CHAPTER XXIII.

DEATH.

The distress which Emmie endured from her fears and forebodings, was rendered more intolerable by the pangs of regret. After an emergency in which we have been suddenly called upon to act an important part, when that acting has proved a failure, how painfully the mind revolves and goes over the scene, reflecting on what might have been, what would have been, the result, had duty been more bravely performed.

"Had I had presence of mind,--the smallest presence of mind,--and that but for one half minute," thought Miss Trevor, "I should have made my escape, roused the household, and have been the means of destroying some dark conspiracy of which I now know not the end. I should have relieved myself for ever of these dreadful, haunting fears, and cleared from my home this mysterious shadow of evil. Had I thought of any one but myself, my miserable, worthless self,--had I but darted up a prayer to Him who was able to save me,--I should not have suffered myself to be bound by a horrible oath, which it is a sin either to keep or to break. How is it that I have so miserably failed in the hour of trial? Is it not that I have never earnestly struggled against the sin of Mistrust? I have perpetually yielded to it when it met me in the common duties of life; I have let my fears be sufficient excuse for neglecting the call of conscience; and how could I hope that God would give me the victory in a great and sudden trial? Weak women, ere now, have endured the rack and embraced the stake; but must they not have first exercised the self-denying martyr-spirit in the trials of daily life?"

Mr. Trevor, as he had proposed, kept his daughter much by his side during the day which followed her painful adventure. The father thought it better not to ask any questions which might distress the nervous Emmie, and for this considerate kindness the poor girl felt very grateful. Mr. Trevor tried to give Emmie employment and amusement in every way that he could devise. Emmie read to him, played to him, sang to him; but still it was too evident to the eye of paternal affection that the maiden's thoughts were wandering, and that her spirit was still oppressed.

"The day is fine, and mild for December; I will drive you over to the picturesque ruin which we have hitherto thought too distant for a winter excursion," said Mr. Trevor, when he and his daughter had finished their luncheon.

"If I might choose, papa," replied Emmie, "I would rather that you would take me to the cottage of Widow Brant."

"Ah! that's your poor _protegee_, Emmie; I have not seen her at her cottage door lately. Is she recovering her health?"

"I scarcely know, papa," replied Emmie faintly.

"I thought that you had taken her under your care, my love, that the poor creature has been supplied with food from our own table."

"Mrs. Jessel has often been with some--at least--that's to say--I hoped--I thought that she went to the widow," stammered forth Emmie. Since the discovery that Jael was the wife and accomplice of Harper, Miss Trevor had lost even the small amount of confidence which she might once have felt in this woman.

Mr. Trevor looked rather surprised and annoyed at Emmie's evident confusion. "I marvel, my child, that you should employ as your almoner and cottage visitor a person of whom we know so little," said he.

"She offered herself," observed Emmie, "and I was afraid to refuse Mrs. Jessel's services, lest I should give her offence. It was so foolish in me--so wrong! Poor Widow Brant is on my conscience, papa; but I do not like going alone to her cottage."

"Then why not take our good Susan with you?" inquired Mr. Trevor.

Emmie's dread of Harper had been so greatly increased by the events of the preceding night, that she now felt Susan's company to be no efficient protection. The young lady renewed her request that her father should, at least on this one occasion, be her companion on her walk to the hamlet. She felt safe when leaning on his arm.

"These visits to sick women are not in my line," observed Mr. Trevor, smiling, "as I am neither doctor nor divine. I do not neglect my tenants; I am willing to help them according to my means; and am proving at this moment my care for their interests by involving myself, for their sakes, in a very troublesome affair. But in a cottage I own that I feel like a fish out of water. Never mind, however; as you wish it, I am ready to-day to be your escort; my only bargain is that you shall take all the talking, my love."

The father and daughter soon set out together, sauntered along the shrubbery, and passed through the outer gateway. Emmie glanced timidly at the almost tumble-down hovel of Harper. It was shut up. No firelight gleamed through the cracked panes of the single window, from the chimney issued no smoke. The maiden saw that the tenant of that hovel was not within it, and guessed but too easily that he was at that moment ensconced at his mysterious work in the haunted chamber. She could scarcely pay any attention to her father's conversation, and answered almost at random the questions which he occasionally asked.

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.

"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?"