rabella marked with secret satisfaction on the following morning the weary looks of her youthful step-mother; she regarded them as a favourable token of her own success in what she called “the war of independence.” Following up what she considered to be her advantage, Arabella treated Mrs. Effingham at breakfast with marked discourtesy and neglect; would not even reply to her morning salutation, but preserved a proud silence throughout the whole of the meal. Clemence was pained by her manner, but outwardly took no notice of it. In the afternoon, to the joy of his wife, Mr. Effingham returned to his home. The quick eye of affection soon detected that he looked graver, more thoughtful and careworn, than before he had quitted London. Doubtless he was wearied by his journey, and with tender consideration Clemence attended to everything that might promote his comfort. “I will vex him with none of my own little troubles,” was her inward resolution; “if clouds will gather without, all must be sunshine for him at least within his own little home-circle.”
So, when they were alone together, Clemence again assumed the gaiety of a child, and, shunning painful themes, amused her husband by a description of the little housewifely devices and arrangements which she had formed during his absence, especially in reference to her first dinner party. She told him how she had planned this, and discovered that, during long and serious colloquies with Mrs. Ventner; she made him laugh at her own blunders and mistakes, but assured him of her resolve that, in the face of all difficulties, her first entertainment should prove “un grand succès!”
“And yet, after all, Vincent,” she exclaimed, taking his hand within both her own, “I do not think that I was ever intended to play a distinguished part in the great world! All these elaborate preparations for a few hours’ amusement seem, to my unsophisticated mind, like making an iron strong-box to enclose a bubble. We take every precaution to prevent accident—rack invention to make our pleasure secure—fasten it in with golden padlock and key;—in a short space we look in to see what has become of it, and lo! the bubble has vanished into thin air, or,” she added, laughing, “been metamorphosed into a heap of ugly bills! If what we seek in entertaining be simply to give enjoyment, a party of children in a strawberry-bed will succeed much better, I suspect, in finding it, than all our grandee guests to-morrow over their turtle, venison, and champagne. I know that I, for one, would much rather lead the party amongst the strawberries. I should hardly find courage to sit at the head of that formidable table, between an erudite lord and a satirical baronet, but for remembering who presides at the other end. O Vincent! how little have outward circumstances to do with real, solid enjoyment! Your presence gives an interest and zest to the pleasures which wealth may procure; but that presence would suffice to make me happy even in the midst of poverty.”
The thoughts of Mr. Effingham had wandered while Clemence was speaking; his eyes were fixed, not upon her, but upon the fire, as if watching the little gas-jets which caught fire for a moment, burned vividly, and then were suddenly extinguished in smoke. But the last word which his wife had uttered struck his ear, and jarred like a discord upon it.
“Poverty!” he repeated quickly, “you never will, never can know it. I have just settled sixty thousand pounds on you, Clemence, in case—in case of anything happening to me.”
Clemence raised her head, and silently thanked him by a look of grateful love, then pressed his hand to her lips. Could Mr. Effingham have read the thought which passed through his young wife’s mind, he would have seen it instinctively form itself into a prayer that she never might survive her beloved husband to benefit by this new proof of his affection.
The long tête-à-tête held in the study filled Arabella’s mind with considerable alarm. Louisa’s warning recurred to her with unpleasant vividness, and she dwelt on the idea until she became certain that her step-mother would try to influence her father against her, and perhaps act the part of the cuckoo nestling towards the unfortunate little hedge-sparrows.
Notwithstanding the pride which made her “defy the malice of any low-born intruder,” Arabella’s relief was considerable when, on Mr. and Mrs. Effingham rejoining the family, not even her jealous suspicion could detect the slightest alteration in her father’s manner towards her. “She has not complained of me, after all,” thought Arabella. “Well, that is more than I expected.” She might have added, “More than I deserved.”
