“She’s al’ays been a good neighbour, and a decent, respectable body!” cried Mrs. Blunt, who was bustling about in the cottage, disturbing, by her noisy presence, the chamber of death.
“It’s worse than useless for you all to come crowding here,” said the doctor roughly. “Mrs. Wall, you may be wanted, but let the rest go out and leave the poor creature to the lady; can’t you let a woman die in quiet?” And enforcing his words by emphatic gestures, the doctor soon succeeded in partially clearing the cottage. He then took his leave of Mr. Trevor, and quitted the place in which he knew that his medical skill could be of no avail.
“I will send Susan with blankets,” said Mr. Trevor to his daughter. “Will you come with me, Emmie, or stay?”
“I will stay,” replied Emmie with emotion; “would that I had come here before!”
For more than an hour the young lady remained by the dying woman, with her own hands beating up the pillow, spreading the warm coverlet brought by Susan over the wasted form, pouring wine, drop by drop, between the sufferer’s lips. For more than an hour Emmie watched the flickering spark of life, and tried to whisper words of holy comfort, which the now dulled mind and deafened ear had no longer power to receive. Then came the last struggle, the gasp for breath, the death-rattle; the ashen hue of death stole over the widow’s face, one sigh—and all was over.
“She is gone; you can do nothing more. Had you not better return home, miss?” said Susan softly, as Mrs. Wall closed the eyes of the corpse.
With tears and self-reproach Emmie Trevor quitted the lifeless remains of her to whom she might once perhaps have brought comfort, peace, and light, if not the blessing of restoration to health. The young lady was silent on her homeward way; her heart was too full to permit her to enter into conversation with her attendant. Emmie ran upstairs to her own apartment, shut the door behind her, sank on her knees beside her bed, and buried her face in her hands. Then her feelings gushed forth in broken confession and fervent prayer.
“I am verily guilty concerning my fellow-creatures,” Emmie sobbed forth; “guilty before men, guilty before Thee, O my God! I have left undone what I ought to have done, and there is no health in my soul. Weak, selfish, and cruel, neglectful of the duties which lay so plainly before me, I am not worthy to lift up so much as my eyes towards Heaven; I can but say, God be merciful to me a sinner! But oh, Thou who dost pity, Thou who dost pardon, take not away from me for ever the talent which I have buried; say not, oh, say not to my miserable soul, I was sick, and ye visited me not! Help me to redeem the precious time which I have hitherto wasted, to overcome the sin which has beset and enslaved me! Increase my faith, deepen my love; hold up my footsteps, that I slip not on my perilous path; say to my weak, mistrustful heart, Be not afraid; I am thy God!”
Emmie wept freely while she thus confessed her sin and prayed, and then arose from her knees more calm. She was now able to collect her thoughts; and to strengthen her new-born resolutions she repeated to herself Trench’s exquisite sonnet, which, at her uncle’s request, she had, some time before, committed to memory.
“Lord, what a change within us one short hour
Spent in Thy presence will suffice to make!
What heavy burdens from our bosoms take,
What parched lands revive, as with a shower!
We kneel, and all around us seems to lower;
We rise, and all the prospect, far and near,
Stands forth in sunny outline brave and clear.
We kneel—how weak! we rise—how full of power!
Then wherefore should we do ourselves this wrong,
Or others, that we are not always strong;
That we should be o’erburdened with our care,
That we should ever faint and feeble be,
Downcast or drooping, when with us is prayer,
And hope, and joy, and courage are with Thee?”