“The doctor!—the doctor!” cried Clemence, impatiently.
“I could not get as far as M——. The way’s blocked up with the snow. Sure, ma’am, I did my best.”
Clemence clasped her hands almost in despair. Then her resolution was taken. “Watch by my son; do not quit him for an instant. I will go for the doctor myself.”
“It’s impossible! quite impossible!” cried the girl. “I sank up to the knee every step. You’ll be lost, oh, you’ll be lost in the snow!” Her last words were unheard by Clemence, who had already commenced her brief preparations for encountering the storm.
Can love, strong as death, enable that slight, fragile form to force its way through the piled heaps of snow which block up and almost obliterate the path? Can it give power to the young, delicate woman to face such a blast as strips the forest trees of their branches, and levels the young pines with the sod? For a short space Clemence struggles on, the fervour of her spirit supplying the deficiency in physical strength; but every yard is gained by such an effort, that she feels that her powers must soon give way. She could as well try to reach London as M——. In her agony she cries aloud—“O my God! my God! have pity upon me!” and when was such a cry, wrung from an almost breaking and yet trusting heart uttered to the Father of mercies in vain?
Clemence cast a wild gaze around her. Almost parallel with the road, and at no great distance from it, a long break in the wide dreary waste of snow marked the course of the railway. Clemence turned to the right, by instinct rather than reflection, made her difficult way to the top of the bank, and gazed down on the cutting below. Snow there was on it, indeed, but the line of communication was too important for it to be suffered to accumulate there in such heaps as on the comparatively unfrequented road. Within the tunnel itself all would, of course, be clear. A desperate thought flashed on the soul of Clemence. One way was open to her still,—a way dark and full of terrors, but one by which M—— might yet be gained, and assistance brought to her suffering boy! She gave herself no time for reflection, but scrambling, stumbling, slipping down the bank, soon found herself on the side of the line, half buried by the snow carried with her in her descent.
ENTERING THE TUNNEL.
Page 237.
Clemence made a few steps, and then paused and shuddered. Before her was the opening of the tunnel—dark, dreadful as a yawning grave. Could she venture to enter its depths—perhaps to be there crushed beneath the next passing train? Were any trains expected at this time? Clemence pressed her forehead, and tried to remember. One she had heard within the hour—of that at least she was certain—the up-train to London, she believed. But the state of the railway had delayed all traffic; and it was impossible for Clemence to calculate exactly the chances of a coming train. The idea of being met or overtaken by one was too terrible for the mind to dwell on. The risk was too great to be run. Clemence, marvelling at her own temerity in having entertained the thought for a moment, turned round to go back to her home. But the sight of her own lone cottage on the summit of the bank made her hesitate once more. Before her mind floated the image of her beloved boy dying for want of that assistance which it might be in her power to bring; then that of her husband in the anguish of his grief for his own—his only son! Again Clemence turned, her face almost as white as the snow falling fast around her. Clasping her hands in prayer, with her eyes raised for a moment to the lowering sky above, she faintly murmured the words, “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me;” then rousing all her courage for the desperate attempt, she entered the gloomy tunnel.
No lingering step there—no doubting, hesitating heart! as with the painful duties which conscience had before imposed upon her shrinking nature, Clemence felt a necessity to go through, and through as quickly as possible. She hastened on as rapidly as the darkness would permit, guiding herself by the wall, and the daylight at the end, which gleamed before her like a large, pale star. The timid woman wished to place, as soon as might be, such a distance between herself and the spot where she had entered, that she might feel it as dangerous to return as to proceed. She sped on her way, scarcely daring to think, keeping her eye on that increasing star, till it was needful to pause to take breath. The air was thick, clammy, and unwholesome—Clemence felt it like a shroud around her, as she stood in that living grave. “Oh, shall I ever be in daylight again?” she exclaimed, with the horror of darkness upon her. Her foot was on one of the iron lines; she thought that she felt a vibration—was it not the wild fancy of her excited brain? It was sufficient to make the very blood seem to curdle in her veins, and to absorb all her senses in the one act of listening.