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!”