The door of Widow Brant’s cottage was not closed. The sound of several voices was heard within as the Trevors approached the humble dwelling. Some women were in the cottage, and a gentleman in whom Mr. Trevor recognized the parish doctor of S——. The room was so small that the entrance of the two visitors made it seem crowded. Emmie’s eye sought in vain for the widow, until she caught sight, in a corner of the room, of a form extended on a low bed, covered with clothes and rags instead of a blanket, and of a face on which were already visible the signs of approaching death.
“Why was I not sent for before?” said the doctor angrily to one of the neighbours; “this is just the way with you all: you give yourselves up to a quack till you have one foot in the grave, and then send for the doctor, and expect him to work miracles for your cure! Oh, I beg your pardon, sir,” said the medical man, interrupting himself, and raising his hat on perceiving the presence of Mr. Trevor and his daughter.
“Is there no hope for the poor woman?” asked the master of Myst Court in a voice too low to reach the ear of the patient. The doctor, in his reply, observed less consideration.
“The disease has gone too far—too far—and the poor creature’s strength is exhausted. She cannot struggle through now. She has been half starved with hunger and cold, and has had neither proper care and medicine, nor the food which was absolutely necessary to keep up her vital powers. I can do nothing in this case—nothing!”
Emmie had but paused to hear the doctor’s opinion, and then, with a heavy heart, she glided to the bedside and bent over the dying woman. Emmie had but once before stood by a death-bed, and that was when she had been brought, while but a child, to receive a mother’s last kiss and blessing. To Emmie the scene before her was inexpressibly solemn and sad.
The widow’s life was ebbing away, but her mind was clear. “I thought that you’d have come again,” were the faint words which struggled forth from her pale lips as she recognized the young lady.
Those words went to Emmie’s heart like a knife. There had, then, been expectation and disappointment; the lady’s visit had been watched for, hoped for, and it had not been made till too late! Hollow, wistful eyes were raised to Emmie’s. Again the poor sufferer spoke, but so feebly that Miss Trevor had to bend very low indeed to catch the meaning of what she said.
“They say I’m dying—and death is so awful!” murmured the widow.
“Not to those who have given their hearts to Him who died for sinners!” whispered Emmie softly in the sufferer’s ear.
“I’ve had no one to tell me of these things, and I be not learned. But—but I’ve not led a bad life; I’ve harmed no one,” said the dying widow, grasping, as so many unenlightened sinners do, at that false hope of safety which can only break in their hands.