A STORMY MORNING.
Mr. Effingham was always an early riser. The next morning he was earlier
than usual, and had not only commenced his breakfast, but concluded it,
and gone off to his business eastward, before any of the ladies, except
his wife, had made their appearance in the breakfast-room. Want of
punctuality in her step-daughters was one of the evils which Clemence
longed, though in vain, to reform. Lady Selina’s example not only
excused it, but rendered it in a certain degree fashionable in the
family. “It is for slaves to be tied down to hours!” exclaimed Arabella,
on a gentle hint being once ventured by Clemence; “only dull mechanics,
whose time is their bread, count their minutes as they would count their
coppers!”
Clemence was not, however, Mr. Effingham’s only companion at his early
meal. The jovial captain, full of merriment and good-humour, and
disposed to do full justice to the ham and an unlimited number of eggs,
performed his part at the table. His niece would have been extremely
diverted by his _naïve_ observations on the events of the previous
evening—observations which showed at once natural shrewdness and the
most absolute ignorance of fashionable life—had she not feared that his
boisterous heartiness of manner might be disagreeable to her husband.
Mr. Effingham was perfectly polite, but did not look disposed to be
amused. He appeared hardly to hear the jokes of the captain, and hurried
over his breakfast with a thoughtful, pre-occupied air.
Clemence’s own mind was often wandering to the subject of Mademoiselle
Lafleur, and she contemplated with some uneasiness and fear the effect
which would be produced on her circle by the announcement of that lady’s
dismissal. She also felt anxious as to the footing on which her dear old
relative would stand in the proud family to which she had been united by
marriage. In him a new and very vulnerable point seemed presented to the
shafts of malice which were constantly levelled at herself. His very
simplicity and unconsciousness of insult made her doubly sensitive on
his account, and many a plan Clemence turned over in her mind for
guarding him from the well-bred rudeness which none knew better than
Lady Selina how to show to one whom she despised. Mrs. Effingham’s
reflections made her more silent and grave than had been her wont. “She
is not such a good talker as she used to be,” thought the old uncle;
“nor such a good listener neither, for the matter of that!”
Captain Thistlewood found, however, both a ready talker and listener
when Louisa entered the room. The young lady, if the truth must be
confessed, regarded the merry old sailor as rather an acquisition to the
circle. He noticed her much, and Louisa would rather have been censured
than unnoticed; he amused her, and love of amusement was one of her
ruling passions. She could laugh _with_ him when he was present, and
_at_ him when he was absent. Louisa imagined herself a wit; and what so
needful to a wit as a butt! Her morning greeting to him was given with
an air of coquettish levity, which contrasted with Arabella’s sullen
silence, and Lady Selina’s frigid politeness.
“And what did you think of our party, Captain Thistlewood?” inquired
Louisa, as the old sailor gallantly handed to her the cup of chocolate
which Clemence had prepared.
“Well, it was good enough in its way, only too many kickshaws handed
about, and too many lackeys behind the table to whip off the plate from
before you, if you chanced to look round at a neighbour. I must say that
your London society is a stiff, formal sort of thing. It reminds one of
those swindling pieces of goods which tradesmen pass off on the
unwary—all _dress_, you see, just stiffened and smoothed to sell, and
not to wear. Only give the gentility a good hearty pull, and the powder
flies up in your face!”
“I suppose that yesterday was the first time that he ever sat at a
gentleman’s table!” muttered Arabella inaudibly to herself; but the
thought expressed itself in her face.
“If there’s any powder about that young lass it’s _gunpowder_!” thought
the captain; “we may look out for an explosion by-and-by—I see she’s
primed for a volley. But I’ll try a little conciliation for
May-blossom’s sake—hang out a flag of truce. No wonder that my poor
child looks grave and pale;—a pretty life she must have of it here, with
an iceberg on the one side and a volcano on the other!” All the more
determined to draw Arabella into conversation, from marking her haughty
reserve, Captain Thistlewood rested his knife and fork perpendicularly
on either side of his plate, and addressed her across the table.
