DARKNESS AND DANGER.
As Martha on the next morning took in the breakfast, she told her
mistress with a look of alarm that she had just heard from the baker
that the scarlet fever was making rapid progress in M——. Many had died
from its effects; amongst them two of the boys who had been attending
classes in the academy.
As Martha retailed her tidings, Clemence noticed that Vincent turned
pale.
“Did you hear the boys’ names?” he asked hastily.
“I think, sir, as one was the curate’s eldest son.”
“Ah, poor Wilson!” exclaimed Vincent with feeling; “and to think that
but three days ago he was sitting at my side, laughing and joking, as
strong and as merry as any boy in the school!”
“They says,” observed Martha, always glad of an opportunity to
gossip,—“they says that the fever be raging in a terrible way. There’s
been three children carried off in one house, and now the mother’s
a-sickening. The baker says ’tis just like the plague; people die a’most
before they’ve time to know they be ill!”
“I wonder if my turn will come next,” said Vincent, as Martha quitted
the little parlour. “I had the place next to Wilson in the class, and we
were wrestling together on the green. Oh, don’t look so frightened,” he
added more cheerfully, “there’s nothing the matter with me now.”
He walked to the window and looked out, having scarcely tasted his
breakfast. “Did you ever see such a day!” he exclaimed; “the snow falls,
not in flakes, but in masses! I don’t believe that the coach will be
able to run. There were three horses to it yesterday; they could
scarcely drag it along, and snow has been falling ever since. One would
be glad of a little sunshine. I think that this winter never will end!”
Vincent remained so long listlessly watching the snow, that Clemence at
last suggested that he should read to her a little, while she would go
on with her work. Vincent, with a yawn, consented; but though the book
had been selected for its power of entertaining, this day it did not
seem to amuse. Vincent did not read with his wonted spirit, and soon
handed over the volume to Clemence.
Mrs. Effingham read a few pages, and then suddenly stopping, looked
uneasily at her boy. He was leaning his brow on his hand, and closing
his eyes as if in thought or in pain.
“You are unwell, my Vincent!” she exclaimed.
“Oh, I’m all right,” was the nonchalant reply.
“The death of his young companion has naturally saddened his spirits.
God grant that this depression have no other cause!” was the silent
thought of the step-mother.
She read a little longer, and stopped again. “Indeed, my son, you do not
look well!” Clemence rose and laid her hand upon his forehead—it was
feverish and hot to the touch.
“Well, I do not feel quite as usual,” owned Vincent, scarcely raising
his heavy eyelids. “I’ve such a burning feeling in my throat.”
Clemence’s heart sank within her; she knew the symptom too well.
Trembling with an agonizing dread lest another fearful trial of
submissive faith might be before her, she yet commanded herself
sufficiently to say, in a tone that was almost cheerful, “I see that I
must exert my authority, and order you off to bed.”
“Do you think that I have taken the fever?” said Vincent, rising as if
with effort.
“Whether you have taken it or not, you can be none the worse for a
little precaution, and a little motherly nursing,” she added, putting
her arm fondly around the boy.
As soon as Clemence had seen Vincent in his room, she flew with anxious
haste to the kitchen. “Martha!” she cried, but in a voice too low to
reach the ear of her step-son, “you must go directly to M—— for Dr.
Baird. He lives in the white house on the right, next the church. Beg
him to come without a minute’s delay; I fear that Master Vincent has
caught the fever! Go—no time must be lost!”
The kind-hearted girl appeared almost as anxious, and looked more
alarmed than her mistress. Having repeated her directions, Clemence
returned to the small apartment of Vincent. He was sitting on the side
of his little bed, one arm freed from his jacket, but apparently with
too little energy to draw the other out of its sleeve. His head was
heavy and drooping, and an unnatural flush burned on his cheek. He
passively yielded himself up to his step-mother’s care, and soon was
laid in his bed. Before an hour had elapsed Vincent was in the delirium
of fever, the scarlet sign of his terrible malady overspreading every
feature!
How helpless Clemence felt in her loneliness then! Not a human being
near to suggest a remedy or whisper a hope! She waited and watched for
the doctor, till impatience worked itself up to torture. Why did he
delay, oh, why did he delay, when life and death might hang on his
coming! A train passed, and Clemence started, though by this time well
accustomed to the sound. Amongst all the human beings—living, loving
human beings—who passed in it so close to her cottage, there was not one
to pity or to help—not one who could even guess the anguish and danger
overshadowing the lone little dwelling!
Clemence’s only comfort was to weep and to pray by the bed-side of her
suffering boy. He could neither mark her tears nor hear her prayers; he
lay all unconscious of the love of her who would so gladly have
purchased his life with her own.
At last hope came; there was a sound at the door! With rapid but
noiseless step Clemence glided from Vincent’s room to meet the doctor so
anxiously expected. Martha stood at the threshold, stamping off the snow
which hung in masses to her shoes. Bonnet, cloak, and dress were all
whitened with the storm; but notwithstanding the bitter cold, heat-drops
stood on the brow of the girl.
