“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!’”