THE YOUNG BRIDE.
What were the sensations of the fair young bride when she crossed the
threshold of that lordly dwelling, when she entered the spacious and
luxurious apartments which she was thenceforth to call her own? Clemence
looked round her with admiration on the many beautiful things which
adorned her husband’s home. She who from childhood had known little of
luxury, saw, with the fresh pleasure of girlhood, inlaid tables spread
with elegant specimens of the arts of many lands—mosaics from Italy,
porcelain from Sevres, the delicate ivory carving of China. The
exquisite paintings on the panelled wall, the grand piano with the
graceful harp beside it, even the luxurious furniture, the crimson
drapery of the satin curtains, and the rich softness of the velvet
carpet, impressed Clemence’s mind with an idea of beauty and grandeur to
which a girl not quite one and twenty years of age could scarcely be
insensible. Frankly and artlessly the bride expressed her admiration,
knowing that to do so would gratify her husband, who listened with a
pleased smile; and yet her warm young heart was conscious of some
feeling of oppression, some sensation almost resembling that of fear!
The coldness with which her two step-daughters had received, not
returned her kindly kiss,—the frigid courtesy of Lady Selina,—had had
much the same effect upon Mrs. Effingham’s spirit as the cold November
mist upon nature. Clemence could not feel at her ease, though the
natural grace of her manner prevented her shyness from betraying her
into awkwardness. She could not but deem it a relief when at length she
could retire to her own apartment; and dismissing the maid, who pressed
forward with officious offers of assistance, Clemence seated herself
upon a sofa, and endeavoured to collect her scattered thoughts.
“I wish that they had been younger!” was almost the first idea which
took definite shape in her mind; “little ones who would have nestled
into my heart, and who would have won and returned all my love! I am
afraid—but how foolish, how wrong it is to let a shadow of anxiety or
fear dim the brightness of a day which should be one of the happiest of
my life! We shall love one another; yes, we must—we shall! _His_
children cannot but be dear to me, and I will earnestly try to gain
their affections; and if I am weak and inexperienced, and utterly
unequal to perform rightly the duties of this new, strange state of
life, is not my heavenly Father as near me here as when I was in the
dear old cottage?” Then, sinking on her knees, with clasped hands
Clemence returned fervent thanks for the boundless blessings which
Providence had lavished upon her, and implored for wisdom and aid, and
for favour in the sight of those with whom she was now so nearly
connected.
Clemence rose from her devotions joyous and hopeful, and proceeded at
once to do that which she regarded rather as a pleasure than as a duty.
Unlocking her little travelling-case, she took out writing materials,
and hastily penned a note to her uncle, Captain Thistlewood, the
guardian of her orphaned youth, announcing her arrival at her home.
Clemence knew how impatiently the letter would be watched for, and how
eagerly welcomed by the old sailor; and as she placed within the
envelope an enclosure, addressed to the care of her former pastor, she
smiled to think how many hearths she would warm, how many boards she
would spread in Stoneby, and how many a family would bless her in the
village where she counted as many friends as there were poor. “Oh! this
is the luxury of being rich!” thought Clemence; and carrying the letter
in her hand, with a light step and light heart she descended the
staircase. The joy which she felt in sending her remittance was purer
and brighter than any which merely personal gratification could have
bestowed.
“She’s no more French than I am!” muttered Vincent to himself, as he
gazed on her fair brow and clear blue eyes. His prejudices were fast
melting away beneath the spell of that sunny smile.
The sound of the gong now summoned the family to a sumptuous repast.
Notwithstanding her disposition to be pleased with everything, Clemence,
at the head of the table loaded with plate and glittering with crystal,
felt her timid misgiving return. It was not so much that the young wife
found the unaccustomed presence of powdered servants oppressive, that
her new state was irksome to her, and that it seemed as if freedom were
exchanged for grandeur; but that, with intuitive perception, she had
become aware that her every word and movement were watched and
criticized, and that by no friendly eyes. Mr. Effingham was a silent
man—that evening he was more silent than usual; Arabella and Louisa sat
as if unable to open their lips; the chief burden of the conversation
fell upon the young timid woman, whose heart fluttered with the
excitement of her new position, and her anxiety to say nothing and do
nothing that could possibly shock or offend. Lady Selina, indeed,
repeatedly broke the silence which, notwithstanding the efforts of
Clemence, frequently fell on the circle; but, whether by design or not,
she so directed the conversation as to puzzle and embarrass the bride.
