THE CHAMBER OF SICKNESS.
Fiercely raged the wind through that night; angrily it shook the
casements, howled in the chimneys, dashed the winter-shower against the
panes! One pale watcher sat listening to the storm beside the couch on
which lay stretched a restless, fevered form: Clemence held her vigils
in the chamber of sickness. Weary and exhausted though she was, sleep
would have fled her eyelids on that night, even had she had no reason
for watching. The events of the preceding day had been to Clemence as a
terrible vision, and she was thankful for some hours of solitude and
comparative stillness in which to collect her thoughts, calm her
agitated mind, and cast the burden of her grief at the feet of her
Master. The faintest sound from the restless invalid brought Clemence to
her side, moving with noiseless step, like a ministering spirit, to
bathe the fevered brow, administer the cooling draught, smooth the
pillow of the suffering Louisa. During the intervals between such gentle
services the step-mother sat quietly at a little table, where the
dim-burning taper threw its faint light on the leaves of her Bible.
Clemence read little—her mind during that night had scarcely power to
follow any consecutive train of thought; but every now and then her eye
rested on the page, and her soul drew richer comfort from a single
verse, pondered over, dwelt upon, turned into prayer, than to a careless
reader the whole of the sacred volume might have afforded. Clemence
thought much upon her uncle; and even in these first hours of
bereavement her meditation on him was sweet. For him she could no longer
pray, but she could praise! She thought on Vincent also—of the warm gush
of generous emotion which had broken through the ice of reserve. Fondly
Clemence thought on the boy, and every thought linked itself with a
fervent petition for him to the throne of mercy. Nor was the sufferer
beside her forgotten. As Clemence gazed on the poor girl’s pallid face,
and heard her restless moans, no feeling towards her step-daughter
remained but that of tender, sympathizing compassion. The heart of
Clemence was softened by sorrow—quiet, submissive, holy sorrow; and
there seemed to be no room left in it now for any bitter, resentful
emotion.
These were solemn, peaceful hours to Clemence, though a tempest raged
without the dwelling, and sickness was within, and in one of the lower
apartments lay the lifeless remains of one who had been very dear. The
Almighty can give His children “songs in the night;” His presence can
brighten even the chamber of sickness, even the couch of death.
The winter’s sun was just rising when Arabella softly entered the room;
and as Louisa had at length sunk into a quiet slumber, Clemence resigned
for a while her watch over the invalid to her sister. Mrs. Effingham
then hastened to her husband to relieve his mind regarding his daughter.
She had hardly seen him since the accident, and gladly now sought the
comfort of his sympathy and affection. Her next thought was for Vincent.
She went to his room—it was empty; to the public apartments—he was not
there. She found the boy in the darkened chamber in which lay the
captain’s remains, gazing earnestly on the features of the dead, as
though a lingering hope had yet remained that life might return to them
once more. Clemence pressed a fervent kiss upon her step-son’s brow, and
left her tear upon his cheek.
Clemence felt herself too much exhausted both in body and mind to appear
in the breakfast-room that morning; she feared that she could not
restrain before her husband emotion that might distress him, and she
shrank from meeting the cold, unsympathizing gaze of Lady Selina. Her
eyelids were heavy with watching and weeping, and, retiring to her own
apartment, Clemence threw herself on her sofa; and her head had scarcely
rested on the cushion before she fell into a deep, untroubled slumber,
which lasted for several hours.
Vincent hurried over his breakfast, feeling as if every morsel would
choke him, and soon left his father and aunt to conclude their cheerless
meal together. Arabella was still keeping watch beside her sister.
“Clemence appears much relieved on Louisa’s account,” remarked Mr.
Effingham, after rather a long pause in conversation.
Something approaching towards a smile slightly curled the lip of the
lady—slightly, indeed, but sufficiently to fix upon her the attention of
her companion.
“Dear Mrs. Effingham is at that happy age when anxieties do not press
very heavily upon the mind,” said Lady Selina; “at least, it is evident
that she apprehended no serious consequences from the accident to
Louisa, or she would never have sent her home in a public conveyance,
almost sinking from exhaustion and terror, just rescued from a terrible
death, with no attendant but a hired menial.”
The brow of Mr. Effingham darkened, but he made no reply, and Lady
Selina continued in an apologetic manner: “But dear Mrs. Effingham was
not aware how much Louisa was suffering from the effects of long
immersion in the icy water; she did not see her before sending her home,
so was, of course, less able to judge of her condition. Mrs. Effingham
was so entirely engrossed with regret for her good old uncle that
everything else was entirely forgotten!”
The irritable cough of Mr. Effingham encouraged the lady to proceed,
which she did, after sipping a little of her chocolate, with a
meditative, melancholy air.
