University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

The excellent character of Mary Hull had been
spoken of to Mr. Lloyd by his landlady, and he
was convinced that she was precisely the person
to whom he should be satisfied to commit the superintendence
of his family. Accordingly, on the
evening of the sale, he sent a messenger to Mrs.
Wilson's with the following note:—

“Robert Lloyd, having purchased the place of
the late Mr. Elton, would be glad to engage Mary
Hull to take charge of his family. Wages, and all
other matters, shall be arranged to her satisfaction.
He takes the liberty to send by the messenger,
for Jane Elton, a work-box, dressing-glass,
and a few other small articles, for which he has
no use, and which, he hopes, she will do him the
favour to retain, on account of the value they
must have in her eyes.”

Mrs. Wilson had no notion that any right could
be prior to hers in her house. She took the note

from the servant, and, notwithstanding he ventured
to say he believed it was not meant for her, she
read it first with no very satisfied air, and then
turning to one of the children, she told her to call
Mary Hull to her. The servant placed the things
on the table, and left the room.

“So,” said she to Jane, who was looking at her
for some explanation of the sudden apparition of
the work-box, &c.—“So, Miss, you have seen fit
to disobey the first order I took the trouble to give
you. I should like to know how you dared to
leave these things after my positive orders.”

“I did not understand your note, Ma'am, to contain
positive orders; and Mary and I did not think
it was quite right to take the things.”

“Right! pretty judges of right to be sure. She
a hired a girl, and a Methodist into the bargain. I
don't know how she dares to judge over my head;
and you, Miss, I tell you once for all, I allow no
child in my house to know right from wrong;
children have no reason, and they ought to be
very thankful, when they fall into the hands of
those that are capable of judging for them. Here,”
said she to Mary, who now entered in obedience
to her summons; “here is a proposal of a place
for you, from that Quaker that buried his wife last
week. I suppose you call yourself your own mistress,
and you can do as you like about it; but as
you are yet a young woman, Mary Hull, and this
man is a Quaker widower, and nobody knows
who, I should think it a great risk for you to live
with him; for, if nothing worse comes of it, you may

be sure there is not a person in this town that
won't think you are trying to get him for a husband.

Mary was highly gratified with the thought of
returning to the place where she had passed a
large and happy portion of her life, and she did
not hesitate to say, that “she should not stand so
much in her own light as to refuse so excellent a
place; that from all she had heard said of Mr.
Lloyd, he was a gentleman far above her condition
in life; and therefore she thought no person would
be silly enough to suppose she took the place from
so foolish a design as Mrs. Wilson suggested; and
she should take care that her conduct should give
no occasion for reproach.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Wilson, chagrined that her
counsel was not compulsory, “it does amaze me
to see how some people strain at a gnat, and swallow
a camel.”

Mary did not condescend to notice this remark,
but proceeded quietly to remove the articles Mr.
Lloyd had sent, which she succeeded in doing,
without any further remark from Mrs. Wilson,
who prudently restrained the exercise of her authority
while there was one present independent
enough to oppose its current.

“Oh, Mary,” said Jane, when they were alone,
how glad I am you are going to live with such a
good man; how happy you must be!” “And I
too, Mary;” and she hastily brushed away a tear,
“I am; at least I should be very happy when I
have such a kind friend as you are so near to me.”

“Yes, yes, dear Jane, try to be happy, this
foolish aunt of yours will try you like the fire, but
I look to see you come out of it as gold from the
furnace: keep up a good heart, my child, it is a
long lane that never turns.”

The friends separated, but not till Mary had
with her usual caution carefully packed away
Jane's new treasures, saying, as she did it, “that
it was best to put temptation out of sight.”

Mary's plain and neat appearance, and her ingenuous
sensible countenance, commended her at
once to Mr. Lloyd's favour, and she entered immediately
upon the duties of her new and responsible
situation.

We must now introduce those who are willing to
go further with us in the history of Jane Elton, to
the family of Mrs. Wilson, where they will see she
had a school for the discipline of christian character.

