hree gentlemen are travelling from london on that dreary wintry day. they occupy the same carriage in the train, but are personally unknown to each other. two of them, a lawyer and a railway director, soon break through the cold reserve which marks an english traveller. a proffered newspaper, a remark on the weather, and they have launched into the full tide of conversation on railway speculations, foreign politics, and the future prospects of the nation.
the third passenger, a grave and silent man, sits in a corner of the carriage with his hat drawn low over his brow, keeping company only with his own thoughts, which seem to be of no agreeable nature. the mind of effingham—for it is he—is in harmony with the gloomy, wintry scenes through which he is passing. he has but yesterday arrived from france, his case having been carried through the bankruptcy court during his absence. he has this morning had an interview in london with his daughters and lady selina.
clemence’s decision in regard to the fortune so carefully secured to her by her husband at the expense of honour and conscience, had wakened a wild tumult of feeling in the breast of the unhappy bankrupt. anger, shame, surprise, not unmingled with secret approbation, had struggled together in effingham’s soul. early impressions had been revived there—impressions made when his young heart had been guileless as his son’s was now, when he would have shrunk from dishonour as from a viper, and have as lief touched glowing metal as a coin not lawfully his own! it had needed a long apprenticeship to the world to efface these early impressions, or rather, to render them illegible, by writing above them the maxims of that wisdom which is foolishness with god. effingham was perhaps the more irritated against his wife, because he had sufficient conscience left to have a secret persuasion that she had only done what was right—returned that to its lawful possessors which never ought to have been hers. the difficulty, rather the shame, which he felt in expressing his feelings on the subject, had prevented him from writing at all.
it was while still enduring this mental conflict—now accusing clemence of romantic folly, now condemning himself on more serious grounds—that effingham, on his return from france, had a meeting with lady selina. a visit to beaumont street, under existing circumstances, was little likely to soothe the proud man’s irritated feelings. lady selina neglected nothing that could make him more painfully aware of the change in the circumstances of his family. she artfully sought to revenge herself upon clemence, by bringing that change before the eyes of her husband, not as the result of his own wild speculations, but as caused by the obstinate folly of one who presumed to be more scrupulous than her lord, and who followed her own romantic fancies rather than the advice of experienced friends. arabella followed in the track of her aunt; while louisa’s drooping looks and tearful eyes did more, perhaps, than the words of either, to increase effingham’s displeasure towards his wife. he set out on his long journey to cornwall full of bitterness of spirit, attempting to turn the turbid tide of emotion into any channel rather than that of self-condemnation.
effingham remained, therefore, moody and abstracted, while his companions chatted freely together on subjects of common interest, till the entrance of the train into a tunnel caused that pause in conversation which a change from light to sudden darkness usually produces.
“what was that sound!” exclaimed effingham.
“the whistle,” shortly replied his next neighbour, immediately resuming his discourse with the gentleman opposite, while effingham relapsed into silence.
“we must be nearly an hour behind time!” observed the lawyer, looking at his watch by the light of the lamp.
“impossible to keep to it—state of the roads—never knew such a season!” was the director’s reply. “you saw the signal as we passed; the rest of the trains will be stopped; no more travelling till the lines are cleared.”
“i hear that a stage-coach in the north had actually to be dug out of the snow,” said the other.
as the observation was uttered, the train burst again into the open daylight, and in a few minutes more the black, hissing engine was letting out its steam at the station of m——.
effingham sprang out of the carriage, and proceeded immediately to make inquiries as to the direction of willow cottage. hearing that the distance was not great, and judging that it would be less difficult to make his way over the snow on foot than in any conveyance, he left his portmanteau, with directions that it should be forwarded after him, and set out at once for the cottage.
the snow-shower had ceased, and the wind was on his back, therefore, though sinking deep at every step, the strong man made his way through the obstacles which had proved insurmountable to clemence. his thoughts were so painfully engaged, that those obstacles were scarcely heeded. on he pressed with gloomy resolution, making, however, extremely slow progress, till, on passing a bend of the road, he came in sight of the little lone cottage.
“it is impossible that clemence can be living in that miserable hovel; and yet, by the description, the cottage can be none other than this!” exclaimed effingham, surveying the tenement with mingled surprise and displeasure.
at this point the snow lay so thick on the path, that effingham found it very difficult to proceed; but the goal was near, and by main strength he forced his way over and through the drifted heaps. suddenly an object on the road before him arrested his attention. almost close to clemence’s little gate, a horse, which had fallen floundering amongst the heavy masses, was struggling to his feet; and his rider, whose shaggy great-coat, almost covered with snow gave him the appearance of a siberian bear, was encouraging the efforts of the animal both by voice and rein. effingham redoubled his exertions, in order to give aid to the stranger; but before he could reach the spot, horse and horseman had risen from the snow.
“thank you, sir; no harm done!” said the rider to effingham, patting the neck of his panting steed. “no danger of broken bones with such a soft bed to receive us. but i don’t see how i’m ever to get back to m——. it’s unlucky, for i’ve plenty of patients there anxious enough to see me. i was sent for in great haste this morning by an old gentleman who lives some way off. i expected to find him in extremity, and it turned out to be nothing worse than a fit of the gout! i wish that i’d prescribed him a three miles’ ride through the snow!” the doctor shook his broad shoulders and laughed.
“what will you do now?” said effingham.
