CALCULATIONS.
“Bankrupt! stopped payment!” exclaimed Lady Selina, as Mr. Mark repeated
to her the substance of the tidings, which, like a sudden blow, had
prostrated the spirit of Clemence. The lady and the man of business were
conversing alone, Clemence having been removed to her room in a fainting
state, attended by Louisa and Vincent.
“Is there no hope—no means of rallying—of struggling through the
difficulty?” continued Lady Selina.
Mr. Mark looked very grave, and shook his head.
“I fear that this has been no thing of yesterday. The firm must have
been for some time in a tottering state, though appearances were so
carefully kept up that the crash took every one by surprise.”
“The strangest thing of all,” said Lady Selina, “is, that Mr. Effingham
himself should, as you tell me, have disappeared—not have ventured to
face his creditors!”
“It is strange,” observed the lawyer almost sternly; for he was an
honest, straightforward man, who had not learned to regard all things as
fair in the way of business. “It is strange!” he repeated more slowly:
“when the affairs of the firm are wound up, we shall be better able to
account for such a step on his part. It was this disappearance which
touched Mrs. Effingham so nearly; she bore the news of the failure with
a degree of firmness which, I own, surprised me; but when I informed her
that her husband had fled, she was struck down at once; I was seriously
alarmed for the consequences.”
“Oh! she is subject to hysterical fits; they do not alarm those who know
her,” said the lady, whose malice would glance forth even at a time like
this. “Of course Mrs. Effingham must feel the change in her fortunes;
none shrink from poverty more than those who have once experienced its
trials.”
“Mrs. Effingham is secured from anything approaching to poverty,” said
the lawyer; “ample provision has been made for her comfort. Sixty
thousand pounds were settled upon her not long after her marriage.”
“Sixty thousand pounds! and settled upon Mrs. Effingham!” exclaimed Lady
Selina; “and what becomes of the rest of the family?”
“As you are aware, madam, the dowry of the late Lady Arabella Effingham,
amounting to ten thousand pounds, was, by her will, divided share and
share alike between her two surviving daughters. That is safe—invested
in Government securities; for the rest, everything—house, furniture,
estate—will, doubtless, be seized and disposed of for the benefit of the
creditors.”
“But the sixty thousand pounds that you mentioned?”
“That sum is settled on Mrs. Effingham; no one will be able to deprive
her of that.” Mr. Mark’s manner was cold and dry, and he soon afterwards
closed the interview, leaving Lady Selina in a state of no small
excitement and perplexity.
“Clever man of the world, Mr. Effingham,” she said to herself, as soon
as she found herself alone; “I should hardly have given him credit for
the tact to save such a sum out of the wreck. And all settled upon Mrs.
Effingham!”—she bit her lip with vexation. “I wish that it had been
disposed of in any other manner. Sixty thousand pounds! The interest of
that will be—let me see—enough to keep a good house, a carriage. It is
much more than she had ever a right to expect. We must not part company,
after all. The weak little creature will never be able to manage by
herself; and it will suit my convenience better for the family to keep
together. Yes,” soliloquized the earl’s daughter, resting her chin on
her hand in an attitude of thought, “it would be folly under these
circumstances to part. I must change my tactics a little. I must make
her feel me necessary; there must be no division. If I had ever had a
suspicion of the turn which affairs would take, I would have played my
cards very differently with Clemence Effingham.”
Regard for self-interest was striving against prejudice and pride, and,
as often happens in hostilities of a more extended nature, the war was
ended by a compromise, or rather a treaty of alliance. In a few minutes
Lady Selina was gently tapping at Mrs. Effingham’s door.
Clemence appeared seated at her little writing-table, pale but tearless.
Louisa was weeping beside her. Vincent, standing a little apart, was
repeating to himself half aloud, “Poverty is no disgrace,” as one who is
determined to face the enemy with resolution. It is possible, however,
that poverty presented itself to the mind of the boy as little beyond
exemption from going to school, and was, therefore, no great trial of
his youthful philosophy. Lady Selina motioned to Louisa and her brother
to quit the room, and then seating herself on the sofa close to
Clemence, with strange, unwonted show of tenderness, laid her hand on
that of the young wife, which lay cold and impassive on the cushion
beside her.
“Dear Mrs. Effingham, we are truly partners in sorrow; for, believe me,
my share in this trial is no light one,” and the lady heaved a deep
sigh.
Clemence remained silent. That Lady Selina grieved for her she could not
for a moment believe; but it was possible that even that cold, worldly
heart might cherish a regard for her husband. How could it indeed be
otherwise, after such long, intimate acquaintance with one who possessed
such power to attract to himself the affections of all who knew him?
Such a thought was quite sufficient to prevent the gentle wife from
repelling the sympathy, such as it might be, even of her who had
hitherto acted the part of an enemy. It would, however, have been
hypocrisy to have accepted it with any warmth of gratitude. The pressure
of Lady Selina’s thin fingers was not returned, and the eyes of Clemence
remained bent upon the floor.
“But, dear Mrs. Effingham,” resumed Lady Selina, “this trial has
alleviations—great alleviations.”