It was, perhaps, some slight feeling of obligation to Clemence for her forbearance, or, more probably, a little natural prudence, that now occasioned an improvement in the demeanour of the two girls towards Mrs. Effingham, though Arabella never dreamed of stooping to offer an apology for her former impertinence. Clemence rejoiced at the change, though she doubted its motive, and, by cordial kindness and winning attention, sought to follow up her advantage. After breakfast the next morning, Clemence, laying her hand affectionately on the shoulder of Louisa, proposed that she should accompany her to her Parnassus, as she playfully called the school-room. Mademoiselle Lafleur had gone for a few weeks to spend her Christmas holidays with some friends, and Mrs. Effingham looked upon the time of her absence as a favourable opportunity to draw her husband’s daughters more closely to her by mingling more in their occupations and amusements. Clemence was also anxious to be better acquainted with their usual routine of life; for the more she had seen and known of their governess, the more she distrusted her as a guide of youth.
“I think that this room would be more comfortable with curtains,” observed Clemence; “and you really require a nice little book-case on this table. What a delightful piano!” and she ran her fingers lightly over the keys. “Louisa, you and I must have many a duet together; I do so delight in music.”
Then the drawings of Arabella were examined; and if the praise of Clemence was less profusely garnished with superlatives than that of mademoiselle had been, it carried on it more of the stamp of sincerity. Mrs. Effingham had a correct eye, and a taste for art, though she had had little opportunity of cultivating it; and the pleasure and interest with which she looked over the portfolio were gratifying to the haughty Arabella.
“And what may this beautiful book be?” inquired Clemence, laying her hand upon a volume bound in pink and gold.
“That is my album,” replied Louisa; “it is to be filled with original poetry. I hope that you will write in it some day, Mrs. Effingham;” and as Clemence smiled and shook her head, Louisa added, “You will at least answer the three questions at the end of the book;” and she turned over rapidly to the place where, at the head of three separate columns, were written three sentences: What is happiness? What is misery? What do you much wish for?
Clemence glanced down the page with an amused eye, reading a most heterogeneous collection of descriptions of the various pleasures and pains of mankind. She needed not the initials at the end of each written opinion to guess who had penned to the three questions the following replies:—
Distinction; Obscurity; A Name.—A. E.
A Fancy-ball; Small-pox; An Opera-box.—L. E.
“I must have you write, I am so curious to know what you think!” exclaimed Louisa, dipping a pen in the bronze ink-stand which stood on the table.
Clemence had neither the affectation which requires urgent entreaties, nor the vanity which refuses to do anything which it is not certain to do well. She reflected for a few seconds, then under the questions—What is happiness? What is misery? What do you much wish for? wrote,—
Unison; Discord; Harmony.
“I see little variety in unison and harmony,” said Arabella coldly; “it is what papa would call a distinction without a difference.”
“Does it seem so to you?” replied Mrs. Effingham. “I tried to condense into three words the sentiment contained in the verse,—
‘Judge not thy differing brother, nor in aught
Condemn; his prayer and thine may rise above,
Though mingling not in unison of thought,
Yet blending in the harmony of love.’
We cannot have here below that perfect unison in all things which will form part of the happiness of heaven; but harmony, peace, concord may exist even between those whose opinions and tastes are dissimilar; and that,” she added, with a cordial smile, “is what I most ardently ‘wish for.’”
“Fire and water can never agree together,” muttered Arabella to herself, in a tone too low to reach the ear of her step-mother, though Clemence saw the expression on the proud girl’s face, which needed no words to convey its meaning. Not choosing to take open notice of the look, Mrs. Effingham turned to another part of the book, in which selections of poetry were written in various hands. One brief piece arrested her eye (it was written in the French language), and an unwonted shade of displeasure passed over her countenance as she read it.
“This is worse than levity,” observed Clemence very gravely; “how could such lines have found entrance into your book?” And turning the leaf, she marked the name “Antoinette Lafleur” at the end of the piece.
“Oh! mademoiselle calls that a jeu d’esprit! She thinks it remarkably clever; but she did not compose it herself,” added Louisa quickly, for she met Clemence’s glance of indignant surprise; “she copied it out of this book; it is a book that she raves about.”
