“Have they gone for a doctor? that would be more to the purpose,” he said, unconsciously, aloud.
“Please, sir, it’s no good,” said the little maidservant. “Please, the doctor’s been, but he’s no good—and she’s unhappy in her mind, though she’s quite resigned to go: and oh, please, if you would say a word to her, it might do her a deal of good.”
Thus adjured, the Rector had no choice. He went gloomily into the house and up the stair after his little guide. Why did not they send for the minister of Salem Chapel close by? or for Mr. Wentworth, who was accustomed to that sort of thing? Why did they resort to him in such an emergency? He would have made his appearance before the highest magnates of the land—before the Queen herself—before the bench of bishops or the Privy Council—with less trepidation than he entered that poor little room.
The sufferer lay breathing heavily in the poor apartment. She did not look very ill to Mr. Proctor’s inexperienced eyes. Her colour was bright, and her face full of eagerness. Near the door stood Miss Wodehouse, looking compassionate but helpless, casting wistful glances at the bed, but standing back in a corner as confused and embarrassed as the Rector himself. Lucy was standing by the pillow of the sick woman with a watchful readiness visible to the most unskilled eye—ready to raise her, to change her position, to attend to her wants almost before they were expressed. The contrast was wonderful. She had thrown off her bonnet and shawl, and appeared, not like a stranger, but somehow in her natural place, despite the sweet youthful beauty of her looks, and the gay girlish dress with its floating ribbons. These singular adjuncts notwithstanding, no homely nurse in a cotton gown could have looked more alert or serviceable, or more natural to the position, than Lucy did. The poor Rector, taking the seat which the little maid placed for him directly in the centre of the room, looked at the nurse and the patient with a gasp of perplexity and embarrassment. A deathbed, alas! was an unknown region to him.
“Oh, sir, I’m obliged to you for coming—oh, sir, I’m grateful to you,” cried the poor woman in the bed. “I’ve been ill, off and on, for years, but never took thought to it as I ought. I’ve put off and put off, waiting for a better time—and now, God help me, it’s perhaps too late. Oh, sir, tell me, when a person’s ill and dying, is it too late?”
Before the Rector could even imagine what he could answer, the sick woman took up the broken thread of her own words, and continued—
“I don’t feel to trust as I ought to—I don’t feel no confidence,” she said, in anxious confession. “Oh, sir, do you think it matters if one feels it?—don’t you think things might be right all the same though we were uneasy in our minds? My thinking can’t change it one way or another. Ask the good gentleman to speak to me, Miss Lucy, dear—he’ll mind what you say.”
A look from Lucy quickened the Rector’s speech, but increased his embarrassments. “It—it isn’t her doctor she has no confidence in?” he said, eagerly.
The poor woman gave a little cry. “The doctor—the doctor! what can he do to a poor dying creature? Oh, Lord bless you, it’s none of them things I’m thinking of; it’s my soul—my soul!”
“But my poor good woman,” said Mr. Proctor, “though it is very good and praiseworthy of you to be anxious about your soul, let us hope that there is no such—no such haste as you seem to suppose.”
The patient opened her eyes wide, and stared, with the anxious look of disease, in his face.
“I mean,” said the good man, faltering under that gaze, “that I see no reason for your making yourself so very anxious. Let us hope it is not so bad as that. You are very ill, but not so ill—I suppose.”
Here the Rector was interrupted by a groan from the patient, and by a troubled, disapproving, disappointed look from Lucy Wodehouse. This brought him to a sudden standstill. He gazed for a moment helplessly at the poor woman in the bed. If he had known anything in the world which would have given her consolation, he was ready to have made any exertion for it; but he knew nothing to say—no medicine for a mind diseased was in his repositories. He was deeply distressed to see the disappointment which followed his words, but his distress only made him more silent, more helpless, more inefficient than before.
After an interval which was disturbed only by the groans of the patient and the uneasy fidgeting of good Miss Wodehouse in her corner, the Rector again broke silence. The sick woman had turned to the wall, and closed her eyes in dismay and disappointment—evidently she had ceased to expect anything from him.
“If there is anything I can do,” said poor Mr. Proctor, “I am afraid I have spoken hastily. I meant to try to calm her mind a little; if I can be of any use?”
“Ah, maybe I’m hasty,” said the dying woman, turning round again with a sudden effort—“but, oh, to speak to me of having time when
