onday 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.
