THE
OLD
STONE
MANSION.
37
all the while she was undressing me, what a wicked child I was. I brooded over this injustice in silence, but when I saw Georgiana alone, the next day, I could contain myself no longer. For once I rose in rebellion. I called her by every spiteful epithet I could think of, and at last began to beat her. “Oh! if I could only tear off your long ringlets, which your mother and you are so proud of,” I said; “if I could only make your face ugly forever.” For this, ef course, I was punished, and more severely than before.
Another time, Georgiana was jeering me about my poverty, and boasting of her father’s riches, and of what a great heiress she would be. I had, somehow, picked up certain items in our mutual family history, and I retorted,
“Poor as I am,” I said, “my father, at least, was a clergyman; and yours,” he was a large provision merchant, “is only a miserable pork- dealer.’”
“I'll tell pa that!” she cried, angrily. “I'll tell him you call him names!”
“Do,” said I, “and say, that, while his grandfather ran away with the tories, my mother’s grandfather was at Bunker Hill.”
She was white with rage, for we were both, by this time, old enough to understand our country’s history, and unfortunately my taunt was but too true.
“And you may say,” I continued, pursuing my triumph, “that while your grandfather made a fortune by smuggling tea, mine was one of those who boarded the ships in Boston harbor and threw the tea overboard.”
She could not forgive me for this, and not long after, an opportunity for revenge presented itself.
It was the custom, at the school which we attended together, to devote one afternoon, each week, to criticising what were called compositions. Every scholar was expected to write an essay the night before, which the teacher, after dinner, criticised in presence of the whole class. On one occasion, the theme assigned us was “A Mother’s Love.” I recall, even at this day, the feelings under which I wrote. Often as the image of my mother had been present to me, never before had it come up so vividly. It was in an agony of emotion, if I may say so, that the words flowed from my pen. When the essay was finished, I remember, I was still so excited, that I clasped my hands, and sobbed, “Oh! mother, dear mother, come and take me away!”
When the class had assembled, the teacher, addressing me, said,
“Did you write this yourself, Margaret Gray?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied.
She looked at me doubtfully, for a moment, and then began to praise the composition, when Georgiana rose from her seat and interrupted her,
“Please, ma’am,” said my cousin, “Margaret didn’t write it. I saw her copy it out of some big book in father’s library.”
I was struck dumb with amazement. I knew that Georgiana was not always truthful, but, as yet, I had only heard her tell falsehoods to escape blame. The deliberate malice of this assertion, and its unblushing coolness, literally confounded me. I stared at her with an amazement, that was mistaken for the consciousness of guilt. The teacher’s face grew dark.
“Margaret Gray,” she said, severely, “I knew you were sullen, slovenly, and sometimes disobedient; but I did not think you would tell a deliberate lie.” She paused an instant, for I turned white with rage. “Yes! I use plain words,” she went on, “for, to pretend another's work is your own, is the wickedest of lies, You will stay in for an hour, after the school is diamissed, and wear, all the week, while in school, a white paper pinned on your back, with the word ‘liar’ printed on it.”
I made no reply. I tried, at first, to speak; but could not; I choked. If, at that moment, I could have got at my cousin, with a deadly instrument, I believe I would have killed her.
I was, ever after, a marked girl, in that school. I avoided my classmates, in consequence, more than ever. Before this, I had taken some pride in composition; but now I wrote carelessly on purpose. Often, when I detected Georgiana copying her essays, which had always been her habit, I was tempted to betray her; but I resisted. “No,’ I said, “I will not be so mean.” At last, I grew so unhappy at school, and so defiant and indifferent, that I was dismissed as an example. My aunt, at first, refused to send me to another: she said it was wasting money, and that I might ‘reap as I had sown;' for she was fond of quoting Scripture. My uncle humphed, twirled his watch-keys, and looked at Georgiana with an expression that said, “Thank heaven our child is different.” But after awhile, another school was found for me, where I finished my education. It pains me, even yet, to think of those days. Often and often I wished, with bitter tears, that I had never been born. I heard at church, and I read in my Bible, that there was a God, all-powerful and good; but sometimes I did not believe it. ‘He would not permit such injustice,” I said. If it had not been for my mother, I should have
