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 years, than for a connection, however near, known for a time comparatively so brief. I must not judge of Mrs. Effingham’s feelings by my own—I who have watched my dear sister’s orphans from their birth, and bear towards them the affection of a mother! I own that I could not have been an hour in the house before visiting the sick-bed of the precious sufferer; but then, I know the extreme delicacy of Louisa’s constitution. I have long regarded her as a fragile flower, one to be reared like a tender exotic, almost too fair for this world!” Lady Selina softly sighed; Mr. Effingham rose from the table.