JEWELS AND THEIR WORTH.
“I think it right to lay before the children of my dear husband the
course which I intend to pursue; their welfare is very near to my heart,
and I cannot separate their interests from my own.” Such were the words
addressed by Clemence to Vincent and his sisters, while Lady Selina sat
listening near, her face wearing a smile of cold scorn.
“I propose,” continued Clemence, “to rent a cottage, a very small
cottage in Cornwall, my native county, where necessary expenses can be
reduced to a very narrow scale, unless I should receive directions from
my husband which would induce me to alter my arrangements. If any of his
family will share that humble abode, it will be my heart’s desire to
make them as—;” the word “happy” would not come, it died on the
trembling lip, and a sigh concluded the broken sentence.
Arabella slightly elevated her brow and her shoulders; Louisa looked
uneasily at her aunt.
“Such is your offer, madam; now listen to mine,” said Lady Selina,
folding her hands with the air of one about to give a proof of
magnanimous self-denial. “I need not speak of the fervent affection
which I have ever borne to my sister’s children. My dear nieces have
always looked to me as to the representative of a cherished mother, and
in the hour of adversity I shall be the last to desert them. To my home,
wherever that may be, most freely do I bid them welcome. With Vincent
the case is different; though my love for him is the same, I cannot, as
doubtless Mrs. Effingham will do, undertake the expenses of his
education, or give to my dear nephew the advantages which are
indispensable to a boy of his age.”
Doubtless the affectionate aunt had not forgotten that whereas Vincent
was absolutely penniless, the united incomes of her nieces, moderate as
they were, would exactly double her own. Few of those who knew the lady
intimately would have given her credit for disinterested kindness; but
whatever might be her motive for the offer, Arabella was not slow to
accept it.
“As, after what has occurred,” said the proud girl, drawing herself up
to her full height, “I should have declined sharing a palace with Mrs.
Effingham, her society would scarcely allure me to the hovel which she
chooses as her place of abode. I shall certainly remain with my aunt.”
But the choice of Louisa was not so readily made. Her heart was drawn
towards her step-mother, so gentle and patient in her sorrow; she felt
for Clemence’s loneliness and desolation. Louisa could not quite forget
the tenderness with which she had been tended through her illness; she
could not quite forget how, in the long dreary nights, a gentle watcher
had bathed her fevered brow, offered the cooling draught, and spoken
words of holy comfort and hope. Her step-mother was connected in her
mind with all that her conscience approved as right, her regret for past
errors, her resolutions of amendment, her thoughts on religion and
heaven. Louisa had sufficient intelligence to see the difference of
character between Clemence and her aunt. She could neither love nor
trust Lady Selina, as she could the pure-minded and unselfish woman whom
her father had chosen as his wife. But if Mrs. Effingham stood in the
mind of Louisa as the emblem and the representative of quiet piety, her
aunt, on the other hand, seemed that of the world and all its tempting
delights. Lady Selina would doubtless remain in London; to stay with her
was to partake of its pleasures, to enjoy its dazzling scenes,—to dance,
to shine, to see and to be seen. Oh! what magic images of glittering
splendour were conjured up before the mind’s eye of Louisa, by the name
of a “London season!” And could she give up all this? could she endure
to bury herself in dreary Cornwall, with no gaiety, no amusement, no
admirers, like some flower doomed to—
“Blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air?”
The idea was intolerable! Not gratitude, esteem, pity, conscience, were
sufficient to fortify the poor girl against its terrors. She loved the
world—she was of the world. Her idol had been shaken—but destroyed,
never! It was resuming its old supremacy in a heart which, though
apparently cleansed for a while, had been found empty of that divine
faith which _overcometh the world_! Louisa hesitated, indeed, but not
for long. Avoiding looking at her step-mother as she spoke, in a low,
faltering voice, she said, “I think—I would rather—remain in London—like
my sister.”
Lady Selina cast a triumphant glance at Clemence, and going up to her
nieces, embraced them both with many tender expressions, of which they,
perhaps, guessed the real value. Mrs. Effingham quietly quitted the
room, feeling very desolate and low, and thinking that for her the most
welcome home would be one much narrower and much quieter than any
cottage dwelling. Just as she was entering her own apartment, Vincent,
who had been an excited though silent listener to the preceding
conversation, rushed after and overtook her. The boy flung his arms
tightly around her neck, exclaiming, “Mother! you and I will stick
together through thick and thin!”
