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 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.
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!
