A look of ineffable scorn spread over Mrs. Jerrold's handsome face, while a low, contemptuous laugh from her son, was the response.
"Dear Helen," said Mrs. Jerrold, taking the weak girl's hand in her own, with a caress, "excuse me, for no doubt you still feel some hankering after those mysterious idolatries which you have wisely abandoned; but this is so absurd. How came it about?"
"I cannot imagine," she replied, in a faltering voice; for at that moment the thorn-crowned head of Jesus Christ—his sorrowful face stained with drops of blood, until its divinely beautiful lineaments were almost covered—was visioned in her soul with such distinctness, that she almost shrieked; then it faded away, and she went on:
"I have seen very little of my uncle since his illness. He keeps my cousin May by his side, and is uneasy if she leaves him an instant."
"And she is a Catholic?" asked Mrs. Jerrold, anxiously.
"Yes, a perfect devotee," replied Helen, bitterly.
"An infatuation! He is weak; his nerves and senses are shattered by this attack. He has been influenced by her and the priest. My dear Helen, I fear your interests will suffer."
"Do you really think so?" said Helen, growing pale.
"Mr. Jerrold, you will please to come up for a moment. My uncle desires to see you particularly," said May, appearing at the door.
"That is a designing girl, depend on it," whispered Mrs. Jerrold, as her son left the room; "and now, Helen, I must warn you. Be on your guard, and do not feel hurt when I say, that if she should have succeeded in cozening your uncle to revoke his will in her favor, my poor son's happiness will be wrecked for ever. He is not rich, you know, and is too proud to marry a woman whom he cannot support in good style; consequently, this marriage, which, under existing circumstances, gives us so much pleasure, would then have to be broken off."