“As, after what has occurred,” said the proud girl, drawing herself up to her full height, “I should have declined sharing a palace with Mrs. Effingham, her society would scarcely allure me to the hovel which she chooses as her place of abode. I shall certainly remain with my aunt.”
But the choice of Louisa was not so readily made. Her heart was drawn towards her step-mother, so gentle and patient in her sorrow; she felt for Clemence’s loneliness and desolation. Louisa could not quite forget the tenderness with which she had been tended through her illness; she could not quite forget how, in the long dreary nights, a gentle watcher had bathed her fevered brow, offered the cooling draught, and spoken words of holy comfort and hope. Her step-mother was connected in her mind with all that her conscience approved as right, her regret for past errors, her resolutions of amendment, her thoughts on religion and heaven. Louisa had sufficient intelligence to see the difference of character between Clemence and her aunt. She could neither love nor trust Lady Selina, as she could the pure-minded and unselfish woman whom her father had chosen as his wife. But if Mrs. Effingham stood in the mind of Louisa as the emblem and the representative of quiet piety, her aunt, on the other hand, seemed that of the world and all its tempting delights. Lady Selina would doubtless remain in London; to stay with her was to partake of its pleasures, to enjoy its dazzling scenes,—to dance, to shine, to see and to be seen. Oh! what magic images of glittering splendour were conjured up before the mind’s eye of Louisa, by the name of a “London season!” And could she give up all this? could she endure to bury herself in dreary Cornwall, with no gaiety, no amusement, no admirers, like some flower doomed to—
“Blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air?”
The idea was intolerable! Not gratitude, esteem, pity, conscience, were sufficient to fortify the poor girl against its terrors. She loved the world—she was of the world. Her idol had been shaken—but destroyed, never! It was resuming its old supremacy in a heart which, though apparently cleansed for a while, had been found empty of that divine faith which overcometh the world! Louisa hesitated, indeed, but not for long. Avoiding looking at her step-mother as she spoke, in a low, faltering voice, she said, “I think—I would rather—remain in London—like my sister.”
Lady Selina cast a triumphant glance at Clemence, and going up to her nieces, embraced them both with many tender expressions, of which they, perhaps, guessed the real value. Mrs. Effingham quietly quitted the room, feeling very desolate and low, and thinking that for her the most welcome home would be one much narrower and much quieter than any cottage dwelling. Just as she was entering her own apartment, Vincent, who had been an excited though silent listener to the preceding conversation, rushed after and overtook her. The boy flung his arms tightly around her neck, exclaiming, “Mother! you and I will stick together through thick and thin!”
Clemence returned the embrace with fervour; she clasped the boy to her aching heart as if she would have pressed him into it, and wept aloud in passionate grief, till almost choked by her convulsive sobs. It was even as the accumulated masses of Alpine snows, melting under the warm sunshine, burst through the barriers which restrain them, and pour their swelling floods into the valleys below. Vincent was almost alarmed at the sudden violence of emotion in one usually so quiet and gentle; but, oh! what a weight of sorrow had been pent up in that burdened heart!
Clemence was relieved by the burst of tears, and, when again alone, seated herself before her desk, and, resting her brow upon her hand, gave herself up to thought. Yes, she had something to live for! That boy, that son of her heart, to him would she devote her life, while the painful separation from his father should last. What Lady Selina had said on the subject of Vincent’s education, now pondered over in solitude, wrought some change in the plans of Clemence. She must give up the idea of renting a cottage at Stoneby, where she could again enjoy the society of dear friends, and return to the occupations which she loved. Clemence could not, with justice to Vincent, undertake his tuition herself, and Mr. Gray was far too busily engaged in his extensive parish to do so. There was a market-town about ten miles from the village, where Clemence well knew that excellent daily tuition at an academy might be secured at a very trifling expense. This determined her course; personal comfort and inclination should not for a moment be weighed against that which might be of such importance to the future prospects of her step-son. Clemence dipped her pen, and wrote an answer to the letter of Mr. Gray. She told him briefly of the part which she had taken in regard to the fortune; declined with deep gratitude his offer of a home; and entreated him, as soon as possible, to secure for her a cottage within walking distance of the academy of M——. Clemence limited the annual rent to a sum which would scarcely have paid for one of the dresses which she had worn in the days of her wealth, and requested that one of the girls from her Sunday school might be engaged as her solitary servant.
The descent into poverty is most painful when one slow step after another is reluctantly taken down the road of humiliation,—at each some cherished comfort mournfully laid aside! Better far to calculate at once the full amount of what must be resigned, put away every superfluity, and resolutely make the plunge! Clemence ended her letter by a reiterated entreaty that her friend might engage the cottage at his earliest convenience, as she yearned to quit London, where every moment brought with it some bitter pang of remembrance.
And now one other task remained to be performed—a task intensely painful. Most thankfully would Clemence have avoided it, or, if it must be fulfilled, have deputed its execution to another. But to whom could the young wife intrust the delicate office of disposing of her jewels? Was it absolutely necessary to part with them at all? Would none of her friends, her numerous acquaintances, assist her at least with a loan? Clemence was sorely tempted to try, and more than once commenced a note to one whom she knew had the means to aid, and whom she hoped might have also the heart; but she never got beyond the first line. Would it be honest to borrow money, which she could hardly hope ever to repay? would it be right, while she was in possession of valuables which might be converted into gold? After all, she could look on the meditated sacrifice as made for her son, her Vincent, the child of her beloved husband, and that would give her courage to make it.