"I have often wished to be handsome, mamma, because I thought people would love me if I were; but if that is the case, I must have been mistaken, mamma."

"Indeed you were, my child; personal charms, however attractive to the eye, do not blind, or even engage the heart, unless they are accompanied by good qualities, which would have their effect, you know, without beauty—nay, even in ugly persons, when we become thoroughly acquainted with them. Can you suppose, Ellen, that if you were as handsome as the picture over the chimney-piece, that you would be more dear to me on that account, or that you would, in any respect, contribute more to my happiness?"

"You would not love me better, dear mamma, but yet you would be more proud of me, I should think."

"Then I must be a very weak woman to be proud of that which implied no merit, either in you or me, and which the merest accident might, as we perceive, destroy in a moment; but this I must add, that if, with extraordinary beauty, you possessed sufficient good sense to remain as simple in your manners, and as active in the pursuit of intellectual endowments, as I hope to see you, then I might be proud of you, as the usual expression is; for I beg you to remember that, strictly speaking, it is wrong to be proud of any thing."

"Zebby always said that Mr. Hanson was very proud of Matilda—I suppose it was of her beauty."

"I suppose so too, and you could not have brought forward a more decisive proof of the folly and sin of pride, and the inefficacy of beauty to procure love, than in the conduct and qualities of the persons in question. Mr. Hanson's pride of his daughter's beauty rendered him blind to her faults, or averse to correcting them; and from his indulgence, the effect of that very beauty for which he sacrificed every real excellence, was so completely impaired, that I am sure, with all your predilection for a pretty face, you will allow that Matilda, with all those red spots plastered with white ointment, is a thousand times more agreeable than Matilda with bright eyes and ruddy cheeks on her first landing."

"Oh yes, yes!" cried Ellen, looking at her with the tenderest affection, and relapsing into tears, which had frequently visited her eyes since the time of the terrible accident.

The opiate had now spent itself, and Matilda, giving a slight shudder, awoke, and looked at Ellen with a kind of recollective gaze, that recalled the events of the morning, and which was succeeded by a sense of pain.

"What is the matter, Ellen? you are crying—have you been scalded?"

"No," said the affectionate child, "but you have."

A confused recollection of all the particulars of the affair now came to Matilda's memory; and as by degrees they arose on her mind, she became ashamed of the extreme impatience she had exhibited, and surprised that Ellen could love and pity so much a girl whose conduct was so little likely to ensure affection and respect; and although the pain became every moment more troublesome, she forbore most magnanimously to complain, until the changes in her complexion induced Mrs. Harewood to say,—"I think, Matilda, we had better apply the ointment again to your wound—you are still suffering from the fire, I see."

"If you please, ma'am."

With a light and skilful hand, Mrs. Harewood again touched the wounds, and immediate ease followed; but ere she had finished her tender operation, Matilda caught that kind hand, and, pressing it fondly to her lips, bathed it with her tears; they were those of gratitude and contrition.

"I fear you are in much pain still," said her kind friend, though she partly comprehended her feelings.

"Oh, no! you have given me ease; but if you had not, I would not have minded, I feared, indeed I am certain, that I behaved very ill, quite shamefully, this morning; and you are so—so good to me, that—that——"

Matilda was choked by her sobs, and Mrs. Harewood took the opportunity of soothing her, not by praising her for virtues she had not exercised, but by calling upon her to show them in her future conduct; although she did so far conciliate as to say, that the suddenness of the injury, in some measure, excused the violence she had manifested.

Matilda gave a deep sigh and shook her head, in a manner which manifested how far this went in palliation, and was aware that much of error remained unatoned. She inquired how Zebby was, and if she was sensible.

"She has been so ever since your accident, which appeared to recall her wandering senses by fixing them to one point; and as her fever is really abated, I trust she will soon be better."

Matilda hastily sprang from the sofa, and though in doing so she necessarily greatly increased the pain under which she laboured, yet she suppressed all complaint, and hurried forward to Zebby's room, followed by Mrs. Harewood and Ellen; the former of whom was extremely desirous at once to permit her to ease her heart, and yet to prevent her from injuring herself, by adding to the inflammation of her wound.

It was a truly affecting spectacle to behold Matilda soothing and comforting the poor black woman, who had not for a moment ceased to reproach herself, since the screams of the young lady had brought her to her senses, and her invectives to the knowledge of her own share in the transaction. It was in vain that the nurse and the servants of Mrs. Harewood had endeavoured to reconcile her, by the repeated assurance, that let the young lady say what she pleased, yet no harm could reach her: that in old England, every servant had law and justice as much on their side as their master could have.

This was no consolation to the faithful negro, who appeared rather to desire even unmerited punishment than seek for excuse; she incessantly upbraided herself for having killed pretty Missy, and breaking the heart of her good mistress; and when she beheld the plastered face of Matilda, these self-reproaches increased to the most distressing degree, and threatened a complete relapse to the disorder she had yet hardly escaped from.

"You could not help it, Zebby; it was all an accident, and ought to be chiefly attributed to my own foolishness," said Matilda.

"Oh, no! it was me bad and foolish. Missy, me naughty, same you used to be—pushee here and pushee there, in bad pets—it was all me—breaky heart of poor Missis—she comee over great seas; thinkee see you all good and pretty as Englis lady; and den you be shocking figure, all cover with spotee—oh deary! oh deary! perhaps come fever, then you go to the death, you will be bury in dark hole, and mamma never, never see you again."

The desponding tones of this speech went far beyond its words, and Matilda combining with it the caution she had heard the medical gentleman make respecting fever, and the first exclamation of Ellen, that—"Matilda was scalded to death," induced her to suppose that there was really danger in her case; and after repeatedly assuring Zebby of her entire forgiveness and regard, she returned to the apartment she had quitted, with a slow step, and an air of awe and solemnity, such as her friends had never witnessed before.

After Matilda had lain down on the sofa some minutes, she desired Ellen to get her materials for writing, but soon found that the pain in her breast rendered it impossible for her to execute her design.

"I will write for you," said Ellen.

"That won't do—I wanted, with my own hand, to assure dear mamma that poor Zebby was not to blame, nor any body else."

"My dear," said Mrs. Harewood, "we can do that by and by, when your mamma comes over."

"But if, ma'am—if I should die?"

Mrs. Harewood could scarcely forbear an inward smile, but she answered her with seriousness, and did not lose the opportunity of imprinting upon her mind many salutary truths connected with her present situation, not forgetting to impress strongly the necessity which every Christian has of being ever ready to obey that awful summons, which may be expected at any hour, and from which there is no appeal; but she concluded by an assurance that in a few days the present disorder would be completely removed, in case she guarded her own temper from impetuosity, and observed the regimen prescribed to her.

When Matilda's fears on this most important point were subsided, she adverted to her face, but it was only to inquire whether it was likely to be well before her mother came, she being naturally and properly desirous of saving her dear parent from any pain which could arise from her appearance; and when her fears on this head were likewise relieved, she became more composed in her spirits, and more anxious than ever to prove, by future good conduct, her sense of contrition for the past, and resolution for the future; and although she was most thankful for the sympathy of her friends, she never sought it by useless complainings, or aggravated her sufferings in order to win their pity or elicit their praise; and by her perseverance and patience, a cure was obtained much sooner than could have been expected from the nature of the accident.

Zebby regularly amended, as she perceived the great object of her anxiety amend also; and the sense she entertained of her late danger, the gratitude she felt for the kindness she had been treated with, and, above all, the self-denial to which she perceived her young lady accustomed herself, in order to recover, induced her henceforward to become temperate in her use of food, and tractable as to the means necessary for preserving her health, and to perceive her duty with regard to the commands given by her young lady, to whom she was now more truly attached than ever: for the attachment of improved minds goes far beyond that of ignorance.



CHAPTER X.

When Matilda was fully recovered from the pain of her accident, her good friends had the satisfaction to perceive that the most salutary effects had arisen from the disposition with which she had borne it. She had become sensible how much we must all be indebted to our fellow-creatures, in any privation of health and ease, and this had taught her to be humble and thankful to all who contributed to her comfort; and from necessarily suppressing both her appetite and her temper, she had gained a command of both, which she had been a stranger to before. From being unable to join in any play requiring personal activity, she had been obliged to find her amusement in reading; and as that most excellent and delightful work, "The Parent's Assistant," by Miss Edgeworth, had been presented to her just before, she made herself completely mistress of those admirable tales, and by conversing much upon them with Mr. and Mrs. Harewood, with whom she usually sat, she became deeply imbued with all the important precepts they are intended to convey, as well as the stories they so agreeably relate.

