her hands.
"'If you are sick, or sorrowful, or repentant, send for me.' You said this to me some time ago, May. The promise is claimed," she said, feebly.
"And I am here, dear Helen. How can I aid you?"
"First go and close that door. I have a most inconveniently zealous French waiting-maid, who pretends not to understand English, that she may gather as much information about one's private affairs as possible."
"I encountered her on the stairs," said May, closing the door carefully.
"Now, lay off your things, little woman. Sit here where I can see you, and tell me if you are not dazzled by all this splendor, and if you do not think I ought to be the happiest woman on earth?"
"No, dear Helen; it is very rich and beautiful, but it does not dazzle me. And so far from thinking you ought to be the happiest woman on earth, I think you ought to be the most miserable, until contrition and repentance lead you back, humble and weeping, to the sacraments you have deserted," said May, bravely.
"Just the same ridiculous little thing!" said Helen, with a faint smile. "But, May, suppose even that I felt those dispositions, do you know what it would cost me to practice them?"