The Mothers Recompense, Volume I. | Page 3

it consisted of ten or twelve closely-written pages, in which I had so
magnified my feelings of discontent and unhappiness, that any one
must have fancied I had not one single blessing left. I was folding and
preparing to seal it, when mamma entered my room. I must tell you that
as yet I had not had one reproof from her lips, though I am quite sure I
deserved it long before; I used to see her look very grieved at any burst
of petulance from me, but she had never spoken on the subject. I almost
trembled when she appeared, for I knew that morning Miss Harcourt
had said she must inform her of Mons. Deville and Signor Rozzi's
continued complaints. Without entering on that subject, however, she
sat down by me, and with one of her own sweet smiles, which

reproached me a great deal more than words, she asked me if I really
were going to seal and send that long letter of confidence to you
without having shown or told any part of it to her. She might well ask,
dear Mary, for I had never written a line before which I had kept from
her; but my conscience told me she would not, could not approve of
this, and therefore I certainly did wish I could have sent it without
telling her anything about it. What deceit, too! I hear you exclaim. Yes,
dear Mary; and before this tale of shame is over, you will see still more
clearly how one fault makes many. I did not answer her question, but
remained sulkily silent.
"Will my Emmeline think me a harsh intruder on her private thoughts,
if I say I cannot let this letter go till I have seen at least some parts of its
contents?" she said very mildly, but so firmly I had no power to resist
her; and when she asked if I would not, as I always did, read her some
portions, I answered, pettishly, if she read any she might as well read
all. She looked deeply grieved, and my heart painfully smote me the
moment the words were said; but I was too proud at that moment to
show any marks of contrition, and all the time she was reading I
continued working myself up to increased ill-humour.
"Are you indeed so very unhappy, my dear Emmeline?" were the only
words mamma said, as she laid down, the last sheet and looked in my
face, with a tear trembling in her eye. I turned away, for I felt too
irritated and cross to give way to the emotion I always feel when I see
her grieved, and I was determined not to answer. "And do you prefer,"
she continued, "seeking the sympathy of a young girl like yourself to
that of a mother, who has always endeavoured not only to sympathise
with, but to soothe the sorrows of her children?" Still I would not
answer, and she added, mildly, "Do you not think, Emmeline, Mary
would have been better pleased if you had written to her rather in a
lighter strain? do you not think, if you were to try and shake off these
painful fancies, you could write another and less desponding letter--one
that I might give you my full and free permission to send, which, sorry
as I am to say it, I cannot with this?"
Mild as were her words and manner, the import of what she said put the

finishing stroke to my ill-temper. "If I may not write as I like, I will not
write at all," I passionately exclaimed, and seizing the sheet nearest to
me tore it asunder, and would have done the same with the rest, had not
mamma gently laid her hand on my arm, uttering my name in an accent
of surprise and sorrow; my irritable and sinful feelings found vent in a
most violent flood of tears.
Will you not think, dearest Mary, I am writing of Caroline, and not of
myself; does it not resemble the scenes of my sister's childhood? Can
you believe that this is an account of your Emmeline, whose sweetness
of temper and gentleness of disposition you have so often extolled? But
it was I who thus forgot myself--I, who once believed nothing ever
could make me passionate or angry, and in one minute I was both--had
excited myself till I became so even against my nature, and with
whom?--even my mother, my kind, devoted mother, who has ever done
so much for me, whom in my childhood, when I knew her worth much
less than I do now, I had never caused to shed a tear. Oh, Mary, I
cannot tell you what I felt the moment those passionate words escaped
me. I may