One evening, when the whole family were assembled, the disorder which had afflicted Zebby became the subject of conversation; Miss Campbell observing, "that the poor woman had undoubtedly been as nervous as any fine lady, and therefore given another proof, in addition to the multitude which must affect every person of judgment and feeling, that there was indeed no difference of constitution, feeling, or character, between white people and black ones, when they were placed in similar circumstances."

"Certainly not," said Mr. Harewood, "and in a short time this doctrine will be more fully proved by the emancipation of all the blacks, who will, I trust, become diligent servants and happy householders, no longer the slaves of tyrants, but the servants of upright masters."

"But I am told, mamma," said Edmund, "that the proprietors of West India property will all be ruined; people say, this will come upon them as a retribution for past sins; but as many of these sins were committed in days that are past, and the present inhabitants, in many instances, have behaved exceedingly well, I must own I wish sincerely this may not be the case. Can you tell me any thing about it?"

"They all deserve to be ruined," interrupted Charles, "who have done such bad things as the planters do. Oh, how I wish I could be there when all the slaves are set at liberty! with what delight should I join in their universal shout of joy and freedom, and in all their innocent festivals!"

Edmund shook his head—"I should like the slaves to be happy as well as you; but I don't like for any body to be ruined, especially people who are so nerveless and inactive as those who have resided in warm islands; surely it is not true?"

Edmund looked again inquiringly.

"I am sorry to say," answered Mrs. Harewood, "that in many cases much suffering may be apprehended; but our government will undoubtedly soften every evil to the inhabitants, as far as they can do it consistent with their views: you know the emancipation of the slaves takes place gradually, and by that means enables people to collect their money, to divert the channels of their merchandise, or to make themselves friends of those who have hitherto been held by the arm of power only. The grand shout of a multitude restored to freedom is undoubtedly very attractive, and enough to warm the heart of a benevolent enthusiast like Charles; but it is not advisable to set food in great quantities before a starving man, lest he eat himself into a surfeit. Ignorance is always in danger of using power very ill, since we see that even the enlightened are frequently prone to misuse it."

"Then I hope, mamma, it will turn out better than people think; and there will be very little individual suffering from it."

"I am sorry to say, my dear, that notwithstanding what I have said, I yet fear many persons will suffer; I know a widow myself, who is returning to this country nearly destitute, after living many years in a state of luxury; very happily she has only one child, and has not suffered her past prosperity so to unnerve her mind, as to render her useless and desponding in the day of adversity. On the contrary, she has the magnanimity to rejoice in the freedom of the slaves, although that freedom has destroyed her fortune."

At this moment, every eye was involuntarily bent on Matilda, who, feeling undoubtedly some degree of compunction and shame, when she either thought on her own former conduct, or the state of her country, had kept aloof till now. At this moment she started, and, with a look of most anxious inquiry, she cried—"Oh, ma'am! surely you do not mean my poor mamma? And yet—yes, certainly you mean her—she has lived many years in prosperity—she has but one child, and she is possessed of a pious, good heart, and a kind, generous spirit, and would not wish the poor negroes to remain slaves—she would rather work herself than injure any body. Dear Miss Campbell, pray make me clever and good like yourself, and then I will be a governess, and get money, and support dear mamma—indeed I will."

The amazing rapidity with which these words were uttered, and the perturbation of spirits which accompanied them, prevented Matilda from perceiving that Mrs. Harewood was anxious to interrupt her; and even when that good friend began to speak, she was too much affected and disturbed to listen to her. She went on to say, with an agitated voice, but ingenuous countenance—"I cannot help crying, to be sure; but indeed I am not sorry that the poor slaves are to have their liberty, and I do not mind the money we have lost; I only want to see my dear mamma, and to comfort her, and to tell her that I would not be the mistress of bought slaves for all the world; for I now know that in the sight of God they are my equals, and if good, my superiors. I know that Jesus Christ died to save them as well as me, and that he will not forgive them who insult him, by daring to buy and sell those whom he has purchased with his own blood; and besides, I do not wish to possess them; for if I did, I should be proud and cruel and miserable, as I used to be."

The anxious, troubled heart of Matilda now found refuge in abundant tears, and, throwing herself on the bosom of her maternal friend, she shed them freely there; and as the storm of grief subsided, Mrs. Harewood obtained her attention to these words—"My dear Matilda, your vivid imagination, and the quickness of feeling, which even in a good cause is too apt to hurry you away, have led you into unnecessary trouble; it is not your mamma, but a Mrs. Weston, of Jamaica, of whom I spoke. I can, however, scarcely regret the pain you have experienced, because it has caused you to express sentiments which do you honour, and which must give great pleasure to your mother."

"But my mamma is coming over soon?"

"She is, my dear, but under very different circumstances, her property being all well disposed of, and settled in the English funds; and be it your comfort to know, that although your father was a proprietor of West India estates, yet his fortune was not accumulated by the infamous traffic to which we allude; although, like other people, he held slaves for the purposes of agriculture and domestic labour, he had an estate in this country, which enabled him to support an expensive establishment, without recurring to those practices too common among the planters in your country."

"And has the lady of whom you spoke no estate, no money, to support herself and her little girl?"

"She has not, my dear; but I trust her friends in England will provide her with some situation, in which her talents will enable her both to support herself and benefit others; and by this means the cup of affliction now may hereafter prove one of blessedness: her little girl is only six years old, and will therefore be but a trifling expense to her for some years to come."

Matilda now wiped her eyes, but was observed for a considerable time involved in deep thought, and silent thanksgiving to God, and no one around thought it right to interrupt the silent aspirations of her heart; but as soon as her countenance resumed its usual expression, and she rose from her seat, the young ones surrounded her, and with cheerful looks congratulated her on the change in her feelings, which they were aware a few moments must have produced; for, as Edmund observed, though it was very right to be resigned to every change which it pleased God to send, yet it was undoubtedly a great pleasure to know that a dear parent enjoyed not only the power of living in her usual style of comfort, but that she preserved the power of bestowing a part of her fortune to feed the poor, and to communicate knowledge, and sow the seeds of virtue in the minds of the young and uninformed.

Matilda listened to their congratulations with gratitude and pleasure, and looked forward with exultation, chastened by a proper diffidence of herself, to the time when, with her beloved mother, she should be employed in acts of beneficence and social enjoyment—"So passing through things temporal, as not to lose the things that are eternal."



CHAPTER XI.

On the following midsummer vacation, Mrs. Harewood complied with the wishes of her young family, by consenting to give a ball to their young friends; and as she disapproved very much of late hours, the whole party were invited to dinner, in order that the dance might commence early.

The day previous to this entertainment was a very busy one, as the young people were permitted to display their taste by arranging the ball-room, and ornamenting it in the best manner they were able with flowers, under the inspection and with the assistance of Miss Campbell. The boys, attended by the footman, went out into the country, and returned laden with beautiful spoils from the hedges and copses, consisting of branches of trees, brushwood, and maythorn, together with those green plants which at this season of the year are found in abundance, such as clivers, coltswort, and the various mallows. When these were brought home, the young ladies tied gay flowers, made of various-coloured paper, upon them, at distances, with green worsted; and when these ornaments were finished, the branches themselves were tied together with strong cord, which was hidden by the foliage. By this means they were made into long wreaths, which were hung in festoons all round the room, and had an exceedingly beautiful effect, while over the doors and windows arches were formed of the same materials; but when the greens were brought nearer to the eye, natural flowers were used, which, being cut very short in the stem, preserved themselves fresh and beautiful, and perfumed the place with the most delightful odours.

Though this employment was charming, yet it was necessarily fatiguing, and the children went to bed at an early hour. Not long after they had retired, Mr. and Mrs. Harewood heard a carriage, and while they were conjecturing who it might be, to their great surprise, the long-expected stranger, Mrs. Hanson, was announced.

They were truly rejoiced to see her; for, although personally unknown to them, they were much disposed to esteem and love her, both from the style of her letters, and the many traits of her conduct and character given by Zebby, who was an able eulogist, since she ever spoke from the heart, and although ignorant, was by nature acute and penetrating.

The anxious mother, sensible that forms were not necessary to be attended to, in addressing the worthy couple to whom she came a welcome, though unknown guest, first inquired after her only child. When told that she was in bed, and fast asleep, having been much fatigued when she retired, she immediately declared that she would not have Matilda awoke for her own gratification—a declaration which confirmed the good opinion the family already entertained of her. She could not, however, resist the very natural desire she felt of beholding that dear object of her solicitude, from whom she had been so long parted; and she therefore visited her room, and, softly kissing her forehead, observed, to the great satisfaction of Mrs. Harewood, that she had never seen her look so well before, which was certainly the fact, though her weariness had induced some degree of paleness.

