THE SCENE CHANGES.
An arrangement having been made by a few of the gay young people of Aston to go to a public ball, Miss Denham yielded to the solicitations of Mr. Ryder, her betrothed husband, and promised to go with them, though not without a slight degree of reluctance. After she had given her consent, on casually seeing the Rev. Mr. Ingleby, as she was returning from a morning walk, his sermon on the loss of the soul was brought so forcibly to her recollection, and it revived so powerfully the disquieting emotions which it produced at the time she was listening to it, that she said to her mamma, "I think I ought not to go; the thought of going makes me feel quite unhappy." However, the entreaties and persuasions of her mamma and Mr. Ryder prevailed, and she accompanied the party. It was a fine evening when they set off, and they were all in great glee; but on their return, the night had become so dark and stormy that it was with difficulty they reached home. The next morning Miss Denham complained of a slight cold, and it was thought proper that she should keep her room during the whole of the day. On the following day she felt somewhat unwell, but not ill; and as there were a few select friends engaged to tea and cards, she dressed, and appeared amongst them. She was gay and sprightly, but the dew of health was gone from her countenance; her eyes did not sparkle with their usual lustre; and all received an impression, from her general appearance, that some fatal disease had seized her, though no one had courage enough to mention it.
After the party broke up she became somewhat worse; but as there never had been much illness in the family, her parents did not send for medical assistance, supposing that she had merely taken a cold, from which she would soon recover. Her mamma sat by her bedside till midnight, when she left her in a sweet sleep, having commissioned her favourite servant to watch her through the night. About three in the morning she became restless, awoke, and asked for some water, which she drank with avidity, and then slumbered on for the space of another half-hour. She awoke again, and asked for more water; complained of its being bitter, and uttered some incoherent sentences, which induced the servant to call up her parents. She became composed again; slept rather more soundly; but about five she again awoke, and seeing her mother, she said, "I have had a very strange night—I have seen strange sights, and heard strange sounds—I am very ill—I ought not to have gone to the ball—I knew better—I should not like to pass from the theatre to the judgment-seat of Christ!"
"O, my dear, do not suffer your mind to be so distressed. It was a very unfavourable night; but I hope it will please the Almighty to restore you to health very soon. Your papa has sent William for Dr. Bailey, and we expect him here every minute."
At length, after two hours' long suspense, the trampling of the horses announced the approach of the doctor, who was soon introduced to her by her tender-hearted father. He made a few inquiries—examined her pulse—looked grave—and then abruptly retired below, followed by both her parents, who felt anxious to know his opinion, yet dreaded to ask him for it.
"Miss Matilda," he said, "is very ill—she must be kept very composed. I will send her some medicine, which she must take immediately, and I will see her again about noon."
"Is there any danger, Sir?"