SACRIFICE.
Monday came, and with it a letter from Mr. Effingham, bearing the Dover
postmark. How eagerly was it received and torn open! The note was a very
brief one, and communicated but a vague idea of the position or feelings
of its writer. He was on the point of crossing over to France,—hoped
that his stay there might be a brief one,—that necessary forms having
been complied with, he might soon be able to return to her who was ever
in his thoughts. He trusted that her health had not suffered from the
shock of receiving tidings which he had not had the courage to
communicate to her himself; and he desired his wife, in the conduct of
her affairs, to place implicit confidence in Mr. Mark, and to be guided
by the judgment of a man of such experience and worth. This was all,—not
even an address given; but such as it was, the letter was a great relief
to Clemence. Her mind had formed dark forebodings; she had dreaded that
sudden illness might have been the result of Mr. Effingham’s distress of
mind, and the cause of his not coming forward personally to meet those
whose interests had been confided to his care. She now felt able to
enter his study again, that little room consecrated by so many dear
recollections, to gather up and arrange any stray papers that might have
been left there, that her husband, on his return to England, might find
that nothing was missing.
How little that room was altered! The fire blazing brightly as ever, the
familiar tomes ranged in their accustomed places, the morning’s _Times_
laid on the table, the book beside the desk with half its leaves yet
uncut, and the paper-knife marking the place where Mr. Effingham had
lately been reading! Clemence tried by an effort of imagination to blot
out all remembrance of the last few days, to look upon what had passed
as a dream, and to listen for that well-known step which would never be
heard on that threshold again! She would not occupy the arm-chair which
she had seen so often filled by her husband. One thing was changed—but
one; the clock on the mantel-piece, which Mr. Effingham had suffered no
one to touch but himself, which had belonged to his father before him,
that clock which he had regularly wound on each Saturday night, stood
silent, with motionless pendulum,—an emblem of the fortunes of the
house.
Vincent followed his step-mother to the study. The boy was restless and
sought companionship, but Louisa was too melancholy, and Arabella too
irritable to make their society congenial to their brother. Clemence
would at that time have greatly preferred being left alone with her own
sad musings, but she would not, even by a hint to that effect, drive
from her side the only being who clung to her in her sorrow. Vincent was
therefore allowed to sit beside her, endeavouring to glean amusement
from the _Times_, while she slowly and sadly pursued her occupation of
collecting scattered papers. One struck her eye—its appearance seemed
familiar to her; upon examination it proved to be the bill of Madame La
Voye—that bill which had cost her such painful self-reproach. It had
surely been paid long ago;—no! unreceipted, it lay amongst others!
Clemence bit her lip, but at the moment was startled by a vehement
exclamation from Vincent.
“What a shame! how dare they write so of papa!”
Clemence caught the paper from his hand. Vincent pointed to one of the
leading paragraphs; it commenced thus:—
“We have again to record a great crash in the commercial world,
attended with circumstances which force upon our attention the
fact that the laws of bankruptcy, as at present constituted, are
inadequate to protect the property of the subject.”
Clemence read on, every sentence falling like a drop of glowing metal on
her heart; she saw the name most dear to her coupled with duplicity,
craft, dishonour!
“We hear on undoubted authority,” said the _Times_, “that Mr.
Effingham has settled a large fortune upon his wife, with whom
the _bankrupt_ doubtless looks forward to enjoying in luxurious
retirement the spoils of the widow and the orphan. These
evasions of law and equity have been of late of such frequent
occurrence, that we have learned complacently to behold the
giant offender rolling in his carriage, while the meaner felon
is consigned to a jail.”
The paper dropped from the hand of the miserable wife. Vincent sprang to
her side. “It is not true!” he exclaimed passionately; “it is all
nonsense and lies!—it is!—oh, say that it is!”
“Leave me, Vincent! leave me!” gasped Clemence; with an imploring
gesture she motioned to the door, and, as soon as her command had been
obeyed, threw herself down upon the floor and writhed, as if in
convulsions of bodily pain! What physical torture could have equalled
the agony of that hour! The anguish caused to a loving and conscientious
spirit by the errors of the being most beloved, resembles in nature, and
is scarcely exceeded in intensity by that of remorse! To Clemence, her
husband’s disgrace was her disgrace; his transgressions seemed even as
her own. So closely was she joined to him in heart, that the
consciousness of personal blamelessness brought her no comfort—the
shadow which had fallen on him enveloped her also in its blackness!
