Mrs. Adair waited a considerable time in the cottage, and then returned
home without receiving any satisfactory account of her pupil. All that
she could learn was, that a little girl in a green bonnet had been seen
stepping into a stage-coach. As coaches were continually passing the end
of the village, she knew it was in vain making further inquiries. She
wrote, however, immediately to Mr. Bruce, and sent a messenger with the
letter, that he might meet them in town.
It has been observed, that Miss Bruce, in most cases, acted without
reflection. The idea that she had done wrong did not strike her with
full force, until the carriage in which she had placed herself arrived
in London: the lights from the lamps, however, seemed to throw light
upon her thoughts. When the coach stopped at the inn, the bustle of
people gathering their luggage together, the idea that she did not know
the road to her father's house, the certainty that she had acted in a
very foolish manner, and fear of the reception from her father, excited
many disagreeable thoughts. She was seated in a corner of the coach, at
a loss how to proceed, when the coachman came to the door. "Miss," said
he "won't you alight? perhaps you are waiting for somebody?"
"I will thank you to take me home," and this was said in a very humble
tone.
The man whistled at the request. "I don't know, Miss, whether I can or
no. Did not your friends know that you were coming? But now I think of
it, you seemed in a fright when you got into the coach: what, was you
running away, Miss?"
Vexed at the question, Miss Bruce quickly answered, "I am going to see
my papa. I have business with him."
"Well, your business is not mine, Miss; but somehow, I think you have
been cheating your schoolmistress. But come your way, till I can see for
somebody to go with you."
I only wish some of my young readers could have seen Miss Bruce, how
simple she looked when she followed the coachman into the inn. She
wished to be at school, and with Miss Damer again--but it was then too
late.
And here I would advise young people to beware of the first wrong step,
for it generally leads to trouble and mortification, and often to
disgrace.
Miss Bruce stood some time unnoticed at the entrance of a large room,
partitioned into boxes. Waiters and travellers just looked at the young
lady, and then passed on: people were too much engaged, with dishes,
papers, packages, and glasses, to attend to the little stranger.
At length, however, one solitary gentleman, who perhaps had daughters
of his own, took compassion upon the forlorn traveller.
"Come hither, my dear, and sit by me."
Miss Bruce gladly accepted the offer, for she was a strange figure for a
stage coach passenger. Her white frock was rumpled, and in a sad state
from the blow she had received; the tippet was in the same style; her
old green silk garden bonnet hung half off her head. One of her long
sleeves she had untied from her tippet, and taken it off; the other
remained. Garden gloves, cut at the fingers, completed the dress. Thus
neatly attired, in an hour and ten minutes after her arrival in London
she was ushered by a new footman into her father's study, where he was
seated reading a pamphlet. In a moment he turned the book open upon the
table, raised one of the candlesticks above his head, and with a keen
satirical look exclaimed, "what runaway is this?"
"Papa, it is I!" This was said in a very trembling accent.
"And pray who is I, that comes thus attired, and unasked at this
unseasonable hour? Only wants three minutes of eleven," said Mr. Bruce
as he fixed his eyes upon the time-piece. "With whom did you travel?"
"With a little boy, and a great man, papa, and a little woman, with a
baby and a lapdog."
As Miss Bruce was speaking, she would have given a trifle to have been
at school again.
"A goodly company indeed, young lady! By this I conclude that you have
disgraced yourself! Sit here" (pointing to a chair behind the door); "it
is the only place for idle, thoughtless truants. And now give a reason
for your conduct: But there is no reason, with foolish, giddy girls! I
will have every word correct: no varnishing, or lies."
After much hesitation, and many tears, Miss Bruce went through the whole
of her story. While she was speaking, her father seemed lost in thought.
No sooner had she finished, but he started from his chair, and with his
eyes fixed upon the floor, walked some time from one end of the study
to the other. He then stopped, and looked sternly at his daughter.
"And so you have been trying your skill at boxing! An admirable
accomplishment for a young lady! You have taken upon yourself to be
rude to your school companion; to be ungrateful to Mrs. Adair, and
ventured to ride ten miles in a stage-coach! And in what a dress! You
are indeed an enterprizing young lady! Now let me tell you, Miss Bruce,
one simple truth: you have acted in all things contrary to that which
you know is right. But pray what is the meaning of the word right?"
"To do all things that I know I should do; I do not know any thing more,
papa; indeed I do not."
"You know the right, but a perverse and wilful disposition leads you to
do wrong."
Mr. Bruce rang the bell, and ordered the housekeeper into his presence.
When she entered the room, he commanded her to close the door. "Take my
daughter," said he, "to the chamber that was occupied last night. You
are not to speak to her, nor allow any servant in the house to do so.
Give her a little bread and milk: go, child."
"Papa,"--here Miss Bruce sobbed; and would have added, "O, do forgive
me!" but her father sternly bade her leave him.
Mr. Bruce looked at his daughter when she was asleep. He heard her
murmuring and intreating; and listened to words that affected him
deeply. He sat down by her bed-side until she was tranquil: and whether
he shed tears of tenderness over her is best known to himself; but the
following morning, though his feelings were softened, his countenance
was equally stern. His carriage was at the door; and at ten o'clock he
and his daughter arrived at Mrs. Adair's. Neither at breakfast nor
during the ride had he uttered one word. "Madam," said he, the moment he
beheld the mistress of his child, "I have brought a runaway. I will not
make an apology for her conduct: it is not in my way; it rests entirely
with yourself whether she will be accepted or rejected. Providence, in
the justness of his ways, has deprived her of an excellent mother. How
far servants are capable of giving right ideas of female decorum, you
are yourself to judge. When I fixed Margaret with you, it was not to
education alone that I looked; my views and hopes extended to
principles, temper, and conduct. The mere mechanical parts of education
may at all times be purchased for money; automatons may be made to
perform wonders. But we all know that something more is wanting to give
solidity and consequence to character. If you refuse my daughter, she
will lose her best friend."
"Not another word, Sir, on the subject; I still expect to make something
of this little girl. She is rash, careless, and perhaps a little
mischievous: but I am not without hope; and past grievances we will now
forget. Go," said Mrs. Adair, turning to her pupil, "bring a frock to
me; remember I pardon you now, but I shall never do so again; and take
care that you do not tell any person that you ran away, and were so
foolish.--It is well she is my god-daughter, and my namesake," said Mrs.
Adair, as her pupil crossed the hall: then, addressing Mr. Bruce, she
added, "Depend upon my word, Sir; I will be the friend of your daughter
in remembrance of her mother; this is the strongest claim upon my
attention; far more so than that of a name."
"I bless you again and again for your kindness," said Mr. Bruce with
warmth. "I have now no fears for Margaret; she must remain with you,
until you can say, 'your daughter is now all I can desire.'"
"This is exacting too much; 'all that you can desire,' is beyond my
power to make her; but I will try to make her a comfort to you. I have
good ground to work upon, and I hope you will have reason to think, that
I have not neglected the soil."
As Mr. Bruce was returning to his carriage, his daughter, who was
descending the stairs with a clean frock, flew to him, exclaiming, "do
say you forgive me! I will never vex you again; O, dear papa, say you
will but forgive me."
"Well, child, I do forgive you."
"O, how good and kind you are! I will never forget it. But, dear papa,
won't you say something more?"
"God bless you, child! and may he always bless you."
Mr. Bruce hastened to the carriage, drew up the window, and the boy
drove off. Tears streamed from Miss Bruce's eyes; "O, that papa would
but have given me one kiss, I should have been so happy!"
"If you are good," said Mrs. Adair, "when next he sees you he will give
you two."