Tears rose to the eyes of the fond mother, and often, often were they turned to the bed which contained all her earthly treasure, ere she could tear herself away; and Mrs. Harewood felt aware that silent prayers occupied her heart for the future welfare and progressive virtue of a being naturally so very dear, and whose bad passions, at the time of their parting, had given so little rational hope of future felicity, either to herself or her widowed parent. Sympathizing truly with her feelings, and aware of the extreme delicacy of the subject, especially to one of whose peculiar feelings she knew so little, Mrs. Harewood left it to time to show the change in Matilda.

Mrs. Hanson was recalled from the fond reverie the sight of her daughter had involved her in, by the voice of Zebby, who had only just learned the arrival of that dear mistress she had ever so justly estimated. The two ladies descended, and found the happy negro weeping for joy, and running about the breakfast-parlour and dining-room, seeking for her lady, whom, when she beheld, she danced about like a wild woman; one moment being ready to cast herself at her feet, and the next longing to embrace her.

"I am very glad to see you, Zebby," said Mrs. Hanson, "and very happy to find you still my daughter's servant, as I know you will suit her much better in many respects than any Englishwoman possibly could."

"Me love Missy ver much, madam, but me no Missy maid now; me housemaid for madam Harewood now; me makee de bed, sweepy de stair, do all sort ting; me never wait on Missy, no, never."

Mrs. Hanson gave a deep sigh, and said to Mrs. Harewood—"I fear you have had some trouble in procuring a maid for my daughter, ma'am?"

"When your daughter came to us, you may remember, my good madam, that we undertook to treat her in every respect as if she were our own; we have done it, and you will be able to judge to-morrow how far your dear girl is benefited or injured by sharing the attentions of Ellen's nursemaid, Ellen's governess, and Ellen's mother."

Mrs. Hanson felt that she was much indebted to the kindness evidently intended by this arrangement, especially as it was a plain case, that Zebby had been retained in the family for her accommodation; yet she could not help thinking that the contrast between Matilda's past and present situation was too great: although she had a thousand times desired that some great change might be adopted in her education, yet her heart shrunk at the idea of the discipline which she had so long felt to be necessary. She was afraid that the terrible passions her child had manifested, had rendered terrible changes necessary, and a train of inflictions and privations arose to her view, which maternal tenderness was unequal to contemplate unmoved; she therefore apologized to her friends, and retired to her room, but her pillow was strewed with those thorns which solicitude had planted there.



CHAPTER XII.

The following morning the young people arose early, and were surprised to find Mrs. Harewood also stirring; her amiable, affectionate heart promised itself a treat, in witnessing the sweet emotions of Matilda, on hearing the joyful tidings of her mother's arrival; nor was she disappointed—the delighted girl manifested all the rapture of which her warm susceptible heart was capable; and on hearing her mother slept in the crimson room, was hastily bending her steps to the chamber, thus named from the colour of the bed.

"But, my dear, it is yet early; your mamma was much fatigued with her long journey from Falmouth: is it not a pity to disturb her, especially as she has already seen and kissed you, although she would not awake you?"

Matilda stopped—"I do so wish to see mamma," said she, "and to hear her speak! but then to awake her for my own pleasure would be selfish, as I used to be—I won't be selfish."

"That's right, my dear—you are now proving yourself truly affectionate—you are preferring mamma to yourself."

"But I may just stand at the door and listen to her breathing, and so wait till she moves."

"Certainly, my dear."

Away flew Matilda, happiest of the happy; and she had scarcely been ten minutes on her station when Mrs. Hanson's bell rang, and Matilda instantly opened the door, in silent but delightful expectation.

"Is my daughter awake?" said the fond mother.

"Oh, yes, yes, dear mamma, I am here!" cried she, springing to the outstretched arms of her loved parent, who, in embracing her joyfully, yet felt solicitude mingle with her joy, from the consciousness that her earthly happiness was centred in this single object, and that upon her future conduct rested the peace of both.

Mrs. Hanson did not rise for some hours, and her daughter breakfasted with her, and spent the time principally in making inquiries after their old friends in Barbadoes, so that Mrs. Hanson had no opportunity of observing how her daughter was looked upon in the family, and on this eventful day, the ball in the evening was naturally the subject uppermost on Matilda's mind, so that there was yet no development of her real improvement.

At length Mrs. Hanson arose; her maid came in to dress her, and whilst this took place, the mother beheld with delight the improvement which had taken place in her darling's person, which was taller, and considerably better formed, as she had cured herself of stooping, and all her motions indicated sprightliness and agility.

Whilst Mrs. Hanson congratulated herself on this appearance, Zebby tapped at the door, and, on being admitted, said, with a very long face and doleful accent—"Oh dear, Missy, very bad ting have happened; de milliner have sentee home Miss Ellen new frock, and no sentee yours. She say she cannot makee till next week, because she very busy for little girls that losee their mamma, and must have blackee clothes to-morrow day."

Mrs. Hanson's heart sunk, and she felt as if her pleasure for this day at least was over, for she fully expected to see Matilda fly into a rage with the messenger, the milliner, and indeed all the house; and she could scarcely believe her own senses, when Matilda replied calmly—"Well, Zebby, it cannot be helped, and it does not signify much; I am sure Mrs. Harewood will excuse my want of a new dress on this occasion. To be sure, I should have liked to look the same as dear Ellen; but how can I think of such a trifling disappointment, when I remember it was caused by those unhappy children, who are now mourning for their mamma?"

So saying, she turned, and eagerly threw her arms round a mother, who, in the course of her whole life, had not embraced her with equal satisfaction; but before she had time to express her pleasure, and injure her who caused it, by the exaggerated praise which sprung to her lips, Matilda had run down stairs, just to peep at Ellen's new dress, speak of the delight she experienced in having gained her mother's society, and consult Miss Campbell as to the frock she must substitute for the one intended to be worn; and when Mrs. Hanson was left alone, she almost fancied that the foregoing scene was a kind of drama, which had been introduced for the purpose of surprising and pleasing her.

But observation confirmed her hopes, and justified her happiness. She descended at dinner-time, and was introduced to the children of the family, who, although little seen among so large a party, yet won her regard, from the unaffected kindness and ease with which they treated her daughter; and she observed, with approbation, that Matilda and Ellen were dressed exactly alike; the latter having declined wearing the frock bought for her, since her friend's could not be procured. Mrs. Hanson could not fail to love Ellen, in whose countenance the good temper, modesty, and sensibility which characterized her, were strongly expressed; but she had not much time to comment upon it, for the young party were now coming in, and attention was in some degree divided. In a short time dinner was announced, and the company, about thirty in number, were soon commodiously arranged round the hospitable table.

Mrs. Harewood had thought it right to disperse her own family among her guests, in order that they might pay proper attention to those near them, as by that means she hoped that none of the invited would be neglected; and according to this arrangement, which was made the preceding day, Matilda took the place appointed for her, which happened to be at some distance from her mamma, who sat, of course, next to Mrs. Harewood. In the bustle of so large a party, Mrs. Hanson could scarcely observe even her daughter at the beginning of the meal; but when the second course came in, she saw with some pain a large dish of custards placed exactly before Matilda; and on one of the company observing she had never seen such a noble dish of custards before, Mrs. Hanson said—"Matilda is remarkably fond of them; I am sorry they are so near her, for they are not wholesome."

"We seldom have such things on that account," said Mrs. Harewood; "but I must own I think them well placed, because Matilda can help her friends to them with ease."

These words drew the attention of the young ones, and Matilda soon received so many plates to supply, that there appeared little probability of her sharing in the feast. Edmund was near her, and gladly receiving his mother's approving smile, he secured one for Matilda, which he put upon her plate just before the last was demanded.

Ellen was equally busy distributing tarts near the bottom of the table. The footman brought her a custard, which he said Miss Hanson had sent for her.

"She is very good," said Ellen, "but I had rather take a jelly, if she will excuse my returning it."

The happy mother perceived that Matilda had sent Ellen the very custard which Edmund's kindness had ensured for her. Delicious tears sprang to her eyes; she perceived that Matilda was indeed a different creature; that she had not only conquered a disgraceful propensity, but acquired a habit of generous attention to others, of which there was at one period no hopes in her character.