“Is he coming?” gasped Clemence.
Martha burst into tears. “O ma’am, I’ve done all that I could. I’ve been
battling against it this hour! I’m sure I thought I’d be buried in the
snow!”
“The doctor!—the doctor!” cried Clemence, impatiently.
“I could not get as far as M——. The way’s blocked up with the snow.
Sure, ma’am, I did my best.”
Clemence clasped her hands almost in despair. Then her resolution was
taken. “Watch by my son; do not quit him for an instant. I will go for
the doctor myself.”
“It’s impossible! quite impossible!” cried the girl. “I sank up to the
knee every step. You’ll be lost, oh, you’ll be lost in the snow!” Her
last words were unheard by Clemence, who had already commenced her brief
preparations for encountering the storm.
Can love, strong as death, enable that slight, fragile form to force its
way through the piled heaps of snow which block up and almost obliterate
the path? Can it give power to the young, delicate woman to face such a
blast as strips the forest trees of their branches, and levels the young
pines with the sod? For a short space Clemence struggles on, the fervour
of her spirit supplying the deficiency in physical strength; but every
yard is gained by such an effort, that she feels that her powers must
soon give way. She could as well try to reach London as M——. In her
agony she cries aloud—“O my God! my God! have pity upon me!” and when
was such a cry, wrung from an almost breaking and yet trusting heart
uttered to the Father of mercies in vain?
Clemence cast a wild gaze around her. Almost parallel with the road, and
at no great distance from it, a long break in the wide dreary waste of
snow marked the course of the railway. Clemence turned to the right, by
instinct rather than reflection, made her difficult way to the top of
the bank, and gazed down on the cutting below. Snow there was on it,
indeed, but the line of communication was too important for it to be
suffered to accumulate there in such heaps as on the comparatively
unfrequented road. Within the tunnel itself all would, of course, be
clear. A desperate thought flashed on the soul of Clemence. One way was
open to her still,—a way dark and full of terrors, but one by which M——
might yet be gained, and assistance brought to her suffering boy! She
gave herself no time for reflection, but scrambling, stumbling, slipping
down the bank, soon found herself on the side of the line, half buried
by the snow carried with her in her descent.
[Illustration:
ENTERING THE TUNNEL.
Page 237.]
Clemence made a few steps, and then paused and shuddered. Before her was
the opening of the tunnel—dark, dreadful as a yawning grave. Could she
venture to enter its depths—perhaps to be there crushed beneath the next
passing train? Were any trains expected at this time? Clemence pressed
her forehead, and tried to remember. One she had heard within the
hour—of that at least she was certain—the up-train to London, she
believed. But the state of the railway had delayed all traffic; and it
was impossible for Clemence to calculate exactly the chances of a coming
train. The idea of being met or overtaken by one was too terrible for
the mind to dwell on. The risk was too great to be run. Clemence,
marvelling at her own temerity in having entertained the thought for a
moment, turned round to go back to her home. But the sight of her own
lone cottage on the summit of the bank made her hesitate once more.
Before her mind floated the image of her beloved boy dying for want of
that assistance which it might be in her power to bring; then that of
her husband in the anguish of his grief for his own—his only son! Again
Clemence turned, her face almost as white as the snow falling fast
around her. Clasping her hands in prayer, with her eyes raised for a
moment to the lowering sky above, she faintly murmured the words,
“_Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no
evil, for Thou art with me_;” then rousing all her courage for the
desperate attempt, she entered the gloomy tunnel.
No lingering step there—no doubting, hesitating heart! as with the
painful duties which conscience had before imposed upon her shrinking
nature, Clemence felt a necessity to _go through_, and through as
quickly as possible. She hastened on as rapidly as the darkness would
permit, guiding herself by the wall, and the daylight at the end, which
gleamed before her like a large, pale star. The timid woman wished to
place, as soon as might be, such a distance between herself and the spot
where she had entered, that she might feel it as dangerous to return as
to proceed. She sped on her way, scarcely daring to think, keeping her
eye on that increasing star, till it was needful to pause to take
breath. The air was thick, clammy, and unwholesome—Clemence felt it like
a shroud around her, as she stood in that living grave. “Oh, shall I
ever be in daylight again?” she exclaimed, with the horror of darkness
upon her. Her foot was on one of the iron lines; she thought that she
felt a vibration—was it not the wild fancy of her excited brain? It was
sufficient to make the very blood seem to curdle in her veins, and to
absorb all her senses in the one act of listening.
Yes!—yes!—yes!—the low, distant rumble that she knows too well,—it comes
from behind, from the London down-train; the horror of death is to
Clemence concentrated in each terrible moment, as, almost petrified with
fear, she turns round to gaze! A fiery red eye gleams through the
darkness; the light from the entrance is almost blocked out; the rumble
becomes a hollow roar, ever growing louder and louder; and, with a wild
shriek of terror, Clemence falls senseless to the earth!
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