“We’re coming near to Christmas now. I like the merry old season, and I
shall be glad to see for once how Christmas is kept in London. I noticed
many a jolly dinner hanging up in the butchers’ and poulterers’ shops as
I passed along in the ’bus; quite a sight they are, those shops—turkeys
strung on long lines, as though they were so many larks; and huge joints
of beef, that, for their size, might have been cut from elephants!
Glorious they look in the flaring gas-light, decked out with whole
shrubberies of holly! Then the pretty little Christmas-trees, hung with
tapers and gim-cracks—they pleased me mightily too; for, thinks I,
there’ll be plenty of harmless fun, plenty of laughing young faces round
those trees, when the tapers are lighted! I love to see children happy,
and ’specially the children of the poor. Shall I tell you my notion of a
good Christmas-tree?” Arabella looked as though she did not care to hear
it, but the captain took it for granted that she did. “I’d have a tree
as big as the biggest of those yonder in the Square, and invite all the
ragged little urchins far and near to the lighting of the same. I’d have
it hung, not with sparkling thing-a-bobs, or sugar trash in funny
shapes, not even with sham peaches,” he added, laughing, “but with good
solid joints of meat for blossoms, and warm winter jackets for leaves;
and I’ll be bound that every child would think my tree the very finest
that he ever had seen in his life. Don’t you call that uniting the
ornamental with the useful?”
“The idea shows so much elegance, so much refinement of taste,” replied
Arabella, with satirical emphasis, “that it will doubtless be instantly
carried out by Mrs. Effingham.”
There was something in the tone in which the name was pronounced which
stung the old sailor as no personal rudeness to himself could have done.
As a single word will sometimes suffice to rouse a whole train of
associations, startle a host of ideas into life, the name “Mrs.
Effingham,” so pronounced by her step-daughter, conjured up before the
warm-hearted old man a picture coloured indeed, by fancy, but not
without an outline of truth. His sweet Clemence was not loved and valued
in her home; she, his darling, his heart’s delight, was looked down upon
by those who should have deemed it an honour to sun themselves in her
smile! Such was the suspicion which flashed out into words of sudden
indignation.
“Mrs. Effingham! and pray who may she be? I see here my niece, your
father’s wife, your mother by marriage; but no one whom you or I can
either speak or think of as ‘Mrs. Effingham!’”
The most insolent in temper are usually those who have least courage to
back their insolence. Those who delight in wounding the sensitive and
brow-beating the timid, when they find their weapon crossed by another,
when they become aware that their shafts may be returned on themselves,
often are the first to draw back from the contest so wantonly provoked.
Arabella was startled into a momentary confusion; and her opponent, who
carried “anger as the flint bears fire,” at once recovered his usual
temper. The captain was aware that he had given way to a burst that had
been scarcely called for by anything actually uttered; he had, perhaps,
been too ready to imagine an affront where no such thing was intended.
“Forgive an old man’s vehemence,” he said frankly; “I got my ideas in
the last century, and they may by this time be quite old-fashioned.
There are many, I take it, who scarcely know what to call a step-mother
at first, especially one so young. For once I think that the French have
hit on a better title than our own. It must sound odd enough applied to
many; but here is a case where _belle-mère_ is quite appropriate,”—he
glanced fondly at his niece; then added, bowing gallantly to Louisa,
“and also the title of _belle-fille_.”
The thunder-cloud only gathered blacker on the brow of Arabella, but
Louisa tittered and gaily replied, “I have often wondered why our French
neighbours should make such a spell of marriage—to turn connections on
both sides into beauties, brothers, old fathers, and all! I’ll ask
mademoiselle for the derivation of the term. By-the-by,” added Louisa,
addressing Clemence, “on what day does mademoiselle come back?”
It was an unfortunate question at that moment. The flush which rose to
the cheek of Clemence, her little pause before she replied, fixed every
eye upon her. The young wife felt like one about to fire a train, when
she answered, “Mademoiselle is not coming back at all.”