Clemence returned the embrace with fervour; she clasped the boy to her
aching heart as if she would have pressed him into it, and wept aloud in
passionate grief, till almost choked by her convulsive sobs. It was even
as the accumulated masses of Alpine snows, melting under the warm
sunshine, burst through the barriers which restrain them, and pour their
swelling floods into the valleys below. Vincent was almost alarmed at
the sudden violence of emotion in one usually so quiet and gentle; but,
oh! what a weight of sorrow had been pent up in that burdened heart!
Clemence was relieved by the burst of tears, and, when again alone,
seated herself before her desk, and, resting her brow upon her hand,
gave herself up to thought. Yes, she had something to live for! That
boy, that son of her heart, to him would she devote her life, while the
painful separation from his father should last. What Lady Selina had
said on the subject of Vincent’s education, now pondered over in
solitude, wrought some change in the plans of Clemence. She must give up
the idea of renting a cottage at Stoneby, where she could again enjoy
the society of dear friends, and return to the occupations which she
loved. Clemence could not, with justice to Vincent, undertake his
tuition herself, and Mr. Gray was far too busily engaged in his
extensive parish to do so. There was a market-town about ten miles from
the village, where Clemence well knew that excellent daily tuition at an
academy might be secured at a very trifling expense. This determined her
course; personal comfort and inclination should not for a moment be
weighed against that which might be of such importance to the future
prospects of her step-son. Clemence dipped her pen, and wrote an answer
to the letter of Mr. Gray. She told him briefly of the part which she
had taken in regard to the fortune; declined with deep gratitude his
offer of a home; and entreated him, as soon as possible, to secure for
her a cottage within walking distance of the academy of M——. Clemence
limited the annual rent to a sum which would scarcely have paid for one
of the dresses which she had worn in the days of her wealth, and
requested that one of the girls from her Sunday school might be engaged
as her solitary servant.
The descent into poverty is most painful when one slow step after
another is reluctantly taken down the road of humiliation,—at each some
cherished comfort mournfully laid aside! Better far to calculate at once
the full amount of what must be resigned, put away every superfluity,
and resolutely make the plunge! Clemence ended her letter by a
reiterated entreaty that her friend might engage the cottage at his
earliest convenience, as she yearned to quit London, where every moment
brought with it some bitter pang of remembrance.
And now one other task remained to be performed—a task intensely
painful. Most thankfully would Clemence have avoided it, or, if it must
be fulfilled, have deputed its execution to another. But to whom could
the young wife intrust the delicate office of disposing of her jewels?
Was it absolutely necessary to part with them at all? Would none of her
friends, her numerous acquaintances, assist her at least with a loan?
Clemence was sorely tempted to try, and more than once commenced a note
to one whom she knew had the means to aid, and whom she hoped might have
also the heart; but she never got beyond the first line. Would it be
honest to borrow money, which she could hardly hope ever to repay? would
it be right, while she was in possession of valuables which might be
converted into gold? After all, she could look on the meditated
sacrifice as made for her son, her Vincent, the child of her beloved
husband, and that would give her courage to make it.
With a sickening heart Clemence removed from her jewel-box her husband’s
miniature, her mother’s wedding-ring, and the little locket containing
her parents’ hair, which had been her bridal-gift from her uncle,—these,
at least, she must ever retain; and after a hasty preparation, as if
fearful that her resolution might fail her if she should delay, even for
an hour, the accomplishment of her design, Clemence glided out of her
house with her jewel-case under her cloak.
Rapidly she walked through the streets, like one who dreads observation,
drawing her thick black veil closely before her face. The shops in one
of the principal thoroughfares of London, which it was her object to
visit, were distant from Belgrave Square, and Mrs. Effingham had never
before attempted to reach them on foot. She had repeatedly to inquire
the road to them, and she did so with a shrinking timidity, which made
more than one of her informants watch with an eye of instinctive pity
her slight, fragile form, clad in its mourning garb, as it hurried on
its onward way.
At length the gay, bright street was reached, noisy with carriages,
thronged with pedestrians, offering in its thousand decorated windows
temptations for every eye. Clemence had often driven down that street in
her own carriage, one of the fairest, the most admired, the most envied
of the throng. Now, the bankrupt’s wife dreaded the recognition of any
familiar face, as, weary and faint, she entered a magnificent shop,
which she had often noticed, in passing, for the brilliant display of
jewellery behind its plate glass.
