University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

Jane, exhausted by the agitations of the night,
contrary to her usual custom, remained in bed
much longer than the other members of the family,
and did not awake from deep and unquiet
slumbers, till the bell called the household to
prayers.

Mrs. Wilson was scrupulous in exacting the attendance
of every member of her family at her
morning and evening devotions. With this requisition
Jane punctually and cheerfully complied,
as she did with all those that did not require a violation
of principle. But still she had often occasion
secretly to lament, that where there was so
much of the form of worship, there was so little
of its spirit and truth; and she sometimes felt an
involuntary self reproach, that her body should be
in the attitude of devotion, while her mind was
following her aunt through earth, sea, and skies,

or pausing to wonder at the remarkable inadaptation
of her prayers to the condition and wants of
humanity, in general, and especially to their particular
modification in her own family.

Mrs. Wilson was fond of the bold and highly
figurative language of the prophets; and often
identified herself with the Psalmist, in his exultation
over his enemies, in his denunciations, and in
his appeals for vengeance.

We leave to theologians to decide, whether
these expressions from the king of Israel are meant
for the enemies of the church, or whether they are to
be imputed to the dim light which the best enjoyed
under the Jewish dispensation. At any rate, such
as come to us in `so questionable a shape,' ought
not to be employed as the medium of a Christian's
prayer.

When Jane entered the room, she found her
aunt had begun her devotions, which were evidently
more confused than usual; and when she
said (her voice wrought up to its highest pitch)
“Lo! thine enemies, O Lord! lo, thine enemies
shall perish; all the workers of iniquity shall be
scattered; but my horn shalt thou exalt like the
horn of a unicorn: I shall be anointed with fresh
oil: mine eye also shall see my desire on my enemies,
and my ears shall hear my desire of the
wicked that rise up against me;” Jane perceived,
from her unusual emotion, that she
must allude to something that touched her own
affairs, and she conjectured that she had already
discovered the robbery. Her conjectures were

strengthened when she observed, that, during the
breakfast, her aunt seemed very much agitated;
but she was at a loss to account for the look she
darted on her, when one of the children said,
“How your hair looks, Jane; this is the first time
I ever saw you come to breakfast without combing
it.”

Jane replied, that she had over-slept.

“You look more,” said Elvira, “as if you had
been watching all night, and crying too, I should
imagine, from the redness of your eyes—and now
I think of it,” she added, regardless of Jane's embarrassment,
“I am sure I heard your door shut
in the night, and you walking about your room.”

Jane was more confused by the expression of
her aunt's face, than by her cousin's observations.
What, thought she, can I have done to provoke
her? I certainly have done nothing; but there is
never a storm in the family, without my biding
some of its pitiless pelting.

After breakfast, the family dispersed, as usual,
excepting Mrs. Wilson, David, and Jane, who remained
to assist her aunt in removing the breakfast
apparatus. Mrs. Wilson, neither wishing nor
able any longer to restrain her wrath, went up to
her desk, and taking hold of a pocket handkerchief
which appeared to lie on the top of it, but which,
as she stretched it out, showed one end caught and
fastened in the desk—“Do you know this handkerchief,
Jane Elton?” she said in a voice choking
with passion.

“Yes, ma'am,” replied Jane, turning pale—
“it is mine.” She ventured, as she spoke, to look
at David. His eyes were fixed on a newspaper
he seemed to be reading; not a muscle of his face
moved, nor was there the slightest trace of emotion.

“Yours,” said Mrs. Wilson; “that you could
not deny, for your name is at full length on it;
and when did you have it last?”

“Last night, ma'am.”

“And who has robbed me of five hundred dollars?
Can you answer to that?”

Jane made no reply. She saw, that her aunt's
suspicions rested on her, and she perceived, at
once, the cruel dilemma in which she had involved
herself by her promise to David.

“Answer me that,” repeated Mrs. Wilson, violently.

“That I cannot answer you, ma'am.”

