A CONTRAST.
Seven years have flowed on their silent course since the events recorded
in the last chapter took place, and we will again glance at Clemence
Effingham in the same humble abode. Its aspect, however, is so greatly
altered, that at first we shall scarcely recognize it. Its size has been
enlarged, though not considerably, and the rich blossoming creepers have
mantled it even to the roof, reversing the image of the poet, by “making
the _red_ one _green_,” and rendering the dwelling an object of beauty
to the eye of every passing traveller. The little garden is one bed of
flowers, radiant with the fairest productions of the spring. If we enter
the fairy abode, we find ourselves in a sitting-room which, though
small, is the picture of neatness and comfort. A refined taste is
everywhere apparent; and there are so many little elegant tokens of
affection—framed pictures, worked cushions, and vases filled with bright
and beautiful flowers—that we could rather fancy that one of earth’s
great ones, weary of state, had chosen this for a rural retreat, than
that stern misfortune had driven hither a bankrupt and his ruined
family.
Clemence, looking scarcely older than when she left her first, splendid
abode—for peace and joy seem sometimes to have power to arrest the
changing touch of Time—is seated at the open door. Perhaps she sits
there to enjoy the soft evening breeze which so gently plays amongst her
silky tresses, or she is watching for the return of her husband and
Vincent from their daily visit to M——. Effingham, through the exertions
of Mr. Gray, has procured a small office in the town—one which, some
years ago, he would have rejected with contempt, but the duties of which
he now steadily performs, thankful to be able, by honest effort, to earn
an independence, however humble. Vincent still pursues his studies at
the academy, paying his own expenses by private tuition, and is regarded
as the most gifted scholar that M—— has ever been able to boast of.
Clemence is not alone—a lovely little golden-haired girl is beside her,
helping, or seeming to help her mother to fasten white satin bows upon a
delicate piece of work, so light and fragile in fabric that it might
have appeared woven by fairies. It is a wedding gift for Louisa, and
will be dearly valued by the bride.
“And, mamma dear,” said the child, looking up into the smiling face of
Clemence, “is there not something that I could send to sister too?”
“The wild-flowers which you gathered this morning, my darling, in the
meadow.”
“Oh, but won’t they all die on the way?”
“We will press them in a book first, to dry them, and then they will
look lovely for years.”
“Poor flowers—all crushed down!” sighed little Grace.
“Only preserved,” said Clemence; and her words carried a deeper meaning
to herself than that which reached the mind of the child.
“I wish I were rich—very rich!” cried little Grace, after a silent
pause.
“And what would my May-blossom do with her riches?”
“I would send a cake—such a cake—to sister!” replied Grace, opening her
little arms wide to give an idea of its size; “and it should be sugared
all over!”
“Anything else?” inquired Clemence.
“I’d make dear Vincy happy—quite happy. He wants so much to go to
college and be a clergyman, like Mr. Gray, and teach all the people to
be good; but he says that he has not the money. Mamma, don’t you wish
you had plenty of money?”
“No, my love,” replied Clemence, more gravely, parting the golden locks
on the brow of her little daughter.
“Martha told me,” said Grace, with the air of one in possession of an
important secret—“Martha told me that once you had a grand house, and a
carriage, and horses, and servants, and dresses—oh, such fine dresses to
wear!”
“Long, long ago,” replied Clemence.
“Was it when you lived with your dear old uncle, who gave you the pretty
little locket which always hangs round your neck?”
“No; I lived very happily with him in a cottage not much larger than
this.”
Little Grace remained for some moments twirling the white ribbon round
her tiny fingers, with a look of thought on her innocent face; then she
said reverently,—
“Mamma, did God take away your money?”
“Yes, dearest; in wisdom and love.”
“But if you asked Him—if you prayed very hard—would He not give it all
back to you again?”
“I should not dare to pray for it, my Grace; I should not dare even to
_wish_ for it again. I have been given blessings so much dearer, so much
sweeter”—and she stooped to press a kiss on the soft, fair brow of her
child. “God has taught me that what makes His people happy is not
wealth, but religion and peace and love. I have had more real joy in
this little cottage than I ever knew in my large and beautiful home.
But, see! there are your father and brother! Quick, quick—run forward to
meet them, or the first kiss will not be yours!”
* * * * *
We turn from the sunshine of Willow Cottage to the shady side of the
narrow street in which Lady Selina and her nieces for years have made
their abode. How have those years sped with the woman of the world?
They have sped in the constant pursuit of pleasure, grasping at shadows,
seeking satisfying joys where such are never to be found; in straining
to “keep up appearances,” efforts to dress as well, entertain as well as
those whose fortunes greatly exceeded her own; in paying by the
self-denial of a month for the ostentatious display of a night; in
exchanging rounds of formal visits with acquaintance who would not shed
a tear, or forego an hour’s mirth, were she to-morrow laid in her grave.
Lady Selina feels her strength decaying, but by artificial aids she
attempts to hide the change from others—by wilful delusion from herself.
She would ignore sickness, ignore trial, ignore death! And yet, in hours
of solitude and weakness, truth, however unwelcome, will sometimes force
its way; and those whose _all_ is contained within the hour-glass of
Time are constrained to watch the sands ever flowing, to see below the
accumulating heap of infirmities, troubles, and cares, and mark above
the hollow, inverted cone of ever-lessening pleasures. How miserable,
then, is the reflection, that no mortal hand can restore a single grain,
and that, when the last runs out, nothing will remain but the grave, and
the dark, awful future beyond it.
