A DECIDED MOVE.
Arabella marked with secret satisfaction on the following morning the
weary looks of her youthful step-mother; she regarded them as a
favourable token of her own success in what she called “the war of
independence.” Following up what she considered to be her advantage,
Arabella treated Mrs. Effingham at breakfast with marked discourtesy and
neglect; would not even reply to her morning salutation, but preserved a
proud silence throughout the whole of the meal. Clemence was pained by
her manner, but outwardly took no notice of it.
In the afternoon, to the joy of his wife, Mr. Effingham returned to his
home. The quick eye of affection soon detected that he looked graver,
more thoughtful and careworn, than before he had quitted London.
Doubtless he was wearied by his journey, and with tender consideration
Clemence attended to everything that might promote his comfort. “I will
vex him with none of my own little troubles,” was her inward resolution;
“if clouds will gather without, all must be sunshine for him at least
within his own little home-circle.”
So, when they were alone together, Clemence again assumed the gaiety of
a child, and, shunning painful themes, amused her husband by a
description of the little housewifely devices and arrangements which she
had formed during his absence, especially in reference to her first
dinner party. She told him how she had planned this, and discovered
that, during long and serious colloquies with Mrs. Ventner; she made him
laugh at her own blunders and mistakes, but assured him of her resolve
that, in the face of all difficulties, her first entertainment should
prove “_un grand succès_!”
“And yet, after all, Vincent,” she exclaimed, taking his hand within
both her own, “I do not think that I was ever intended to play a
distinguished part in the great world! All these elaborate preparations
for a few hours’ amusement seem, to my unsophisticated mind, like making
an iron strong-box to enclose a bubble. We take every precaution to
prevent accident—rack invention to make our pleasure secure—fasten it in
with golden padlock and key;—in a short space we look in to see what has
become of it, and lo! the bubble has vanished into thin air, or,” she
added, laughing, “been metamorphosed into a heap of ugly bills! If what
we seek in entertaining be simply to give enjoyment, a party of children
in a strawberry-bed will succeed much better, I suspect, in finding it,
than all our grandee guests to-morrow over their turtle, venison, and
champagne. I know that I, for one, would much rather lead the party
amongst the strawberries. I should hardly find courage to sit at the
head of that formidable table, between an erudite lord and a satirical
baronet, but for remembering who presides at the other end. O Vincent!
how little have outward circumstances to do with real, solid enjoyment!
Your presence gives an interest and zest to the pleasures which wealth
may procure; but that presence would suffice to make me happy even in
the midst of poverty.”
The thoughts of Mr. Effingham had wandered while Clemence was speaking;
his eyes were fixed, not upon her, but upon the fire, as if watching the
little gas-jets which caught fire for a moment, burned vividly, and then
were suddenly extinguished in smoke. But the last word which his wife
had uttered struck his ear, and jarred like a discord upon it.
“Poverty!” he repeated quickly, “you never will, never can know it. I
have just settled sixty thousand pounds on you, Clemence, in case—in
case of anything happening to me.”
Clemence raised her head, and silently thanked him by a look of grateful
love, then pressed his hand to her lips. Could Mr. Effingham have read
the thought which passed through his young wife’s mind, he would have
seen it instinctively form itself into a prayer that she never might
survive her beloved husband to benefit by this new proof of his
affection.
The long _tête-à-tête_ held in the study filled Arabella’s mind with
considerable alarm. Louisa’s warning recurred to her with unpleasant
vividness, and she dwelt on the idea until she became certain that her
step-mother would try to influence her father against her, and perhaps
act the part of the cuckoo nestling towards the unfortunate little
hedge-sparrows.
Notwithstanding the pride which made her “defy the malice of any
low-born intruder,” Arabella’s relief was considerable when, on Mr. and
Mrs. Effingham rejoining the family, not even her jealous suspicion
could detect the slightest alteration in her father’s manner towards
her. “She has not complained of me, after all,” thought Arabella. “Well,
that is more than I expected.” She might have added, “More than I
deserved.”
It was, perhaps, some slight feeling of obligation to Clemence for her
forbearance, or, more probably, a little natural prudence, that now
occasioned an improvement in the demeanour of the two girls towards Mrs.