“And you mean to deny that you have taken it
yourself?”

“Certainly I do, ma'am,” replied Jane, firmly,
for she had now recovered her self-possession.
“I am perfectly innocent; and I am sure that,
whatever appearances there may be against me,
you cannot believe me guilty—you do not.”

“And do you think to face me down in this way.
I have evidence enough to satisfy any court of
justice. Was not you heard up in the night—
your guilty face told the story, at breakfast, plainer
than words could tell it. David,” she continued
to her son, who had thrown down the paper

and walked to the window, where he stood with
his back to his mother, affecting to whistle to a
dog without; “David, I call you to witness this
handkerchief, and what has now been said; and
remember, she does not deny that she left it
here.”

One honest feeling had a momentary ascendancy
in David's bosom; and he had risen from his seat
with the determination to disclose the truth, but
he was checked by the recollection that he should
have to restore the money, which he had not yet
disposed of. He thought, too, that his mother
knew, in her heart, who had taken the money;
that she would not dare to disclose her loss, and
if she did, it would be time enough for him to interpose
when Jane should be in danger of suffering
otherwise than in the opinion of his mother, whose
opinion, he thought, not worth caring for. Therefore,
when called upon by his mother, he made
no reply, but turning round and facing the accuser
and the accused, he looked as composed as any
uninterested spectator.

Mrs. Wilson proceeded, “Restore me my money,
or abide the consequences.”

“The consequences I must abide, and I do not
fear them, nor shrink from them, for I am innocent,
and God will protect me.”

At this moment they were interrupted by the
entrance of Edward Erskine; and our poor heroine,
though the instant before she had felt assured
and tranquil in her panoply divine, burst
into tears, and left the room. She could not endure
the thought of degradation in Erskine's

esteem; and she was very sure that her aunt would
not lose such an opportunity of robbing her of his
good opinion. She did not mistake. Mrs. Wilson
closed the door after Jane; and seating herself,
all unused as she was to the melting mood, gave
way to a passion of tears and sobs, which were, as
we think, a sincere tribute to the loss she had experienced.

“For heaven's sake, tell me what is the matter!”
said Erskine to young Wilson; for his impatience
for an explanation became irrepressible, not on
account of the old woman's emotion, for she might
have wept till she was like Niobe, all tears, without
provoking an inquiry, but Jane's distress had
excited his anxiety.

“The Lord knows,” replied David; “there is
always a storm in this house;” and he flung out of
the room without vouchsafing a more explicit answer.

Erskine turned to Mrs. Wilson: “Can you tell
me, madam, what has disturbed Miss Elton?”

Mrs. Wilson was provoked that he did not ask
what had disturbed her, and she determined he
should not remain another moment without the
communication, which she had been turning over
in her mind to get it in the most efficient form.

“Oh! Mr. Erskine,” she said, with a whine that
has been used by all hypocrites from Oliver Cromwell's
time down; “oh! my trial is more than I
can endure. I could bear, they should devour me
and lay waste my dwelling place; I could be supported
under that; but it is a grief too heavy for

me, to reveal to you the sin, and the disgrace, and
the abomination, of one that I have brought up as
my own—who has fed upon my children's bread.”

“Madam,” interrupted Erskine, “you may
spare yourself and me any more words. I ask for
the cause of all this uproar.”

Mrs. Wilson would have replied angrily to what
she thought Erskine's impertinence, but, remembering
that it was her business to conciliate not
offend him, she, after again almost exhausting his
patience by protestations of the hardship of being
obliged to uncover the crimes of her relation, of
the affliction she suffered in doing her duty, &c.&c.
told him, with every aggravation that emphasis and
insinuation could lend to them, the particulars of
her discovery.

With unusual self-command he heard her
through; and though he was unable to account for
the suspicious circumstances, he spurned instinctively
the conclusion Mrs. Wilson drew from
them.

Her astonishment, that he neither expressed
horror, nor indignation, nor resentment towards
the offender, was not at all abated when he only
replied by a request to speak alone with Miss
Elton.

