CONSULTATION.
See how the orient dew,
Shed from the bosom of the morn
Into the blowing roses,
Yet careless of its mansion new,
For the clear region where ’twas born,
Round in itself encloses;
And in its little globe’s extent
Frames as it can its native element.
How it the purple flower does slight,
Scarce touching where it lies,
But gazing back upon the skies,
Shines with a mournful light.
Like its own tear;
Because so long divided from the sphere!
Restless it rolls, and insecure,
Trembling lest it grow impure!
So the soul—that drop, that ray
Of the clear fountain of eternal day—
Could it within the _human flower_ be seen,
Remembering still its former height,
Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms green,
And recollecting its own light,
Does in its pure and circling thoughts express
The greater heaven in a heaven less.
In how coy a figure wound,
Every way it turns away;
So the world excluding round,
Yet receiving in the day,—
Dark beneath, but bright above,—
Here disdaining, there in love:
How loose and easy hence to go!
How girt and ready to ascend!—
Moving but on a point below,
In all about does upward bend.
How quaintly, yet how exquisitely, in these lines has the old poet
Marvell portrayed those who, _in the world_, are yet _not of the world_!
How few, alas! can read their own description in that of the pure bright
dew-drop! How many, instead of resting even on the flower, “loose and
easy hence to go,” waiting till the warm sun “exhales it back again,”
have dropped from leaf to leaf, lower and lower, till, sinking at length
to earth, and mingling with its dust, they are lost for evermore!
About a week after her arrival in Belgrave Square we will glance again
at Clemence Effingham. She is in her husband’s quiet study—her favourite
retreat. The ruddy fire-light falls cheerfully on the shelves of the
well-filled book-case, which occupies almost an entire side of the small
but comfortable apartment. Cheerfully glances that light on the
expansive brow and handsome features of Mr. Effingham, cheerfully on the
locks of shaded gold of her who sits at his feet. Clemence, still
girlish in manner, and glad to throw off for a brief space the wearisome
formality of etiquette, has seated herself on a low footstool, and,
resting her clasped hands on her husband’s knee, is looking up into his
face with a look of earnest inquiry.
“You see, my Vincent, that all is so new to me,—I am so fearful of
making mistakes, so conscious of my own inexperience. You must guide and
assist me, dearest. Ever since you told me what large sums—to me they
seem startling sums—are constantly passing through Mrs. Ventner’s hands,
I cannot help imagining that there must be strange waste in some
quarter.”
“There always is waste in a large establishment; there is no necessity
that we should mark the expenditure of every shilling, or enter into the
details of every domestic arrangement.”
“But supposing that there should be something even worse than waste,”
asked Clemence in a tone of hesitation, “ought we to place temptations
in the way of those who serve us, by exercising no watchfulness over
them, by placing such unbounded confidence in them as may be, as is
sometimes, abused?”
“Well, my love,” replied Mr. Effingham, “exercise as vigorous a
superintendence as you will; keep the machinery in as perfect order as
you like.”
“It is no question of liking with me,” cried Clemence, laughing a
little, but not merrily; “for bills and books—tradesmen’s books, I
mean—I have a horror; and, like Macbeth, I have to screw up my courage
to the sticking-point before I venture on a colloquy with Mrs. Ventner.
I never had a taste for governing, and the power intrusted to me is
almost too heavy a weight for these poor little hands to grasp. I really
need the support of my liege lord’s stronger arm! I am like a minister
of state who has to manage a troublesome House of Commons, and,” she
added, with a little hesitation, “rather a refractory House of Lords,
and who cannot command a majority in either!” Clemence spoke gaily and
lightly, but painful truth lay beneath the jest.
“Refractory House of Lords! I see—I see!” said Mr. Effingham, with a
smile; “Louisa is a giddy child, and Arabella has a temper of her own.
But all will come right—all will come right, with a little patience and
firmness. I have the utmost confidence in your sense and judgment, my
love.”
“I wish that others had,” replied Clemence, speaking at first playfully,
but her voice becoming earnest and almost agitated as she proceeded. “It
is doubtless my own fault, Vincent, or perhaps the fault of my youth,
but it seems to me that my wishes and opinions are of very little weight
in this house. I want to consult you on so many points, that I may know
whether I am right or wrong. Do you think it well that Louisa should be
so constantly out, especially in the society of those from whom it seems
to me, as far as I can judge, that she can only learn worldliness and
levity? Her studies are perpetually interrupted at an age when steady
application is most valuable; and exposure to the night air really
injures her health,—she could hardly sleep last night on account of her
cough.”
“Forbid her, then, to go out again till she has lost it.”
