“Clara Glanville had a mama who loved her tenderly--as tenderly as
a fond mama was likely to love an only little girl, and Clara, I
believe, loved her mama also; but though she had a warm heart, she had
a perverse temper, and while she really wished to please her mama, this
strange fault constantly tempted her to grieve and contradict her. It
was not any positive act of disobedience that she was guilty of, but a
perpetual vexatious disputing of her mama’s wishes, more wearing even
than disobedience itself would have been. For instance: if her mama
desired her to walk out, she would weary her with reasons for staying
in the house. If she asked her to do one particular lesson, she would,
from mere perverseness, torment her to allow her to do a different one
instead. Sometimes she would ask a long string of useless questions;
and when her mama, who had been ill, and was still far from strong,
was obliged to say that she was too tired to answer any more, Clara
would go on repeating, ‘But _do_ answer me, mama--but do answer me,
mama,’ crying all the time, till her mama was so worn out, that she
was ready to cry herself from mere exhaustion. Then she would mildly
say, ‘My Clara, go, you make me ill, _very_ ill;’ and Clara would look
at her mama, and see by her pale cheeks and heavy eyes, that she was
indeed ill, and she would burst into tears of penitence, and say, ‘O
mama, mama, I will never, never vex you again!’ Alas! she had so often
repeated these words, that Mrs. Glanville could now only shake her head
distrustfully, and say, ‘God grant it, my poor child! you are laying
up misery for yourself, which will, I fear, last longer than that
you are causing me. O Clara! you will often think of these things!’
Clara did not know _all_ that her mama meant, but she felt that she
had been cruel and perverse, and no doubt determined sincerely at the
moment, that she would never vex her mama again; but she had given
way too long to her perverse temper to allow of its being conquered
all at once, and the next, perhaps the very same day, witnessed a fit
of the same obstinacy, followed by the same repentance and the same
vain resolution of amendment. One day, after having borne with Clara’s
perverseness as long as her spirits would permit, Mrs. Glanville was
forced to send her out of the room with an injunction not to return
till she was really good. After the struggle between her pride and her
better feelings had lasted some time, Clara stole back to her mama’s
dressing-room. She paused behind the open door, for she had not quite
brought down her stubborn spirit to own her fault, and to beg her
mama’s pardon. At this moment, her papa came into her mama’s room, and
she could not help hearing the conversation which passed between them.
“‘What has happened to distress you, my love?’ said her papa; ‘I
know Clara has been wearing you out by her perverseness. You will
never regain your strength while that child gives you such perpetual
vexation. Do pray consent to her going from home; your sister would,
I know, take great care of her, and I am sure it would be better
for Clara as well as for yourself. You have not strength to struggle
against her strange temper, and it grows upon her every day.’ Her mama
was silent for a few moments, and when she did speak, Clara knew from
her voice that she had been crying. ‘Well, I believe that you are
right,’ she said; ‘I care not for myself, but perhaps my poor Clara
might be benefited by being parted from me for a time. Perhaps, when we
were once separated, she might remember all the pain she has given me;
and as she would not have an opportunity of breaking her resolutions
when they were only just formed, they might acquire strength, and she
might return to be once more a comfort to me. I think she loves me,
though her strange perverseness makes her often give me such bitter
pain. But do not tell her why she goes; I could not bear that she
should think herself banished, it would break her heart, and make the
parting so painful, that I could not support her grief and my own.’
‘Well, my love, I will only say that she is to go; I do not wish to
tell her why: she would only beg to stay, and repeat her promises of
amendment till she persuaded you to try her again, and again she would
break them, and hurt you more than ever.’”
_Emily._--“O mama, what must poor Clara have felt when she heard all
this! And did she not run into the room and kneel to her papa and mama,
and entreat them not to send her away from them, and promise to be the
very best little girl in all the world if they would but let her stay;
and did she not keep her promise, and were not she and her mama happy
ever afterwards? But O the black frock!”