The dancing now commenced, and the West Indian acquitted herself with great propriety; for although she did not perform so well as the greater part of the company, yet she was never awkward; and when at a loss for the figure, she listened with modesty, and obeyed with precision the rules laid down to her. Many of the party now assembled were amiable and obliging, but in so large a number, some were of course present, whose manners were less agreeable: but as Matilda considered herself one of the family, so she deemed it her duty to partake their cares, and render every person as happy as possible. She neither suffered rudeness to disturb her temper, nor awkwardness to excite her contempt; her conduct, under every temptation of this nature, was uniformly marked by self-command, modesty, and civility.

There was in this young party two Master Eustons, who, happening to be richer and a little older than the rest of the party, thought themselves entitled to quiz all around them at some times, and lord it over them at others. On their first coming into the room, they sought out Matilda, as a proper companion for them, because they had heard her named as a great West-Indian heiress; but when they saw her a modest, unassuming girl, they rather shunned her, as not being likely to enter into their sports. These boys would not have been voluntarily chosen as companions for his own by such a careful and observant father as Mr. Harewood, but they were the nephews of an old friend of his, and were then on a visit to their uncle, who would have felt himself neglected if Mr. Harewood had not invited them; and as, that gentleman very justly observed to his excellent lady, his children must necessarily mix with the world, both at school and elsewhere, it was desirable that they should do it sometimes under the eye of those kind parents, who might teach them how to distinguish what was good, and lead them, from general company, to choose particular society.

There was also a young lady who wished to render herself the particular companion of Matilda, for the same reason the Eustons had done, because she considered her the most wealthy child in the place; and from her person, and the elegance she observed in her mamma's dress and manners, she concluded that in a few years she would be the most dashing. It is astonishing how soon the eye of even a child can discriminate, in that particular which has been rendered the sole subject of its studies and the grand object of its wishes; so that people who pique themselves upon being men of the world, or women of fashion, are rivalled in all their boasted knowledge and discernment by young creatures, whose faculties they may deem very inefficient, and which are indeed so in all the higher requisites of mind and the attainments of knowledge.

The parents of Miss Holdup, the young lady in question, had acquired a large fortune, but were both called, at a very early period, from the enjoyment of it; and this their only child was placed, by the will of her father, under the sole guardianship of his solicitor, a man of integrity and of large fortune, and without any children of his own; so that the little girl had apparently every blessing her desolate situation demanded, for kindness was accorded to her in the family, as an orphan, without a rival, and her fortune was well secured by the skill of her guardian.

But, alas! false judgment and mistaken indulgence rendered this situation totally subversive of her improvement and her happiness; the lady to whose care she was immediately consigned was a vain and dissipated woman, who had no greater pleasure than in spending the fortune, laboriously acquired by her industrious spouse, in all the various amusements the metropolis presents to the idle and extravagant part of the community; and although she was what is generally termed a very good-natured woman, yet the moment her schemes of diversion or expense were thwarted, she could be as pettish, sullen, or even vulgar and violent, as the lowest servant. She piqued herself on being a woman of family, and when little Miss Holdup came into her household, the first care she took with her was to eradicate, as far as possible, the memory of her parents, and all their former connections, from her mind.—"My dear child, now you are, by great good fortune, got into a gentleman's family, remember you must never mention those creatures in the city your mamma used to visit. I must have no cheese-factor cousins introduced at my table; no, nor even the great linen-draper's daughter that gave you the doll; you have money enough to buy dolls of your own, and must have no more concern with those kind of people now."

"But," said the child, "I suppose I may talk about Miss Turner and her sister Anne, because they nursed me through the measles, and my father said I must always be grateful—I suppose he meant thankful, ma'am, for their kindness."

"Who are they, child? if they are decent people, it alters the case entirely."

"They are not decent people," said the child, pettishly; "they are very genteel people, and dress quite beautifully, and have a country-house, where I have played many a time; and they have a fine instrument, and more books than you have, and I love them dearly."

"But who are they, my dear?"

"Why, to be sure, they are their father's daughters, Mr. Turner, the great baker; every body knows Mr. Turner's shop, I suppose."

The lady was distressed. She began a speech, endeavouring to prove, that although gratitude was very good in its place, yet, when it was advisable to forget its object, then it was no longer good, but foolish, and improper, and unfashionable; but she checked herself in the midst of this exordium, by recollecting that the intellects of her pupil were unequal to all investigation, but that her inclination, youth, and temper could be more easily wrought upon. She began to load her with finery, take her to the play, though she fell asleep in the second act, speak of her in her own hearing as a wit and a beauty, shake her head knowingly whenever her city connections were alluded to; and therefore it was no wonder that in a short time the child forgot the friends she had loved, grew ashamed of the parents she had honoured, learnt to prattle on subjects of which she knew nothing, and to affect all the premature airs of a woman, with more than the usual ignorance of a child, as children are now usually instructed.

Perhaps a womanized child of this description is the most disagreeable thing in existence, and is rendered only the more so, from any talent or natural acuteness it may happen to possess, since that never fails to give a spice of sin to what would otherwise be mere folly. The thinking mind shudders at the airs of infantine coquetry and malicious sneers, which are merely ludicrous to another stander-by; but how any person can be either indifferent to such a waste and perversion of human nature, or behold it with pleasure, is inconceivable. Mrs. Thornton was, however, so far the dupe of her own folly, that she conceived Miss Holdup the finest child she had ever known, and a decisive proof of her own talents for education. It was true, she had lavished upon her all her stores of information, in the same way that, agreeably to her own notions of dress and pleasure, she had expended upon her sums which her husband thought prodigious; and the result of both had been to make her what might be truly called a grand serious pantomime, or an artificial curiosity, for nature was completely banished her composition.

"Look at my lovely ward," she would exclaim, in rapture; "how totally different she is from any other child! she will never be mistaken for one of the lower order!"

True; but neither could she be mistaken for a gentlewoman: the appearance of the child was that of a figurante, ready equipped for her part at the opera; for, although in her twelfth year, she wore trowsers and petticoats that did not reach to her knees; they were, it is true, trimmed with the most costly Mechlin, formed by the most tasteful milliner; but as her shape was by no means graceful, and her mode of life, by harassing her into puny ill health, kept her wretchedly thin, she resembled at a distance a small windmill about to be set in motion; and when near her, it was impossible not to believe that her clothes had been stripped to the middle, for the sake of washing her bony shoulders perfectly clean.

But, alas! the interior was more naked, or dressed in some parts merely for exhibition: the poor child knew the steps of the last new dance and the name of new music; she could finger a little, and knew a few words of French from the vocabulary; but to the history of her country she was a perfect stranger, and, what was far worse, was ignorant of all religion, all duties. When she was out of temper, which was an increasing evil as she grew up, she was told only that it "spoiled her face;" if she were guilty of gluttony, she was warned against injuring her shape; but the real motive of good action, the foundation of pure principles, the necessity of self-control, were utterly unknown to her; she never saw them acted upon, nor heard them explained.

Such was the girl who now, with a bustling parade of affection, singled out Matilda as the only child whom she thought worthy of her patronage, and whom she intended to win and to use, when it suited her, in the very same way that ladies of twice her age so frequently make their selection of friends in the acquaintance of an hour.

Miss Holdup was disappointed in perceiving that Matilda did not act as if she were much pleased, or much flattered, by her partiality; but this she imputed to pride, and being very proud herself, she concluded that, on a little farther acquaintance, it would only render them better friends. Besides, she observed that Ellen was at present the dearest friend of Matilda; and although she considered this a degrading choice, yet she had patience to wait, and cunning enough to aid, the time when Matilda should see the superiority of such a girl as herself to poor Ellen, whom she concluded to be simple, because she perceived her to be modest and mild.

In the blithesome round of gaiety inspired by dancing, designs and airs of all kinds were for a time forgotten, and the sprightly movements of the feet kept pace with the hilarity of heart which banishes, for a time, all those unnatural combinations which disgrace the ingenuous breast of early life; but when a pause was given for the purpose of refreshment, various little parties were formed for conversation, and Miss Holdup contrived to monopolize Matilda, in a way that was painful to Ellen, disrespectful to the rest of the party, and embarrassing to her who was thus singled out; who became, with some, an object of envy, because the most fashionable girl distinguished her; with others, one of contempt, for the same reason. It will be readily conceived that Miss Holdup was never insignificant: where she did not attract admiration, she never failed to excite contempt: and as the party were, of course, for the most part amiable and well-educated children, whom Mr. and Mrs. Harewood held up as examples to their own, so the greater number, by many, regarded this young lady as a weak, ridiculous girl, whose appearance excited surprise and disgust, and whom nothing but good manners could prevent them from laughing at; and Matilda felt herself involved, from her union with her, in that kind of snare which, of all others, was the most galling to her, as from her very cradle she could never endure to be laughed at.