But Lady Selina spares no effort to banish such reflections. It is but
recently that she has even mustered courage sufficient for the
performance of the necessary duty of making her will, leaving her small
property to her nephew, Vincent; perhaps as a salve to her conscience
for utterly neglecting him during her lifetime. Lady Selina is less
willing than she ever was before to fix her meditations on death or the
grave. She will struggle on to the last, laden with the vanity which
distracts, the prejudice which distorts, the malice which corrodes the
mind. Her temper has become very irritable, for which her infirmities
may offer some excuse; but her peevish nervousness serves to imbitter
the lives of the two sisters who have chosen her dwelling as their own.
The haughty Arabella has suffered not less acutely, though more silently
than her aunt, from the change in their outward circumstances; but she
wraps herself up in selfishness and pride, and though she often finds
her present life painful and mortifying, deems it more tolerable than
one spent in a cottage, with Clemence Effingham for a companion.
The case is somewhat different with her sister. There have been times
when, wearied with a round of amusements, longing for gentle sympathy
and affection, wounded by the peevishness of her aunt, or the selfish
indifference of Arabella, Louisa has felt almost disposed to accept
reiterated invitations to Willow Cottage, and has half resolved to cast
in her lot with those nearest and dearest to her heart. But she is like
some fluttering insect, caught in the double web of her own habitual
love of pleasure and the influence of worldly relatives. Lady Selina
ever represents Cornwall as an English Siberia, a desolate wild, in
which existence would be perfect stagnation. She paints the gloom which
must surround the dwelling of a ruined, disappointed man, till Louisa
actually regards her indulgent father with feelings approaching to fear.
Arabella is indignant if her sister even alludes to the subject of any
change in her arrangements; so, enchained by indolence, folly, and fear,
Louisa quietly resigns herself to a position which is often painful as
well as unnatural. Her father’s kindness permits her a choice; her
choice is to remain where pleasure may be found. Her longing for
happiness is unsatisfied still, but it is at the world’s broken cisterns
that she seeks to quench the thirst of an immortal soul.
Lady Selina’s ambition is now concentrating itself on one object. Her
nieces must form brilliant alliances—they must be united to men of
fortune and rank, and in their homes she must find once more the luxury,
grandeur, and importance which she once enjoyed in that of their father.
The wish so long indulged, and scarcely concealed, appears now to be on
the point of partial fulfilment. Sir Mordaunt Strange has offered his
hand to Louisa; it has been, after some hesitation, accepted, and every
letter to the cottage from Lady Selina is full of encomiums on the
character, manner, and appearance of the “Intended,” and of
felicitations on the happy prospects opening before the young bride
elect.
Mr. Effingham and his son are to be present at the wedding. Clemence
would fain accompany them to London, for her heart yearns over Louisa,
and the very praise so lavishly bestowed upon Sir Mordaunt by Lady
Selina excites misgivings in the step-mother’s breast. Prudential
motives and other obstacles, however, prevent Clemence from
accomplishing her wish.
We shall glance for a moment at Louisa, as she stands before a
pier-glass in the drawing-room of her aunt, trying on her bridal veil
and wreath of white orange-blossoms. A milliner is adjusting the spray
which is to fall on the fair girl’s graceful neck.
“Stay for a moment,” says Lady Selina, walking towards the bride with a
feeble step (for she is infirm, though she will not own it, and was more
fit for her couch last night than for the gay assembly at which she
appeared); “Sir Mordaunt’s beautiful diamond spray will make the
_coiffure_ complete,” and she draws from its case a sparkling ornament,
which she places upon the brow of her niece. “Look, Arabella, could
anything be more charming? The dear child is _mise à peindre_!”
Louisa glances into the mirror with a smile and a blush. It is chiefly
by working upon her vanity that her aunt has obtained such influence
over her weak and ill-regulated mind. It is an hour of pride to the
maiden. About to change her name for a title—her present small abode for
a luxurious house of her own—receiving congratulations from every
quarter—her table covered with splendid gifts—rich jewels glittering on
her fair brow—her childish heart is elated, and for the instant she
believes herself happy. But why, while the blush heightens on her cheek,
has the smile entirely disappeared? Why is the feeling of momentary
elation succeeded by misgiving and gloom? The door has opened, and the
bride elect sees reflected in the mirror beside her own image that of
another. She sees a face, not plain, but unpleasing—not coarse in its
outlines, but hard in its expression; she sees him whom she is about to
pledge herself to love, honour, and obey yet whom she regards with
indifference—happy if indifference be not one day exchanged for fear,
mistrust, and aversion! Louisa Effingham has for the second time made
the world her deliberate choice. House, carriage, title, jewels,
estate,—for such baubles as these will she, a few days hence, in the
presence of God and man, bind herself to one whom she loves not, whom
she never can learn to love! Slave to a proud and capricious tyrant, her
home will be but a luxurious prison, and the unhappy wife will bitterly
rue the day when she sold herself to a bondage more intolerable than
that under which the poor African groans!
This is the crowning sacrifice to which the world dooms its willing
slaves. The poor victim goes crowned to the altar; friends smile,
relations congratulate, and admiring spectators applaud. Who would then
whisper of a galling yoke, a wounded spirit, a breaking heart; who would
whisper that the gold circlet on the finger may be but the first link in
a heavy chain? Moloch’s shrieking victims were soon destroyed in the
flames;—more wretched the fate of those whose slow-consuming pangs make
life itself one long sacrifice of woe!
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