“Jane,” said Mrs. Wilson to her on the morning
after Mary's departure, “you know, child, the
trouble and expense of taking you upon my hands
is very great, but it did not seem suitable that
being my brother's daughter you should be put
out at present: you must remember, child, that I
am at liberty to turn you away at any time, whereas,
as you will always be in debt to me, you can
never be at liberty to go when you choose. It is
a great trial to me to take you, but the consciousness
of doing my duty and more than my duty to
you, supports me under it. Now as to what I expect
from you:—in the first place, my word must

be your law; you must not hesitate to do any
thing that I require of you; never think of asking
a reason for what I command—it is very troublesome
and unreasonable to do so. Visiting, you
must give up entirely; I allow my children to
waste none of their time in company: meetings I
shall wish you to attend when you have not work
to do at home; for I do not wish you to neglect
the means of grace, though I am sensible that your
heart must be changed before they can do you any
good. You must help Martha do the ironing, and
assist Elvira with the clear starching and other
matters; Nancy will want your aid about the beds;
Sally is but young, and requires more care than I
can give her, for my time is at present chiefly
spent in instructing the young converts; and therefore
I shall look to you to take the charge of Sally;
and I expect you to take the charge of mending
and making for David when he comes home;
the other boys will want now and then a stitch or
two; and, in short, Miss, (and she increased the
asperity of her tone, for she thought Jane's growing
gravity indicated incipient rebellion,) you will
be ready to do every thing that is wanted of you.”

Jane was summoning resolution to reply, when
both her and her aunt's attention was called to
a rustling at the window, and crazy Bet thrust her
head in—

“Go on,” said she, and fill up the measure of
your iniquities, load her with burthens heavy and
grievous to be borne, and do not touch them with
one of your fingers.—There, Jane,” said she,

throwing her a bunch of carnations, “I have just
come from the quarterly meeting, and I stopped as
I came past your house, and picked these, for I
thought their bright colours would be a temptation
to the Quaker. And I thought too,” said she,
laughing, “there should be something to send up
a sweet smelling savour from the altar where there
are no deeds of mercy laid.”

“Out of my yard instantly, you dirty beggar!”
said Mrs. Wilson.

Bet turned, but not quickening her step, and
went away, singing, “Glory, glory, hallelujah.”

“Aunt,” said Jane, “do not mind the poor
creature. She does not mean to offend you. I
believe she feels for me; for she has been sheltered
many a time from the cold and the storms in
our house.”

“Don't give yourself the least uneasiness, Miss.
I am not to be disturbed by a crazy woman; but I
do not see what occasion there is for her feeling
for you. You have not yet answered me.”

“I have no answer to make, Ma'am,” replied
Jane, meekly, “but that I shall do my best to content
you. I am very young, and not much used
to work, and I may have been too kindly dealt
with; but that is all over now.”

“Do you mean, Miss, to say, that I shan't treat
you kindly?”

“No, aunt, but I meant—excuse me, if I
meant any thing wrong.”

“I did expect, Miss, to hear some thankfulness
expressed.”

“I do, Ma'am, feel grateful, that I have a shelter
over my head; what more I have to be grateful
for, time must determine.”

There was a dignity in Jane's manner, that, with
the spirit of the reply, taught Mrs. Wilson, that
she had, in her niece, a very different subject to
deal with from her own wilful and trickish children.
“Well, Miss Jane, I shall expect no haughty airs
in my house, and you will please now to go and
tell the girls to be ready to go with me to the afternoon
conference, and prepare yourself to go
also. One more thing I have to say to you, you
must never look to me for any clothing; that cunning
Mary has packed away enough to last you
fifty years. With all her methodism, I will trust
her to feather your nest, and her own too.”

Alas! thought Jane, as she went to execute her
aunt's commission, what good does it do my poor
aunt to go to conference? Perhaps this question
would not have occurred to many girls of thirteen,
but Jane had been accustomed to scan the motives
of her conduct, and to watch for the fruit.
The aid extended to our helpless orphan by her
pharisaical aunt, reminds us of the “right of asylum”
afforded, by the ancients to the offenders
who were allowed to take shelter in the temples of
their gods, and allowed to perish there.

She found the girls very much indisposed to the
afternoon meeting. Martha said, she “would not
go to hear Deacon Barton's everlasting prayers;
she had heard so many of them, she knew them
all by heart.”

Elvira had just got possession, by stealth, of a
new novel; that species of reading being absolutely
prohibited in Mrs. Wilson's house, she had
crept up to the garret, and was promising herself
a long afternoon of stolen pleasure. “Oh, Jane,”
said she, “why can't you go down and tell Mother
you can't find me. Just tell her, you guess
I have gone down to Miss Bancker's, to inquire
whether the tracts have come; that's a good
thought; that will quiet her;” and she was resuming
her book, when seeing Jane did not move, she
added, “I'll do as much for you any time.”

“I shall never wish you to do as much for me,
Elvira.”