Mrs. Harewood perceived, from the expression of her countenance, that she laboured under very considerable vexation, and she was at times afraid that, by some irritating expression or haughty toss, Matilda would tarnish the honours of the day, by giving a pang to the heart of that fond and still happy parent, whose eyes were continually bent upon her, but who wished to see her act on the present occasion, without those influences her more immediate presence was likely to inspire. While with all the anxiety of a true friend, this good lady watched Matilda, a quick rattling sound was heard against the windows, and Matilda, a little surprised by the sound, and desirous of escaping the tedious and affected conversation of Miss Holdup, inquired what it was that she heard.

"Quiz the West Indian," said the younger Euston; "she never saw it hail before."

With a very grave face, the elder immediately came up to her, and told her it was raining comfits—"If you please," said he, "you may see them through the windows, for it is not dark, though the moon is clouded."

Matilda went eagerly to the window, for she was curious to observe a phenomenon entirely new to her. She soon perceived thousands of little balls, that fell as hard as stones, lying on the ground and the window frames, and she was desirous of examining them further; but just as she was turning to make inquiries of her friend Edmund, young Euston interrupted her, by saying—"Well, Miss Hanson, you now see the comfits; would you like to taste them? if you please, I will get you a spoonful."

"I should like to have a few certainly," replied she, "and will feel obliged to you to procure me some of them."

"Hush, hush!" said the young ones to each other, all desirous to see how Matilda would look, many merely from that love of play which is inherent at their age, others from a malicious spirit which is too frequently blended with a passion for fun. Mr. Harewood apparently took no notice, but he hovered about them, and had the satisfaction of hearing several girls condemn the Eustons, and profess an intention of saving Matilda from swallowing the cold hailstones.

"You may be easy," said Edmund, as they stood consulting together on the subject, when in ran the youth with eagerness, crying—"Here is a spoonful of beautiful comfits; now open your mouth and shut your eyes—that is the way to taste them in perfection."

"Thank you, sir; I do not want to eat them; I know they must be snow, some kind of condensed snow, or ice, and I wished to examine them."

"Snow! how you talk!—it never snows in July."

"It never snows at all in my country—of course I know little about it; but unless Edmund assures me to the contrary, I shall certainly conclude that these little balls are frozen rain-drops, of the same nature with snow."

"You are perfectly right, Matilda," said Edmund, "and you have quizzed your quizzers very completely."

"Miss Hanson has studied natural philosophy," said a young lady, sneeringly, being one of those who sought Miss Holdup's acquaintance. "I always thought that young ladies in the West India islands studied physical subjects more than any other."

"Physical subjects!" exclaimed several of the party; "how very strange a study! what a very singular thing for girls to think of!"

"I think you are quite mistaken," said Ellen, with more spirit than was usual to her; for, although she could not conceive that there was any harm in the study, she saw plainly that some spleen was intended against Matilda, and she loved her too dearly, to stand by whilst any wound was inflicted which her interference might avert. Though the most gentle and unoffending in her nature, yet she was capable of warm and active friendship, and, of course, was not a little astounded and hurt when the young lady replied—"Surely, Miss Harewood, you cannot be ignorant that all our great medical practitioners torture and kill animals, for the purpose of ascertaining the nature of diseases, and, in many cases, undoubtedly for the purpose of learning how much suffering bodies of a certain size and texture are capable of enduring? Now I don't doubt, Miss Hanson, being so wise in other matters, can tell you exactly how much pain is necessary to kill a slave, how many stripes a child can endure, and how long hunger, beating, and torturing, may be applied without producing death; and prove that in case they do destroy a few blackies, that don't signify, if they can afford to buy more."

"Well, and suppose Miss Hanson did kill some of those creatures," cried Miss Holdup, "she can afford to buy more; at least, her mamma can, which is much the same; though to be sure, 'tis a fine thing to be independent. For my part, I think there is ten times more said about those filthy negroes than signifies: dear me! they are not to compare to my Frisky; 'tis the most angelic creature of a dog! worth fifty blacks any day, unless, to be sure, they were in handsome liveries."

Matilda had suffered in every nerve while the first lady spoke, but the defence of the second hurt her ten times more, as it appeared to indicate a hardness of heart, a daring to make light of a most solemn subject, and one to which she had given much serious thought, and she hastily plucked away the arm Miss Holdup had taken, and would have retired, but she was hemmed in by a circle, and could not escape. The young lady replied to her advocate, in a fawning voice—"Ah, dear Miss Holdup! you are fond of defending any body you take a fancy for; but I am certain, if you were really on the spot, you could not bear to see those things your new friend has been in the habit of doing. I am told, mere children amuse themselves in Barbadoes with sticking pins into the legs of little children, dropping scalding sealing-wax upon their arms, and cutting lines and stars in their necks with knives and scissors."

"Yes," added one of the Eustons, "and the most delicate ladies are waited upon by naked slaves, whose bare backs are probably bleeding from the recent effects of a sound whipping, inflicted, probably, because Missy's dolly had fallen, and broken her nose, out of Missy's own hands."

"Shocking creatures!"—"Dreadful wretches!"—"Wicked creatures!"—"How terrible!"—"How abominable!" were exclamations naturally uttered on every side, and those who, on Matilda's innocent triumph, had in the first instance pressed around her, now withdrew from her side, shrinking as from something monstrous and loathsome in nature; and such was the bustle and confusion between those who were eager to inquire, and those who were more eager to inform, that the few who endeavoured to divert attention from the subject, or insist upon the pictures presented being overcharged, could not be heard.

Matilda, overwhelmed with burning blushes, was utterly unable to articulate a syllable, much less to stem the torrent which, in accusing her country in general terms, was aimed at her in particular: her conscience accused her of many crimes, which, though far removed from atrocity like this, were yet utterly unjustifiable, and, as she now believed, might have led to the utmost limits of tyranny, cruelty, and oppression; and all she felt or feared in her own conduct, seemed to rise to her memory, and stamp conscious guilt on her expressive features; and while thus labouring under the torments of a wounded spirit, the Eustons, rejoicing in her confusion, pointed it out as a certain proof of her conscience upbraiding her, and a fresh volley of crimes and accusations were poured forth. It was in vain that Edmund attempted to be heard, and that Charles challenged every one to fight in her behalf, and that Ellen, with distressed vociferation and tears gushing into her eyes, kept again and again exclaiming—"It is not true—I am sure it is not; there are many good people in the West Indies, and nobody can be so wicked in the wide world. You tell these tales on purpose to make us ill—fie! fie!"

The agonized countenance of Ellen, by presenting a striking contrast to its usual expression of mild benevolence, told Mr. Harewood it was time for him to interfere. He had, for some minutes, hovered near, perceiving some kind of conspiracy, and thinking that his presence would be less observed than that of either of the ladies; and at his near approach, the aggrieved, accused, discomfited Matilda, whose eyes had been long cast on the ground, ventured to look up; for although she had a considerable general feeling of awe for Mr. Harewood, yet she had the most perfect reliance on his justice and kindness; and ashamed and conscious of past error as she now was, she yet felt assured of his protection and mercy.

The moment her eye met his, she felt all her hopes confirmed; and in the joy and exultation it gave her, she acquired strength to burst through the crowd; rushing forward, she sought refuge in his arms, and laid her burning cheek on the kind hand he extended towards her.

Ellen, at this moment, was, for the first time, attended to, as she cried out, with still stronger pathos—"Dear papa, I am so glad you are here! for you will tell us the truth—you will convince every body, that people in the West Indies do not torture their poor slaves for nothing but their own wicked pleasure."

"My dear little advocate, as I have never been in the West Indies, I have no right to contradict such evidence as has been brought forward by respectable witnesses."

A cry of exultation began to pass the lips of the Euston party; but they were silent, as Mr. Harewood began to speak again.

"I am the more inclined to think these cruelties may sometimes take place in our islands, because I have myself witnessed similar effects in this country, where the barbarians who practised them were much curtailed in their power, and proved rather the disposition than the actual treatment of which you speak towards their unhappy victims."

"Indeed!" exclaimed they, with anxious curiosity, pressing nearer to the speaker.

