“I WILL never go any where again without you, indeed, mother, I am determined,” said Matilda, with a sorrowful air, the following morning.

This was the prelude to a confession of error, which in part relieved the mind of Matilda: but she was still uneasy—she felt as if Charles would be her apologist with his family, for an error they were likely to blame in her; but the ardour of his manner made her feel much concerned for him—he was dear to her—she felt for him a sister’s affection, but felt that she could never be more to him than she was then. Anxious and restless, she earnestly desired to see Ellen, whose gentleness and dispassionate good sense would soothe the fretfulness and allay the uneasiness she felt; yet she could not bring herself to call on the family—she had not the courage to meet Mr. and Mrs. Harewood, nor the calmness with which she desired to see the brothers. While she was debating what course to pursue, to her infinite relief she heard that Ellen had just called with her father, and that both of them were in the library. Before she had time to welcome them, Ellen, running up stairs, hurried with her into the dressing-room, and closed the door with an air of secrecy which showed her expectation of giving or receiving intelligence of importance, and there was in her countenance an expression which combined both joy and sorrow, and was really indefinable.

Full of her own cares, and anxious to conceal the most interesting part of them, Matilda for some time remained silent, nor did Ellen find the courage requisite for her own communication; so that this much desired visit promised little eventual satisfaction. To account for the situation of Ellen, it is necessary to trace the events of the morning in her father’s house.

When the family were assembled to breakfast, the conversation naturally turned upon the ball of the evening before; and Ellen, with friendly zeal, sought to exculpate her friend Matilda from the errors which Mr. Belmont seemed to think her guilty of, in exhibiting herself in a dance, by no means decorous, with a young man of Sir Theodore’s description.—“I do not say,” added he, “that it was a positively wrong thing, nor do I much wonder at it; for a fine young woman, and an heiress, may be led a great way, by the flatterers and sycophants who surround her; but I must own I expected better things from the chosen friend of Ellen Harewood, from a girl educated by a pious and sensible mother, and one said to possess a sound understanding.”

Edmund was silent, but his varying complexion bespoke the strong interest he felt in the subject; Charles, on the contrary, warmly entered into it, declaring that a few words which passed between Matilda and him clearly proved that she had been misled by her party; that her sense of propriety was as strong as ever; and, in short, that she was a dear, amiable, good girl, whom he would defend as long as he lived.

The warmth of Charles’s assertion called a smile from every one. During the time he spoke, his father had been called out; the servant now entered, desiring his presence also; and it appeared that their early visitant was a man of great importance, and the cause of his calling at this time, by awakening curiosity, suspended conversation. In a few minutes he departed, and Mr. Harewood returned to the breakfast-room, saying as he entered—“I am going to announce a piece of excellent news, although it is accompanied by a loss we must submit to; our dear Charles is appointed to be secretary to the embassy to——, now preparing to embark.”

Mrs. Harewood burst into tears; but as soon as she could speak, she expressed her joy, while Ellen, in a broken voice, exclaimed—“Oh, what will Matilda say, poor girl?”

Edmund rushed out of the room, as if to seek his brother, but Mr. Belmont well knew it was to conceal his emotion; no other person seemed to notice Ellen’s unfortunate ejaculation, and when the door was closed, Mr. Belmont congratulated the parents upon a circumstance so honourable and desirable to their younger son; and as they well knew the sincerity of his character, and the affection he felt for Charles, they freely confided to him their feelings at the event; while Ellen innocently declared that she was very glad he happened to be with them at the time, as he would be a substitute for dear Charles.

“Ah!” said Mr. Belmont, “if you, Ellen, could persuade your parents, and, what is in this case of more importance, your own heart, to consider me not only now, but ever, a member of your family, I should be happy indeed.”

Ellen, rather surprised at this speech than its import, for she had long half hoped, half feared, to think on this interesting but awful subject, turned to her mother, and hid her blushing cheek upon her shoulder, while the parents exchanged looks of satisfaction with each other, and esteem towards the speaker.

“Mine, Ellen,” continued Mr. Belmont, “is neither a sudden nor violent passion; I approach you by no flattery—I dazzle you by no exhibition; but as I trust both my fortune and character will bear the scrutiny of your friends, your only task, my sweet girl, is to examine your own heart, and inquire there how far I am agreeable to your wishes. I have been a silent admirer of your virtues, and I can be a patient attendant for your decision.”

Ellen gave one glance towards her mother—it answered all her wishes; she turned, deeply blushing, to Mr. Belmont, and timidly, yet with an air of perfect confidence, tendered him her hand; she would have spoken, but the variety of emotion so suddenly called forth by the departure of her brother, and the declaration of her lover, overpowered her, and he received thus a silent, but a full consent to his wishes.

