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 careworn2, 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 vex3 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, shunning4 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 colloquies5 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 distinguished6 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 enjoyment7, a party of children in a strawberry-bed will succeed much better, I suspect, in finding it, than all our grandee8 guests to-morrow over their turtle, venison, and champagne9. 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 zest10 to the pleasures which wealth may procure11; 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 fixed12, not upon her, but upon the fire, as if watching the little gas-jets which caught fire for a moment, burned vividly13, and then were suddenly extinguished in smoke. But the last word which his wife had uttered struck his ear, and jarred like a discord14 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 instinctively15 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 recurred16 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 malice17 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 alteration18 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 prudence19, 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 motive20, 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 mingling21 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 delightful22 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 profusely23 garnished24 with superlatives than that of mademoiselle had been, it carried on it more of the stamp of sincerity25. 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 portfolio26 were gratifying to the haughty27 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 misery28? What do you much wish for?
Clemence glanced down the page with an amused eye, reading a most heterogeneous29 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 entreaties30, 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,—
“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
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, concord33 may exist even between those whose opinions and tastes are dissimilar; and that,” she added, with a cordial smile, “is what I most ardently34 ‘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 countenance36 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 remarkably37 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 raves38 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 perused39 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 mingled40 wit with blasphemy41, that the brilliancy of his style, like the phosphorescent light which sometimes gleams from corruption42, 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 descended43 at once, with the book in her hand, to Mr. Effingham’s study. “This is no trifling44 matter,” she thought, “to be lightly passed over and forgotten; this is no little personal concern which I should forbear intruding45 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 withhold46 from him the knowledge which I have providentially obtained.”
Mr. Effingham had not that morning gone, as was his wont35, 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 imbued47 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 immortal48 souls, he had quietly left to others. He was, however, full of reverence49 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 mere50 wish. He was as much startled at the idea of infidel doctrines51 being instilled52 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 perilous53 nature of the book than his wife could be, who had known it only by report. Mr. Effingham’s usually placid54 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 concealed55 beneath the velvet56! 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 obstructions57 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, insidiously58 counteracted59 by one with whom they were in daily familiar intercourse60; 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 sterling61 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 penetration62 would be certain to discover faults in an angel; and that Arabella, if not Louisa also, would meet the stranger at first with determined63 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 lighter64 and more joyous65 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 ordeal66 of her grand entertainment should be over.
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1
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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shunning
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的现在分词 ) | |
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colloquies
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| n.谈话，对话( colloquy的名词复数 ) | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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7
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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grandee
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| n.贵族；大公 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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21
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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profusely
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| ad.abundantly | |
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garnished
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| v.给（上餐桌的食物）加装饰( garnish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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heterogeneous
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| adj.庞杂的；异类的 | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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32
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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concord
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| n.和谐；协调 | |
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ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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38
raves
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| n.狂欢晚会( rave的名词复数 )v.胡言乱语( rave的第三人称单数 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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39
perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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40
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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41
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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42
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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43
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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44
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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45
intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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46
withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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47
imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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48
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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49
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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50
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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51
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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52
instilled
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| v.逐渐使某人获得（某种可取的品质），逐步灌输( instill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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54
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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55
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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56
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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57
obstructions
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| n.障碍物( obstruction的名词复数 )；阻碍物；阻碍；阻挠 | |
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58
insidiously
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| 潜在地，隐伏地，阴险地 | |
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59
counteracted
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| 对抗，抵消( counteract的过去式 ) | |
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60
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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61
sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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62
penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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63
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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64
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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65
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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