"Yes," added Mr. Harewood, raising his voice, and assuming a serious aspect, "I have this very evening heard words applied to the heart of an unoffending individual, more painful than the lash, and seen looks directed against her, more torturing than any of the hateful operations you have mentioned; and I have not the least hesitation in saying, that those who could thus treat an amiable fellow-creature, and one who, as a stranger, is thrown upon their kindness, and entitled at least to their politeness, would, if they had the power, wound the body also, and might, by hardening their hearts against the claims of humanity, in a short time become capable of every possible enormity."

An awful silence, strikingly contrasted with the late lively dance and its following conversational bustle, now sat on every tongue; the self-convicted were ashamed of their conduct, the doubtful satisfied, and the friendly delighted; and desirous of stamping an important lesson, in the moment of awakened feeling and intelligence, Mr. Harewood continued to say—"Human nature, alas! is full of bad propensities; and when situation and the power of indulgence strengthen them, no wonder that man becomes selfish first, then hard-hearted, and lastly, even ferocious towards others. When, enlightened by education and taught by religion, he rises from this state of barbarity, and becomes not only civilized, but humane, gentle, condescending, and charitable, he merits great praise, for he has achieved great labour—he has conquered great difficulty; the very angels in heaven rejoice over him; and this child, this blushing, trembling, self-condemning, but self-corrected child, has done this. Look up, my dear Matilda! let who will sneer at you, I am proud of you; and there is not one person present who would not honour themselves, if they could secure your friendship. I was the first to correct you, nor will I ever flatter you; but I will always protect and defend you, so long as you continue to merit the high regard I now feel for you."

The sweetest tears she had ever shed now ran down the cheeks of Matilda, as Mr. Harewood pronounced this eulogy; and it will be easily conceived, that all the really good and sensible part of the company eagerly sought to soothe her spirits, and convince her of their regard, while her late tormentors either slunk away, as much ashamed as they were despised, or by an ingenuous confession of error, paved the way for returning esteem.

Miss Holdup arrogated to herself great praise for having defended what she called the right side; and so delighted was poor Ellen with every body and every thing which favoured her young friend, that she began to take a great fancy to the silly affected girl, merely because she thought that she loved Matilda; but Matilda herself felt that her severest pang had arisen from the very defence thus adopted; and while she thanked Miss Holdup for her good wishes, she yet shrank more than ever from forming an intimate acquaintance with one whom she considered as little better than an automaton figure on which fine clothes might be hung, and whose tongue had been taught to move, for the purpose of repeating the silly gibberish which ill-formed women repeat to uninformed children, in order to render them as stupid, proud, and silly as themselves.

On the following day, the party were naturally the subject of conversation, and Mrs. Hanson had great pleasure in finding that the bedizened doll, who had been so decidedly her daughter's companion the evening before, was by no means her chosen one, that distinction being reserved for Ellen only, whose kind heart would have been almost broken, had she imagined such a partiality indeed reciprocal, but who was as free from jealousy of Miss Holdup, as she was full of confidence in Matilda.

Mrs. Harewood on this occasion remarked, that she had never seen two girls more likely to form a mutual and lasting friendship than Ellen and Matilda, because they were likely mutually to benefit each other, since they would, she trusted, possess the same good principles and dispositions, but each having a character of her own, would become serviceable to the other. Matilda had more discrimination and firmness than Ellen, who, on her part, had a forbearance, patience, and gentleness, which nature as well as habit had in a degree left her friend but poorly provided with; but she said it would not be surprising if their mutual affection and reciprocal admiration should, in time, ingraft the virtues of each upon the other, and she hoped to see Matilda as meek as Ellen, and Ellen as firm and energetic as Matilda.



CHAPTER XIII.

The happy family-party at Mr. Harewood's was necessarily soon broken up, as Mrs. Hanson took a house at Brompton, on account of the mildness of the air, and the young friends were then separated. Their removal was facilitated by the arrival of that West-Indian lady and her little girl, whom we have already mentioned, as being stripped of nearly all her possessions, and whom Mr. and Mrs. Harewood were desirous of accommodating in their house, until some plan for her future situation should be fixed upon. They were not of that number who can receive a rich friend with pleasure, and leave a poor one to shift for themselves; on the contrary, Mrs. Weston and her little Harriet were received by them, not only with affection, but with all consideration due to her former situation.

As soon as Mrs. Hanson had arranged her household at Brompton, she hastened to invite Mr. and Mrs. Harewood and their family to spend an early day with her, and was then introduced to Mrs. Weston, whom she knew well by report, and for whose altered situation she was truly concerned, especially after she became acquainted with her, as the suavity of her manners, the quiet dignity of mind, and unaffected resignation with which she bore her misfortunes, could not fail to prepossess her in favour of so wise and good a sufferer, who was likewise so cheerful and willing to be happy.

Harriet was a little girl, about six years old at this time, a tolerably good child but certainly subject to the same errors (though in a far less degree) which had formerly distinguished Matilda; and as she wanted incessantly somebody to do something for her, and there was no longer a slave at her command, her mother was too frequently obliged to be that servant—a circumstance which rendered the young Harewoods much less fond of Harriet than they would otherwise have been, and which, at times, tried the temper of even the gentle Ellen.

Matilda's whole mind was absorbed by this little girl, on whom she continually cast looks of the deepest interest; her mother imputed the serious air she wore to a regret very natural at her age, on revisiting the house where she had been so happy, and she felt some fears lest it should continue to haunt her mind: she had likewise many forebodings as to the future education of her daughter, being sensible that she had enjoyed advantages in Mr. Harewood's house of no common character; and she very candidly related all that was passing in her mind to that kind lady, whose maternal love for her child rendered her the most proper judge for the future, as she had proved herself the truest friend for the past.

Mrs. Harewood very strenuously recommended her to procure a good governess for her daughter, as it was hardly to be expected that she could bring herself to part with her only child, otherwise a school might have been more advantageous to a girl of such an active and social disposition; but, above all, she pressed Mrs. Hanson to endeavour to preserve in her that spirit of humility which never fails to produce obedience, subdue passion, and open the mind for the reception and nurture of every virtue.

On the arrival of Mrs. Hanson, Mrs. Harewood had left the real improvements of Matilda to be discovered by circumstances; and as the mother and daughter were seldom apart, she had not spoken of the kind and charitable actions which Matilda had performed, fearful of injuring by praise those blossoms which were now only beginning to expand; but she now dilated on them with pleasure, both to the happy mother and Mrs. Weston; and such was the effect of this discourse on the former, that tears of pleasure and gratitude to Heaven ran down her cheek. Matilda, although still engaged with the child, catching a view of her mother under this emotion, could not forbear running up to her, and tenderly inquired what was the matter.

"Nothing at all, my love, at least nothing painful; we have been speaking of you—I am anxious to engage you a governess."

"Well, mamma, and will Mrs. Weston be so good as to undertake me?"

The ladies all started, but by no means with any symptom of dismay, although Mrs. Hanson said, with some confusion, to Mrs. Weston—"My little girl takes a great liberty, ma'am, but you must pardon her premature request; she fancies you are an old friend, I believe, because you are her countrywoman."

"I wish sincerely I had any other claim to being considered her friend, madam, as in that case——"

Mrs. Weston suddenly checked herself, her colour rose, and the tears stood in her eyes.

"Suffer me, my dear friend, to interpret your silence for Mrs. Hanson;—in that case you would not object to undertaking the charge which Matilda has very innocently, though very abruptly, been willing to assign to you?"

"If you are a faithful interpreter, I will call you a most agreeable one," said Mrs. Hanson, "for Mrs. Weston would be an equal acquisition to both me and my daughter."

Mrs. Weston wiped her eyes—"Believe me, dear ladies," said she, "I am grateful for your good opinion, and truly desirous of profiting by your kind offer; but you are both mothers, and will, I am certain, consider my situation as such. I am but newly arrived; it will take some time to wean my poor child from her habits; and to send one so very young to school, is a painful consideration; in a few months I shall be happy indeed to avail myself of your goodness, and enter with pleasure on so promising a task."

Mrs. Hanson was just going to express her entire approbation of this proposal, when Matilda, with a modest, but earnest air, entreated permission to speak, which was immediately granted.

"Do not think me vain nor presuming, dear Mrs. Weston, if I say, that, whilst you are my governess, I will, with my mamma's permission, become little Harriet's governess; I am quite sure it will do us both a great deal of good, for she will every hour remind me how much more naughty and tiresome and provoking I used to be when I first came over, and teach me to endure with patience, and remove with gentleness and firmness, the errors which, in so young and engaging a child, claim my compassion rather than blame. I shall love her very dearly, I am certain, because I see she is of a loving temper, notwithstanding her faults; and I am certain, if she feels as I do, she will love me for curing her of them; then I will teach her all I know, and as I shall improve every day, you know I shall improve her also! Dear mamma, pray let me try! I do not know any way in which a girl like me can show gratitude to God so effectually, as in endeavouring to make my fellow-creature as happy as myself, and especially my own little countrywoman."

