“Oh!” cried Vincent passionately, “if I had not treated him so ill!—if I had not laughed at him, mocked him, insulted him! And he will never know how sorry I am! But he did not die saving me! no, no,—his life was not lost for me!” the boy’s voice was choked in his sobs.
“My Vincent—it was God’s will—we must not murmur! We must think on the happiness which we trust one day to share with him who has gone before us. My care must now be for you—he is beyond our aid! You must have rest, and warmth, and dry clothes instantly, my Vincent; your hands are cold as ice, your very lips colourless and white,—come with me at once to your own room—your comfort must be my first thought now.”
And then, with the tenderness of a mother, Clemence tended her boy. She insisted on Vincent’s at once retiring to rest, prepared a warm beverage to restore circulation to his chilled and shivering frame, chafed his numbed hands within her own, and spoke to him soothing words of tenderness and love. Clemence left him at last dropping into slumber, and then bent her rapid steps towards the apartment of Louisa, about whom she had felt less anxiety, as knowing her to be under the care of her sister and aunt.
Mrs. Effingham met Dr. Howard quitting the room, accompanied by Lady Selina. The countenance of the physician was grave.
“The shock to so delicate a constitution has been very severe,” he said in reply to a question from Clemence; “an increase of fever is to be apprehended. I should certainly recommend that some one should sit up with Miss Effingham during the night.”
“I will watch beside her,” said Clemence.
CHAPTER XIII
THE CHAMBER OF SICKNESS.
Fiercely 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.