THE EFFECT OF A WORD.
“Why were two doctors sent for? Did they say I am ill, _very_ ill?”
exclaimed Louisa with feverish excitement, fixing her hollow eyes
anxiously upon the face of her step-mother.
“Lady Selina wished to try every means to make you quite well, dear
one,” replied Clemence quietly, “and thought it best, therefore, to ask
the advice of an additional physician.”
“And they think that I’ll be quite well soon?” The nervous quiver in the
poor girl’s voice betrayed her own doubt on the subject.
“You must keep very quiet, and not excite yourself, if you wish to be
quite well,” said Clemence evasively.
“But what did they say? I wish to know.” Louisa made a vain effort to
raise herself in the bed.
“They said,—Dr. Howard said, that your youth was greatly in your
favour.”
“But he did not, he did not think me very ill?”
“He thought you ill, dear Louisa”—as Clemence spoke, she gently laid her
hand on that of the sufferer; “but—”
“But not dying—not dying!” The agitated tongue could scarcely articulate
the words, while the gaze of the glassy eye became yet more
distressingly intense.
Clemence felt the moment exceedingly painful. She dared not deceive a
soul which was now, perhaps, on the point of being launched into the
unfathomable sea; and yet, her dread lest she should by one word hasten
the event which she dreaded, almost overcame her courage. “We will pray
that your life may be long spared, dear Louisa,” was her reply; “all is
in the hands of our merciful Lord; He can restore you to health, and
make even this trial a blessing.”
“I can’t pray,” said Louisa, gloomily. “I never thought much upon God in
my health—I cannot, dare not think of Him now. It is so terrible, so
terrible to die!” She grasped Clemence’s hand convulsively.
“And yet some have found it sweet to die.”
“Ah! yes,—some; the religious—the good.”
“_There is none good save one, that is God_,” whispered Clemence, gently
bending over the sufferer. “If only the righteous had hope in their
death, there would be no human being who could meet it, as many can and
have done, not only with submission, but joy.”
“What do you mean?” said Louisa faintly.
Then Clemence, in few, brief words, spoke of the sinner’s only stay, of
pardon offered to penitence, forgiveness unlimited and free. She
scarcely knew whether Louisa understood her, though her language was
simple as that in which a little child might have been addressed. It was
a comfort, however, to feel the nervous grasp of the fevered hand relax,
to see the eye lose its excited glare, and, when she paused, to hear the
voice feebly murmur, “Pray for me; I can’t pray for myself.”
Clemence sank on her knees, and prayed aloud—prayed from the very
depths of her soul. She addressed the Almighty as the Father of mercies,
the God of all comfort; she recommended a feeble lamb to the care of the
heavenly Shepherd. Not by the terrors of the law, but the strong cords
of love, she sought to draw a wandering soul to her God. Louisa turned
her face to the wall, a few quiet tears dropped on her pillow; as she
listened, her spirit was calmed, her excitement subsided,—it was
soothing to hear one of the servants of God pleading for her before the
throne.
When Clemence arose from her knees, Louisa was perfectly still, thanked
her by a gentle pressure of the hand, and, closing her eyes, looked
disposed to sleep. Clemence was thankful that the first step was
over—that the sick, perhaps dying girl knew her peril, and might,
through that knowledge, be led to seek better joys than those which she
might now be quitting for ever. Her fever had not increased; it had
appeared to be a solace to have one to whom she could lay open her
doubts and fears—one who would intercede for her with her offended
Maker. And how immeasurably precious might be the time still left to her
who had been brought up in total ignorance, not of the forms, but of the
vital power of religion! Louisa had never thought of herself as a
creature responsible to God, as a sinner condemned in his sight, till
the veil between her and the invisible world seemed about to be
withdrawn by death, and her soul trembled at the prospect of the unknown
terrors that might lie beyond that veil.
Clemence was silently revolving in her mind how words of peace and
consolation could be spoken without sacrificing truth or lulling
conscience to sleep—how this, her first opportunity of speaking to the
heart of her step-daughter, might be most wisely and most gently
improved, when Vincent, with the thoughtlessness of a child, suddenly
opened the door.
“Oh, come, if you wish to see him again!” said the boy in a loud
agitated whisper to Clemence; “the men have brought the coffin already!”