“What am I called upon to endure!” was a thought ere long superseded by
another: “What am I called upon to do?” A gulf of misery was yawning
before the bankrupt’s wife—could no personal sacrifice close it?
Clemence started to her feet, took the writing materials which lay on
the table, and hastily penned to Mr. Mark a scarcely legible note,
praying him to come to her as soon as was possible, as she needed his
assistance and advice. This done, and the letter despatched, Clemence
could breathe a little more freely. She declined seeing any one until
after his arrival, and as that was delayed for several hours, the
unhappy wife had time to become more calm, and to revolve in her mind
what course of duty lay before her. Yet the sound of the long waited-for
knock at the door which announced the man of business, was to her much
as that of the hammer-stroke on a scaffold might be to one doomed to
suffer thereon.
Mr. Mark entered with apologies for delay, of which Clemence understood
not one word. With tremulous hand she pointed to the _Times_, and could
scarcely articulate, “You have seen it?”
Mr. Mark gravely inclined his head.
“And is there any—” Clemence stopped short—she could not endure to put
the question in such a form. “Is it not all cruel calumny?” she
faltered.
Mr. Mark hesitated. “The language is harsh and strong,” was his guarded
reply: it was too well comprehended by the miserable Clemence.
“When that—that money was settled,” she stammered forth, without daring
to look at her listener, “the house was safe, secure—there was no
prospect of the ruin that followed?”
“I believed so when I followed Mr. Effingham’s directions. I, for one,
had not the slightest doubt at that time of the solvency of the firm.”
“And he—”
There was a long, painful silence; Clemence heard nothing but the
throbbing of her own heart. When the lady spoke again her tone was
strangely altered; there was in it no more of tremulous earnestness, but
the calm resolution of despair.
“Mr. Mark, let me ask one more question. Is that money entirely at my
own disposal?”
“It is so by the terms of the settlement.”
“Then I request you, acting in my name, to place the whole of it in the
hands of the creditors.”
“My dear madam—”
“My resolution is quite fixed,” said Clemence, compressing her bloodless
lips.
“But consider your position, that of the family—”
“I have resources of my own,” replied Clemence firmly; “and my
step-daughters are already provided for.”
“You have resources?” repeated the lawyer doubtfully; “and the boy?”
“Shares whatever I have,” answered Clemence.
“Perhaps a partial sacrifice,” began Mr. Mark, but the lady interrupted
him.
“All—all—I will give up all!”
“Not without reflection, dear madam, not on the impulse of the moment,
not without consulting your friends.”
“I consult you, the friend and adviser of my husband. Would not the act
be a just one?”
“Just, perhaps, but—” and he paused.
“I have also consulted another friend, one who has been to me as a
father—the Reverend Mr. Gray of Stoneby.”
“And he advises this step?”
“I have not yet had time to receive his reply.”
“Wait for it then,” said the lawyer; “do nothing without beforehand
weighing the consequences, or it is possible that you may regret even
the noble and generous act, the thought of which does you honour.”
After some further conversation, it was settled that Clemence should
delay her decision until Mr. Gray’s letter should be received, and then
convey her final decision in writing to the man of business. Mr. Mark
left her with a mingled sentiment of compassion and respect, which
softened his usually abrupt manner to that of almost paternal
tenderness.
“She has much to suffer, but she will suffer bravely,” thought he, as he
stepped into his brougham.
Clemence heaved a deep sigh when she found herself left alone. The
spirit which had supported her through that painful interview now seemed
to fail her. Very repugnant was it to her feelings to consult any one
before her husband, on a point which concerned his honour so nearly.
Could she not learn his will ere making so momentous a decision? To do
so was the instinct of her heart, but not the judgment of her reason.
No; even had she the means of communicating with Mr. Effingham, how
could she seek guidance from him on the very path from which he had
wandered? how ask him if it were her duty to counteract his own schemes,
and clear, as far as possible, his character from a stain which he had
deliberately contracted? It was, perhaps, better that a cloud of doubt
should rest on what Mr. Effingham’s ultimate wishes might be, and that
Clemence should not behold in actual opposition her obedience to her
husband and her duty to her God.
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