Idols in the Heart: A Tale

by A. L. O. E.

With a sickening heart Clemence removed from her jewel-box her husband’s miniature, her mother’s wedding-ring, and the little locket containing her parents’ hair, which had been her bridal-gift from her uncle,—these, at least, she must ever retain; and after a hasty preparation, as if fearful that her resolution might fail her if she should delay, even for an hour, the accomplishment of her design, Clemence glided out of her house with her jewel-case under her cloak.

Rapidly she walked through the streets, like one who dreads observation, drawing her thick black veil closely before her face. The shops in one of the principal thoroughfares of London, which it was her object to visit, were distant from Belgrave Square, and Mrs. Effingham had never before attempted to reach them on foot. She had repeatedly to inquire the road to them, and she did so with a shrinking timidity, which made more than one of her informants watch with an eye of instinctive pity her slight, fragile form, clad in its mourning garb, as it hurried on its onward way.

At length the gay, bright street was reached, noisy with carriages, thronged with pedestrians, offering in its thousand decorated windows temptations for every eye. Clemence had often driven down that street in her own carriage, one of the fairest, the most admired, the most envied of the throng. Now, the bankrupt’s wife dreaded the recognition of any familiar face, as, weary and faint, she entered a magnificent shop, which she had often noticed, in passing, for the brilliant display of jewellery behind its plate glass.

There were several customers in the shop, and Clemence, whose courage was failing her, was almost upon the point of retreating, when the jeweller requested her to take a seat, she should be served in an instant; and Clemence sank wearily upon the proffered chair. She had some time to wait. A young betrothed couple were choosing ornaments at the counter. At another time, the sight of their happiness would have only called forth emotions of pleasure; but the painful contrast between their errand and her own—they coming to purchase, she to part with pledges of tender affection—was so overcoming to Clemence, that when the jeweller at length, after smilingly bowing out his customers, turned to inquire her pleasure, she could scarcely command her voice sufficiently to make her wishes intelligible.

GOING TO SELL THE JEWELS.

The man’s face at once lost its smiling expression. “We sometimes exchange jewels,” said he coldly “but never make purchases in that way.” Like a fluttered bird, Clemence made her escape out of the shop.

Must she try another? Yes, that one on the opposite side of the street. So engaged in her own thoughts was Mrs. Effingham, so abstracted from all that was passing around her, that as she crossed the road she narrowly escaped being thrown down by a passing vehicle. Once more summoning all her resolution, she entered the shop. Here she was at least attended to without delay. A tall, hard-visaged man in spectacles, was ready to receive the lady’s commands. Clemence did not seat herself, but resting her trembling hand on the counter, told her errand, and produced her jewels. The man opened the case, and examined one article after the other, as if mentally calculating its value. That precious guard-ring, first gift of affection; that chain which loved hands had placed round her neck; the diamond brooch selected by her husband; the watch, by which she had counted so many blissful hours,—it seemed to Clemence almost like desecration to see them in the hand of a stranger! It was really a relief to her that a sum so much below their actual value was offered by the jeweller, that she could, without self-reproach, bear her treasures away from the place.

And yet they must—they must be sold! She must not return to her home without success! A third time the drooping, heart-sick Clemence crossed the threshold of a shop, where everything spoke of luxury and wealth. This visit was the most trying of all! The dapper little tradesman behind the counter eyed with a quick and penetrating glance, not only the jewels, but their owner. Clemence read in his curious look, “How came you possessed of such things as these?” The bare idea of suspicion covered the pallid countenance of the youthful lady with a burning glow. It seemed to her as if the first words from the tradesman might be a question as to her own right to the property of which she wished to dispose. He spoke, but to Clemence’s relief it was only to mention terms of purchase. Clemence, who had been tried almost beyond what she could bear, hastily closed with his offer, and again had to encounter that curious, scrutinizing look. Glad, most glad was she to leave the shop and the street, with their bustle and grandeur, far behind her, though the sum which she bore with her as the price of her jewels was less than one-third of what they had originally cost!

“But is the sacrifice sufficient?” Such was the question which Clemence asked herself as, almost sinking from fatigue, she at length regained the well-known precincts of Belgrave Square, and wearily remounted the steps of her magnificent mansion. “Is the sacrifice sufficient?” she repeated, as, hastily throwing off the cloak, whose weight even in that wintry day oppressed her, she sank on the sofa in her own apartment. Could she on so trifling a sum travel to Cornwall, and support Vincent and herself until she could draw her interest in June? It was barely possible that, by the severest economy, she might procure the necessaries of life, but Vincent’s schooling, small as would be its expense—it would be idle to think of that! And was he, of whose talents and progress his father had been so proud, to lose by months of idleness all that he had gained during years of application? Clemence opened her desk, and drew from it her most precious possession—the miniature of her husband. Its diamond setting was even as the admiration and praise of the world which had once gathered around the original of that portrait, whom the same world now scorned and condemned. Would the picture be less precious without it, to her who valued every feature in the likeness beyond all the jewels in Peru? And yet fast fell the tears of the unhappy wife, as she removed from its sparkling encirclement the ivory from which her husband’s eyes seemed to be looking upon her, calm and bright, as in the first happy days of their love! Could such a countenance deceive? Could dishonour ever sit on such a brow? Fervently Clemence pressed to her lips again and again the lifeless miniature, divested of outward adornment, but to its possessor even dearer than ever. Dearer, because there was nothing now but itself to give it value; dearer, because by man it would now be regarded as a worthless thing!—was it not an emblem of the beloved one whose image it bore?