Mrs. Wilson thought he might intend the gathering
storm should burst on Jane's head; or,
perhaps, he would advise her to fly; at any rate,
it was not her cue, to lay a straw in his way at
present. She even went herself and gave the request
to Jane, adding to it a remark, that as she

“was not very fond of keeping out of Erskine's
way, she could hardly refuse to come when
asked.”

“I have no wish to refuse;” replied Jane, who,
ashamed of having betrayed so much emotion, had
quite recovered her self-possession, and stood
calm in conscious integrity.—“But hear me,
ma'am,” said she to her aunt, who had turned
and was leaving the room—“all connexion between
us is dissolved for ever; I shall not remain
another night beneath a roof where I have received
little kindness, and where I now suffer the imputation
of a crime, of which I cannot think you
believe me guilty.”

Mrs. Wilson was for a moment daunted by the
power of unquestionable innocence.—“I know
not where I shall go, I know not whether your
persecutions will follow me; but I am not friendless—nor
fearful.”

She passed by her aunt, and descended to the
parlour. `No thought infirm altered her cheek;'
her countenance was very serious, but the peace
of virtue was there. Her voice did not falter in
the least, when she said to Edward, as he closed
the door on her entrance into the parlour—“Mr.
Erskine, you have no doubt requested to see me
in the expectation that I would contradict the
statement my aunt must have made to you. I
cannot, for it is all true.”

Edward interrupted her—“I do not wish it,
Jane; I believe you are perfectly innocent of
that and of every other crime; I do not wish you

even to deny it. It is all a devilish contrivance of
that wicked woman.”

“You are mistaken, Edward; it is not a contrivance;
the circumstances are as she has told
them to you.—Elvira did not mistake in supposing
she heard me up in the night; and my aunt did
find my handkerchief in her desk. No, Edward;
she is right in all but the conclusion she draws
from these unfortunate circumstances; perhaps,”
she added after a moment's pause, “a kinder
judgment would not absolve me.”

“A saint,” replied Edward cheeringly, “needs
no absolution. No one shall be permitted to accuse
you, or suspect you; you can surely explain
these accidental circumstances, so that even your
aunt, malicious—venemous as she is, will not dare
to breathe a poisonous insinuation against you, angel
as you are.”

“Ah,” replied Jane, with a sad smile, “there
are, and there ought to be, few believers in earthborn
angels. No, Mr. Erskine, I have no explanation
to make; I have nothing but assertions of
my innocence, and my general character to rely
upon. Those who reject this evidence must believe
me guilty.”

She rose to leave the room. Erskine gently
drew her back, and asked if it was possible she
included him among those who could be base
enough to distrust her; and before she could reply
he went on to a passionate declaration of his
affections, followed by such promises of eternal

truth, love, and fidelity, as are usual on such occasions.

At another time, Jane would have paused to examine
her heart, before she accepted the professions
made by her lover, and she would have found
no tenderness there that might not be controlled
and subdued by reason. But now, driven out
from her natural protectors by suspicion and malignant
accusation, and touched by the confiding
affection that refused to suspect her; the generosity,
the magnanimity that were presented in
such striking contrast to the baseness of her relations—she
received Edward's declarations with
the most tender and ingenuous expressions of gratitude;
and Erskine did not doubt, nor did Jane
at that moment, that this gratitude was firmly rooted
in love.

Edward, ardent and impetuous, proposed an immediate
marriage: he argued, that it was the only,
and would be an effectual, way of protecting her
from the persecutions of her aunt.