In an instant the blue eyes were riveted on the countenance of the
speaker with an expression of hope. “Alleviations! Then you know where
he is,—you have tidings—”
“None, none,” replied the lady sadly; “but is it not a comfort to think
that your beloved husband, even under the heavy pressure of adversity,
thought and cared for his family with a foresight which does him such
honour? Mr. Mark, of course, informed you that the sixty thousand pounds
settled upon you by Mr. Effingham are safe; the creditors cannot lay a
finger upon them.”
Lady Selina watched the effect of her words. A bright flush suffused the
countenance of Clemence, rising even to her temples, and then suddenly
retreating, left it even more pallid than before.
“I did not hear about money—could not think about money,” she replied
hoarsely, withdrawing her hand from Lady Selina’s.
“Your delicacy of feeling, your disregard of worldly considerations is
noble—is quite in character,” said that lady, with a little touch of
sarcasm in her tone; “nevertheless, it must be a great relief to your
mind to find that everything is not lost—that, though on a smaller
scale, you can still maintain a suitable establishment, still offer a
home to those who have dwelt together under this roof.”
Clemence pressed her aching brow with both her hands. “Lady Selina, I
cannot think, I cannot realize what has happened, far less form plans
for an uncertain future. I must hear from my husband, I must learn our
actual position, know the full extent of the ruin which has come upon
our house. Of one thing I am certain—_certain_,” she repeated more
earnestly, rising from the sofa as she spoke, “my husband would be the
last man to claim or to desire an exemption from the sufferings which
may, I fear, fall upon some of his creditors. I feel assured that, when
he settled a fortune upon his wife, it was in perfect ignorance of the
crash which was so near. Unforeseen events have brought on a crisis, and
he will meet it, like himself, with firm courage, unblemished honour,
and a conscience free from reproach.”
“She is a greater fool than I thought her,” was Lady Selina’s mental
reflection, as she relieved Clemence from her unwelcome presence.
Clemence, notwithstanding her fearless declaration, felt strangely
uneasy and anxious. Vincent’s childish words recurred again and again to
her mind, “Poverty is no disgrace.” Why should such words give her pain?
She feared to question her own heart as to the reason. Clemence wrote a
long letter to her friend Mr. Gray, the faithful counsellor of her
youth, detailing to him what had occurred, as far as her own knowledge
extended, mentioning to him the words of Lady Selina, and asking him, in
the absence of her best and dearest guide, to say whether he thought
that she could conscientiously avail herself of resources so
considerately provided for her before the day of adversity had arrived.
Clemence touched tenderly on the subject. Doing so, even in the gentlest
manner, pained her like pressure upon a wound. She shrank from writing a
word which, even in the most remote way, could convey the slightest
imputation upon the conduct of her husband.
The wings of Time sometimes appear to be clogged with lead. How wearily
move the hours when anxious sorrow watches the shadow on the dial!
Clemence’s prevailing feeling was an intense desire for tidings from her
absent lord. If uneasy doubts would arise in her mind, a letter, she
felt assured, would remove them. Her husband would make all clear.
Whatever had occurred, no fault could rest with him; her loving faith in
him was unshaken. Clemence started at every post-knock, and trembled
when her room was hastily entered, so nervously was her mind on the
watch for tidings.
Louisa was in a state of great depression. The first breath of
misfortune was sufficient to lay low the fragile reed, which had no firm
support to counterbalance its own weakness. Perhaps there was a secret
painful impression on the young girl’s mind that, since God’s first
visitation had failed to produce lasting effects, one yet more terrible
might be coming upon her. Louisa refused to listen to words of comfort
or hope, persisted in viewing everything in the darkest light, and by
her tears, complaints, and forebodings, irritated the prouder and firmer
spirit of her sister, which was struggling to tread misfortunes under
foot, and rise triumphant above them.
On the following day, which was Sunday, neither Lady Selina nor her
nieces quitted their dwelling. Those who had attended divine service
only _to be seen of men_, naturally absented themselves from the house
of prayer when observation would be painful. But to Clemence, weary and
heavy-laden, social worship was a privilege not to be lightly foregone.
In the solemn exercises of prayer and praise, she trusted to be raised
for a while above the cares and the grief that oppressed her; the jarred
and strained chords of her heart could yet be tuned to swell the
church’s hymn of thanksgiving. Avoiding mixing with the stream of the
congregation of which she had been lately a member, Clemence,
accompanied only by Vincent, attended a more distant church.
The preacher’s sermon appeared as if addressed expressly to herself, so
closely did Clemence apply it. He spoke of the blessedness of that home
which sin and sorrow never can enter, and of the boundless riches of
God’s grace, so unlike to the treasures of earth which take to
themselves wings and flee away. He dwelt on the glories of the heavenly
city, till clouds of present affliction seemed to reflect its distant
brightness. He then described the heaven in the heart, which may be
experienced by the believer while yet a sojourner in a world of trial,
yea, even when plunged into the seven-fold heated furnace of _great
tribulation_,—the consciousness of the presence of an Almighty Friend,
of the support of the everlasting arm, of the possession of that
unspeakable love which passeth knowledge, and _is stronger than death_!
Tears, but not tears of grief, flowed from the eyes of Clemence as she
listened, and her heart seemed able to echo the words of the poet, with
which the preacher concluded his address—
“Give what Thou canst, without Thee we are poor—
And with Thee rich, take what Thou wilt away.”
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