Effingham, though Arabella never dreamed of stooping to offer an apology
for her former impertinence. Clemence rejoiced at the change, though she
doubted its motive, and, by cordial kindness and winning attention,
sought to follow up her advantage. After breakfast the next morning,
Clemence, laying her hand affectionately on the shoulder of Louisa,
proposed that she should accompany her to her Parnassus, as she
playfully called the school-room. Mademoiselle Lafleur had gone for a
few weeks to spend her Christmas holidays with some friends, and Mrs.
Effingham looked upon the time of her absence as a favourable
opportunity to draw her husband’s daughters more closely to her by
mingling more in their occupations and amusements. Clemence was also
anxious to be better acquainted with their usual routine of life; for
the more she had seen and known of their governess, the more she
distrusted her as a guide of youth.
“I think that this room would be more comfortable with curtains,”
observed Clemence; “and you really require a nice little book-case on
this table. What a delightful piano!” and she ran her fingers lightly
over the keys. “Louisa, you and I must have many a duet together; I do
so delight in music.”
Then the drawings of Arabella were examined; and if the praise of
Clemence was less profusely garnished with superlatives than that of
mademoiselle had been, it carried on it more of the stamp of sincerity.
Mrs. Effingham had a correct eye, and a taste for art, though she had
had little opportunity of cultivating it; and the pleasure and interest
with which she looked over the portfolio were gratifying to the haughty
Arabella.
“And what may this beautiful book be?” inquired Clemence, laying her
hand upon a volume bound in pink and gold.
“That is my album,” replied Louisa; “it is to be filled with original
poetry. I hope that you will write in it some day, Mrs. Effingham;” and
as Clemence smiled and shook her head, Louisa added, “You will at least
answer the three questions at the end of the book;” and she turned over
rapidly to the place where, at the head of three separate columns, were
written three sentences: WHAT IS HAPPINESS? WHAT IS MISERY? WHAT DO YOU
MUCH WISH FOR?
Clemence glanced down the page with an amused eye, reading a most
heterogeneous collection of descriptions of the various pleasures and
pains of mankind. She needed not the initials at the end of each written
opinion to guess who had penned to the three questions the following
replies:—
DISTINCTION; OBSCURITY; A NAME.—A. E.
A FANCY-BALL; SMALL-POX; AN OPERA-BOX.—L. E.
“I must have you write, I am so curious to know what you think!”
exclaimed Louisa, dipping a pen in the bronze ink-stand which stood on
the table.
Clemence had neither the affectation which requires urgent entreaties,
nor the vanity which refuses to do anything which it is not certain to
do well. She reflected for a few seconds, then under the questions—WHAT
IS HAPPINESS? WHAT IS MISERY? WHAT DO YOU MUCH WISH FOR? wrote,—
UNISON; DISCORD; HARMONY.
“I see little variety in unison and harmony,” said Arabella coldly; “it
is what papa would call a distinction without a difference.”
“Does it seem so to you?” replied Mrs. Effingham. “I tried to condense
into three words the sentiment contained in the verse,—
‘Judge not thy differing brother, nor in aught
Condemn; his prayer and thine may rise above,
Though mingling not in _unison of thought_,
Yet blending in the harmony of love.’
We cannot have here below that perfect _unison_ in all things which will
form part of the happiness of heaven; but _harmony_, peace, concord may
exist even between those whose opinions and tastes are dissimilar; and
that,” she added, with a cordial smile, “is what I most ardently ‘wish
for.’”
“Fire and water can never agree together,” muttered Arabella to herself,
in a tone too low to reach the ear of her step-mother, though Clemence
saw the expression on the proud girl’s face, which needed no words to
convey its meaning. Not choosing to take open notice of the look, Mrs.
Effingham turned to another part of the book, in which selections of
poetry were written in various hands. One brief piece arrested her eye
(it was written in the French language), and an unwonted shade of
displeasure passed over her countenance as she read it.
“This is worse than levity,” observed Clemence very gravely; “how could
such lines have found entrance into your book?” And turning the leaf,
she marked the name “Antoinette Lafleur” at the end of the piece.
