even 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?”
“The wild-flowers which you gathered this morning, my darling, in the meadow.”
“Oh, but won’t they all die on the way?”
“We will press them in a book first, to dry them, and then they will look lovely for years.”
“Poor flowers—all crushed down!” sighed little Grace.
“Only preserved,” said Clemence; and her words carried a deeper meaning to herself than that which reached the mind of the child.
“I wish I were rich—very rich!” cried little Grace, after a silent pause.
“And what would my May-blossom do with her riches?”
“I would send a cake—such a cake—to sister!” replied Grace, opening her little arms wide to give an idea of its size; “and it should be sugared all over!”
“Anything else?” inquired Clemence.
“I’d make dear Vincy happy—quite happy. He wants so much to go to college and be a clergyman, like Mr. Gray, and teach all the people to be good; but he says that he has not the money. Mamma, don’t you wish you had plenty of money?”
“No, my love,” replied Clemence, more gravely, parting the golden locks on the brow of her little daughter.
“Martha told me,” said Grace, with the air of one in possession of an important secret—“Martha told me that once you had a grand house, and a carriage, and horses, and servants, and dresses—oh, such fine dresses to wear!”
“Long, long ago,” replied Clemence.
“Was it when you lived with your dear old uncle, who gave you the pretty little locket which always hangs round your neck?”
“No; I lived very happily with him in a cottage not much larger than this.”
Little Grace remained for some moments twirling the white ribbon round her tiny fingers, with a look of thought on her innocent face; then she said reverently,—
“Mamma, did God take away your money?”
“Yes, dearest; in wisdom and love.”
“But if you asked Him—if you prayed very hard—would He not give it all back to you again?”
“I should not dare to pray for it, my Grace; I should not dare even to wish for it again. I have been given blessings so much dearer, so much sweeter”—and she stooped to press a kiss on the soft, fair brow of her child. “God has taught me that what makes His people happy is not wealth, but religion and peace and love. I have had more real joy in this little cottage than I ever knew in my large and beautiful home. But, see! there are your father and brother! Quick, quick—run forward to meet them, or the first kiss will not be yours!”
We turn from the sunshine of Willow Cottage to the shady side of the narrow street in which Lady Selina and her nieces for years have made their abode. How have those years sped with the woman of the world?
They have sped in the constant pursuit of pleasure, grasping at shadows, seeking satisfying joys where such are never to be found; in straining to “keep up appearances,” efforts to dress as well, entertain as well as those whose fortunes greatly exceeded her own; in paying by the self-denial of a month for the ostentatious display of a night; in exchanging rounds of formal visits with acquaintance who would not shed a tear, or forego an hour’s mirth, were she to-morrow laid in her grave. Lady Selina feels her strength decaying, but by artificial aids she attempts to hide the change from others—by wilful delusion from herself. She would ignore sickness, ignore trial, ignore death! And yet, in hours of solitude and weakness, truth, however unwelcome, will sometimes force its way; and those whose all is contained within the hour-glass of Time are constrained to watch the sands ever flowing, to see below the accumulating heap of infirmities, troubles, and cares, and mark above the hollow, inverted cone of ever-lessening pleasures. How miserable, then, is the reflection............