“Have you ever read it?” inquired Mrs. Effingham.
“Just parts of it. Mademoiselle only lent it to us last week; but she says that it is the first book in the language.”
“I have heard of it, though I have never perused it, never seen it before,” said Clemence, retaining the volume in her grasp. She knew it to be the work of a famous infidel writer, who so mingled wit with blasphemy, that the brilliancy of his style, like the phosphorescent light which sometimes gleams from corruption, gave strange attraction to opinions repugnant alike to morality and religion.
Clemence made no further observation to her step-daughters on the subject while she remained in the school-room; but on quitting it she descended at once, with the book in her hand, to Mr. Effingham’s study. “This is no trifling matter,” she thought, “to be lightly passed over and forgotten; this is no little personal concern which I should forbear intruding on the attention of my husband. This unhappy woman may for years have been undermining the principles of his daughters, and I should wrong him were I to withhold from him the knowledge which I have providentially obtained.”
Mr. Effingham had not that morning gone, as was his wont, to his banking-house in the city. Clemence found him in his study, and with a few words to explain where and how she had discovered it, she placed the poisonous work of the infidel author before him.
Mr. Effingham had been a careless, although an affectionate father. With his family, as with his household, he had been content to believe that all was right, if he saw nothing very glaringly wrong. He had been imbued deeply with the idea that making money was the main business of man’s life; and the regulation of his establishment, the education of his children, the training of immortal souls, he had quietly left to others. He was, however, full of reverence for religion; he wished his children to be brought up in the same, though his efforts to secure that end had not gone far beyond the mere wish. He was as much startled at the idea of infidel doctrines being instilled into the unsuspicious minds of his young daughters, as if he had seen a serpent coiling beside the pillow on which they were sleeping. He was more aware of the perilous nature of the book than his wife could be, who had known it only by report. Mr. Effingham’s usually placid nature was roused into stern indignation.
 
THE FRENCH BOOK.
“Never shall that woman set her foot across my threshold again!” he exclaimed, striking his hand upon the volume. “I have never liked her—never felt confidence in her; with her soft, cat-like manner, she always gave me the impression of claws being concealed beneath the velvet! Write to her at once, Clemence, and dismiss her; I will give you a cheque to enclose. And send away that detestable book; the only fit place for it is the back of the fire!”
Clemence obeyed, and with a thankful heart. It seemed to her that by the dismissal of Mademoiselle Lafleur, one of the heaviest obstructions in her own path had been suddenly and unexpectedly removed. She had felt it almost a hopeless endeavour to influence her step-daughters for good, while her efforts were secretly, insidiously counteracted by one with whom they were in daily familiar intercourse; yet without some definite cause, some obvious reason, Clemence would have shrunk from dismissing the governess chosen by Lady Selina, and favoured by her nieces. So bold a step would be certain to raise such a storm! The imagination of the youthful step-mother now rapidly built up for itself a bright castle in the air, founded on the hope that mademoiselle’s place might be supplied by some woman of high principles and sterling worth, who would go hand in hand with herself in every plan for improvement. Clemence did not blind her eyes to the fact that her own unpopularity would almost assuredly be shared by any governess whom she might select; that Lady Selina’s penetration would be certain to discover faults in an angel; and that Arabella, if not Louisa also, would meet the stranger at first with determined dislike. But at Clemence’s age hope is strong; and one difficulty overcome seems an earnest that all others will be removed. Young Vincent, too, was expected home the next day, and Clemence looked forward with pleasure to a meeting with one in whom she saw the image of his father. Her spirit felt lighter and more joyous than it had done ever since her first cold reception in Belgrave Square.
Mrs. Effingham despatched her letter to Mademoiselle Lafleur, after showing it to her husband for his approval; but it was resolved, by his advice, to say nothing on the subject to the family till the ordeal of her grand entertainment should be over.