“Oh! mademoiselle calls that a _jeu d’esprit!_ She thinks it remarkably
clever; but she did not compose it herself,” added Louisa quickly, for
she met Clemence’s glance of indignant surprise; “she copied it out of
this book; it is a book that she raves about.”
“Have you ever read it?” inquired Mrs. Effingham.
“Just parts of it. Mademoiselle only lent it to us last week; but she
says that it is the first book in the language.”
“I have heard of it, though I have never perused it, never seen it
before,” said Clemence, retaining the volume in her grasp. She knew it
to be the work of a famous infidel writer, who so mingled wit with
blasphemy, that the brilliancy of his style, like the phosphorescent
light which sometimes gleams from corruption, gave strange attraction to
opinions repugnant alike to morality and religion.
Clemence made no further observation to her step-daughters on the
subject while she remained in the school-room; but on quitting it she
descended at once, with the book in her hand, to Mr. Effingham’s study.
“This is no trifling matter,” she thought, “to be lightly passed over
and forgotten; this is no little personal concern which I should forbear
intruding on the attention of my husband. This unhappy woman may for
years have been undermining the principles of his daughters, and I
should wrong him were I to withhold from him the knowledge which I have
providentially obtained.”
Mr. Effingham had not that morning gone, as was his wont, to his
banking-house in the city. Clemence found him in his study, and with a
few words to explain where and how she had discovered it, she placed the
poisonous work of the infidel author before him.
Mr. Effingham had been a careless, although an affectionate father. With
his family, as with his household, he had been content to believe that
all was right, if he saw nothing very glaringly wrong. He had been
imbued deeply with the idea that making money was the main business of
man’s life; and the regulation of his establishment, the education of
his children, the training of immortal souls, he had quietly left to
others. He was, however, full of reverence for religion; he wished his
children to be brought up in the same, though his efforts to secure that
end had not gone far beyond the mere wish. He was as much startled at
the idea of infidel doctrines being instilled into the unsuspicious
minds of his young daughters, as if he had seen a serpent coiling beside
the pillow on which they were sleeping. He was more aware of the
perilous nature of the book than his wife could be, who had known it
only by report. Mr. Effingham’s usually placid nature was roused into
stern indignation.
[Illustration:
THE FRENCH BOOK.]
“Never shall that woman set her foot across my threshold again!” he
exclaimed, striking his hand upon the volume. “I have never liked
her—never felt confidence in her; with her soft, cat-like manner, she
always gave me the impression of claws being concealed beneath the
velvet! Write to her at once, Clemence, and dismiss her; I will give you
a cheque to enclose. And send away that detestable book; the only fit
place for it is the back of the fire!”
Clemence obeyed, and with a thankful heart. It seemed to her that by the
dismissal of Mademoiselle Lafleur, one of the heaviest obstructions in
her own path had been suddenly and unexpectedly removed. She had felt it
almost a hopeless endeavour to influence her step-daughters for good,
while her efforts were secretly, insidiously counteracted by one with
whom they were in daily familiar intercourse; yet without some definite
cause, some obvious reason, Clemence would have shrunk from dismissing
the governess chosen by Lady Selina, and favoured by her nieces. So bold
a step would be certain to raise such a storm! The imagination of the
youthful step-mother now rapidly built up for itself a bright castle in
the air, founded on the hope that mademoiselle’s place might be supplied
by some woman of high principles and sterling worth, who would go hand
in hand with herself in every plan for improvement. Clemence did not
blind her eyes to the fact that her own unpopularity would almost
assuredly be shared by any governess whom she might select; that Lady
Selina’s penetration would be certain to discover faults in an angel;
and that Arabella, if not Louisa also, would meet the stranger at first
with determined dislike. But at Clemence’s age hope is strong; and one
difficulty overcome seems an earnest that all others will be removed.
Young Vincent, too, was expected home the next day, and Clemence looked
forward with pleasure to a meeting with one in whom she saw the image of
his father. Her spirit felt lighter and more joyous than it had done
ever since her first cold reception in Belgrave Square.
Mrs. Effingham despatched her letter to Mademoiselle Lafleur, after
showing it to her husband for his approval; but it was resolved, by his
advice, to say nothing on the subject to the family till the ordeal of
her grand entertainment should be over.
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