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somewhat offended by the sternness of his manners.
"Nothing wonderful that a mother should forget her children," reiterated Mr. Murray.
"No," said Charles, coolly; "I presume you are not always thinking of them."
If looks could strike down a man, the looks of William would have felled Charles to the ground.
"You have never been a father," he replied; "no, nor a husband," he added in a lower and muttered tone. Seeing Mary had not risen to take the children.-
"Go, woman," said he, "and instantly attend to the children."
"It was not I that told papa you sent us out into the rain, mamma," said the little Meta, as soon as they had left the room.
"Whosoever did tell him so, told a falsehood," replied her mother, petulantly.
Henry hung his head, conscious he had, under the influence of angry feelings, misrepresented what his mother had said; ashamed, yet not penitent, he muttered,-
"I am sure I told you a storm was coming."
"Do not dare to contradict me," exclaimed his mother, catching him by the arm.
"Dear, dear mamma, don't be so angry," cried Meta, throwing her arms round her neck.
Mary threw herself in a chair, and burst into tears. In her passion of grief and indignation, she for some moments forgot the condition of her children. She started up and rang violently. The maid ran up.
"Change these children's clothes," said she.
They were taken away. She then walked the room in an agitation she could not subdue. "To command me like a servant-to reprove me as a culprit, and in the presence of my children and Charles-it is unbearable. I have, as Charles said, been too obedient, too yielding. Could not a mother's feelings have been trusted to? Oh, he little knows me-kindness might mould me to whatever he wishes-but harshness-indignity! I have submitted too long. There are limits to a husband's authority."
Thus did she indulge a thousand unkind feelings, which, if not restricted, will soon grow into ungovernable passions, and tyrannize over reason and virtue. The germ of every evil propensity exists in human nature, as truly as that of noxious plants does in the bosom of the earth, unknown and unsuspected, until developed by circumstances, which call the latent principle into activity. Let not the most amiable and excellent of our race believe that there is one exempt from this innate tendency to evil. Who that knew Mary would ever have believed it possible that the malignant and vindictive feelings, now convulsing her very soul, existed in her gentle and affectionate nature. Search deeply into your own, reader, and you may, perhaps, discover that though dormant and inert, those reptile passions lie hidden there. Oh, beware of awakening them by the vivifying warmth of any indulgence prohibited by Virtue and Religion.
It was a pity, a great pity, that Mr. Murray had spoken so harshly to his wife. He lamented the moment he had uttered his ungentle command, the violence into which he had been betrayed. But the situation in which he found his children-the representation of Henry-the discovery of Mary and Charles so deeply engaged, and he apparent indifference to his remostrance, had provoked him beyond all self-command.
The sneering coolness of Charles' reply raised passion to its highest pitch, and no sooner had Mary left the room, that he gave vent to his long smothered feelings.
"Ungrateful man!" exclaimed he, "would you sting the bosom that warmed you into life?"
"Do you mean to reproach me with your benefits-then they are annulled," cried Charles. "If I am ungrateful you are mean, base--"
"Stop, stop, Charles, nor provoke me farther-there are limits even to my forbearance."
"You need not tell me that; your conduct to your lovely, injured wife, show these limits not to be very extensive."
"Name her not-name her not," cried William, with rekindled passion, "lest you force me to command you to quite this house."
"Jealous, too!" sneered Charles.
"Leave my sight ungrateful wretch, ere I strike one beneath the shelter of my own roof," said William, letting fall the arm he had, in his passion, raised.
"I fear you not," retorted Charles, "for tyrants are always cowards-but you shall repent of this. I go," muttering as he quitted the room; "yes, I go, but not alone."
William did not hear these muttered words. He had turned to a window, against which he supported his frame, trembling and quivering with suppressed passions.
What was now to be done? His wife was offended, perhaps justly offended by his harshness. The man he had loved and cherished from boyhood turned from the only home he had on earth-the kind heart of William relented.
"Houseless and friendless and pennyless! Poor Charles! what will his aged parent say? She who has ever been a fond, indulgent mother to me. How wretched I have made her. And my wife, my Mary, who, in spite of all her coldness, is dearer to me that ever. Oh, I am miserable-very miserable. And where is this misery to be staid? We are all unhappy, What fatality has wrought this ruin? A few months sinse and I would have said there was not a happier family on earth. Home to me was a paradise of sweets, the sweets of pure affection. No care ever saddened the countenance of Mary-bright with love and gladness it welcomed me to the joys of home. How often has she come forth to meet me, attended by our little ones, who sported before her, literally strewing her path with flowers. How have they sprung into my arms, while hers have been thrown around us-and she has exclaimed,--'thus I encompass all my treasures!' Blessed days, and will you never return? And whence is all this change-this ruin? Alas! the serpent entered my paradise of love and joy.-Fatal error-yet could it be an error to give a shelter to a destitute? I felt it a virture-a humanity. How could I suspect-how foresee the fatal consequences. Such perfect, unbounded confidence had I in my Mary's love! Alienation of her affection! I should have thought myself criminal to have harboured such a thought! Strange, strange mystery of the human heart! And can one vicious inclination thus taint the