Jane replied, that she had very little reason to
fear that her aunt would communicate to any other
person her suspicions. “She had a motive towards
you,” she added, “that overcame her prudence.
I have found a refuge in your heart,
and she cannot injure me while I have that asylum.
I have too much pride, Edward, to involve
you in the reproach I may have to sustain.
I had formed a plan this morning, before your
generosity translated me from despondency to
hope, which I must adhere to, for a few months at

least. An application has been made to me to
teach some little girls who are not old enough for
Mr. Evertson's school: my aunt, as usual, put in
her veto; I had almost made up my mind to accept
the proposal in spite of it, when the events
of the morning came to my aid, and decided me at
once, and I have already announced to my aunt
my determination to leave her house. I trust
that in a few months something will occur, to put
me beyond the reach of suspicion, and reward as
well as justify your generous confidence.”

Edward entreated—protested—argued—but all
in vain; he was obliged at length to resign his
will to Jane's decision. Edward's next proposal
was to announce the engagement immediately.
On this he insisted so earnestly, and offered for it
so many good reasons, that Jane consented. Mrs.
Wilson was summoned to the parlour, and informed
of the issue of the conference, of which she had
expected so different a termination. She was
surprised—mortified—and most of all, wrathful—
that her impotent victim, as she deemed Jane,
should be rescued from her grasp. She began
the most violent threats and reproaches; Edward
interrupted her by telling her that she dare not
repeat the first, and from the last her niece would
soon be for ever removed; as he should require
they should in future be perfect strangers. Mrs.
Wilson felt like a wild animal just encaged; she
might lash herself to fury, but no one heeded her.

Edward left the room, saying, that he should
send his servant to convey Jane's baggage whereever

she would order it to be sent. Jane went
quietly to her own apartment, to make the necessary
arrangements; there she soon overheard the
low growlings of Mrs. Wilson's angriest voice,
communicating, as she inferred from the loud responsive
exclamations and whimpering, her engagement
to Elvira. Mrs. Wilson's perturbed
spirit was not quieted even by this outpouring;
and after walking up and down, scolding at the
servants and the children, she put on her hat and
shawl, and sallied out to a shop, to pay a small
debt she owed there. No passion could exclude
from her mind for any length of time the memory
of so disagreeable a circumstance as the necessity
of paying out money. After she had discharged
the debt, and the master of the shop had given
her the change, he noticed her examining one of
the bills he had handed her with a look of scrutiny
and some agitation. He said, “I believe that is
a good bill, Mrs. Wilson; I was a little suspicious
of it too at first; I took it, this morning, from
your son David, in payment of a debt that has
been standing more than a year. I thought myself
so lucky to get any thing, that I was not very particular.”

Mrs. Wilson's particularity seemed to have a
sudden quietus, for she pushed the bill into the full
purse after the others, muttering something about
the folly of trusting boys being rightly punished by
the loss of the debt.

The fact was, that Mrs. Wilson recognised this
bill the moment she saw it, as one of the parcel she

had received the day before, and which she had
marked, at the time, for she was eagle-eyed in the
detection of a spurious bill. There is nothing
more subtle, more inveterate than a habit of self-deception.
It was not to the world alone that
Mrs. Wilson played the hypocrite, but before the
tribunal of her own conscience she appeared with
hollow arguments and false pretences. From the
moment she had discovered her loss in the morning,
she had, at bottom, believed David guilty;
she recollected the threats of the preceding day,
and her first impulse was to charge him with the
theft, and to demand the money; but then, she
thought, he was violent and determined, and that,
without exposing him, (even Mrs. Wilson shrunk
from the consequences of exposure to her son)
she could not regain her money. She was at a loss
how to account for the appearance of Jane's handkerchief;
but neither that, nor Jane's subsequent
emotion at the breakfast table, nor her refusal to
make any explanation of the suspicious circumstances,
enabled Mrs. Wilson to believe that Jane
had borne any part in the dishonesty of the transaction.
Such was the involuntary tribute she paid
to the tried, steadfast virtue of this excellent being.
Still she could not restrain the whirlwind of
her passion; and it burst, as we have seen, upon
Jane. She was at a loss to account for Jane's refusal
to vindicate herself. It was impossible for
her to conceive of the reasons that controlled Jane,
which would have been no more to Mrs. Wilson, than
were to Sampson the new ropes he snapped asunder
at the call of Delilah. She felt so fearful, at
first, that any investigation would lead to the discovery
of the real criminal, that she had not communicated
the fact of the handkerchief to any one,
even to Elvira, whose discretion, indeed, she
never trusted; but, after she found that Jane was
in a dilemma, from which she would not extricate
herself by any explanations, she thought herself
the mistress of her niece's fate; and the moment
she saw Erskine, she determined to extract good
out of the evil that had come upon her, to dim
the lustre of Jane's good name, that `more immediate
jewel of her soul,' and thus to secure for her
daughter the contested prize. But Mrs. Wilson,
it seems, was destined to experience, on this eventful
day, how very hard is the way of the transgressor.
Her niece's fortunes were suddenly placed
beyond her control or reach; and nothing remained
of all her tyranny and plots, but the pitiful and
malignant pleasure of believing, that Jane thought
herself in some measure in her power, though she
knew that she was not.

