The Mothers Recompense, Volume I. | Page 4

truly say I did not cry from anger, but from the most bitter,
the most painful self-reproach. I think her usual penetration must have
discovered this, for if she had thought my tears were really those of
passion, she would not, could not have acted as she did.
She drew me gently to her, and kissed me without speaking. I threw my
arms round her neck, and in a voice almost choked by sobs, implored
her again and again to forgive me; that I did not mean to answer her so
disrespectfully--that I knew I had become a very wicked girl, but that I
really did feel very unhappy. For a few minutes she was silent, and I
could see was struggling to suppress the tears my unusual conduct had
occasioned. I will make no apology, dearest Mary, for entering on such
minute details; for I know how you love my mother, and that every
word she says is almost as precious to you as to her own children--quite
it cannot be; and I give you this account also, that you may know me as
I am, and not imagine I am so free from faults as I know you once
believed me. Oh, when I have looked back on that day, I have felt so
painfully humiliated, I would gladly banish the recollection; but it is
better for me to remember it, lest I should fancy myself better than I am.

Every word she said in that gentle and persuasive tone was engraved
upon my heart, even as she spoke. She easily and fully convinced me of
my sinfulness in thus permitting imaginary evils to make me so
miserable: for that they were but imaginary it was easy to discover. Not
a single blessing could I say I had lost. All I loved were around me, in
health and happiness--every comfort of life was the same; and could it
be possible, mamma said, that the mere departure from a favourite
residence, and only for a few months, could render me so completely
blind to the many blessings my Heavenly Father had scattered around
me. As she spoke, a film appeared removed from my eyes, and the
enormity of my conduct stood for the first time in its true colours
before me. I saw--I knew how sinful I had been; and bitterly I regretted
that I had not confessed every feeling to mamma, instead of hiding
them, as I had done, in my own heart, and brooding on them till it
became a kind of pleasure to do so, and till fancied evils produced real
ones. I wept bitterly while she spoke, for to find how completely I had
created misery for myself was no agreeable matter of reflection, and
my remorse was heightened when mamma said, "You have
disappointed us not a little, my dear Emmeline; for I will no longer
conceal from you that the little tour we took on our way to London was
originally planned by your father and myself, to reconcile you to a
change of residence. We saw how much you regretted leaving
Oakwood; nor did we wonder at it, for such feelings were most natural
to one of your disposition; and therefore, instead of travelling direct,
and suddenly changing the scenes of our beautiful Devonshire for the
confinement of this huge city, we hoped by visiting various places, and
giving you new objects of reflection, to lessen your regret, and make
the change of residence less painfully abrupt." As well as I could, I
expressed my sorrow and repentance, and promised to use every
endeavour to atone for the past, and become all that she and papa
wished me.
"I believe you, my own Emmeline," my kind mother said, as she again
kissed me, and her voice was no longer so sorrowfully grave as it had
been at first. "I am sure, now you know all the pain you were inflicting
on both your parents, every effort will be put in force to remove it." Did
I deserve this speech, dear Mary? I do not think I did; for I often saw by

mamma's countenance I had grieved her, and yet made no effort to
control myself, and so I told her. She smiled her own sweet, dear smile
of approbation, and thanking me for my candour, said--
"If I say that by indulging in these gloomy fancies and appearing
discontented, and repining when so many blessings are around you, my
Emmeline will be doing her mother a real injury, by rendering my
character questionable, not only in the eyes of the world, but of my
most valued friends, will she not do all in her power to become her own
light-hearted self again?"
"Injuring your character, dearest mother!" I exclaimed, with much
surprise; "in