OPPOSITION SIDE.
“Well, Vincent, you have returned to a strange house; strange doings
have there been during your absence.” Such were the words with which
Arabella had greeted her young brother, when, on his first arrival, he
had burst into the drawing-room, with all the impatient joy of a boy
just emancipated from school.
“You’ll hardly believe what has happened,” said Louisa.
“Why, what’s the matter?” exclaimed Vincent, looking in surprise from
the one to the other.
“We none of us can tell where we may find ourselves in another month,”
continued Louisa. “I foretell that I shall be finishing my education in
Jersey, and Arabella in the Isle of Man.”
“What has happened?” cried Vincent impatiently; “anything in which our
pretty step-mother is concerned?”
“_Pretty_ step-mother, indeed!” exclaimed Arabella. “She has begun to
change and overturn everything in the house. Nothing is free from her
meddling. She has turned off Mademoiselle Lafleur without so much as the
shadow of a reason.”
“Turned off mademoiselle!” cried Vincent. “Well, I don’t break my heart
about that; but it was a bold stroke for a beginning.”
“Then Mrs. Ventner.”
“Mrs. Ventner!” echoed Vincent in amazement. “I should have as soon
expected to hear of her moving the Monument of London!”
“It won’t end here,” said Lady Selina oracularly, pursing in her thin
lips, as if to restrain them from uttering some dread prognostication.
“Is it really Mrs. Effingham who is turning everything topsy-turvy?”
cried the schoolboy; “why, she looked as gentle as a dove!”
“A dove!—she’s a vulture,” said Louisa.
“A vampire!” muttered her sister.
“What I cannot bear,” observed Lady Selina, “is the art with which she
conceals her designs. Smooth above, false beneath—wearing a mask of such
perfect innocence, that she would take in any one who was unaccustomed
to the ways of the world. I confess,” she added, in a tone of
self-depreciation, “that I was deceived myself by her manner.”
“Oh! if she’s artful, I shall hate her,” exclaimed Vincent; “I can’t
endure anything sly.”
“And so hypocritical,” chimed in Louisa; “she would pass herself off for
such a saint. I believe that poor dear mademoiselle’s grand offence was
liking a French book that was a little witty—a book which Mrs. Effingham
unluckily hit upon when she came spying into our school-room in her
fawning, hypocritical manner.”
“And to bring in such an ally to support her, before she dared let us
know what she had done.”
“Yes,” said Lady Selina, “I am perfectly convinced—and I am one not
often mistaken—that the arrival of Captain Thistlewood was a
preconcerted arrangement.”
“Captain Thistlewood—who may he be?” inquired Vincent.
“Mrs. Effingham’s uncle,” replied Louisa. “The funniest old quiz—”
“The most blustering savage—”
“A low, vulgar fellow,” joined in Lady Selina; “one who thinks that he
may swagger in a gentleman’s house as if he were on the deck of a
whaler.”
“And does papa suffer it?” exclaimed Vincent.
“Mr. Effingham is infatuated, quite infatuated,” said the lady,
apparently addressing the fire and not any one present, and speaking so
low, that Vincent had to lean forward in order to catch her accents. “I
do not know why it should be—I do not pretend to guess, but he certainly
has not been like the same man ever since his second marriage.”
“Papa has grown much graver,” observed Louisa.
“And sadder,” joined in Arabella.
Lady Selina only uttered an “Ah!” with a slight jerk of the head; but
what a world of meaning was condensed into the brief exclamation!
Compassion for the infatuated husband, contempt for the manœuvring wife,
sympathy with the persecuted children. It was the sigh of wisdom and
experience over what was wrong in the world in general, and in the
Effingham family in particular.
It is no wonder that Vincent was not proof against the contagion of
prejudice, hatred, and malice, when entering the scene where they all
were rife. He threw himself, heart and soul, into the cause of the
insurgents, in the war of independence; and determined, with all the
vehemence of boyhood, to oppose his step-mother in everything, and not
to be daunted by the “swaggering bully,” whom she had so cunningly
brought to London to aid her in tyrannizing over his sisters, and
altering all the good old customs of the house.
Clemence sat lonely and heavy-hearted in her own room, her eyelids
swollen with weeping. She felt so unwilling to face the family at the
approaching meal, that twice her hand was on the bell-rope, to summon a
servant to convey the message that, having a severe headache, she would
not come down to luncheon. The excuse would have been a true one, for
her temples throbbed painfully, and a weight seemed to press on her
brain; but a little reflection induced Clemence to change her intention.
When a trial is to be faced, the sooner and the more boldly that it is
faced the better; the nettle-leaves grasped by a firm hand are less
likely to sting than when touched by a timid and shrinking finger. There
would be moral cowardice in secluding herself from envious eyes and
bitter tongues, which would only serve to encourage malice. But
Clemence’s strongest incentive was consideration for her uncle, who
might return early, and who must not be left to face the enemy alone; so
she washed all trace of tears from her eyes, and descended at the
summons of the gong. Clemence was glad to find that Captain Thistlewood
was yet out on his exploring expedition.
Lady Selina did not please to appear at table. Mrs. Effingham breathed
more freely in her absence. But the meal was a very uncomfortable one,
as must ever be the case where hatred and strife are guests at the
board. Hardly a word was spoken _to_ Clemence, but many were spoken _at_
her; every effort which she made to commence conversation ended in
making her more painfully aware of her position in regard to her
husband’s children. Even her meek and quiet spirit might have been
roused to anger, had not the recollection of her debt, of the confession
of extravagance to be made to Mr. Effingham, rendered her too much
dissatisfied with herself to be easily stirred up to indignation against
others.
Clemence would willingly have taken an airing in her carriage during the
brief hours of the winter’s afternoon—the rapid motion, the freedom from
vexatious interruptions, would have been welcome to her harassed mind;
but Lady Selina was certain to require a drive, and, as usual, it was
yielded up to her by Mrs. Effingham, rather as a matter of right than of
courtesy. Clemence contented herself with a rapid, solitary walk in the
square.
The air was intensely cold, but its freshness braced and invigorated her
spirits, and helped to restore them to their wonted healthy tone. The
dark clouds which flitted across the sky, the leafless trees whose dark
branches waved in the gale, in their very wintry dreariness spoke to the
young heart of hope. Those clouds would soon be succeeded by sunshine.
Spring would clothe those bare boughs with beauty, the piercing blast
would change to the soft zephyr beneath the genial influence of a milder
season! And were not bright days in store for herself! Clemence
struggled to throw off her depression, made earnest resolutions,
breathed silent prayers, and determined not yet to despair even of
conquering hatred by the power of gentleness, and prejudice by the
strength of patience.
“There goes one of Fortune’s favourites!” remarked Lady Praed to her
daughter, as, driving through Belgrave Square, she recognized Mrs.
Effingham; “young, lovely, rich, with good health, good establishment,
good position—she has everything that the world can give. I should think
that Mrs. Effingham must be one of the happiest beings to be found on
the face of the earth!”
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