After the confirmation of her conjecture at the
shop, she saw that secrecy was absolutely necessary;
and she was too discreet to indulge herself with
telling Elvira of any of the particulars, about
which she had been so vociferous to the young
lovers.

Perhaps few ladies, old or young, were ever
less encumbered with baggage than Jane Elton,
and yet, so confused was she with the events of
the night and morning, that the labour of packing

up, which at another time she would have des
patched in twenty minutes, seemed to have no
more tendency to a termination than such labours
usually have in dreams. In the midst of her
perplexities one of the children entered and
said Mr. Lloyd wished to speak to her. She was
on the point of sending him an excuse, for she
felt an involuntary disinclination to meet his penetrating
eye at this moment, when recollecting how
much she owed to his constant, tender friendship,
she subdued her reluctance, and obeyed his summons.
When she entered the room, “I am
come,” said he, “Jane, to ask thee to walk with
me. I am an idler and have nothing to do, and thou
art so industrious thou hast time to do every thing.
Come, get thy hat. It is `treason against nature'
sullenly to refuse to enjoy so beautiful a day as
this.” Jane made no reply. He saw she was
agitated, and leading her gently to a chair, said,
“I fear thou art not well, or, what is much worse,
not happy.”

Jane would have replied, “I am not;” but she
checked the words, for she felt as if the sentiment
they expressed, was a breach of fidelity to
Erskine; and instead of them she said, hesitatingly,
“I ought not to be perfectly happy till my
best (I should say one of my best) friends knows
and approves what I have done this morning.”

“What hast thou done, Jane?” exclaimed Mr.
Lloyd, anticipating from her extraordinary embarrassment
and awkwardness the communication she

was about to make; “hast thou engaged thyself
to Erskine?”

She faltered out, “Yes.”

Mr. Lloyd made no reply; he rose and walked
up and down the room, agitated, and apparently
distressed. Jane was alarmed; she could not account
for his emotion; she feared he had some
ground for an ill opinion of Edward, that she was
ignorant of. “You do not like Edward?” said
she; “you think I have done wrong?”

The power of man is not limited in the moral
as in the natural world. Habitual discipline had
given Mr. Lloyd such dominion over his feelings,
that he was able now to say to their stormy wave,
`thus far shalt thou come, and no farther.' By a
strong and sudden effort he recovered himself, and
turning to Jane, he took her hand with a benignant
expression—“My dear Jane, thy own heart must
answer that question. Dost thou remember a favourite
stanza of thine?

Jane imagined that Mr. Lloyd felt a distrust of
her motives. “Ah!” she replied, “the integrity of
my heart will fail to make me happy, if I have
fallen under your suspicion. If you knew the nobleness,
the disinterestedness of Erskine's conduct,
you would be more just to him, and to
me.”

“It is not being very unjust to him, or to any
one, to think him unworthy of thee, Jane. But
since these particulars would raise him so much
in my opinion, why not tell them to me? May
not `one of your best friends' claim to know, that
which affects, so deeply, your happiness?”

