Effingham called aloud. The dreary arches resounded with the much-loved name; their hollow echoes were the only reply. There! surely there is some object dimly seen through the gloom,—a dark mass lying straight before him! With one bound Effingham is beside it, on his knees, trembling like an aspen, then sobbing like a child! That is no crushed and mangled form that he clasps; cold, indeed, and still, it lies in his arms, but there is breath on the lip and pulsation in the heart. “She lives! God be praised, she lives!”
Yes, she lives; but the miseries and terrors of the past have shattered the health of Clemence Effingham. Borne by her husband back to the cottage, for weeks she remains helpless, unconscious, hovering on the brink of eternity—while the lesson of penitence, submission, humility, is branded as by fire on the heart of her lord. It is now that the world appears to Effingham, even as it may appear to us all in the light of the last great day:—its treasures, dross; its distinctions, bubbles; its pleasures, a vanishing dream. Now, by the side of his suffering wife, Effingham prays as he prayed when a boy over the grave of a cherished parent; he bows at the foot of the Cross, even as the publican bent in the Temple, feeling himself unworthy so much as to lift up his eyes unto heaven. Dare he ask that a wife so precious may be spared,—that his guardian angel may delay her upward flight, to linger yet in a vale of tears, that she may trace with him, through that dark vale, the strait path to a promised heaven? The heart of the once proud Effingham is broken and contrite now; like the lost coin in the parable, that which was once hidden in the defiling dust of earth is raised again to the light, and the image and superscription of a heavenly King is found to be stamped upon it still.
When Clemence awoke from her state of lethargic unconsciousness, the soft breath of spring came wooingly through the casement, sweet with the perfume of violets, and musical with the song of birds. Young Vincent, pale from recent illness, sat at the foot of her bed, watching, with a face radiant with delight, the first sign of recognition. And whose was the countenance that bent over her with joy more still, but even more intense? whose hand so tenderly clasped hers? whose voice breathed her name in tones of the deepest love? That was a moment whose exquisite bliss repaid the anguish of the past. The darkness of night had indeed rolled away,—the dreary winter was ended; Clemence was beginning, even upon earth, to reap the harvest of light and gladness sown for the upright in heart, who have not chosen their portion here.
CHAPTER XXVI
A CONTRAST.
Seven years have flowed on their silent course since the events recorded in the last chapter took place, and we will again glance at Clemence Effingham in the same humble abode. Its aspect, however, is so greatly altered, that at first we shall scarcely recognize it. Its size has been enlarged, though not considerably, and the rich blossoming creepers have mantled it even to the roof, reversing the image of the poet, by “making the red one green,” and rendering the dwelling an object of beauty to the eye of every passing traveller. The little garden is one bed of flowers, radiant with the fairest productions of the spring. If we enter the fairy abode, we find ourselves in a sitting-room which, though small, is the picture of neatness and comfort. A refined taste is everywhere apparent; and there are so many little elegant tokens of affection—framed pictures, worked cushions, and vases filled with bright and beautiful flowers—that we could rather fancy that one of earth’s great ones, weary of state, had chosen this for a rural retreat, than that stern misfortune had driven hither a bankrupt and his ruined family.
Clemence, looking scarcely older than when she left her first, splendid abode—for peace and joy seem sometimes to have power to arrest the changing touch of Time—is seated at the open door. Perhaps she sits there to enjoy the soft evening breeze which so gently plays amongst her silky tresses, or she is watching for the return of her husband and Vincent from their daily visit to M——. Effingham, through the exertions of Mr. Gray, has procured a small office in the town—one which, some years ago, he would have rejected with contempt, but the duties of which he now steadily performs, thankful to be able, by honest effort, to earn an independence, however humble. Vincent still pursues his studies at the academy, paying his own expenses by private tuition, and is regarded as the most gifted scholar that M—— has ever been able to boast of.
Clemence is not alone—a lovely little golden-haired girl is beside her, helping, or seeming to help her mother to fasten white satin bows upon a delicate piece of work, so light and fragile in fabric that it might have appeared woven by fairies. It is a wedding gift for Louisa, and will be dearly valued by the bride.
“And, mamma dear,” said the child, looking up into the smiling face of Clemence, “is there not something that I could send to sister too?”