The Barbadoes Girl | Page 5

the preference, for her heart swelled alike with pride and sorrow; she moved towards the same place, and sought, in the bustle of the moment, to divert the painful feeling which oppressed her.
In a few moments, Mr. Harewood was heard to shut the library-door; and as, of course, he might be expected to re-enter very soon, and would now be much nearer to her than he had been, and would certainly adopt some more decided kind of conduct and language towards her, Matilda became again extremely desirous of knowing what he really had said about her, and she two or three times essayed to speak; but a little remaining modesty, which was nearly all the good which her unhappy education had left her, prevented her, until she found that she had no time beyond the present instant left for satisfying her curiosity on so important a point, when, in a considerable flutter of spirits, she whispered to Ellen, but in a voice sufficiently articulate to be heard by others--"Pray what did your papa say of me?"
"That you were very much to be pitied."
"Pitied! Pray what am I to be pitied for?"
Ellen blushed very deeply: she could not answer a question which called down confusion on the head of her who asked it--one, too, whom she was inclined to love, and whose petulance towards herself, however unprovoked, she had already forgiven. She looked wistfully in the face of her mamma, who replied for her--"We all think you are much to be pitied, because you are evidently a poor, little, forlorn, ignorant child, without friends, and under the dominion of a cruel enemy, that renders you so frightful, it is scarcely possible for even the most humane people to treat you with kindness, or even endure you."
Matilda involuntarily started up, and examined herself in the looking-glass.--"If I had happened to be your own daughter, ma'am," she said, crying again, "you would not have thought me ugly; but because I come from Barbadoes, you don't like me; and it is cruel and wicked to treat me so. But I will go back--I will--I will."
"I wish most sincerely you had never come, for it is painful to me to witness the folly and sin you are guilty of; but, since you are here, I will endeavour to bear with you, until I have found a good school to send you to. If you would give yourself time to consider, you would know that the enemy I spoke of is your own temper, which would render even perfect beauty hideous; you know very well that I received you with the greatest kindness, and that you have outraged that kindness. But I can forgive you, because I see that you are a silly child, who fancies herself of importance; whereas children, however they may be situated, are poor dependent creatures."
Matilda answered only by a scornful toss of her head, and uttering the word--"Dependent!"
"Edmund," said Mrs. Harewood, taking no notice of her insolent look, "you are a strong healthy boy, forward in your education, capable of reflection, and decidedly superior, not only in age, but wisdom, to any other in the room; answer me candidly, as if you were speaking to a boy like yourself--Do you feel it possible so to conduct yourself, that, if you were left alone in the world, you could be happy and independent?"
"My dear mamma," said Edmund, "you must be laughing at me; a pretty figure I should cut, if I were to set up for a man, without any one to advise me how to act, to tell me when I was wrong, and to manage every thing for me! how could I do right without my papa, or some proper guardian? and how could I be happy without you, mamma?"
As Edmund spoke, he threw his arms round his mother; and the others followed his example, saying--"No, no, we could do nothing without you and dear papa; pray do stay with us, and make us good."
As they spoke, the tears were in their eyes, and Matilda was affected: she remembered the tenderness of her own mother, and how often she had turned a deaf ear to her expostulations. She was convinced that these children, at this very time, enjoyed a sweeter pleasure than she had ever experienced from the gratification of her desires, and she even longed to confess her folly, and gain her share of Mrs. Harewood's caresses; but pride still struggled in her heart; and though her reason was convinced of the truth, that children are indeed dependent on their friends for all that renders life valuable, yet her temper still got the better, and she resolutely held her tongue, though she ceased to look haughty and ill-humoured.
CHAPTER III.
This interesting display of natural feelings was interrupted by the hasty