"Helen, listen to me. You must listen to me. It shall be the last time, if you will only be patient. There is an hour coming, if you persist in your present course, when you will wish you had never been born; an hour when all human aid must fail, and all human interests and splendor drop away from you like rotten rags; when your soul, affrighted and shrinking, will go forth, obeying the inexorable laws, of the Creator, to meet its Almighty Judge. When the shadows will fall darkly around your way, Helen, and phantoms of darkness lie in wait, until the irrevocable sentence is spoken, which will consign you to utter woe; when, stripped of all, you will stand shivering and alone before an awful tribunal, to give evidence against yourself. Oh, Helen! dear Helen! how will it be with you then? how will you escape, oh faithless daughter of the Church!"
"May!" cried Helen, while her face grew deadly white, and she grasped her cousin's arm; "hush! how dare you speak thus to me? It is cruel! Henceforth utter no such language to me while we both live. If I am on the brink of perdition, I alone am responsible for my acts—not you."
"I will try to obey you, Helen, so far; but I will pray for you—I will do penance for you—I will offer frequent communions for you—I will intercede with our tender and Immaculate Mother for you. I will fly to Calvary, and at the foot of the cross beseech our suffering Jesus, by his bitter passion and death to have mercy on you. You cannot stop me—you cannot hinder me in this, for, oh Helen! it is an awful thing to see a soul tearing off its baptismal robe, trampling underfoot the seals of the Church, and rushing away from her fold of safety to eternal—eternal woe!" cried May, wringing her hands, while big tears rolled over her face.
Helen turned away to brush off a single tear that moistened her eyes, but through it she saw the glitter of a diamond bracelet, which Walter Jerrold had just sent her, with a bouquet of hot-house flowers—all rare and costly, and the poor tear was dashed off with impatience, and a haughty curl of the lip.
"You act finely, May, but drop all this, and tell me what you will wear at my bridal," said Helen, clasping the bracelet on her arm, to try its effect.
"I shall not be there, Helen. I cannot even wish you joy, for there can no joy ever come in disobeying the Church, whose voice is the voice of God himself."
"As you please," she replied, coldly; "but croak no more to-night. You are like a bird of ill-omen to me."
May sighed, and retired to her oratory, to say her night prayers.