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.
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