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for her truly maternal goodness to me-sobs still my only language.

And drawing her chair still nearer to mine, she put her arms round my neck, and my glowing cheek, wet with my tears, close to her own: Let me talk to you, my child. Since silence is your choice, hearken to me, and be silent. You know, my dear, what I every day forego, and undergo, for the sake of peace. Your papa is a very good man, and means well; but he will not be controlled; nor yet persuaded. You would not add, I am sure, to my trouble: you would not wilfully break that peace which costs your mother so much to preserve. Obedience is better than sacrifice. O my Clary Harlowe, rejoice my heart, by telling me I have apprehended too much!-I see your concern! I see your perplexity! I see your conflict (loosing her arm, and rising, not willing I should see how much she herself was affected). I will leave you a moment.—Answer me not-(For I was essaying to speak, and had, as soon as she took her dear cheek from mine, dropt down on my knees, my hands clasped, and lifted up in a supplicating manner). I am not prepared for your irresistible expostulation, she was pleased to say. I will leave you to recollection and I charge you, on my blessing, that all this my truly maternal tenderness be not thrown away upon you.

And then she withdrew into the next apartment; wiping her eyes, as she went from me; as mine overflowed; my heart taking in the whole compass of her meaning.

She soon returned, having recovered more steadiness. Still on my knees, I had thrown my face across the chair she had sat in.

Look up to me, my Clary Harlowe-No sullenness, I hope!

No, indeed, my ever-to-be-revered mamma.-And I I bent my knee.

arose.

She raised me. No kneeling to me, but with knees of duty and compliance. Your heart, not your knees, must bend. It is absolutely determined- Prepare yoursel visits you by-and

therefore to receive your father, when he

by, as he would wish to receive you. But on this one quarter of an hour depends the peace of my future life, the satisfaction of all the family, and your own security from a man of violence: and I charge you besides, on my blessing, that you think of being Mrs. Solmes.

There went the dagger to my heart, and down I sank: and when I recovered, found myself in the arms of my Hannah, my sister's Betty holding open my reluctantlyopened palm, my laces cut, my linen scented with hartshorn; and my mother gone. Had I been less kindly treated, the hated name still forborne to be mentioned, or mentioned with a little more preparation and reserve, I had stood the horrid sound with less visible emotion-but to be bid, on the blessing of a mother so dearly beloved, so truly reverenced, to think of being Mrs. Solmes-what a denunciation was that!

Shorey came in with a message (delivered in her solemn. way): Your mamma, miss, is concerned for your disorder: she expects you down again in an hour; and bid me say, that she then hopes everything from your duty.

I made no reply; for what could I say? And leaning upon my Hannah's arm, withdrew to my own apartment There you will guess how the greatest part of the hour was employed.

Within that time, my mother came up to me.

I love, she was pleased to say, to come into this apartment!-No emotions, child! No flutters-Am I not your mother!-Am I not your fond, your indulgent mother!-Do not discompose me by discomposing yourself! Do not occasion me uneasiness, when I would give you nothing but pleasure. Come, my dear, we will go into your closet.

She took my hand, led the way, and made me sit down by her and after she had inquired how I did, she began in a strain as if she had supposed I had made use of the intervening space to overcome all my objections.

She was pleased to tell me, that my father and she, in order to spare my natural modesty, had taken the whole affair upon themselves

Hear me out; and then speak; for I was going to expostulate. You are no stranger to the end of Mr. Solmes's visits

O madam

Hear me out; and then speak.-He is not indeed everything I wish him to be: but he is a man of probity, and has no vices

No vices, madam !—

Hear me out, child-You have not behaved much amiss to him we have seen with pleasure that you have

not

O madam, must I not now speak!

I shall have done presently-A young creature of your virtuous and pious turn, she was pleased to say, cannot surely love a profligate: you love your brother too well, to wish to marry one who had like to have killed him, and who threatened your uncles, and defies us all. You have had your own way six or seven times: we want to secure you against a man so vile. Tell me (I have a right to know) whether you prefer this man to all others ?—Yet God forbid that I should know you do! for such a declaration would make us all miserable. Yet, tell me, are your affections engaged to this man?

I knew what the inference would be, if I had said they were not.

You hesitate-you answer me not-you cannot answer me. Rising-never more will I look upon you with an eye of favour

O madam, madam! kill me not with your displeasure

I would not, I need not, hesitate one moment, did I not dread the inference, if I answer you as you wish.

Well then, Clary, if your heart be free

O my beloved mamma, let the usual generosity of your dear heart operate in my favour. Urge not upon me the inference that made me hesitate.

I won't be interrupted, Clary-you have seen in my behaviour to you, on this occasion, a truly maternal tenderness; you have observed that I have undertaken this task with some reluctance, because the man is not everything; and because I know you carry your notions of perfection in a man too high

Dearest madam, this one time excuse me !-Is there then any danger that I should be guilty of an imprudent thing for the man's sake you hint at ?

Again interrupted !—Am I to be questioned, and argued with? You know this won't do somewhere else. You know it won't. What reason then, ungenerous girl, can you have for arguing with me thus, but because you think from my indulgence to you, you may ?

What can I say? What can I do? What must that cause be that will not bear being argued upon?

Again! Clary Harlowe !

Dearest madam, forgive me: it was always my pride and my pleasure to obey you. But look upon that mansee but the disagreeableness of his person—

Now, Clary, do I see whose person you have in your eye-Now is Mr. Solmes, I see, but comparatively disagreeable; disagreeable only as another man has a much more specious person.

But, madam, are not his manners equally so ?—Is not his person the true representative of his mind ?—That other man is not, shall not be, anything to me, release me but from this one man, whom my heart, unbidden, resists.

Condition thus with your father. Will he bear, do you

think, to be thus dialogued with? Have I not conjured you, as you value my peace-what is it that I do not give up ?—This very talk, because I apprehended you would not be easily persuaded, is a task indeed upon me. And will you give up nothing? Have you not refused as many as have been offered to you? If you would not have us guess for whom, comply; for comply you must, or be looked upon as in a state of defiance with your whole family.

But at

And saying this, she arose, and went from me. the chamber-door stopped; and turned back: I will not say below in what a disposition I leave you. Consider of everything. The matter is resolved upon. As you value your father's blessing and mine, and the satisfaction of all the family, resolve to comply. I will leave you for a few moments. I will come up to you again. See that I find you as I wish to find you; and since your heart is free, let your duty govern it.

In about half an hour, my mother returned. She found me in tears. She took my hand: It is my part evermore, said she, to be of the acknowledging side. I believe I have needlessly exposed myself to your opposition, by the method I have taken with you. I first began as if I expected a denial, and by my indulgence brought it upon myself.

Do not, my dearest mamma! do not, say so!

When I came to you a second time, proceeded she, knowing that your opposition would avail you nothing, I refused to hear your reasons: and in this I was wrong too, because a young creature who loves to reason, and used to love to be convinced by reason, ought to have all her objections heard: I now, therefore, this third time, see you; and am come resolved to hear all you have to say : and let me, my dear, by my patience engage your gratitude; your generosity, I will call it; because it is to you I speak, who used to have a mind wholly generous.

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