Jane began a reply, but hesitated, and faltered
out something of its being impossible for her to
display to Mr. Lloyd, Erskine's generosity in the
light she saw it.

“Dost thou mean, Jane, that the light of truth
is less favourable to him than the light of imagination?”

“No,” answered Jane, “such virtues as Edward's
shine with a light of their own; imagination cannot
enhance their value.”

“Still,” said Mr. Lloyd, “they shine but on one
happy individual. Well, my dear Jane,” he continued,
after a few moments pause, “I will believe
without seeing. I will believe thou hast good
reasons for thy faith, though they are incommunicable.
If Erskine make thee happy, I shall be
resigned.”

Happily for both parties, this very unsatisfactory
conference was broken off by the entrance
of Erskine's servant, who came, as he said, for
Miss Elton's baggage. Jane explained, as concisely
as possible, to Mr. Lloyd, her plans for the
present, and then took advantage of this opportunity
to retreat to her own apartment, where she
had no sooner entered than she gave way to a
flood of tears, more bitter than any her aunt's injustice

had cost her. She had, previous to her interview
with Mr. Lloyd, determined not to disclose
to him, or Mary Hull, the disagreeable affair of
the robbery. She wished to spare them the pain,
the knowledge of a perplexity from which they
could not extricate her, must give to them. She
was sure Mary, whose discernment was very quick,
and who knew David well, would, at once, suspect
him; and therefore, she thought, that in telling
the story, she should violate the spirit of her
promise; and, at bottom, she felt a lurking fearfulness
that Mr. Lloyd might think there was more
of gratitude than affection in her feelings to Erskine;
she thought it possible, too, he might not
estimate Edward's magnanimity quite as highly as
she did; for “though,” she said, “Mr. Lloyd has
the fairest mind in the world, I think he has never
liked Erskine. They are, certainly, very different”—and
she sighed as she concluded her deliberations.

Mr. Lloyd, after remaining for a few moments
in the posture Jane had left him, returned to his
own home, abstracted and sad. `The breath of
Heaven smelt as wooingly,' and the sun shone
as brightly as before, but there was now no feeling
of joy within to vibrate to the beauty without;
and he certainly could not be acquitted of
the `sullen neglect of nature,' that he had deemed
treason an hour before.

“I knew,” thought he, “she was fallible, and
why should I be surprised at her failure? It cannot
be Erskine, but the creature of her imagination,

that she loves. She is too young to possess the
Ithuriel touch that dissolves false appearances:
she could not detect, under so specious a garb, the
vanity and selfishness that counterfeit manly pride
and benevolence. If he were but worthy of her,
I should be perfectly happy.”

Mr. Lloyd was mistaken; he would not, even
in that case, have been perfectly happy. He did
not, though he was very much of a self-examiner,
clearly define all his feelings on this trying occasion.
He had loved Jane first as a child, and then
as a sister; and of late he had thought if he could
love another woman, as a wife, it would be Jane
Elton. But his lost Rebecca was more present
to his imagination than any living being. He had
formed no project for himself in relation to Jane;
yet he would have felt disappointment at her appropriation
to any other person, though, certainly,
not the sorrow which her engagement to Erskine
occasioned him. Mr. Lloyd was really a disinterested
man. He had so long made it a rule to imitate
the Parent of the universe, in still educing
good from evil, that, in every trial of his life, it
was his first aim to ascertain his duty, and then
to perform it. He could weave the happiness of
others, even though no thread of his own was in
the fabric. In the present case, he resolved still
to watch over Jane; to win the friendship of Erskine,
to endeavour to rectify his principles, to exert
over him an insensible influence, and, if possible,
to render him more worthy of his enviable
destiny.

In the course of the day, Mary Hull heard the
rumours that had already spread through the village,
of Jane's removal to Mrs. Harvey's, and her
engagement. She ran to the library door, and in
the fulness of her heart, forgetful of the decorum
of knocking, she entered and found Mr. Lloyd
sitting with his little girl on his knee. “Mary, I
am glad to see thee,” said the child; “I cannot
get a word from father; he is just as if he was
asleep, only his eyes are wide open.”

