iercely 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 y............