“I do not think it is so very much, just to go
down stairs; besides, Jane,” she added, imperiously,
“Mother says, you must do whatever we
ask you to.”

Elvira was so habituated to deceit, that it never
occurred to her, that the falsehood was the difficult
part of the errand to Jane; and when Jane
said, “Cousin Elvira, I will do whatever is reasonable
for you, and no more; any thing that is
true, I will tell your Mother for you;” she laughed
in derision.

“Pooh, Jane, you have brought your deaconish
nonsense to a poor market. It was easy enough
to get along with the truth with your mother, because
she would let you have your own way on
all occasions; but I can tell you, disguises are the
only wear in our camp!”

“I shall not use them, Elvira. I should dread
their being stripped off.”

“Oh, not at all. Mother seldom takes the
trouble to inquire into it; and if she does, now
and then, by accident, detect it, the storm soon
blows over. She has caught me in many a white lie,
and black one too, and she has not been half so
angry as when I have torn my frock, or lost a
glove. Why, child, if you are going to fight your
battles with Mother with plain truth, you will find
yourself without shield or buckler.”

“Ah, Elvira!” replied Jane, smiling,

“That's true enough, Jane. Well, if you will not
help me off from the conference, I must go.—
Sweet Vivaldi,” said she, kissing her book, and
carefully hiding it in a dark corner of the garret,
“must I part with thee?”

“One would think,” said Jane, “you was parting
with your lover.”

“I am, my dear. I always fancy, when I read
a novel, that I am the heroine, and the hero is one
of my favourites; and then I realize it all, and it
appears so natural.”

Elvira was not, at heart, an ill-natured girl;
but having a weak understanding, and rather a
a fearful unresisting temper, she had been driven
by her Mother's mode of treatment into the practice
of deceit; and she being the weaker party,

used in her warfare, as many arts as a savage practises
towards a civilized enemy. A small stock of
original invention may be worked up into a vast
deal of cunning. Elvira had been sent one quarter
to a distant boarding-school, where her name
had attracted a young lady, whose head had been
turned by love-stories. They had formed a league
of eternal friendship, which might have a six
months' duration; and Elvira had returned to her
home, at the age of sixteen, with a farrago of
romance superadded to her home-bred duplicity.

Martha was two years older than her sister, and
more like her mother: violent and self-willed, she
openly resisted her Mother's authority, whenever
it opposed her wishes. From such companions,
Jane soon found she had nothing to expect of improvement
or pleasure; but, though it may seem
quite incredible to some, she was not unhappy.
The very labour her aunt imposed on her was
converted into a blessing, for it occupied her mind,
and saved her from brooding on the happy past,
or the unhappy present. She now found exercise
for the domestic talents Mary had so skilfully
cultivated. Even the unrelenting Mrs. Wilson
was once heard to say, with some apparent pleasure,
that “Jane was gifted at all sorts of work.”
Her dexterous hand was often put in requisition
by her idle and slatternly cousins, and their favour
was sometimes won by her kind offices. But more
than all, and above all, as a source of contentment
and cheerfulness—better far than ever was

boasted of perennial springs, or “Amreeta cups
of immortality”—was Jane's unfailing habit of regulating
her daily life by the sacred rules of our
blessed Lord. She would steal from her bed at
the dawn of day, when the songs of the birds
were interpreting the stillness of nature, and
beauty and fragrance breathing incense to the
Maker, and join her devotions to the choral
praise. At this hour she studied the word of truth
and life, and a holy beam of light fell from it on
her path through the day. Her pleasures at this
social period of her life were almost all solitary,
except when she was indulged in a visit to Mary,
whose eye was continually watching over her
with maternal kindness. The gayety of her
childhood had been so sadly checked by the
change of her fortunes, that her countenance had
taken rather a serious and reserved cast. Mr.
Lloyd's benevolent feelings were awakened by
her appearance; and Mary, whose chief delight
was in expatiating on the character of her favourite,
took care to confirm his favourable impressions
by setting in the broadest light her
former felicity, her present trials, and her patience
in tribulation.

Mary had orders to leave the furniture in a little
room that had formerly been assigned to Jane,
precisely as she left it, and to tell Jane that it was
still called, and should be considered, her room.

“And that beautiful honeysuckle, Jane,” said
Mr. Lloyd to her, “which thy tasteful hand has

so carefully trained about the window, is still
thine.”

These, and many other instances of delicate attention
from Mr. Lloyd, saved her from the feeling
of forlornness that she might otherwise have suffered.