onday came, and with it a letter from Mr. Effingham, bearing the Dover postmark. How eagerly was it received and torn open! The note was a very brief one, and communicated but a vague idea of the position or feelings of its writer. He was on the point of crossing over to France,—hoped that his stay there might be a brief one,—that necessary forms having been complied with, he might soon be able to return to her who was ever in his thoughts. He trusted that her health had not suffered from the shock of receiving tidings which he had not had the courage to communicate to her himself; and he desired his wife, in the conduct of her affairs, to place implicit confidence in Mr. Mark, and to be guided by the judgment of a man of such experience and worth. This was all,—not even an address given; but such as it was, the letter was a great relief to Clemence. Her mind had formed dark forebodings; she had dreaded that sudden illness might have been the result of Mr. Effingham’s distress of mind, and the cause of his not coming forward personally to meet those whose interests had been confided to his care. She now felt able to enter his study again, that little room consecrated by so many dear recollections, to gather up and arrange any stray papers that might have been left there, that her husband, on his return to England, might find that nothing was missing. How little that room was altered! The fire blazing brightly as ever, the familiar tomes ranged in their accustomed places, the morning’s Times laid on the table, the book beside the desk with half its leaves yet uncut, and the paper-knife marking the place where Mr. Effingham had lately been reading! Clemence tried by an effort of imagination to blot out all remembrance of the last few days, to look upon what had passed as a dream, and to listen for that well-known step which would never be heard on that threshold again! She would not occupy the arm-chair which she had seen so often filled by her husband. One thing was changed—but one; the clock on the mantel-piece, which Mr. Effingham had suffered no one to touch but himself, which had belonged to his father before him, that clock which he had regularly wound on each Saturday night, stood silent, with motionless pendulum,—an emblem of the fortunes of the house.
Vincent followed his step-mother to the study. The boy was restless and sought companionship, but Louisa was too melancholy, and Arabella too irritable to make their society congenial to their brother. Clemence would at that time have greatly preferred being left alone with her own sad musings, but she would not, even by a hint to that effect, drive from her side the only being who clung to her in her sorrow. Vincent was therefore allowed to sit beside her, endeavouring to glean amusement from the Times, while she slowly and sadly pursued her occupation of collecting scattered papers. One struck her eye—its appearance seemed familiar to her; upon examination it proved to be the bill of Madame La Voye—that bill which had cost her such painful self-reproach. It had surely been paid long ago;—no! unreceipted, it lay amongst others! Clemence bit her lip, but at the moment was startled by a vehement exclamation from Vincent.
“What a shame! how dare they write so of papa!”
Clemence caught the paper from his hand. Vincent pointed to one of the leading paragraphs; it commenced thus:—
“We have again to record a great crash in the commercial world, attended with circumstances which force upon our attention the fact that the laws of bankruptcy, as at present constituted, are inadequate to protect the property of the subject.”
Clemence read on, every sentence falling like a drop of glowing metal on her heart; she saw the name most dear to her coupled with duplicity, craft, dishonour!
“We hear on undoubted authority,” said the Times, “that Mr. Effingham has settled a large fortune upon his wife, with whom the bankrupt doubtless looks forward to enjoying in luxurious retirement the spoils of the widow and the orphan. These evasions of law and equity have been of late of such frequent occurrence, that we have learned complacently to behold the giant offender rolling in his carriage, while the meaner felon is consigned to a jail.”
The paper dropped from the hand of the miserable wife. Vincent sprang to her side. “It is not true!” he exclaimed passionately; “it is all nonsense and lies!—it is!—oh, say that it is!”
“Leave me, Vincent! leave me!” gasped Clemence; with an imploring gesture she motioned to the door, and, as soon as her command had been obeyed, threw herself down upon the floor and writhed, as if in convulsions of bodily pain! What physical torture could have equalled the agony of that hour! The anguish caused to a loving and conscientious spirit by the errors of the being most beloved, resembles in nature, and is scarcely exceeded in intensity by that of remorse! To Clemence, her husband’s disgrace was her disgrace; his transgressions seemed even as her own. So closely was she joined to him in heart, that the consciousness of personal blamelessness brought her no comfort—the shadow which had fallen on him ............