“do! i can neither get backward nor forward, so i suppose i must stay where i am. lucky there’s that cottage so near; for though there’s no sign up that i can see, doubtless i shall find in my extremity ‘good entertainment for man and beast.’”
“the cottage, sir, is mine,” said effingham stiffly; then added, with his natural graceful politeness, “i am sure that whatever accommodation it may afford will be very much at your service.”
before the doctor had time to reply to one whose appearance and demeanour so little corresponded with that of his dwelling, martha came running breathlessly to the gate. “o sir, i’m so thankful to see you!” she exclaimed; “but haven’t you brought back my mistress with you?”
“here’s a riddle to read!” cried the doctor gaily, turning with a smile to effingham; but the husband had caught alarm from the anxious, excited face of the servant.
“what’s the matter?” he sternly exclaimed.
“master vincent is bad with the fever, and mistress—surely, sir, she sent you here?” added martha, turning anxiously towards the doctor.
“no, my good girl, i’ve seen no lady.”
“oh! mercy! mercy!” cried martha, wringing her hands; “then maybe she never got through the tunnel!”
“the tunnel!” exclaimed effingham, with a start of horror; “for mercy’s sake, girl, explain yourself!”
“master vincent is ill, and mistress went herself for the doctor,” replied the trembling martha, terrified both by his tone and his eye. “she could not get on through the snow; i saw her slide down the bank there; i saw her go into the tunnel.”
the words seemed to sear effingham’s brain. without waiting to hear more, with the gesture of a madman he rushed forward, as if impelled by irresistible impulse, to fly to the succour of his wife. then he suddenly stopped, and called loudly for a torch.
“there’s no torch, but,—but a lantern.”
“bring it, for the love of heaven!” cried the miserable husband. the girl flew to obey, while he stood almost stamping with fierce impatience, as if every moment of delay were spent on the rack.
“my dear sir,” began the compassionate doctor,—
he was interrupted by effingham, who said, in a hoarse, excited tone, “my boy, she says, is ill. providence has brought you here; see to him—save him! i—i have a more terrible mission to perform! o god! preserve my brain from distraction!”
martha brought the lantern after a brief absence, which seemed to the husband interminable. he snatched it from her hand, with the question, which his bloodless lips had hardly the power to articulate, “did any train pass after she left this place?”
“yes; one!”
without uttering another word effingham sprang forward on his fearful quest.
the snow displaced on the top of the bank and down its side, and the scattered flakes on the cutting below, served but as too sure guides. to plunge down the steep descent was the work of a moment. effingham was now upon the line where not two hours previously clemence had stood and trembled. the blackness of the opening before him recalled to him, with a sense of unutterable horror, the cry which had pierced his ear in the tunnel. effingham loved his young wife—fondly, passionately loved. if any emotion of displeasure towards her were remembered in that awful hour, it was but to intensify the anguish of remorse. he felt himself to be a wretch marked by the justice of heaven for the keenest torment that mortal can bear and live. loss of fortune, friends, fame—what was all that to the misery which he might now be doomed to endure! he might find her—his loved, his beautiful clemence, the pride of his life, the treasure of his heart—oh, how he might find her he dared not think. on he pressed, the dim light from his lantern gleaming on the cold iron below, the stony walls, the damp, dripping roof; but there was yet no sign of a human form.
effingham called aloud. the dreary arches resounded with the much-loved name; their hollow echoes were the only reply. there! surely there is some object dimly seen through the gloom,—a dark mass lying straight before him! with one bound effingham is beside it, on his knees, trembling like an aspen, then sobbing like a child! that is no crushed and mangled form that he clasps; cold, indeed, and still, it lies in his arms, but there is breath on the lip and pulsation in the heart. “she lives! god be praised, she lives!”
yes, she lives; but the miseries and terrors of the past have shattered the health of clemence effingham. borne by her husband back to the cottage, for weeks she remains helpless, unconscious, hovering on the brink of eternity—while the lesson of penitence, submission, humility, is branded as by fire on the heart of her lord. it is now that the world appears to effingham, even as it may appear to us all in the light of the last great day:—its treasures, dross; its distinctions, bubbles; its pleasures, a vanishing dream. now, by the side of his suffering wife, effingham prays as he prayed when a boy over the grave of a cherished parent; he bows at the foot of the cross, even as the publican bent in the temple, feeling himself unworthy so much as to lift up his eyes unto heaven. dare he ask that a wife so precious may be spared,—that his guardian angel may delay her upward flight, to linger yet in a vale of tears, that she may trace with him, through that dark vale, the strait path to a promised heaven? the heart of the once proud effingham is broken and contrite now; like the lost coin in the parable, that which was once hidden in the defiling dust of earth is raised again to the light, and the image and superscription of a heavenly king is found to be stamped upon it still.
when clemence awoke from her state of lethargic unconsciousness, the soft breath of spring came wooingly through the casement, sweet with the perfume of violets, and musical with the song of birds. young vincent, pale from recent illness, sat at the foot of her bed, watching, with a face radiant with delight, the first sign of recognition. and whose was the countenance that bent over her with joy more still, but even more intense? whose hand so tenderly clasped hers? whose voice breathed her name in tones of the deepest love? that was a moment whose exquisite bliss repaid the anguish of the past. the darkness of night had indeed rolled away,—the dreary winter was ended; clemence was beginning, even upon earth, to reap the harvest of light and gladness sown for the upright in heart, who have not chosen their portion here.