“I think that the estates of the Marquis of Bardston lie near Stoneby.”
“Very near to the village,” replied Clemence.
“Does the picture of the old marchioness by Sir Joshua Reynolds deserve
its fame?” inquired Lady Selina. “I have often wished to see it; of
course, you have very frequently done so!”
“I was never in the Castle,” answered Clemence; “it is not opened to the
public.”
There was something disagreeable to the bride, though she scarcely knew
why, in the slight bend of the head and pursing of the lip with which
Lady Selina received her straightforward reply. The lady of fashion
seemed determined to discourse that evening upon no subject but that of
the various connections of persons of rank. Her memory appeared
unusually at fault. She could not remember whom Lord Greenallen’s sister
had married, or what had been the family name of the Duchess of
Dinorben, and was ever referring for information to poor Clemence, who
had never looked into a peerage in her life. Mrs. Effingham felt herself
painfully ignorant of everything that Lady Selina seemed to think it
quite necessary to know, and was heartily glad when, the tedious
ceremony of dinner being ended, the party adjourned to the drawing-room.
Vincent was the only one of her new acquaintance with whom Clemence was
quite at ease, and she was heartily sorry to find that he was to return
to his school early on the morrow, having only come home in order to be
introduced to his step-mother. She could rest her hand on his shoulder,
and her kind and playful words would call up an answering smile on the
face of the boy; but his sisters’ monosyllabic replies to her questions,
the marked manner in which they always addressed her as “Mrs.
Effingham,” chilled and discouraged the young wife, while she felt an
increasing mistrust and almost dread of their polite and dignified aunt.
There was, likewise, something repellent to the frank and open nature of
Clemence in the flowery compliments, the exaggerated politeness, with
which Mademoiselle Lafleur, who joined the circle at tea, received her
courteous greeting. Clemence secretly reproached herself for foolish
prejudice, but could not shake off a sensation of repulsion. Weary with
her journey and the excitement of the meeting, Clemence rejoiced when
the long evening closed. She was startled at the sound of her own sigh,
as she sat listlessly before her toilet-table; and unconsciously raising
her eyes to her mirror, saw reflected there her own pale face, marked
with a thoughtful and anxious expression.
“What a child I must be!” exclaimed Clemence half aloud, “to let such
trifles weigh upon me—I who have everything to enjoy, everything to be
thankful for!” and she struggled, and not unsuccessfully, to throw from
her spirit its burden, and to look upon the untried future before her
with cheerful confidence and hope. Had Clemence fully on that evening
realized the difficulties of her position, her heart would indeed have
sunk within her. A youthful servant of the Lord, she stood alone in a
house where faith in Him had hitherto been nothing but a name; she had
entered a family where every heart had a secret idol set up in its
inmost shrine. Clemence looked up to her husband as to one all wisdom
and goodness. Mr. Effingham bore in the world a spotless name; he was
liberal in his charities, and appeared earnest in his profession of
religion. His young wife, with loving, trusting confidence, had twined
her heart’s affections around him, as some fair creeper clasps with its
tendrils a stately forest tree. No suspicion crossed her mind that any
unworthy passion could have place in a heart that she deemed the abode
of every virtue—that the tree so goodly to the eye could nourish a
destroyer within. With different eyes would Clemence have surveyed all
the expensive luxuries of the banker’s mansion had she known—. But we
must not anticipate. Clemence was not the first woman, nor will be the
last, whose affections have blinded her judgment, whose fond credulity
has invested the object of her choice with the noblest and highest
qualities of man. Alas! when the cold touch of experience awakens the
loving spirit from such a blissful delusion!
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