In the mean time, Edmund had conquered the more immediate pang that laboured at his heart, and, entering the library, had grasped the hand of Charles, and uttered a few words of congratulation, but it was in a voice so broken, that there was more of sorrow than joy in it.

Charles had not the slightest doubt of his brother’s affection, he did not therefore doubt for a moment the sincerity of his assertion, but he was persuaded that the idea of his own situation, as being two years older, and yet likely to remain dependent on his father for some years, was a sensible mortification to him; and, feeling for his situation, he said—“Ay, my dear fellow, there is a difference between us now, sure enough; but there is no doubt of your doing well by and by; besides, you are the eldest, and deserve to be so; I am sure father can never do too much for such a son as you are, Edmund.”

Edmund gazed in astonishment to hear Charles express himself with so much ease, at a time when he expected his heart must be overpowered with trouble; his fears lately excited by the agitation and warmth with which Charles had vindicated Matilda, and the unguarded exclamation of Ellen, who evidently thought her younger brother the favourite, now took another turn; he surveyed Charles; he was just twenty-three—a tall, handsome young man, and one who had ever been admired by the ladies. “Perhaps,” said he, “internally, poor Matilda loves him, but without having her affection returned: this accounts for the many great offers she has refused, for the sympathy of Ellen, who knows her heart, and for the vindication she undoubtedly made to him last night; whereas to me she was cold and unintelligible.”

While these painful thoughts rankled in the mind of the young barrister, his happy brother was flying all over the house, receiving from the servants the mixed congratulation of joy in his success and sorrow for his departure; he had also joined the coterie in the parlour, wrung the hand of his future brother-in-law, kissed his mother and Ellen, and thanked his father twenty times for all his generous cares, before Edmund could muster philosophy enough to join the family, and listen to its arrangements for the day.

It was at length agreed that Edmund should assist his mother in making up a package of books, &c., for the traveller, who, accompanied by Belmont, should visit the city for necessary arrangements; and Mr. Harewood, who knew that Ellen would naturally wish to see Matilda, agreed to accompany her thither, being at once desirous to communicate this various intelligence to Mrs. Hanson, and to witness the effect Charles’s departure would have upon Matilda, whom, at the bottom of his heart, he certainly desired to have for a daughter, although he would have rejoiced in her alliance with any worthy man.

We return now to the young ladies in the dressing-room, each eager to hear and to speak, yet each oppressed, though very differently, with solicitude. At length, Ellen, her breast labouring with sighs, and fear lest she should wound the heart of her friend, thus spoke: “We are going to lose Charles: he has got an appointment, Matilda.”

“And is he pleased with it, Ellen?”

“Oh, yes! he seems quite happy: he is running all over the house, just in his old way, and the servants are all laughing and crying about him, as if he were still a school-boy.”

“I am heartily glad of it—he has my sincerest good wishes, and I feel certain of his success.”

Ellen looked in the face of Matilda, to see if she did indeed rejoice; she perceived a tear twinkle in the corner of her young friend’s eye, but it was not the tear of sorrow. Ellen could now read the heart on subjects of this kind; she felt that she had been completely mistaken in Matilda’s supposed predilection, and she was almost sorry to see her so happy.

“There is a—a—another affair going on at our house,” said Ellen, after a pause.

Matilda felt her heart beat with unusual violence; she could not speak, but her very soul peeped out of her eyes to say—“What is it?”

“It is not a parting; it—it—is a joining.”

“Oh,” said Matilda, calling all her fortitude to her aid, “you are going to have a wedding, eh?”

“I believe it will come to that, indeed, some time.”

Matilda turned as pale as death; but her colour rushed suddenly back to her cheeks, as at this moment the door opened, and Mr. Harewood and Mrs. Hanson broke on their tÊte-À-tÊte. The former felt assured that poor Matilda had heard the destination of Charles, and was suffering under it; but as he could hardly believe Mrs. Hanson would consent to her marriage with his youngest son, and as he thought Charles himself had no thoughts of marriage at this time, he could not allow himself to rejoice in her predilection. To relieve her, he said—“Well, my dear, you heard how we are situated, some of us parting for a time, some uniting for ever; I am sure you rejoice in all that is good, in either of these cases.”

Matilda, overpowered, burst into sudden tears.

“My daughter is very nervous this morning,” said Mrs. Hanson; “she cannot help being affected with such material changes in the state of those she loves so well; you are aware her tears are those of joy, Mr. Harewood.”

