“And does papa suffer it?” exclaimed Vincent.
“Mr. Effingham is infatuated, quite infatuated,” said the lady, apparently addressing the fire and not any one present, and speaking so low, that Vincent had to lean forward in order to catch her accents. “I do not know why it should be—I do not pretend to guess, but he certainly has not been like the same man ever since his second marriage.”
“Papa has grown much graver,” observed Louisa.
“And sadder,” joined in Arabella.
Lady Selina only uttered an “Ah!” with a slight jerk of the head; but what a world of meaning was condensed into the brief exclamation! Compassion for the infatuated husband, contempt for the manœuvring wife, sympathy with the persecuted children. It was the sigh of wisdom and experience over what was wrong in the world in general, and in the Effingham family in particular.
It is no wonder that Vincent was not proof against the contagion of prejudice, hatred, and malice, when entering the scene where they all were rife. He threw himself, heart and soul, into the cause of the insurgents, in the war of independence; and determined, with all the vehemence of boyhood, to oppose his step-mother in everything, and not to be daunted by the “swaggering bully,” whom she had so cunningly brought to London to aid her in tyrannizing over his sisters, and altering all the good old customs of the house.
Clemence sat lonely and heavy-hearted in her own room, her eyelids swollen with weeping. She felt so unwilling to face the family at the approaching meal, that twice her hand was on the bell-rope, to summon a servant to convey the message that, having a severe headache, she would not come down to luncheon. The excuse would have been a true one, for her temples throbbed painfully, and a weight seemed to press on her brain; but a little reflection induced Clemence to change her intention. When a trial is to be faced, the sooner and the more boldly that it is faced the better; the nettle-leaves grasped by a firm hand are less likely to sting than when touched by a timid and shrinking finger. There would be moral cowardice in secluding herself from envious eyes and bitter tongues, which would only serve to encourage malice. But Clemence’s strongest incentive was consideration for her uncle, who might return early, and who must not be left to face the enemy alone; so she washed all trace of tears from her eyes, and descended at the summons of the gong. Clemence was glad to find that Captain Thistlewood was yet out on his exploring expedition.
Lady Selina did not please to appear at table. Mrs. Effingham breathed more freely in her absence. But the meal was a very uncomfortable one, as must ever be the case where hatred and strife are guests at the board. Hardly a word was spoken to Clemence, but many were spoken at her; every effort which she made to commence conversation ended in making her more painfully aware of her position in regard to her husband’s children. Even her meek and quiet spirit might have been roused to anger, had not the recollection of her debt, of the confession of extravagance to be made to Mr. Effingham, rendered her too much dissatisfied with herself to be easily stirred up to indignation against others.
Clemence would willingly have taken an airing in her carriage during the brief hours of the winter’s afternoon—the rapid motion, the freedom from vexatious interruptions, would have been welcome to her harassed mind; but Lady Selina was certain to require a drive, and, as usual, it was yielded up to her by Mrs. Effingham, rather as a matter of right than of courtesy. Clemence contented herself with a rapid, solitary walk in the square.
The air was intensely cold, but its freshness braced and invigorated her spirits, and helped to restore them to their wonted healthy tone. The dark clouds which flitted across the sky, the leafless trees whose dark branches waved in the gale, in their very wintry dreariness spoke to the young heart of hope. Those clouds would soon be succeeded by sunshine. Spring would clothe those bare boughs with beauty, the piercing blast would change to the soft zephyr beneath the genial influence of a milder season! And were not bright days in store for herself! Clemence struggled to throw off her depression, made earnest resolutions, breathed silent prayers, and determined not yet to despair even of conquering hatred by the power of gentleness, and prejudice by the strength of patience.