The interview it is unnecessary to describe. From the first hour that the housekeeper had discovered that she had not a mere puppet to deal with, that her mistress could overlook accounts and detect inaccuracies, from that hour she had made up her mind that the same house could not hold them both. Mrs. Ventner had plundered enough from her master, during Lady Selina’s careless reign, to make her, as she believed, independent; and, knowing that her books would not bear the close scrutiny which had probably been only postponed till the party should be over, and perhaps alarmed by the tidings which had now spread through the house that mademoiselle had been dismissed at a moment’s notice, she resolved to avoid sharing the same fate by anticipating it, and gave her young mistress warning.
Clemence received the communication, to outward appearance, with great composure, but her spirits were fluttered and her mind oppressed; and when she had sought the quiet of her own room, she sat for some time in an attitude of listless thought, before remembering to examine the contents of the envelopes which she had carried unopened in her hand.
Only bills—uninteresting bills; and yet not so uninteresting neither, or there would not be that slight tremble in the fingers that grasp them, or that faint line on the fair brow so smooth but a minute before. These are the milliner’s and dressmaker’s bills; and the courage of Clemence is failing her, as she glances down the long line, and sums up the amount again and again, with ever-lessening hope that there may be some error in the calculation. Clemence had no fixed allowance assigned her; but her husband, soon after their marriage, had replenished her slender purse with a sum so large, that it had appeared to her almost inexhaustible. Clemence had a generous heart, and loved to give with a liberal hand. She had expended money very freely upon others, before becoming aware how much her personal expenses were now likely to exceed the narrow limits within which they had hitherto been restrained. She had, however, reserved what she had hoped would be sufficient to defray the two bills now before her, the only ones yet unpaid. But the young girl, brought up in rural seclusion and ignorance of the fashionable world, had formed a most incorrect estimate of rich velvet dresses, and mantillas trimmed with costly fur, handkerchiefs edged with the delicate productions of Mechlin or Brussels—beautiful trifles, upon which luxury lavishes her gold so freely, and which yet contribute so little to actual enjoyment. Clemence had little more than sufficient money left to clear her debt to the milliner; Madame La Voye’s heavy bill lay before her, a weight upon her conscience as well as her spirits.
“What will Vincent think—my noble, generous-hearted husband—when he knows of my folly and selfish extravagance? Not three months married, and already in debt, deeply in debt—in debt for the mere vanities of dress! Oh! he never would have deemed his wife capable of acting so unworthy a part. How shall I confess to him that his liberality has led me into such extravagance—that his trusting love has met with such a return! And he has been looking anxious and careworn of late; the thought has even crossed my mind that business concerns may not be prospering—that he may be uneasy as regards his affairs. Oh! if it should be so, and if I—vain, weak, thoughtless—should have added, to his cares instead of lightening them!” The idea was to Clemence almost unbearable; bitter self-reproach added its keen pang to those of anxious care and wounded feeling; and it was some time before she could calm her agitated spirits, or look her difficulties fairly in the face.
When Clemence quitted her apartment, she was suddenly met on the staircase by young Vincent, who had reached home about an hour previously, though, absorbed in her own painful reflections, she had not noticed the sound of an arrival. A joyful exclamation of welcome was on her lips, but her first glance at the face of the boy was sufficient to check its utterance. Giving her a look, in which dislike, scorn, and defiance were mingled, Vincent brushed past his step-mother without saying a word. And this was the son whom her heart had learned already to love—the son on whom she had built such hopes—in whose countenance she had traced such a resemblance to his father—who bore his name, and, as she trusted, would bear his character—the only member of her husband’s family who had given her anything approaching to a welcome. The disappointment came at a moment when the spirit of Clemence was wounded by unkindness and depressed by self-reproach. This last drop of bitterness made her cup overflow. She returned to her own room with a hurried step, and throwing herself on her sofa, buried her face in her hands, and gave way to a burst of tears.
CHAPTER IX
OPPOSITION SIDE.
“Well, Vincent, you have returned to a strange house; strange doings have there been during your absence.” Such were the words with which Arabella had greeted her young brother, when, on his first arrival, he had burst into the drawing-room, with all the impatient joy of a boy just emancipated from school.
“You’ll hardly believe what has happened,” said Louisa.