“You shall hear, my Emmie. Clara did nothing of all that you
suppose. She saw that her papa would not believe her promises, and
her conscience told her that he was right. She stole then back with a
bursting heart to her own room, shut the door, and threw herself on
the bed. After a few minutes, ‘O my dear, dear mama!’ she sobbed to
herself, ‘I will not trust myself; I will not ask to stay; I will not
kill you by my sad, sad temper. You shall get strong and well, and
when I do come back, perhaps God will have made me good. I will pray
to him so earnestly, and I shall not make you ill again, but happy!--I
shall make my own mama happy! O why, why have I not always done so? But
perhaps it is not now too late.’--Ah, poor Clara!
“O what did she not suffer during the rest of that day? Her mama
breathed not a word about her going, but her fond caresses, and tender
tone of voice seemed to say, ‘My poor child, you little know the
banishment your conduct has brought upon you.’ Before she went to bed
her papa kissed her, and said kindly, but gravely, ‘Clara, you are to
go to-morrow morning to stay some time with your aunt. Be a good girl
whilst you are absent, and try to be good when you return home. Wish
your mama good-bye--she is not allowed to be disturbed as early as you
must set off.’
“Clara said not one word--she received her papa’s kiss with downcast
eyes, stood still for a moment, and then sprung to her mama, buried
her head in her bosom, raised her little face with her eyes shut to
restrain her bursting tears, received her mama’s fond kiss on her
quivering lips, and then ran out of the room. She thought she heard
her mama call her back, but her papa’s voice reached her ear more
distinctly, saying, ‘No, no, my love; believe me, it is better as it
is--let her go; I must consider your health first.’
“Clara spoke not one word while her maid undressed her; then she said
her prayers fervently, and sobbed herself to sleep. The next morning
she was called early, her breakfast was brought to her in her own room,
but her poor little throat ached so sadly from sobbing, that she could
not swallow, nor had she much wish to eat.
“The carriage came to the door; Clara stole softly along the passage
not to disturb her mama.--Was she asleep? Clara paused for a moment at
her door--she thought she heard her sigh, but she was not sure; so she
passed on, saying to herself, ‘When I come back I _may_ kiss her, and
be certain that I hear her voice, and I will ask her forgiveness, and
will show her that I can keep my promise, and I will make her happy!’
Comforted by this thought, Clara tripped on with a lighter heart and
step. She found her papa waiting to lift her into the carriage. ‘God
bless you, my child! you were a good girl not to wake your mama, she
has had a sadly disturbed night.--O Clara! try to please her when you
come home; you know not what a blessing you have in such a mother, or
what it would be to lose her.’ Her papa’s voice trembled, and he turned
away; the carriage door was closed, and Clara fell back with a swelling
heart and streaming eyes.
“‘And I might have been good, and I might have stayed with my own
mama, and she might have been now blessing me, and wishing me good
night!’ said Clara to herself that evening, as she laid her head on
her strange pillow, and compared her aunt’s grave, frigid manner, to
her mama’s, so tender and caressing. A few weeks passed heavily away;
her aunt set Clara her appointed tasks in the morning, sent her to walk
a stated time in a precise garden, with an old servant as stiff and
unbending as herself, made her spend her evenings in working silently
by her side, and then dismissed her to bed with a cold kiss, and a
formal ‘Good night.’
“At last, after one of her tedious walks, on coming into the
drawing-room, Clara found her aunt, not sitting up stiffly at her
work as usual, but leaning with her face buried in her hands, which
were clasped upon an open letter on the table before her. Clara stood
quietly till a deep sigh from her aunt made her draw still closer, and
whisper, ‘My aunt, O tell me what has happened!--my dear mama!’ Her
aunt, so cold, so unmoved in general, now caught Clara in her arms,
strained her to her breast, and said, ‘My poor Clara, your mama is
very, very ill. Be ready to set off. God grant we may be in time!’
“They were _not_ in time. Clara did indeed steal to her mama’s door,
did indeed kiss those pale lips; but O! she could not then even fancy
that she heard that voice. Her mama had died, and she had _not_ begged
her forgiveness--had _not_ shown that she would keep her promise--had
_not_ made her happy!
“My Emily, do you now wonder that the little pale girl in the black
frock did not play, and that when you innocently said, ‘Eddie is a good
little boy, and always in a hurry to do what his mama wishes,’ she
burst into tears, and ran into the house, or that Lucy Stanley looked
so sorrowfully after her, and exclaimed, ‘Poor unhappy Clara!’”