University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.
MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.

During the absence of Alice from her uncle's
house, Mrs. Silby and Mr. Roger Brance were
conversing together in that lady's sitting room.
Alice was the subject of their conversation;
and as soon as Mrs. Silby was informed of her
return to the house, she requested Mr. Brance
to step into an adjoining room, there to remain
while she had an interview with her daughter.
Alice entered her mother's room without
delay.

“Sit down, my child,” said Mrs. Silby in an
agitated voice, which she vainly endeavored to
control. “I have a few words to say to you.”

Alice bowed respectful obedience.

“Have you seen Mr. Corrinton this morning?”
pursued Mrs. Silby.

“I have, mother,” answered Alice in a firm
voice. “I have disobeyed you, but I have no
wish to deceive you.”

Mrs. Silby, pale with excitement, fixed her
angry eyes upon her daughter's face. Her

fingers clasped each other nervously, and it was
a minute before she spoke.

“I believe I am accursed of Heaven!” she
exclaimed at length, with bitterness.

“Dear mother! I beg of you not to speak
so,” said Alice, much pained.

“Why should I not?” answered the stern
mother, shivering with passion. “After suffering
the misery to which the most dissipated of
husbands devoted me, — after bearing all the
agony a proud, restless, undutiful son could
occasion, — you, my child, — a daughter after
my own heart, — you in whom I have concentrated
all the wounded affections of a deserted
wife, — all a mother's love and hope, — you
must prove unkind!”

“O my mother!” murmured Alice, weeping,
“forgive me! I have not wished to prove
unkind, believe me! Only a strong sense of
right and duty led me to disobey you, and see
him whom you unjustly suspect and hate
without cause.”

“O fool!” cried Mrs. Silby, passionately.
“Your love blinds your reason. Corrinton is
as much a murderer as I am your mother.
Weak girl! I could not have believed this folly

in you, did not your own shameless lips proclaim
it!”

“My mother,” returned Alice, rising proudly,
“I have not deserved this! I am not weak.
Well might you call my lips shameless lips, did
they not open to reply to such words, even
though you, my mother, spoke them. Call me
not weak, nor fool, nor shameless, for I am
strong, and rational; and even now I blush for
shame, that you should utter such reproaches!”

“Stop, Alice!” cried Mrs. Silby, raising her
hand with a gesture of authority. “I will not
hear such language from you. You have been
an obedient, dutiful child, and I have loved you
fondly; but now your reason is perverted, and
you rebel! Have you not learned to know me
yet, Alice?” added the passionate mother.
“Are you prepared to oppose my will? and do
you not know what that will is?”

“Mother, I know all; I have considered all,”
replied Alice, in a calm, collected manner,
which contrasted strangely with her parent's
vehemence and passion. “I know that your
will is stronger than your heart; I know that
nothing can change it — not even natural affection.
And yet I have disobeyed you; but

as I have said, nothing but a strong sense of
right and duty led me to take that step. I
have taken it; I am prepared for the consequences.
Your reproaches pain me, mother —
for you know how much I love you; but I
have one source of consolation. My conscience
tells me I have done right. Were
it otherwise, your displeasure would kill me;
as it is, I bear it with patience, trusting that
you will some day know the truth, and think
better of your child.”

“Begone from my sight!” exclaimed Mrs.
Silby, hoarsely. “Tempt me no further; you
make me forget that you are Alice, and I your
mother!”

Alice, who knew the strength of her mother's
severe nature, and feared lest it might impel
her to utter something which she could not
bear, waited for no second command, but
respectfully withdrew.

Mrs. Silby remained, pacing to and fro in a
state of great excitement. It was the first
time Alice ever opposed that proud, impetuous
will, which had proved more powerful than a
wife's affections and a mother's love. Well
was it for both that Mrs. Silby sent her

daughter from her; she knew it, for experience
had taught her to fear her own passions; she
felt that, had Alice staid, words would have
passed between them which might have divided
them forever. But how hard was it for
that haughty mother to govern those impulses
which had always swayed her heart!

Remembering that Mr. Brance was in an adjoining
room, and that she must see him soon,
Mrs. Silby strove to calm herself. She had so
far succeeded, that she was on the point of going
to meet Mr. Brance, when a domestic came to
inform her that a visitor desired to see her without
delay.

“Who is it?” demanded Mrs. Silby.

“He did not give his name,” replied the
domestic; “that, he says, is of no consequence.”

“Show him in,” said Mrs. Silby.

She threw herself upon a chair, her back
turned towards the door. A moment after, a
pale, haggard, heart-crushed man stood upon
the threshold. It was the vagabond.

Mrs. Silby heard his footsteps, and arose to
receive her visitor, whoever it might be. The
man took a step forward, and paused, with his

anguished eyes fixed upon the severe features
of the mother of Alice. Her eyes met his, and
suddenly, a deathly palor overspreading her
face, she sank back, with a suppressed groan,
upon the seat from which she had arisen.

An hour after, when the vagabond had taken
his departure, Mrs. Silby, calm, pale, seemingly
oppressed by some awful weight upon her
heart, once more called her daughter to her
room. With an air of firmness, tempered by
patience and meekness, Alice entered, prepared
to meet her mother.

“My child,” said Mrs. Silby, in a low, quiet
tone, such as Alice little expected to hear, “I
have reflected on what I said to you, and I am
convinced that I was in the wrong. I ask your
pardon.”

“O my mother — my dearest mother!” said
Alice, throwing herself upon her neck, and
bursting into tears; “it is for me to ask your
pardon,” she sobbed. “Forgive me, and love
me, mother!”

“I have been too severe towards you,” added
Mrs. Silby, in a suppressed voice. “I have
been a stern, rather than an affectionate mother.
But yet I have loved you, Alice, dearly; and

dearly, dearly I love you still. Forgive my
harshness; overlook my pride; remember what
my life has been; consider what trials I have
had to sour my disposition and render my
heart obdurate and relentless.”

“My dear mother, I consider all things,” said
Alice, much affected. “I think of nothing
now, except how much you have suffered, how
much I owe to you, how much I love you!”

“You are a good girl, my child,” answered
Mrs. Silby. “You have a great heart, a great
soul, Alice. You are stronger than your
mother — wiser, better.”

“No, no!” said Alice, “that cannot be; for
you have made me what I am, dearest mother.
It is you who taught me — you who formed
my mind and disciplined my heart.”

“True,” replied the mother, with a faint, sad
smile. “But the discipline under which you
have thriven nobly would have soured, and
ruined, perhaps, any nature inferior to yours.
It was too severe for your poor brother; and
may Heaven forgive me for the wrong I have
done to his generous and impetuous nature.
Even with your father, Alice, I feel now that I
was too severe. I confess this to you, because

I need your sympathy, my child. Yes, I was
too severe with him. I should have borne with
patience what I punished with unwomanly
harshness. O, had I encouraged him to do
right, instead of striving to drive him from the
wrong, he might at length have forsaken his
habits of dissipation, and become a useful man,
and a kind husband and father. With regard to
yourself, my child, you possess all my strength
of character, and all your father's natural
generosity. You have a discreet mind and a
true heart, and I can henceforth trust you
when I could not trust myself. Your judgment
is more correct than mine. You are right in
your opinion of Corrinton. He is a noble, innocent
man. He is as worthy of you as any
man can be. You are suited for each other —
for your even temper can well bear with and
control his fluctuating impulses, his undisciplined
passions. Dearest Alice! may you be
happier than your mother has been!”

Alice made no reply. She was sobbing on
her mother's bosom.