The tenderness and earnestness with which this request was urged, as well as the excellent motive, ensured its success; and in a few days the mother and daughter removed together to Brompton, and a regular system of education was entered upon, which was indeed attended with the most happy effects, although it is probable that Matilda found her new office abound with trials, of which she could form no idea until experience taught her. It is however certain, that she received as much benefit as she communicated, and that she learned the lessons of virtue whilst imparting them to her little pupil, who proved a very tractable and intelligent child, after she had become weaned from those habits which were in a great measure inseparable from her late situation in life. It is probable that but for this stimulus to her exertions, Matilda would have neglected her education, and sunk into indolent habits, for want of those excitements which she had found in the society of Ellen and her brothers; whereas now she endeavoured, at every meeting with this dear family, to exhibit some improvement or attainment in her pupil, and these were inevitably connected with her own.

But notwithstanding the advantages Matilda possessed, and her earnest desire to profit by them, and even the actual improvement she evinced, our young readers must not suppose either that she was perfect, or that she had attained that standard of excellence of which she was capable. Many a moment of petulance occurred with her provoking little pupil, and airs of arrogance were apt to swell her bosom, upon those occasions which called out the superiority of her fortune, or the exhibition of those talents which could not fail to be remarked in her situation of life. But on these occasions it was never difficult for Mrs. Weston or her good mamma to recall her to a sense of the folly and guilt of indulging such a temper; for her religious principles were deeply ingrafted, and her sensibility genuine and active; so that the moment her mind perceived that she was wounding a fellow-creature, and thereby offending God, her heart revolted from her own conduct, and she lost not a moment in retracting the assertions of anger, and rendering, as far as she was able, every atonement for her error.



CHAPTER XIV.

Time passed, and the children of either house exhibited those gradual changes which are scarcely perceptible to a parent's eye, under which they so constantly remain. The young men exchanged school for college; the girls, under the protecting guardianship of their mothers, were taken into public; and a new sense of care, on a new ground, pervaded those anxious hearts, which beat but for their beloved offspring, and which were perhaps most solicitous for them, at the time they were indulging the innocent and artless gaiety natural to their age.

As Edmund Harewood had ever been a thoughtful youth, and possessed talents which were likely to render his study of the law beneficial both to himself and the community, Mr. Harewood changed his opinion as to the profession he intended him to pursue, and directed him to prepare for the bar, to the entire satisfaction of the young man.

Charles had for some time evinced a great desire to enter the army; but as his mother could not conquer her feelings, so far as to permit it, he was at length induced to resign the scheme entirely; but his anxiety to travel continuing as strong as ever, Mr. Harewood promised, if possible, to procure him some situation in life which would allow him to indulge his wishes, consistent with his duty; but this was conceded on the express terms of his diligent application to study; and as he perceived himself the positive necessity of becoming a good linguist, he applied himself to learning the modern languages with great assiduity.

Ellen grew up a pretty girl, but her figure was diminutive, and the gentleness and docility which had been ever her happiest characteristic, diffused a charm of feminine softness over her whole person, which was to many very attractive, though not striking. The equanimity of her temper had the effect of perpetuating that smooth and dimpled description of countenance which is peculiar to childhood; so that, although a year older than Matilda, she appeared younger; and when they were seen together among strangers, she was considered as a younger sister, supported by the kind attentions of her superior; for Matilda, although very modest, was dignified, and her person, being elegant and tall, confirmed the idea.

In a short time, Mrs. Hanson received several offers from men of fortune for Matilda, all of which were politely but positively refused; for the poor girl always showed a decided dread of leaving her mother, and very justly observed, that a very intimate acquaintance was necessary between persons who bound themselves to so sacred and indissoluble a connection as marriage; and although naturally too generous and ingenuous to suspect others of acting from unworthy motives, she was yet aware that a young woman who has a large fortune in her own disposal, and who has neither father nor brother to investigate the private character of those who address her, has need of a more than ordinary share of prudence, and will be wise in delaying a consent which deprives her of all control over the wealth of which Providence has appointed her steward.

Although thus wise in her decision on this important point, and ever assigning reasons which showed how utterly unbiassed her affections were towards the candidates for her favour, yet Matilda did not always act with equal wisdom; she was excessively fond of dancing, and as she acquitted herself with uncommon grace, perhaps vanity furnished her with an additional motive for her desire to partake this amusement more frequently than it suited her mamma; and once she accepted an invitation to a private ball, when Mrs. Weston was her chaperon. Waltzing was introduced, and Matilda, though by no means pleased with the general style of the dance, was struck with certain movements which she thought graceful, and the day following began to practise them with her young protegee.

"I think you waltz very well," said Mrs. Weston.

"I soon should do so, I dare say, if I practised it; but as it was new to me, I durst not venture last night, although I made a kind of half promise to Sir Theodore Branson, that I would do it the very next time we met."

"Do you call that waltzing?" said Mrs. Hanson, laying down her netting; "it appears to me to be more the work of the hands than the feet a great deal; and you go round and round, child, very foolishly, till one grows giddy to look at you—so, so—well, and what, do the gentlemen stand by to grow giddy too?"

"Dear mamma, the gentlemen waltz with the ladies; I said, you know, that Sir Theodore wished me to do it, but I refused."

"You did perfectly right; I should have been much hurt if you had waltzed with any man."

"It is very fashionable, mother."

"More the pity; but I am sure I need no argument against it to you, Matilda."

"Indeed, mamma, I see nothing against it—I think it very graceful; and I am sure, if you had seen Lady Emma Lovell last night, you would have thought so too."

"My admiration of her person would not for a moment have changed my opinion of her conduct. I see beautiful women, who expose their persons in a manner I decidedly condemn (as I know, Matilda, you do likewise); looking at them as fine statues, I may admire the work of the great Artificer; but the moment I consider them as women filling a respectable place in society, the wives and daughters of men of rank and probity, and, what is still stronger, women professing, at least nominally, to be members of the Christian church, I turn from them with disgust and sorrow; and though I sincerely despise all affectation of more exalted purity than others, I yet will never hesitate to give my voice against a folly so unworthy of my sex, and which can be only tolerated by women whose vanity has destroyed that delicacy which is our best recommendation."

Matilda applied all her mother said to waltzing, and thought it was equally just with the strictures she herself felt true, with regard to the mode of dress adopted by some whom she met in public. Ellen and herself were ever well, and even fashionably, dressed; but yet they avoided the fault they condemned: for some time, the sisterly affection which really subsisted between them, induced them to appear in similar dresses; but as Matilda rose to womanhood, a fear lest Ellen should be induced to expense, added to some jokes that were passed upon her respecting Charles, induced her to forego this plan, and Ellen had too much good sense to pursue it further; and, as the acquaintance of Mrs. Hanson increased, Matilda was necessarily led into parties where Ellen could not meet her; so that they became in some degree divided in person, but their attachment remained the same. Mrs. Hanson was desirous that her daughter should take a more extensive view of society than was necessary for Ellen; she dreaded an early marriage for her, although she thought it desirable to bring her into society, being persuaded that young women of large fortune too frequently are rendered unhappy in the marriage state, by being dazzled at their first outset in life by the novelty, and gaiety of the scene around them, which leads them to expect a continuance of the same brilliant career, incompatible with the duties of that state into which they incautiously plunge; whereas a short time passed in life, would show them the inefficacy of trifling amusement and splendid show to procure real satisfaction, and lead them to investigate those circumstances in the minds and situations of their admirers, most likely to ensure their future felicity, and most consonant with their real wants and wishes. The judicious mother saw, with the truest pleasure, that the well-turned mind of her daughter ever pointed to the scenes of simple enjoyment and virtuous intelligence which illumined her early years; but, in her peculiar situation, she was aware that Matilda, to a certain degree, should adopt the apostle's advice—"Try all things, cleave to that which is good."

