The Mothers Recompense, Volume I. | Page 5

what manner?"
"I will tell you, my love," she replied; "there are many, not only of my
acquaintances, but my friends, those whose opinions I really value,
who believe I have been acting very wrongly all these years, in never
having permitted you and Caroline to visit London. They think by this
strict retirement I have quite unfitted you both for the station your rank
demands you should fill. That by constantly living alone with us, and
never mingling in society, you have imbibed notions that, to say the
least, may be old-fashioned and romantic, and which will make you
both feel uncomfortable when you are introduced in London. These
fears never entered my mind; I wished you to receive ideas that were
somewhat different to the generality of Fashion's dictates, and I did not
doubt but that the uncomfortable feeling, against which the letters of
my friends often warned me, would very quickly be removed. But since
we have been here--I do not wish to grieve you more, my dear
Emmeline--I must confess your conduct has been productive to me of
the most painful self-reproach. I thought, indeed, my friends were right,
and that for years I had been acting on an injudicious plan, and that
instead of my measures tending to future happiness, they were only
productive of pain and misery, which, had I done as other mothers of
my station, might have been avoided."
"Oh! do not, pray do not think so," I exclaimed, for she had spoken so
sorrowfully, I could not bear it. "I formed my own misery, dearest
mother; you had nothing to do with it."

"You think so now, my love," she answered, with her usual fondness;
"but if my friends see you gloomy and sad, and evidently discontented,
longing for pleasures which are not offered to you in London, only
dwelling on visions of the past, and notions tending to the indulgence
of romance, what will they think? will not my judgment be called in
question? and more, they know how very much I prefer a country to a
London life, domestic pleasures, to those of society, and they may
imagine, and with some probability, that to indulge my selfish wishes, I
have disregarded the real interests of my children."
"They cannot, they will not think so," I passionately said. "They can
never have known you who form such conclusions." Would you not
have agreed with me, dear Mary, and can you not fancy the
wretchedness mamma's words inflicted?
"My love," she replied, with a smile, "they will not fancy they do not
know me; they will rather imagine they must have been deceived in
their opinion; that I am not what I may have appeared to them some
few years ago. The character of a mother, my Emmeline, is frequently
judged of by the conduct of her children; and such conclusions are
generally correct, though, of course, as there are exceptions to every
rule, there are to this, and many a mother may have been unjustly
injured in the estimation of the world, by the thoughtless or criminal
conduct of a wilful and disobedient child. I have been so completely a
stranger to London society the last sixteen years, that my character and
conduct depend more upon you and Caroline to be raised or lowered in
the estimation of my friends and also of the world, than on any of the
young people with whom you may mingle. On which, then, will my
Emmeline decide,--to indulge in these gloomy fancies, and render
herself ill both in health and temper, as well as exposing her mother to
censure and suspicion; or will she, spite of the exertion and pain it may
occasion, shake off this lethargy, recall all her natural animation and
cheerfulness, and with her own bright smile restore gladness to the
hearts of her parents?"
I could not speak in answer to this appeal, dear Mary, but I clung
weeping to mamma's neck. I never till that moment knew all my

responsibility, how much depended on my conduct; but at that moment
I inwardly vowed that never, never should my conduct injure that dear
devoted mother, who endeavoured so fondly to soothe my grief, and
check my bitter tears; who had done so much for me, who had devoted
herself so completely to her children. Mentally I resolved that nothing
should be wanting on my part to render her character as exalted in the
eyes of the world as it was in mine. I could not bear to think how
ungratefully I had acted, and I cried till I made my head and mamma's
heart ache; but I could not long resist her fond caresses, her
encouraging words, and before she left me I could even smile.
"And what am I to