“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to God, as a sinner condemned in his sight, till the veil between her and the invisible world seemed about to be withdrawn by death, and her soul trembled at the prospect of the unknown terrors that might lie beyond that veil.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 bosom of Clemence, regarding her uncle, as she had done, with mingled gratitude and affection; but her thoughts were instantly turned from her own regrets, by alarm at the effect on Louisa of the inconsiderate words which had reached her in her dreamy, half conscious state. Clemence had endeavoured, and not without success, to lead the mind of the poor girl beyond death itself, to the great and merciful Being who has rendered it to His faithful servants only the passage to life eternal. But the sentence, so thoughtlessly uttered by Vincent, and not half understood by the fevered patient, from whom Clemence had kept the captain’s death carefully concealed, brought fearfully before her at once all the array of the king of terrors. The hearse, with its nodding plumes, the black pall, the coffin, the shroud—these were the least frightful of the images which flashed through Louisa’s burning brain. With a shriek she sprang up in her bed, rolling her eyes in frantic terror, and clinging to Clemence, as if for life, implored her wildly to save her! Vincent, alarmed at the condition in which he beheld his sister, and unconscious that he himself had been the cause of it, hurried to call in the assistance of Lady Selina and Arabella. A messenger was despatched to Dr. Howard, another to the city to summon Mr. Effingham—all was excitement and alarm.
Lady Selina went to the room of her unhappy niece, who was now raving in fearful delirium, but did not remain in it long. Her nerves, she said, could not stand such a scene; and she found her only solace in repeating again and again, “I knew that it would be so—I warned Mrs. Effingham of what would ensue; her cruel, fanatical folly has driven the poor child mad!”