Matilda struggled to recover her composure, and, turning to Mr. Harewood, she put both her hands into his, and said, with a low but earnest voice—“My dear, dear sir, I do most truly rejoice in the prospect of any good that can befall your family; I saw the—the young lady—the bride-elect—she is very pretty—I hope she will be as good as she is handsome; and I——”

Matilda suddenly stopped, unable to articulate the rest of her good wishes, and Mr. Harewood eagerly said—“As to that we will say nothing; I trust Ellen will make a good wife; I am sure she has had a good example.”

“Ellen!” screamed Matilda; “is it you, Ellen? you that are going to be married—you?”

“Dear me, how astonished you look! I suppose I shall be married some time. I told you that perhaps Mr. Belmont might, some time——”

“My dear, dear Ellen, pardon my dulness, and accept my sincerest congratulations. May Heaven bless you, and him you prefer, and make you both as happy as you deserve to be!”

“So, so!” cried Mr. Harewood; “if we had never come up stairs, this mighty secret, which, for my part, I told an hour ago down stairs, would never have been revealed. But pray, Matilda, who did you conclude was the marrying person at our house, if it were not Ellen?”

“You have sons, sir,” tremulously articulated Matilda, not choosing to trust her tongue with a name that dwelt ever on her heart.

“Oh, tut, tut, there is no marrying for my boys. Charles is disposed of, and if Edmund can take a wife at thirty, he will be better off than many in his profession; he is now but a little past five-and-twenty, you know.”

“He danced with a very beautiful woman last night,” said Matilda, eagerly, and with recovered vivacity.

“So I understand; she is a bride, and his first fee was given for a consultation on her marriage-settlements.”

Matilda breathed; the lustre of her eye, the glow on her cheek, could not be mistaken by the fond parent, who now clearly understood the cause of Matilda’s frequent despondency, and the refusals she had given to all offers of marriage.

“I wish,” said Mrs. Hanson, “that you and Mrs. Harewood and our young friends would dine with me: I am really impatient to be introduced to Mr. Belmont.”

“As you please, madam; the wanderer must certainly see you once more, and I do not know that he can choose a better day.”

Ellen proposed writing a note to her mother, and left the room with Mrs. Hanson, when Mr. Harewood, perceiving that Matilda was again in confusion, said, by way of diverting her attention—“You have seen Mr. Belmont, Miss Hanson?”

“Yes, I have; and he has seen me, to my sorrow. You remind me of a folly I have by no means forgiven in myself. I still want the eye of a tutor, you see.”

“Charles has, however, been your advocate so effectually, that I believe not one of the family will ever remember it again.”

“Not one!” said Matilda, blushing deeply.

“Not one! Charles is a warm advocate.”

“He is a dear good boy, and always was; I love him very much, and while I rejoice in his good fortune, I shall be sorry to part with him.”

Matilda’s frankness assured Mr. Harewood that her heart was free where he had supposed it bound; he was anxious to read her farther; he saw that she even sought investigation from him, in whom she confided as a friend and father; but he again shrunk from the idea of undue influence, and while he walked about irresolute, time passed, and Edmund and his mother entered the drawing-room, and Matilda was called to receive them.

An air of coldness and restraint pervaded the manners of both Edmund and Matilda, to divert which, Mrs. Hanson began to relate the error into which her daughter had fallen, from the mauvaise honte of Ellen, as she supposed, and this led them to speak of the ball, and the characters of the persons present. Of course, poor Matilda was again tormented by hearing that Sir Theodore was universally believed to be her affianced lover, and she expressed the most unqualified vexation at the report, declaring that she would not go once into public again for seven years, rather than encourage the presumption of the man, or the idle gossip of his admirers.

As she spoke, Edmund was observed to gaze upon her with delight, and exult in the declaration, as if it were necessary for his happiness; but when she ceased to speak, he relapsed into melancholy.

“The only way to silence such reports effectually,” said Mrs. Hanson, with a tender smile, “will be to place yourself under the protection of some worthy man, whose character you can indeed approve. I have ever objected to your marrying under age, but I have no objection at all to your gaining liberty, and relinquishing it at the same time. I hope, therefore, in another year, to see you follow the example of Ellen, provided you can choose as well as she has done.”

“It is the only thing in which I cannot obey you, my dear mother,” replied Matilda.

Hurt with the extreme paleness which overspread the countenance of their inestimable son, Mr. and Mrs. Harewood withdrew to the window; and Ellen, whose heart wanted a pretext for watching the arrival of Belmont, joined them; when Mrs. Hanson, drawing closer to Edmund, said—“I fear you will not soon join these marrying people, my young friend?”

“I shall never marry, madam,” answered he abruptly.

“Never! you are too positive, sir; men at your age change their minds frequently.”

“Matilda knows that I am not subject to change; she may accuse me of many errors, but not of that.”

“I can accuse you of nothing,” said Matilda; “I wish you could say the same of me.”