On the other hand, Mr. and Mrs. Harewood, as the young people advanced towards maturity, had felt it a point of delicacy, however sincere and ardent their friendship might be, in a slight degree to abstain from that intimate and daily intercourse which had so long and happily subsisted between the families. The days were past when Charles could romp with, or Edmund instruct, Matilda; and although they held the same rank in society, yet as the noble fortune of Matilda (increased materially by the retired way in which her mother lived during her infancy) entitled her to marry a nobleman, Mr. Harewood did not choose that the presence of his sons should cause reports which might prevent her from receiving offers of this nature. He was attached to Matilda, as if she had indeed been his child, but he was too independent, as well as too honest, to render either his present affection, or his past services, the medium of increasing the general regard Matilda had manifested for both his sons into a decided predilection for either: nor was he aware that either of the young men had for her that peculiar attachment which a man ought to feel for a wife. Edmund was wrapt apparently in a profession which is in its own nature absorbing, and Charles appeared too eager to travel to have any tendency to early marriage.

About a week after the foregoing conversation had taken place between Matilda and her mother, the former went again to a ball, with a lady of rank, who engaged to be her guardian for the night, as Mrs. Hanson and Mrs. Weston had both caught severe colds, from being out late together.

Lady Araminta Montague, the conductor of Matilda for the evening, was a fashionable and showy woman, who never appeared in public without being surrounded by all those who affected to be considered persons of taste, and fitted to move in the first style. She was now sought with more than common avidity, on account of her attractive companion, whom she endeavoured to show off in the happiest manner, by leading the light conversation of the moment to subjects familiar to Matilda's observation, or likely to draw from her those remarks in which the ability and talent she possessed would be naturally, yet strikingly, displayed. Of this species of kindness Matilda was wholly unconscious, as it was one which her own friends had never adopted; when, therefore, she found herself the universal centre of attraction in the room, it was no wonder that her spirits were unusually elated, and her vanity took the lead; so that when the sprightly dance added its intoxicating powers, and her mind was entranced by the pleasure of the moment, she forgot the resolutions and opinions formed in a wiser hour.

When the first two country-dances were over, several parties began, as on the preceding night, to form into couples for the purpose of waltzing, at that time a novelty in this country; and while Matilda was looking at them, to her surprise, Sir Theodore Branson just entered the room, and asked the honour of her hand, which he almost claimed as a promise.

This young gentleman was considered the handsomest man, and the most elegant dancer, in the circles of fashion. That he was at once a shallow coxcomb and an encroaching acquaintance, unfortunately did not prevent many young ladies from desiring him as a partner; and when Matilda perceived the leer of envy, and the pause of observation directed towards her, she half gave him her hand, being conscious that her own figure and style of dancing would be superior to any other of the candidates for admiration that had preceded her; yet she paused, remembering her mother's words, and, with a kind of anxious, fearful gaze, that fell like a veil over the exultation and gaiety of her features, she looked an appeal to the lady who was her guide, or ought to have been.

"Really, my dear, I don't know what to say; but as the thing is new, if you are not quite au fait, you will be pardoned, and Sir Theodore is so admirable a partner, I really think you may venture to try."

Matilda, in a calmer moment, would have seen how totally distinct her ladyship's fears were from those of her mother; but the flutter of her spirits, the demands of her vanity, and the address of her partner, combined to hurry her forward, and she found herself in the midst of the group before she was aware: it was then too late to recede: the motion for a short time restored her spirits; but as the arm of Sir Theodore encircled her waist, deep confusion overwhelmed her, she blushed to a degree that was absolutely painful; and though unable, in the hurry of the motion, to entertain a positive reflection, yet a thousand thoughts seemed to press at once for admittance, all tinged with self-reproach; and at length, unable to endure them, she suddenly laid her hand upon her forehead, and ran, or rather reeled, to her seat.

As it was the nature of the dance to produce the sensation of dizziness, this circumstance excited no particular attention, and her partner merely rallied her upon it, with that air of badinage young men now-a-days pretty generally adopt. Every word he uttered was distressing to Matilda, who felt as if she were insulted by his freedom, and had degraded herself too far to enjoy the right of resenting it; her native pride, however, contending with her self-condemnation, she removed her hand from her eyes, in order to give him a look which would repel his impertinence, and, to her utter astonishment, saw three gentlemen standing before, and looking earnestly upon her; two of these were her friends, Edmund and Charles Harewood.

The moment she looked up, the first withdrew, but Charles and the stranger advanced; they did not, however, find it very easy to approach her, guarded as she was by the officious Sir Theodore; but as Charles was not easily balked in any intention he had formed, he succeeded in inquiring after her health, and introducing his friend Mr. Belmont to her.

"I am very glad—I mean I did not know you were here," said Matilda confusedly.

"Mr. Belmont introduced us. We only arrived from Oxford yesterday, and Ellen, being very anxious that Mr. Belmont should see you, proposed our coming hither."

A little relieved from observing that Edmund still did not join them, under whose eye she felt that she should have shrunk, Matilda ventured to look at Mr. Belmont, recollecting that she had frequently heard him mentioned as the friend of both the brothers, during their residence at Oxford, and that he had been the visitant of the family the preceding winter, when she was on an excursion to Bath; she knew that he was highly esteemed by the family, and, aware in what a favourable point of view their affection for her would lead them to represent her, the idea that her first introduction had taken place at a moment which, of all others, she most regretted, was really insupportable to her.

Lady Araminta endeavoured, by her praise, to remove the chagrin which her ingenuous countenance (ever the faithful harbinger of her thoughts) betrayed so plainly—"I assure you, my dear," said she, "that for some time you performed very prettily; didn't you think so, Mr. Harewood?"

"Pardon me, my lady, from differing with you—I have seen a country actress do it much better: indeed I said so at the moment—Belmont knows I did; and my brother observed that——"

At this moment the country-dance was recommenced, and Matilda was hurried away, although her solicitude to hear what Edmund said amounted to misery; but as Charles was addressing Lady Araminta, not her, it was impossible to ask; besides, no small portion of anger at Edmund mingled with her anxiety—he had never yet approached her. She knew indeed that his ideas of feminine decorum were rigid; but still he had no right to resent her conduct, or he might have told her as a friend, as he used to do, wherein she erred. As these thoughts struck upon her mind, he passed her in the dance, and made her a profound bow of recognition; she watched to the bottom, and perceived him engaged in earnest conversation with a very lovely young person, whom she remembered as one of those who refused to waltz; again her heart smote her, yet her anger was the most predominant emotion, and she felt as if Edmund Harewood had injured her beyond forgiveness.

The waltzing recommenced, but the very name of it was now hateful to Matilda, and she hastily entreated Lady Araminta to order her carriage. Charles was near; accustomed to read her thoughts, he advanced to offer his hand to lead her down stairs—"You are not well, Matilda," said he, tenderly—"at least not comfortable—I am sure you are not."

Matilda replied only by a smothered sigh.

"They tell me," continued Charles, "that you are about to marry Sir Theodore Branson?"

"'Tis false," said Matilda, quickly, her bosom evidently palpitating with shame and anger.

"Then how could you think of waltzing with him? I am sure neither Edmund nor myself would have dared (brothers as we once deemed ourselves) to have taken—but—really I beg pardon, Miss Hanson; while I condemn another, I intrude too far myself."

Matilda was just stepping into the carriage; she turned her eyes on Charles—they were full of tears, tears such as he had seen in her repentant eyes in early days; he was affected with them—he felt that the latter part of his speech had hurt her—that she was not the fashionable belle, but still the good girl he must love and admire.—"Then," cried he, eagerly, "you will not marry that sprig of a baronet—eh, Matilda?"

"I will not indeed."

"And do you not mean to waltz again?"

"No; I was a fool once, but——"

The carriage drove off, and Charles returned with a light heart to the ball-room; but that of Edmund was very heavy, and the friends shortly left the gay scene, and returned to Mr. Harewood's.



CHAPTER XV.

"I will never go any where again without you, indeed, mother, I am determined," said Matilda, with a sorrowful air, the following morning.

This was the prelude to a confession of error, which in part relieved the mind of Matilda: but she was still uneasy—she felt as if Charles would be her apologist with his family, for an error they were likely to blame in her; but the ardour of his manner made her feel much concerned for him—he was dear to her—she felt for him a sister's affection, but felt that she could never be more to him than she was then. Anxious and restless, she earnestly desired to see Ellen, whose gentleness and dispassionate good sense would soothe the fretfulness and allay the uneasiness she felt; yet she could not bring herself to call on the family—she had not the courage to meet Mr. and Mrs. Harewood, nor the calmness with which she desired to see the brothers. While she was debating what course to pursue, to her infinite relief she heard that Ellen had just called with her father, and that both of them were in the library. Before she had time to welcome them, Ellen, running up stairs, hurried with her into the dressing-room, and closed the door with an air of secrecy which showed her expectation of giving or receiving intelligence of importance, and there was in her countenance an expression which combined both joy and sorrow, and was really indefinable.