“I did not hear about money—could not think about money,” she replied hoarsely, withdrawing her hand from Lady Selina’s.
“Your delicacy of feeling, your disregard of worldly considerations is noble—is quite in character,” said that lady, with a little touch of sarcasm in her tone; “nevertheless, it must be a great relief to your mind to find that everything is not lost—that, though on a smaller scale, you can still maintain a suitable establishment, still offer a home to those who have dwelt together under this roof.”
Clemence pressed her aching brow with both her hands. “Lady Selina, I cannot think, I cannot realize what has happened, far less form plans for an uncertain future. I must hear from my husband, I must learn our actual position, know the full extent of the ruin which has come upon our house. Of one thing I am certain—certain,” she repeated more earnestly, rising from the sofa as she spoke, “my husband would be the last man to claim or to desire an exemption from the sufferings which may, I fear, fall upon some of his creditors. I feel assured that, when he settled a fortune upon his wife, it was in perfect ignorance of the crash which was so near. Unforeseen events have brought on a crisis, and he will meet it, like himself, with firm courage, unblemished honour, and a conscience free from reproach.”
“She is a greater fool than I thought her,” was Lady Selina’s mental reflection, as she relieved Clemence from her unwelcome presence.
Clemence, notwithstanding her fearless declaration, felt strangely uneasy and anxious. Vincent’s childish words recurred again and again to her mind, “Poverty is no disgrace.” Why should such words give her pain? She feared to question her own heart as to the reason. Clemence wrote a long letter to her friend Mr. Gray, the faithful counsellor of her youth, detailing to him what had occurred, as far as her own knowledge extended, mentioning to him the words of Lady Selina, and asking him, in the absence of her best and dearest guide, to say whether he thought that she could conscientiously avail herself of resources so considerately provided for her before the day of adversity had arrived. Clemence touched tenderly on the subject. Doing so, even in the gentlest manner, pained her like pressure upon a wound. She shrank from writing a word which, even in the most remote way, could convey the slightest imputation upon the conduct of her husband.
The wings of Time sometimes appear to be clogged with lead. How wearily move the hours when anxious sorrow watches the shadow on the dial! Clemence’s prevailing feeling was an intense desire for tidings from her absent lord. If uneasy doubts would arise in her mind, a letter, she felt assured, would remove them. Her husband would make all clear. Whatever had occurred, no fault could rest with him; her loving faith in him was unshaken. Clemence started at every post-knock, and trembled when her room was hastily entered, so nervously was her mind on the watch for tidings.
Louisa was in a state of great depression. The first breath of misfortune was sufficient to lay low the fragile reed, which had no firm support to counterbalance its own weakness. Perhaps there was a secret painful impression on the young girl’s mind that, since God’s first visitation had failed to produce lasting effects, one yet more terrible might be coming upon her. Louisa refused to listen to words of comfort or hope, persisted in viewing everything in the darkest light, and by her tears, complaints, and forebodings, irritated the prouder and firmer spirit of her sister, which was struggling to tread misfortunes under foot, and rise triumphant above them.
On the following day, which was Sunday, neither Lady Selina nor her nieces quitted their dwelling. Those who had attended divine service only to be seen of men, naturally absented themselves from the house of prayer when observation would be painful. But to Clemence, weary and heavy-laden, social worship was a privilege not to be lightly foregone. In the solemn exercises of prayer and praise, she trusted to be raised for a while above the cares and the grief that oppressed her; the jarred and strained chords of her heart could yet be tuned to swell the church’s hymn of thanksgiving. Avoiding mixing with the stream of the congregation of which she had been lately a member, Clemence, accompanied only by Vincent, attended a more distant church.
The preacher’s sermon appeared as if addressed expressly to herself, so closely did Clemence apply it. He spoke of the blessedness of that home which sin and sorrow never can enter, and of the boundless riches of God’s grace, so unlike to the treasures of earth which take to themselves wings and flee away. He dwelt on the glories of the heavenly city, till clouds of present affliction seemed to reflect its distant brightness. He then described the heaven in the heart, which may be experienced by the believer while yet a sojourner in a world of trial, yea, even when plunged into the seven-fold heated furnace of great tribulation,—the consciousness of the presence of an Almighty Friend, of the support of the everlasting arm, of the possession of that unspeakable love which passeth knowledge, and is stronger than death! Tears, but not tears of grief, flowed from the eyes of Clemence as she listened, and her heart seemed able to echo the words of the poet, with which the preacher concluded his address—
“Give what Thou canst, without Thee we are poor—