“Matilda! Miss Hanson! I accuse you! what right have I to accuse you?”

“Every right. I behaved ill—you condemned me—I saw you did; and—you punished me. I felt your punishment last night—to-day you forgive me; and your forgiveness is—why should I not own it? is dear to me.”

“Oh, Matilda, do not distract me by this generosity! you will throw me off my guard—you will induce me to make a declaration that may part us for ever.”

Edmund looked at Mrs. Hanson; her brow was open, pleasure swam in her eye, and she held her hand towards him as she said—“My dear Edmund, allow me to ask what you mean by that look of mistrust to me? what right have you to suppose that I am less generous than yourself, or that I desire to see my child ungrateful to her young preceptor, or insensible of his merits?”

“Madam! Matilda! what does all this mean? is it possible that I can have obtained such an advocate as Mrs. Hanson?”

“Edmund, can you really want an advocate with poor erring Matilda? or can you for a moment accuse her of a fault, which never yet came amongst the numerous catalogue of her early sins?”

Mrs. Hanson joined the group at the window, and in a few moments they all descended together, to welcome Charles and Belmont, who soon understood the happy footing on which those so dear to them were placed; and Charles enjoyed a hearty laugh at the jealousy he had excited, though he could not regret a circumstance which had in any measure led to a conclusion so desirable.

When poor Zebby, whose sable forehead was now shaded by gray locks, was told all that had happened, she exclaimed with her usual enthusiasm,—“All right—all happy—Missy have goodee friend, goodee husban—him alway mild and kind; Missy very goodee too—some time little warm, but never, never when she lookee at massa; him melt her heart, guide her steps, both go hand in hand to heaven.”

The negro’s conception of this union has every prospect of being verified, and proves that the simplest and most uninformed of human beings may yet enjoy the light of reason, and a just perception of the characters of those around them.

When Charles had bade adieu to his family, the lovers of Matilda and Ellen were each urgent for their respective marriages: but the awfulness of that sacred engagement into which they were about to enter, the consciousness they entertained of the goodness of their parents, and the happiness of the state they were quitting, held the young ladies for some time in a state of apparent suspense, and almost incertitude. This was neither the effect of want of confidence in the men they loved, nor of that spirit of coquetry by which the vain and frivolous part of the sex seek to prolong what they consider the day of their power. Far different ideas pervaded their minds and influenced their conduct; for not only the tenderness of their affection for their parents, but the sense of their responsibility as Christian wives, called to new duties and new avocations, appointed to guide their inferiors, and submit to their future husbands, pressed upon their hearts; and when at length the solemn ceremony took place, it was to each party rather a day of serious thoughtfulness and fearful anxiety, than one of exultation and exhibition.

In a short time this solicitude vanished, and a sense of happiness, confidence, and unbounded affection spread over their minds the most delightful serenity, and rendered every act of duty an act of pleasure. Matilda looked to Edmund as the guardian of her conduct, and he found in her the reward of his virtues, the companion whose vivacity enlivened the fatigue of study, and whose benevolence extended the circle of his enjoyments; and although apparently of very different tempers, the affection they felt for each other, and the well-regulated minds they both possessed, rendered them proverbially good and happy.

After residing a few years abroad, and increasing his knowledge and reputation, Charles returned, and is now become the husband of Miss Weston, who is an amiable and virtuous young woman, well calculated to render him happy. The mother of this young lady still resides with Mrs. Hanson, to whom her society is particularly valuable, since the removal of Matilda, whose eldest child is the frequent inmate of her house.

Happy in themselves, and a blessing to the circle around them, Mr. and Mrs. Belmont reside during the greatest part of the year upon the family estate of Mr. Belmont in Staffordshire. Ellen, as a country gentlewoman, extends a quiet but beneficial influence through an extensive neighbourhood, and is universally beloved and respected.

We will now take leave of the Barbadoes Girl and her friends, with the sincere wish that all who read her story may, like her, endeavour to correct in themselves those irregularities of temper, and proneness to pride and vanity, which, more or less, are the growth of every human heart, and which can never rise and flourish there, but to the destruction of every virtue and every comfort; and we earnestly desire them to hold in mind, that, in order to purify the heart from these unhallowed guests, a deep sense of religion must be the motive, and a strict principle of self-control the agent, by which so desirable an end can alone be obtained.

This little story, written rather to instruct than amuse, can only close with consistency, by briefly recapitulating the lesson it has, perhaps feebly, but sincerely, endeavoured to inculcate, viz., the necessity of watchfulness over our hearts—the excellence and advantage of being open and ingenuous—the efficacy of repentance towards God, and humility even towards man—and the peculiar necessity of guarding the heart, as with a tenfold barrier, to those who are blest with riches and prosperity.