“O Vincent, I shall be a dreadfully unpopular premier!” exclaimed
Clemence. Then she added, drawing her husband’s hand within her own, “If
you, dearest—you, whose will should be law, to whose judgment all must
defer—would only say a few words yourself, both on this subject and—”
“No, no!” interrupted Mr. Effingham quickly; “these trifles do not lie
within my province. I make it a rule never to interfere with these petty
domestic concerns. You will consult with Lady Selina, and then decide as
seems best to yourself.”
“Lady Selina!” murmured Clemence, in a tone of disappointment; “oh, she
never assists me at all I should be rather inclined”—the young wife
looked up playfully but timidly as she spoke—“to call her the leader of
the Opposition!”
A slight frown passed across the brow of Mr. Effingham. He was by no
means disposed to weaken, in any way, the connection of his family with
a lady of rank and fashion, whose title gave a certain _éclat_ to the
establishment over which she so long had presided. The first time that
the watchful eye of Clemence had ever perceived the slightest shade of
displeasure towards her on the face of her husband was as he replied to
her last observation,—
“I think, Clemence, that you do her injustice. Lady Selina is a woman of
sense, and a great deal of experience in the world—one not in the least
likely to be influenced by petty jealousies. I consider myself to be
greatly indebted to her; and it is my wish that every member of my
family should regard her in the same light that I do myself. As for
little differences,” he continued, rising from his seat and standing
with his back to the fire, “the thousand trifles which make up the sum
of domestic life, I desire to hear nothing, know nothing, of them. My
mind is occupied with affairs more important, and in my own home, at
least, I look for peace and repose.”
It is possible that Mr. Effingham observed by the fire-light something
like glistening moisture on the downcast lashes of his wife; for, laying
his hand kindly on her shoulder, he added in a gayer tone, “As long as
my watch goes well, Clemence, I do not care to examine the works. I give
you unlimited authority. Dissolve your whole House of Commons, if you
please it; visit your peers with fine or imprisonment; but don’t bring
up appeals to me. A little time—a little judgment—they are all that is
wanted; just act for the best, and take things easily.”
_Act for the best, and take things easily!_ How many times Clemence
Effingham repeated to herself these oracular words! How long she
pondered over the possibility of reconciling with each other the two
clauses of the sentence! She had become the mistress of a mansion where
everything, beyond mere externals, was in a state of woeful neglect.
Petty dishonesty was but one of the many evils which prevailed amongst
the numerous members of the household; while, in the family,
selfishness, worldliness, and vanity reigned uncontrolled and scarcely
disguised. It was a Gordian knot, indeed, that the young wife was given
to untie, and she lacked strength to wield the conqueror’s sword! Into
the ear of her husband Clemence would have loved to have poured all her
difficulties and trials; his sympathy and counsel might have removed
many of the former, and cheered and encouraged her under the latter;
but, occupied by other cares, Mr. Effingham left his young partner to
bear her burden alone. Clemence made more than one attempt to avail
herself of the experience of Lady Selina; but the woman of the world was
cautious not to compromise herself, or in the slightest degree to share
the unpopularity which is the almost inevitable fate of reformers. Nor
was she inclined to own the existence of evils that had chiefly arisen
from her own neglect. Lady Selina, when consulted by Clemence, listened
to her with the cold, impassive smile which seemed the stereotyped
expression of her unuttered opinion, “You are such a poor, inexperienced
child!” Clemence was left to fight her battles quite alone.
But was it not possible to “take things easily”—to close her eyes to
everything that it might be disagreeable to see; to follow the example
of Lady Selina, and let affairs take their own course; to enjoy the
luxury, and brightness, and gaiety of her life, without examining too
closely behind the scenes? Clemence was strongly tempted to do
so—strongly tempted to swim with the tide; to fling from herself the
burden of responsibility, and forget care in the pleasures of the hour.
It was well for her that she had not received a kinder welcome into the
family. Had the path of Clemence been strewn with nothing but flowers,
it would have been a path much more fraught with peril. The unkindness
and coldness which daily wounded her affectionate and sensitive spirit,
were like thorny hedges which fenced her in from wandering from the
narrow way. Had the cup of life been all sweetness, it is too probable
that it might have intoxicated; Lady Selina and her nieces were
unconsciously mixing with it a bitter but salutary medicine. Safer, far
safer is it to have the worldly as enemies than as friends. Nothing,
perhaps, is more calculated to make a Christian walk carefully than the
_unavoidable_ companionship of those who dislike both himself and his
religion. He feels that he must not disgrace his profession—that he must
give no handle to the sharp blade of detraction, no occasion for the
enemy to blaspheme. His trials drive him to the footstool of grace; and
while his patience and spirit of forgiveness find constant exercise, the
evil from which he suffers makes him more keenly appreciate, more
earnestly desire, the harmony, holiness, and happiness of heaven!
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