CHAPTER XXII
COMING DOWN.
We will now change our scene, and pass over the events of more than a fortnight—a most weary fortnight to Clemence, who pined in vain for another letter from Mr. Effingham, and who dreaded that, by obeying what she considered to be the call of justice and conscience, she had drawn upon herself the displeasure of him whom she most desired to please.
The creditors, grateful for the noble disinterestedness which had preserved to them something from the wreck of their fortunes, were disposed to treat the bankrupt’s wife with consideration and indulgence. She might remain in her present dwelling as long as it should suit her convenience to do so. But to Clemence, Belgrave Square was now a more intolerable abode than the wastes of Spitzbergen might have proved; to escape from it was to quit a prison, and she hastened her departure accordingly.
Lady Selina was also on the look-out for another abode, and spent the greater part of her time in house-hunting with Arabella; Louisa was seldom of the party, as she shrank from exertion, and considered herself yet too delicate to be exposed to the wintry air. During the fortnight before Clemence left London, Louisa was often her companion, and many a gentle word of counsel from the step-mother, whose misfortunes had rendered her dearer, sank into the poor girl’s heart. Lady Selina, whose pride was now undergoing perpetual mortifications—whose present occupation made her more bitterly feel the change in her fortunes, and more bitterly hate “the scrupulous idiot whose folly had plunged her whole family into distress,” was so irritable and peevish, that Louisa sometimes asked herself whether, even in a worldly point of view, her choice had been a wise one. She parted from Clemence with many tears, and with many promises of remembrance;—like Orpah, she could weep for her Naomi,—but, like Orpah, she turned back to her idols.
It is a bright wintry evening. The orb of the sun is just resting on a distant hill, and his reflected beams are lighting up the windows of a small cottage with a ruddy gleam; the abode itself, however, has a lonely and rather desolate air. It stands on an embankment which overlooks a railway whose straight dark lines form no picturesque object to the view, disappearing in the blackness of a tunnel which pierces a hill to the left. That hill, with its bare outline, entirely shuts out from sight the town of M——, distant about a mile from the spot. There is no appearance of any human habitation near, except this solitary little brick cottage, perched like a sentinel on the embankment, but turning its back to the railway, its front to the road, like one who prefers old friends to new, having probably been erected before the line was projected. The lone abode has a small, uncultivated garden in front, surrounded by a straggling fence, through whose sundry gaps an active child could easily force his way—from which a foot-path, seldom trodden, and green with moss, runs into the narrow road which leads to the town of M——.
There is, certainly, little to attract in the outward appearance of the dwelling, and within we shall find it furnished in the most plain and homely style. No carpet adorns the floor, no curtain breaks the straight line of the windows; but the floor itself is spotlessly clean, the bright windows exclude none of the sunbeams, and a cheerful fire diffuses kindly warmth through the little white-washed parlour. The deal table is spread with a snowy cloth, and heaped with little dainties—nuts, oranges, and apples—brought by Mr. Gray in a hamper carefully packed by his wife. A rosy-cheeked girl, about fifteen years old, is for the third time this day busily dusting the rush seats of the chairs, and altering their positions, so as to show them off to the best advantage. She stops in her employment every few minutes to run into the miniature kitchen and watch whether the chicken, likewise provided by Mrs. Gray, duly revolves before the fire. There are eggs, bacon, and cheese on the dresser, all produced from the Stoneby hamper, and the young servant looks with admiration on her own preparations for the feast.
A proud, rich, and happy girl Martha Jones feels herself this day to be! Is it not wondrous promotion to be sole servant to such a lady as Mrs. Effingham,—to take the place of so many footmen dressed more dashingly than militia officers,—a housekeeper who, as she has heard, looks much grander than Mrs. Gray—and a bevy of fine London maids! And a whole sovereign every quarter! is not that wealth to one who has never touched a gold piece in her life? Can any service be more delightful than that of sweet, gentle “Miss Clemence,” who has always a kind word for every one, and never willingly gives trouble or pain! Martha envies the lot of no queen as she cheerfully goes about her work, the joyousness of her blithe young heart often breaking forth into song.
R-r-r-r-r! with a roar a train rushes past, and vanishes into the dark chasm of the tunnel, before the cottage has ceased to tremble or the windows to rattle with the vibration! Martha, unaccustomed to the sound, starts as if she were shot, then bursts into a merry laugh.