“It is perfectly natural, perfectly right, that a warmer degree of
interest should be inspired by an aged relative, no doubt a very
estimable, valuable creature, with whom your dear lady had associated
for years, than for a connection, however near, known for a time
comparatively so brief. I must not judge of Mrs. Effingham’s feelings by
my own—I who have watched my dear sister’s orphans from their birth, and
bear towards them the affection of a mother! I own that _I_ could not
have been an hour in the house before visiting the sick-bed of the
precious sufferer; but then, I know the extreme delicacy of Louisa’s
constitution. I have long regarded her as a fragile flower, one to be
reared like a tender exotic, almost too fair for this world!” Lady
Selina softly sighed; Mr. Effingham rose from the table.
_Blessed are the peacemakers._ Have we ever realized how fearful must be
the reverse of that benediction? Of whom can they _be called the
children_ whose delight is in sowing suspicion, awakening mistrust—they
who would rob the innocent of a treasure dearer than life, the
confidence and affection of those whom they love? Lady Selina rejoiced
in the secret hope that she had done something that morning to loosen
Clemence’s strong hold on the affections of her husband; that she had
with some skill employed paternal love as a lever to shake that perfect
confidence in which lay the young wife’s power. Lady Selina saw Mr.
Effingham depart for the city, his brow clouded, and his manner
abstracted, with feelings, perhaps, in some degree resembling those of
the Tempter when he had succeeded in bringing misery into the abode of
peace. She little considered _whose_ work she was doing, whose example
following; not the slightest shadow of self-reproach lay on the
conscience of the woman of the world.
In the meantime the weary Clemence slept sweetly, and at length awoke
refreshed. Sorrow, however, returned with consciousness; and, springing
up like one who fears that some duty may have been neglected, Clemence
hastened towards the room of Louisa, which was upon the same floor as
her own. She was met in the corridor by her maid.
“Oh, ma’am! Miss Louisa is so dreadfully ill! Lady Selina has sent for
another doctor besides Dr. Howard.”
“Why was I not awakened?” exclaimed Clemence; and as she spoke, a knock
at the outer door announced the arrival of one of the medical men.
Louisa was, indeed, alarmingly ill. Lady Selina had had cause for her
fear. With a throbbing heart Clemence awaited the decision of the
doctors, who, after seeing their patient, remained together in
consultation. It was a time when she would naturally have felt her soul
drawn towards Lady Selina by a common dread. But an icy barrier appeared
to be between the ladies; and the aunt tacitly treated the young
step-mother as one who affected an anxiety which she did not feel,—one
who was only adding hypocrisy to heartless indifference. Never are we
more acutely sensitive to unkindness than when the heart is lacerated by
sorrow; and never had Lady Selina inflicted a keener pang than she did
in that interval of anxious suspense.
“Miss Effingham is in a very precarious state,” was the opinion at
length given by one of the medical men, addressing himself to Clemence.
“We must be prepared, I fear, for the worst,” rejoined Dr. Howard,
“though the patient’s youth is greatly in her favour.”
“Prepared for the worst,” faintly repeated Clemence, as the doctors
quitted the house. The words brought with painful force before her mind
the thought how totally _unprepared_ the unhappy girl was for the awful
change which might be so near. She who had lived only for pleasure,—she
who had put religion aside as a tedious, gloomy thing, profitable only
for the sick and the aged,—charity itself, which _thinketh no evil_,
could not have regarded her as prepared; and now but a few days or hours
might remain of a life hitherto wasted and thrown away,—precious days or
hours, if given to God. “Louisa ought to know her danger,” said Clemence
gravely and thoughtfully to Lady Selina.
“Goodness me!” exclaimed the aunt in indignant surprise, “you would not
kill the poor child outright by talking to her about dying! I know well
your sentiments towards her, Mrs. Effingham; but this would be carrying
them a little too far.”
“God guide me!” murmured Clemence, as, turning sadly away, she glided
noiselessly into the sick-room.
“She’s a heartless hypocrite—a canting bigot,” said Lady Selina, when
she joined Arabella in the boudoir. “She’s going to frighten the little
remaining life out of our suffering darling by her terrible warnings and
denunciations!”
“I would not let her enter the room,” exclaimed Arabella, almost
fiercely.
“My love, she’s the mistress here—the absolute mistress. Mrs.
Effingham takes particular care that we should all be made fully aware
of that fact. We have no power to protect your poor sister against her
fanatical cruelty, for so I must call it; and the end is to crown the
beginning. Little has our Louisa had for which to thank her
step-mother—hypocritical smiles, plenty of soft words, but not a
single act of real kindness.”
“Mrs. Effingham sat up with her all last night,” observed Arabella, with
perhaps a latent sense of justice.
“A sop to her conscience!” exclaimed Lady Selina indignantly; “a
heathen, a savage could have done no less after yesterday’s horrible
neglect. To send her home dripping and dying—it makes me shudder to
think of it. After such treatment of the dear girl, no one on earth
would ever persuade me that Mrs. Effingham possesses a heart.”
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