“Not coming back!” exclaimed both girls at once. “Not coming back!”
echoed Lady Selina, in accents of unfeigned surprise. Clemence knew that
some explanation was required, and she gave it, in a tone as firm as she
could command. “Mr. Effingham and I have, after due reflection, decided
on making a change. We have very sufficient reasons, and I trust—”
But the train had been fired indeed, and before Clemence could finish
her sentence there was an unmistakable explosion! Not that the
governess had in reality attached to herself any one present, or that
her pupils actually looked upon her dismissal as a personal
misfortune; but a good handle was suddenly offered to the hand of
malice,—“the war of independence” had required its watchword and its
martyr, and the maligned, persecuted mademoiselle served at once for
both. Arabella’s smothered indignation could now creditably boil over
in wrath, and a torrent of invective burst forth, swelled by Louisa’s
passionate exclamations. But most formidable was the awful dignity
with which Lady Selina rose from her seat, adding her broken sentences
of calm indignation: “Strange, mysterious, incomprehensible
proceeding!”—“Personal insult to myself!”—“One who had selected that
lady on the highest recommendations, who for years had reposed the
utmost confidence in that lady, and who had ever found her more than
justify that trust, not to be consulted on a step so important!” The
very dress of Lady Selina seemed to rustle and tremble with offended
pride. How could the timid, sensitive Clemence stand her ground
against such an overwhelming avalanche of opposition?
She had but one ally present, and her dread was lest he should come to
her aid. The veins on the captain’s forehead were growing very large and
his cheek very red; he glanced hurriedly, and almost fiercely, from one
assailant to the other, as a lion might when encompassed by the hounds,
only doubting in which quarter to make his spring. But none of the enemy
awaited the attack; Lady Selina and her nieces all quitted the
apartment, to excite each other to fiercer wrath against the household
tyrant, who had dared, by such an unwarrantable act of independence, to
bid defiance to the clique!
“If ever I heard anything like this!” exclaimed Captain Thistlewood,
striking the table with vehemence; “the insolence, the audacity of these
young shrews!—the malice of that cantankerous old dame! You must be
protected from them, Clemence. I’ll after and tell them—”
“O uncle, dear uncle, let them go!” exclaimed Clemence, holding the
captain’s arm to prevent his sudden exit from the room; “you cannot help
me, indeed you cannot; it will blow over, it will—”
“Blow over!” thundered the veteran, trying to extricate himself from her
hold; “such a tornado may blow over indeed, but it will first blow you
out of your senses! I’m glad I came here—I’m heartily glad. I’ll not
have you exposed to this; I’ll—”
“Uncle!” cried Clemence nervously, “any movement on your part would only
make matters a thousand times worse. For my sake be calm—be composed.
There is nothing from which I so shrink as quarrels and dissensions in
the house. Let us have peace—”
“Peace!” exclaimed the indignant captain; “lay down our arms—strike our
flag to such viragoes as these! No; if your husband has not the spirit
to keep these termagants in order—”
“If you would not make me miserable,” cried Clemence, “leave me and Mr.
Effingham to smooth and settle things by ourselves. You cannot imagine
the evil that might arise from the interference even of one so kind, and
good, and loving as yourself! Be persuaded, dear uncle, be persuaded;
take no notice of what has occurred.”
It was with considerable difficulty that Clemence succeeded to a certain
degree in quieting the old man’s excitement. She persuaded him at length
to leave the house for a few hours, in order to visit some London
sights, knowing well that the sailor’s anger, though it might be warm,
was never enduring. It was with a sense of real relief that she heard
the hall door close behind him; and she earnestly hoped that he might
find so much amusement that he would not return until Mr. Effingham had
come back from his business in the city.
[Illustration:
CAPTAIN THISTLEWOOD.
Page 91.]
Before Clemence had had breathing time in which to recover from the
excitement of the last painful scene, one of her footmen entered the
room, with two envelopes on a silver salver. As Mrs. Effingham
mechanically took them up, he informed her that Mrs. Ventner wished to
speak to her for a few minutes.