There were several customers in the shop, and Clemence, whose courage
was failing her, was almost upon the point of retreating, when the
jeweller requested her to take a seat, she should be served in an
instant; and Clemence sank wearily upon the proffered chair. She had
some time to wait. A young betrothed couple were choosing ornaments at
the counter. At another time, the sight of their happiness would have
only called forth emotions of pleasure; but the painful contrast between
their errand and her own—they coming to purchase, she to part with
pledges of tender affection—was so overcoming to Clemence, that when the
jeweller at length, after smilingly bowing out his customers, turned to
inquire her pleasure, she could scarcely command her voice sufficiently
to make her wishes intelligible.
[Illustration:
GOING TO SELL THE JEWELS.]
The man’s face at once lost its smiling expression. “We sometimes
exchange jewels,” said he coldly “but never make purchases in that way.”
Like a fluttered bird, Clemence made her escape out of the shop.
Must she try another? Yes, that one on the opposite side of the street.
So engaged in her own thoughts was Mrs. Effingham, so abstracted from
all that was passing around her, that as she crossed the road she
narrowly escaped being thrown down by a passing vehicle. Once more
summoning all her resolution, she entered the shop. Here she was at
least attended to without delay. A tall, hard-visaged man in spectacles,
was ready to receive the lady’s commands. Clemence did not seat herself,
but resting her trembling hand on the counter, told her errand, and
produced her jewels. The man opened the case, and examined one article
after the other, as if mentally calculating its value. That precious
guard-ring, first gift of affection; that chain which loved hands had
placed round her neck; the diamond brooch selected by her husband; the
watch, by which she had counted so many blissful hours,—it seemed to
Clemence almost like desecration to see them in the hand of a stranger!
It was really a relief to her that a sum so much below their actual
value was offered by the jeweller, that she could, without
self-reproach, bear her treasures away from the place.
And yet they must—they must be sold! She must not return to her home
without success! A third time the drooping, heart-sick Clemence crossed
the threshold of a shop, where everything spoke of luxury and wealth.
This visit was the most trying of all! The dapper little tradesman
behind the counter eyed with a quick and penetrating glance, not only
the jewels, but their owner. Clemence read in his curious look, “How
came you possessed of such things as these?” The bare idea of suspicion
covered the pallid countenance of the youthful lady with a burning glow.
It seemed to her as if the first words from the tradesman might be a
question as to her own right to the property of which she wished to
dispose. He spoke, but to Clemence’s relief it was only to mention terms
of purchase. Clemence, who had been tried almost beyond what she could
bear, hastily closed with his offer, and again had to encounter that
curious, scrutinizing look. Glad, most glad was she to leave the shop
and the street, with their bustle and grandeur, far behind her, though
the sum which she bore with her as the price of her jewels was less than
one-third of what they had originally cost!
“But is the sacrifice sufficient?” Such was the question which Clemence
asked herself as, almost sinking from fatigue, she at length regained
the well-known precincts of Belgrave Square, and wearily remounted the
steps of her magnificent mansion. “Is the sacrifice sufficient?” she
repeated, as, hastily throwing off the cloak, whose weight even in that
wintry day oppressed her, she sank on the sofa in her own apartment.
Could she on so trifling a sum travel to Cornwall, and support Vincent
and herself until she could draw her interest in June? It was barely
possible that, by the severest economy, she might procure the
necessaries of life, but Vincent’s schooling, small as would be its
expense—it would be idle to think of that! And was he, of whose talents
and progress his father had been so proud, to lose by months of idleness
all that he had gained during years of application? Clemence opened her
desk, and drew from it her most precious possession—the miniature of her
husband. Its diamond setting was even as the admiration and praise of
the world which had once gathered around the original of that portrait,
whom the same world now scorned and condemned. Would the picture be less
precious without it, to her who valued every feature in the likeness
beyond all the jewels in Peru? And yet fast fell the tears of the
unhappy wife, as she removed from its sparkling encirclement the ivory
from which her husband’s eyes seemed to be looking upon her, calm and
bright, as in the first happy days of their love! Could such a
countenance deceive? Could dishonour ever sit on such a brow? Fervently
Clemence pressed to her lips again and again the lifeless miniature,
divested of outward adornment, but to its possessor even dearer than
ever. Dearer, because there was nothing now but itself to give it value;
dearer, because by man it would now be regarded as a worthless
thing!—was it not an emblem of the beloved one whose image it bore?
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