Mrs. Stanley again spoke. “Matilda,” she said, “I see it is vain to prolong this scene. Go to your room, and on your knees pray earnestly to your heavenly Father to touch your sinful heart; when you have asked forgiveness of Him, and have resolved to make a full and free confession of your fault, send for me, I will be ready to come to you at any moment.”
Matilda left the room; Mrs. Stanley soon after followed. Selina and Leila were left alone; Selina was silently weeping. Neither of them spoke for several minutes. Leila then said, “Selina, we cannot be quite certain that Matilda is deceiving us; Lydia may have done this.”
Selina shook her head. “O that I could think so, but I cannot. I know the expression of Matilda’s face too well. I always know when she has done wrong; and you forget, Leila, that mamma saw the flowers just before dinner, and they looked quite fresh then; and Lydia was not in your room after dinner, you know we were all with her till the moment she went away. When did you last observe them yourself? You must have been in the room when you were changing your dress for dinner.”
Leila looked much distressed as she answered, “Yes, I saw them, and they did look fresh; I remember it, because I observed drops of water on the leaves, and the earth looked wet, and I knew that Amy must have watered them—she often does so when the day has been warm; Amy was very fond of my poor flowers.” She had no sooner uttered the words than she coloured. “It was very wrong in me to say this, and to make you more sorry, for indeed it is not the flowers I am thinking most of now: and you know, Selina, I have still three more seeds to sow. How wise it was of papa to advise me to keep them in case of accidents, and not to risk all at once. O if I would always take papa’s advice, every thing would be well; if I had taken his advice about Lydia, and had not invited her, Matilda would have been with us as usual during the whole time, and this would not have happened. And yet papa says I must learn to judge for myself, I must not lean too much on others; how difficult all this is. Do you think we should go to Matilda now?”
“No, I think mamma wished her to be alone.”
“Then let us go into the garden, I feel so unhappy; I don’t like sitting still.”
The door of Matilda’s room they saw was not entirely shut as they passed.
“Perhaps she might speak to me,” Selina said. She advanced a few steps into the room; Matilda had thrown herself upon the bed. The flowers with which it had been so lately decked now lay scattered on the floor. Matilda evidently saw her, for she looked up for a moment, but she did not speak, and they passed on to the garden.
The whole evening wore slowly away, and no message came from Matilda; every time the drawing-room door opened, Selina and Leila were in anxious expectation—but still no message came. The young people went early to bed: how brightly had the morning dawned upon them, and now all was turned to sorrow. The first thing which struck Leila on entering her room was the muslin apron which she had embroidered for Matilda folded up and laid upon her bed; had she looked into her aunt’s room, she would have seen the writing-desk also returned, and placed upon the table. Had Matilda done this? had she felt that she was unworthy of retaining those gifts which had been given her as marks of love and affection? Leila prayed earnestly for Matilda, but it was long before she could compose herself to sleep; the piteous look which Matilda had cast upon her haunted her imagination.
Meanwhile poor Selina was not less unhappy. On entering the bed-room, she found Matilda seated at the table writing a letter. She looked much fluttered when Selina entered, and hastily threw her pocket-handkerchief over something on the table. Selina felt almost certain it was the etui which Matilda had admired so much. Matilda seemed unwilling to begin to undress; after a short time she said, making a visible effort to speak calmly, “Selina, do go to bed, and go quickly. I can’t come just yet; don’t ask me why.”