A RAY OF LIGHT.
It was a bright Christmas morn. The sound of the sweet church bells
ringing for service reached the dull, darkened chamber in which
Clemence sat beside her slumbering charge. She had seen Mr. Effingham
and Lady Selina, accompanied by Vincent and his sister, set out in the
joyous sunlight on their way to the nearest church. It was sadly that
Clemence had watched their departure; she had once looked forward to
so happy a Christmas, and now trials seemed to shut her out from
enjoyment, even as the half-closed shutter and heavy curtain excluded
from the room in which she sat the sparkling rays which shone so
brightly on all beside! The tongue that had been wont to give cordial
greeting on a day like this lay cold and silent in the coffin below—no
other season could remind Clemence so forcibly of her blyth, kindly,
warm-hearted guardian, as the joyous season of Christmas. The lively
Louisa, once gay as the butterfly sporting its silken wings in the
sunshine, was stretched beside her on a bed of sickness; and though
the apprehensions entertained on the sufferer’s account were now of a
less alarming nature, her recovery was still precarious. Beneath these
sources of sorrow lay one deeper—so deep that even to herself Clemence
would not acknowledge its existence. Not for a moment would she
entertain the thought that it was possible to find disappointment
where hope had been sweetest; any doubt of her husband being indeed
the noblest, best of men, she would have repudiated as treason. But it
_was_ possible that he might be disappointed in her; her weakness, her
extravagance, her inferiority in everything to himself—thus pensively
mused the young wife—might by this time have become apparent to one
whose judgment was quick and discerning. He was amongst those who
would cast no veil over her failings—those who would make no allowance
for her inexperience—those who might even misrepresent her motives,
and place her actions before him in a light not only unfavourable but
false. Was not his manner changing towards her—had he not become
silent, reserved, even stern?
Such reflections were exquisitely painful to Clemence, whose mind was
perhaps rendered morbid by fatigue and want of natural rest. It is when
the frame is weary, and the nervous system unhinged, that fancy conjures
up phantoms of dangers perhaps altogether unreal, and seems bent on
accumulating causes of pain and regret to brood over in silent gloom. It
is an unhealthy state of mind—one of the many forms of sickness to which
that most delicate and mysterious part of our constitution is subject.
Religion alone can offer for such mental malady a cure—religion, which
whispers to the burdened spirit, that though _heaviness may endure for a
night_, yet _joy cometh in the morning_.
Clemence was trying to raise her thoughts from earthly fears to
contemplation of that great event which was upon that day celebrated—to
open her soul to the sunshine from heaven, and in its genial warmth
forget the shadows that lay on her path, when a gentle sigh breathed
beside her told that Louisa had awakened from her sleep, and turning,
Clemence saw the invalid, pale indeed, and with traces of suffering on
her features, but with a calm expression of countenance, which showed
that the fever had departed.
“You are better, my love?” said the step-mother tenderly.
“Much better, only—so weak!” was the feeble reply. “Why are the church
bells ringing?”
“It is Christmas-day; and such a bright clear morning! Your father and
the rest of our party have gone to church.”
“And you—you have stayed to take care of me here! How good you are! I
have not deserved it!”
Few words, and faintly uttered; but how sweetly they fell on the heart
of Clemence! They resembled one sunny ray which, straight and bright,
had forced its way through the opening of the shutters, and striking on
a crystal drop which hung from a mantel-piece ornament, not only gave to
the opposing glass the brilliancy of the diamond, but itself breaking in
the encounter, painted the wall beyond with all the tints of the
rainbow.
“Is Captain Thistlewood in church too?” inquired Louisa.
It was well for Clemence that the darkness of the room enabled her to
conceal the unbidden tears which rose to her eyes at the question, but
to reply to it was at that moment impossible. Louisa, however, scarcely
waited for an answer, following the current of her own wandering
thoughts.
“I have behaved very ill to him,” she murmured; “do you think that he
too will forgive me?”
“He never harboured a resentful feeling against you or any one,” replied
Clemence with an effort.
“I shall see him again?” inquired Louisa.
“I hope—trust—one day,” faltered Clemence, her tears fast overflowing,
while her lips formed the unuttered words—“one day—in a better world.”
“When I am well I will lead a very different life from what I have
hitherto done. I will think much more of religion and duty. I would not
for worlds go again through all the misery of a time like this! O Mrs.
Effingham, if you only knew the horror of that plunge, the icy cold
water gurgling over my head, and the thoughts rushing into my mind; and
then I fancied that some one caught hold of me to save me, and there was
a moment’s hope, and then—”
“You must not dwell on these things—indeed you must not!” cried
Clemence, who dreaded a return of the fever; but Louisa was not to be
silenced.
“I have had such horrible, horrible dreams,” she said, passing her thin
hand across her eyes. “I was drowning, but it was in a fiery sea, all
burning and glowing around me; and I fancied that you laid hold of
me—and that my dress gave way in your hand—and I plunged down—down—”
“Hush, dear one, hush!” said the young step-mother anxiously; “you must
not let your mind recall these terrors. There are such sweet, peaceful,
holy subjects to rest upon—an immovable Rock to cling to, one over which
the waters never can break. I was going to open the Bible; have you
strength to hear a few verses read aloud?”
“I should like it—and then—you will pray,” murmured Louisa faintly.
There was joy in that gloomy chamber—joy in the soul of the pale
watcher, the joy of hope, and gratitude, and love! If there be pure
happiness on earth, it is when a mortal is permitted to share the
rejoicings of angels over a wandering sheep found, an erring soul
brought to its God. Clemence had never thought the words of Holy Writ so
beautiful as she did now, where every verse, as it flowed from her lips,
was turned almost unconsciously into a supplication for the poor young
listener at her side. She could not have experienced deeper peace even
kneeling in the house of prayer with her husband, or joining with the
congregation in the hymn of joyful adoration.
On the following morning the remains of Captain Thistlewood were
consigned to the grave, Mr. Effingham and Vincent, at his own request,
following the hearse as mourners. The day had not concluded ere the
sound of the harp, touched by the hand of Arabella, and accompanied by
her powerful voice, jarred painfully on the ear of the sorrowing
Clemence. Disrespect to the memory of the dead, disregard to the
feelings of the living, breathed in the lively Italian air sung in a
house from whose door the dark funeral had so lately departed.
It was not till now that to Louisa—the doctors having pronounced her
entirely out of danger—the fact of the death of Captain Thistlewood was
gently broken by Clemence, who then assumed her own mourning garb.
Louisa was startled and shocked; the reflection, “If I had been the one
summoned instead of him, where, oh, where would my soul have been now?”
impressed more forcibly on her mind the solemn lesson taught to her by
her own illness.
But would the impression last? Would that light and volatile mind retain
the form into which circumstances had moulded it, when these
circumstances themselves should be altered? Would the holy resolutions
made on a sick-bed stand when brought to the trial by worldly society,
vain pleasures, and evil influence? A clergyman, who had laboured for a
great number of years, once recorded his melancholy experience, that,
out of _two thousand_ whom he had known to give signs of repentance when
prostrated by sickness, only _two_ individuals evidenced by their
conduct after recovery that their repentance had been sincere. Let all
who would postpone the solemn work till they are stretched upon a
death-bed, ponder well this alarming testimony. Friends may eagerly mark
the cry for mercy, wrung by fear of approaching judgment, as evidence
that a broken and contrite heart has been touched by the Spirit of
grace; but the Omniscient alone can know whether repentance is indeed
unto salvation, or only as the dew that vanisheth, as the morning cloud
that passeth away.
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