There was enough in the intimation itself to touch a painful chord in
the bosom of Clemence, regarding her uncle, as she had done, with
mingled gratitude and affection; but her thoughts were instantly turned
from her own regrets, by alarm at the effect on Louisa of the
inconsiderate words which had reached her in her dreamy, half conscious
state. Clemence had endeavoured, and not without success, to lead the
mind of the poor girl beyond death itself, to the great and merciful
Being who has rendered it to His faithful servants only the passage to
life eternal. But the sentence, so thoughtlessly uttered by Vincent, and
not half understood by the fevered patient, from whom Clemence had kept
the captain’s death carefully concealed, brought fearfully before her at
once all the array of the king of terrors. The hearse, with its nodding
plumes, the black pall, the coffin, the shroud—these were the least
frightful of the images which flashed through Louisa’s burning brain.
With a shriek she sprang up in her bed, rolling her eyes in frantic
terror, and clinging to Clemence, as if for life, implored her wildly to
save her! Vincent, alarmed at the condition in which he beheld his
sister, and unconscious that he himself had been the cause of it,
hurried to call in the assistance of Lady Selina and Arabella. A
messenger was despatched to Dr. Howard, another to the city to summon
Mr. Effingham—all was excitement and alarm.
Lady Selina went to the room of her unhappy niece, who was now raving in
fearful delirium, but did not remain in it long. Her nerves, she said,
could not stand such a scene; and she found her only solace in repeating
again and again, “I knew that it would be so—I warned Mrs. Effingham of
what would ensue; her cruel, fanatical folly has driven the poor child
mad!”
Before Mr. Effingham’s arrival, Louisa, exhausted with her own frantic
terrors, had fallen into a state of insensibility. Her parched hand yet
clasped that of Clemence in a grasp so firm, that the young step-mother
stood by the bed-side for hours, afraid to stir or change her position,
lest by doing so she should arouse the miserable sufferer to another
paroxysm of delirium.
While Clemence remained in her standing posture, till she almost fainted
with fatigue and the reaction of her overwrought nerves, Lady Selina,
with characteristic tact, availed herself of the vantage-ground left to
her by a rival’s absence, to place every occurrence before Mr. Effingham
in her own peculiar light. As the anxious father restlessly paced the
drawing-room, listening for any sound from the apartment above, Lady
Selina described to him his child’s most distressing symptoms, and gave
her own version of their cause. She rather pitied than blamed Mrs.
Effingham, gave her conduct no harsher name than that of indiscretion,
yet contrived to make it appear such as might have beseemed some
familiar of the Inquisition, whose ears were deafened by ruthless
bigotry to the cries of his tortured victim.
Mr. Effingham was at length, and for the first time in his life, much
irritated against his wife; and when, late in the evening, Clemence,
with tears of thankfulness glistening in her eyes, came to tell him that
the sufferer breathed more calmly, and that the fever seemed to have
abated, he received her with a cold sternness which struck like a dagger
into her heart.
“I shall watch by Louisa again to-night,” said Clemence, struggling to
keep down the emotion which almost choked her utterance.
“You had better leave such watching to the nurse whom Lady Selina has
considerately procured,” replied her husband with some asperity; “she
has experience and judgment, and the arrangement will be better upon
every account.”
Not one word of tenderness after all that she had suffered,—not one look
of kindness to repay her for her devoted nursing of his child during
that sleepless night, that miserable day! A sensation of dizziness came
over Clemence,—a sinking at the heart,—a sense of overpowering weariness
both of body and mind. She doubted not that she owed her husband’s
displeasure to the offices of Lady Selina, but had neither spirit nor
strength to defend herself from charges which she rather guessed at than
understood. With a slow, languid step, Clemence returned to the chamber
of sickness, to arrange for the night in compliance with the will of her
husband; but she found such compliance impracticable. Louisa, whose
state varied from fits of wild excitement to nervous depression, could
not endure the sight of a stranger, and with such agonized earnestness
implored her step-mother not to leave her, that Clemence again spent the
night alone with the suffering girl. The sound of her voice, the touch
of her hand, the soft notes of a low warbled hymn, seemed to have more
power to soothe the invalid than all the medical art. Louisa, who, in
the time of health, had despised and disliked her step-mother, appeared
now to look upon her as a protecting angel, whose presence could guard
her pillow from the frightful phantoms conjured up by imagination. She
could scarcely bear that Clemence should quit her side for an instant.
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