“He never harboured a resentful feeling against you or any one,” replied Clemence with an effort.
“I shall see him again?” inquired Louisa.
“I hope—trust—one day,” faltered Clemence, her tears fast overflowing, while her lips formed the unuttered words—“one day—in a better world.”
“When I am well I will lead a very different life from what I have hitherto done. I will think much more of religion and duty. I would not for worlds go again through all the misery of a time like this! O Mrs. Effingham, if you only knew the horror of that plunge, the icy cold water gurgling over my head, and the thoughts rushing into my mind; and then I fancied that some one caught hold of me to save me, and there was a moment’s hope, and then—”
“You must not dwell on these things—indeed you must not!” cried Clemence, who dreaded a return of the fever; but Louisa was not to be silenced.
“I have had such horrible, horrible dreams,” she said, passing her thin hand across her eyes. “I was drowning, but it was in a fiery sea, all burning and glowing around me; and I fancied that you laid hold of me—and that my dress gave way in your hand—and I plunged down—down—”
“Hush, dear one, hush!” said the young step-mother anxiously; “you must not let your mind recall these terrors. There are such sweet, peaceful, holy subjects to rest upon—an immovable Rock to cling to, one over which the waters never can break. I was going to open the Bible; have you strength to hear a few verses read aloud?”
“I should like it—and then—you will pray,” murmured Louisa faintly.
There was joy in that gloomy chamber—joy in the soul of the pale watcher, the joy of hope, and gratitude, and love! If there be pure happiness on earth, it is when a mortal is permitted to share the rejoicings of angels over a wandering sheep found, an erring soul brought to its God. Clemence had never thought the words of Holy Writ so beautiful as she did now, where every verse, as it flowed from her lips, was turned almost unconsciously into a supplication for the poor young listener at her side. She could not have experienced deeper peace even kneeling in the house of prayer with her husband, or joining with the congregation in the hymn of joyful adoration.
On the following morning the remains of Captain Thistlewood were consigned to the grave, Mr. Effingham and Vincent, at his own request, following the hearse as mourners. The day had not concluded ere the sound of the harp, touched by the hand of Arabella, and accompanied by her powerful voice, jarred painfully on the ear of the sorrowing Clemence. Disrespect to the memory of the dead, disregard to the feelings of the living, breathed in the lively Italian air sung in a house from whose door the dark funeral had so lately departed.