The interview it is unnecessary to describe. From the first hour that
the housekeeper had discovered that she had not a mere puppet to deal
with, that her mistress could overlook accounts and detect inaccuracies,
from that hour she had made up her mind that the same house could not
hold them both. Mrs. Ventner had plundered enough from her master,
during Lady Selina’s careless reign, to make her, as she believed,
independent; and, knowing that her books would not bear the close
scrutiny which had probably been only postponed till the party should be
over, and perhaps alarmed by the tidings which had now spread through
the house that mademoiselle had been dismissed at a moment’s notice, she
resolved to avoid sharing the same fate by anticipating it, and gave her
young mistress warning.
Clemence received the communication, to outward appearance, with great
composure, but her spirits were fluttered and her mind oppressed; and
when she had sought the quiet of her own room, she sat for some time in
an attitude of listless thought, before remembering to examine the
contents of the envelopes which she had carried unopened in her hand.
Only bills—uninteresting bills; and yet not so uninteresting neither, or
there would not be that slight tremble in the fingers that grasp them,
or that faint line on the fair brow so smooth but a minute before. These
are the milliner’s and dressmaker’s bills; and the courage of Clemence
is failing her, as she glances down the long line, and sums up the
amount again and again, with ever-lessening hope that there may be some
error in the calculation. Clemence had no fixed allowance assigned her;
but her husband, soon after their marriage, had replenished her slender
purse with a sum so large, that it had appeared to her almost
inexhaustible. Clemence had a generous heart, and loved to give with a
liberal hand. She had expended money very freely upon others, before
becoming aware how much her personal expenses were now likely to exceed
the narrow limits within which they had hitherto been restrained. She
had, however, reserved what she had hoped would be sufficient to defray
the two bills now before her, the only ones yet unpaid. But the young
girl, brought up in rural seclusion and ignorance of the fashionable
world, had formed a most incorrect estimate of rich velvet dresses, and
mantillas trimmed with costly fur, handkerchiefs edged with the delicate
productions of Mechlin or Brussels—beautiful trifles, upon which luxury
lavishes her gold so freely, and which yet contribute so little to
actual enjoyment. Clemence had little more than sufficient money left to
clear her debt to the milliner; Madame La Voye’s heavy bill lay before
her, a weight upon her conscience as well as her spirits.
“What will Vincent think—my noble, generous-hearted husband—when he
knows of my folly and selfish extravagance? Not three months married,
and already in debt, deeply in debt—in debt for the mere vanities of
dress! Oh! he never would have deemed his wife capable of acting so
unworthy a part. How shall I confess to him that his liberality has led
me into such extravagance—that his trusting love has met with such a
return! And he has been looking anxious and careworn of late; the
thought has even crossed my mind that business concerns may not be
prospering—that he may be uneasy as regards his affairs. Oh! if it
should be so, and if I—vain, weak, thoughtless—should have added, to his
cares instead of lightening them!” The idea was to Clemence almost
unbearable; bitter self-reproach added its keen pang to those of anxious
care and wounded feeling; and it was some time before she could calm her
agitated spirits, or look her difficulties fairly in the face.
When Clemence quitted her apartment, she was suddenly met on the
staircase by young Vincent, who had reached home about an hour
previously, though, absorbed in her own painful reflections, she had not
noticed the sound of an arrival. A joyful exclamation of welcome was on
her lips, but her first glance at the face of the boy was sufficient to
check its utterance. Giving her a look, in which dislike, scorn, and
defiance were mingled, Vincent brushed past his step-mother without
saying a word. And this was the son whom her heart had learned already
to love—the son on whom she had built such hopes—in whose countenance
she had traced such a resemblance to his father—who bore his name, and,
as she trusted, would bear his character—the only member of her
husband’s family who had given her anything approaching to a welcome.
The disappointment came at a moment when the spirit of Clemence was
wounded by unkindness and depressed by self-reproach. This last drop of
bitterness made her cup overflow. She returned to her own room with a
hurried step, and throwing herself on her sofa, buried her face in her
hands, and gave way to a burst of tears.
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