Clemence rose from her devotions joyous and hopeful, and proceeded at once to do that which she regarded rather as a pleasure than as a duty. Unlocking her little travelling-case, she took out writing materials, and hastily penned a note to her uncle, Captain Thistlewood, the guardian of her orphaned youth, announcing her arrival at her home. Clemence knew how impatiently the letter would be watched for, and how eagerly welcomed by the old sailor; and as she placed within the envelope an enclosure, addressed to the care of her former pastor, she smiled to think how many hearths she would warm, how many boards she would spread in Stoneby, and how many a family would bless her in the village where she counted as many friends as there were poor. “Oh! this is the luxury of being rich!” thought Clemence; and carrying the letter in her hand, with a light step and light heart she descended the staircase. The joy which she felt in sending her remittance was purer and brighter than any which merely personal gratification could have bestowed.
“She’s no more French than I am!” muttered Vincent to himself, as he gazed on her fair brow and clear blue eyes. His prejudices were fast melting away beneath the spell of that sunny smile.
The sound of the gong now summoned the family to a sumptuous repast. Notwithstanding her disposition to be pleased with everything, Clemence, at the head of the table loaded with plate and glittering with crystal, felt her timid misgiving return. It was not so much that the young wife found the unaccustomed presence of powdered servants oppressive, that her new state was irksome to her, and that it seemed as if freedom were exchanged for grandeur; but that, with intuitive perception, she had become aware that her every word and movement were watched and criticized, and that by no friendly eyes. Mr. Effingham was a silent man—that evening he was more silent than usual; Arabella and Louisa sat as if unable to open their lips; the chief burden of the conversation fell upon the young timid woman, whose heart fluttered with the excitement of her new position, and her anxiety to say nothing and do nothing that could possibly shock or offend. Lady Selina, indeed, repeatedly broke the silence which, notwithstanding the efforts of Clemence, frequently fell on the circle; but, whether by design or not, she so directed the conversation as to puzzle and embarrass the bride.
“I think that the estates of the Marquis of Bardston lie near Stoneby.”
“Very near to the village,” replied Clemence.
“Does the picture of the old marchioness by Sir Joshua Reynolds deserve its fame?” inquired Lady Selina. “I have often wished to see it; of course, you have very frequently done so!”
“I was never in the Castle,” answered Clemence; “it is not opened to the public.”
There was something disagreeable to the bride, though she scarcely knew why, in the slight bend of the head and pursing of the lip with which Lady Selina received her straightforward reply. The lady of fashion seemed determined to discourse that evening upon no subject but that of the various connections of persons of rank. Her memory appeared unusually at fault. She could not remember whom Lord Greenallen’s sister had married, or what had been the family name of the Duchess of Dinorben, and was ever referring for information to poor Clemence, who had never looked into a peerage in her life. Mrs. Effingham felt herself painfully ignorant of everything that Lady Selina seemed to think it quite necessary to know, and was heartily glad when, the tedious ceremony of dinner being ended, the party adjourned to the drawing-room.
Vincent was the only one of her new acquaintance with whom Clemence was quite at ease, and she was heartily sorry to find that he was to return to his school early on the morrow, having only come home in order to be introduced to his step-mother. She could rest her hand on his shoulder, and her kind and playful words would call up an answering smile on the face of the boy; but his sisters’ monosyllabic replies to her questions, the marked manner in which they always addressed her as “Mrs. Effingham,” chilled and discouraged the young wife, while she felt an increasing mistrust and almost dread of their polite and dignified aunt. There was, likewise, something repellent to the frank and open nature of Clemence in the flowery compliments, the exaggerated politeness, with which Mademoiselle Lafleur, who joined the circle at tea, received her courteous greeting. Clemence secretly reproached herself for foolish prejudice, but could not shake off a sensation of repulsion. Weary with her journey and the excitement of the meeting, Clemence rejoiced when the long evening closed. She was startled at the sound of her own sigh, as she sat listlessly before her toilet-table; and unconsciously raising her eyes to her mirror, saw reflected there her own pale face, marked with a thoughtful and anxious expression.
“What a child I must be!” exclaimed Clemence half aloud, “to let such trifles weigh upon me—I who have everything to enjoy, everything to be thankful for!” and she struggled, and not unsuccessfully, to throw from her spirit its burden, and to look upon the untried future before her with cheerful confidence and hope. Had Clemence fully on that evening realized the difficulties of her position, her heart would indeed have sunk within her. A youthful servant of the Lord, she stood alone in a house where faith in Him had hitherto been nothing but a name; she had entered a family where every heart had a secret idol set up in its inmost shrine. Clemence looked up to her husband as to one all wisdom and goodness. Mr. Effingham bore in the world a spotless name; he was liberal in his charities, and appeared earnest in his profession of religion. His young wife, with loving, trusting confidence, had twined her heart’s affections around him, as some fair creeper clasps with its tendrils a stately forest tree. No suspicion crossed her mind that any unworthy passion could have place in a heart that she deemed the abode of every virtue—that the tree so goodly to the eye could nourish a destroyer within. With different eyes would Clemence have surveyed all the expensive luxuries of the banker’s mansion had she known—. But we must not anticipate. Clemence was not the first woman, nor will be the last, whose affections have blinded her judgment, whose fond credulity has invested the object of her choice with the noblest and highest qualities of man. Alas! when the cold touch of experience awakens the loving spirit from such a blissful delusion!