“That sum is settled on Mrs. Effingham; no one will be able to deprive her of that.” Mr. Mark’s manner was cold and dry, and he soon afterwards closed the interview, leaving Lady Selina in a state of no small excitement and perplexity.
“Clever man of the world, Mr. Effingham,” she said to herself, as soon as she found herself alone; “I should hardly have given him credit for the tact to save such a sum out of the wreck. And all settled upon Mrs. Effingham!”—she bit her lip with vexation. “I wish that it had been disposed of in any other manner. Sixty thousand pounds! The interest of that will be—let me see—enough to keep a good house, a carriage. It is much more than she had ever a right to expect. We must not part company, after all. The weak little creature will never be able to manage by herself; and it will suit my convenience better for the family to keep together. Yes,” soliloquized the earl’s daughter, resting her chin on her hand in an attitude of thought, “it would be folly under these circumstances to part. I must change my tactics a little. I must make her feel me necessary; there must be no division. If I had ever had a suspicion of the turn which affairs would take, I would have played my cards very differently with Clemence Effingham.”
Regard for self-interest was striving against prejudice and pride, and, as often happens in hostilities of a more extended nature, the war was ended by a compromise, or rather a treaty of alliance. In a few minutes Lady Selina was gently tapping at Mrs. Effingham’s door.
Clemence appeared seated at her little writing-table, pale but tearless. Louisa was weeping beside her. Vincent, standing a little apart, was repeating to himself half aloud, “Poverty is no disgrace,” as one who is determined to face the enemy with resolution. It is possible, however, that poverty presented itself to the mind of the boy as little beyond exemption from going to school, and was, therefore, no great trial of his youthful philosophy. Lady Selina motioned to Louisa and her brother to quit the room, and then seating herself on the sofa close to Clemence, with strange, unwonted show of tenderness, laid her hand on that of the young wife, which lay cold and impassive on the cushion beside her.
“Dear Mrs. Effingham, we are truly partners in sorrow; for, believe me, my share in this trial is no light one,” and the lady heaved a deep sigh.
Clemence remained silent. That Lady Selina grieved for her she could not for a moment believe; but it was possible that even that cold, worldly heart might cherish a regard for her husband. How could it indeed be otherwise, after such long, intimate acquaintance with one who possessed such power to attract to himself the affections of all who knew him? Such a thought was quite sufficient to prevent the gentle wife from repelling the sympathy, such as it might be, even of her who had hitherto acted the part of an enemy. It would, however, have been hypocrisy to have accepted it with any warmth of gratitude. The pressure of Lady Selina’s thin fingers was not returned, and the eyes of Clemence remained bent upon the floor.
“But, dear Mrs. Effingham,” resumed Lady Selina, “this trial has alleviations—great alleviations.”
In an instant the blue eyes were riveted on the countenance of the speaker with an expression of hope. “Alleviations! Then you know where he is,—you have tidings—”
“None, none,” replied the lady sadly; “but is it not a comfort to think that your beloved husband, even under the heavy pressure of adversity, thought and cared for his family with a foresight which does him such honour? Mr. Mark, of course, informed you that the sixty thousand pounds settled upon you by Mr. Effingham are safe; the creditors cannot lay a finger upon them.”
Lady Selina watched the effect of her words. A bright flush suffused the countenance of Clemence, rising even to her temples, and then suddenly retreating, left it even more pallid than before.