hy 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 b............