s 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............