Mary, regardless of the child's prattle, announced
the news she had just heard. Mr. Lloyd coldly
replied, that he knew it already; and Mary left the
room, a little hurt that he had not condescended
to tell her, and wondering what made him so indifferent,
and then wondering whether it was indifference;
but as she could not relieve her mind,
she resolved to go immediately to Jane, with
whom the habits of their early lives, and her continued
kindness, had given and established the
right of free intercourse.

She found Jane alone, and not looking as happy
as she expected. “You have come to give me
joy, Mary,” she said, smiling mournfully as she
extended her hand to her friend.

“Yes,” replied Mary, “I came with that intention,
and you look as if joy was yet to be given.
Well,” she continued after a pause, “I always
thought you and Mr. Lloyd were different from
every body else in the world, but now you puzzle
me more than ever. I expected to see your aunt
Wilson look grum—that's natural to her, when

any good befalls any one else; and Elvira, who
every body knows has been setting her cap every
way for Erskine, ever since she was old enough to
think of a husband; she has a right to have her
eyes as red as a ferret's. But there is Mr. Lloyd,
looking as sorrowful as if he had seen some great
trouble, and could not relieve it; and you, my
dear child, I have seen you pass through many a
dark passage of your life with a happier face than
you wear now, when you are going to have the
pride of the country for your husband, to be mistress
of the beautiful house on the hill, and have
every thing heart can desire.”

Jane made no explanation, nor reply, and after
a few moments consideration Mary proceeded—
“To be sure, I could wish Erskine was more like
Mr. Lloyd; but then he is six or eight years
younger than Mr. Lloyd, and in that time, with
your tutoring, you may make him a good deal like
Mr. Lloyd (Mr. Lloyd was Mary's beau-ideal of a
man); that is, if your endeavours are blessed. It
is true, I always thought you would not marry any
man that was not religious; not but what 'tis allowable,
for even professors do it; but then, Jane,
you are more particular and consistent than a great
many professors; and, I know, you think there is
nothing binds hearts together like religion—that
bond endures where there is neither marrying nor
giving in marriage.”

Poor Jane had listened to Mary's pros and cons
with considerable calmness; but now she laid her
head in her friend's lap, and gave vent to the feelings,

she had been all day arguing down, by a flood
of tears. “Ah! my dear Jane, is it there the shoe
pinches? I an't sorry to find you have thought
of it though. If the `candle of the Lord' is lighted
up in the heart, we ought to look at every thing
by that light. But now you have decided, turn
to the bright side. I don't know much about Mr.
Erskine; he is called a nice young man, and who
knows what he may become, when he sees how
good and how beautiful it is to have the whole
heart and life ordered and governed by the christian
rule. I often think to myself, Jane, that your
life, and Mr. Lloyd's too, are better than preaching.
Don't take on so, my child,” she continued,
soothingly; “you have Scripture for you; for
the Bible says, `the believing wife may sanctify
the unbelieving husband;' and that must mean that
her counsel and example shall win him back to
the right way, and persuade him to walk in the
paths of holiness. Cheer up, my child, there is a
good ministry before you; and I feel as if you had
many happy days to come yet. Those that sow
in tears, shall reap with joy. It is a load off my
mind, at any rate, that you are away from your
aunt's, and under good Mrs. Harvey's roof. I
stopped at your aunt's on my way here, and she
raised a hue and cry about your leaving her house
so suddenly: she said, your grand fortune had
turned your head; `she was not disappointed, she
had never expected any gratitude from you! but
'twas not for worldly hire she did her duty!' Poor,
poor soul! I would not judge her uncharitably;
but I do believe she has the `hope that will perish.'
I just took no notice of her, and came away. As I
was passing through the kitchen, Sukey says to
me, “Mrs. Wilson may look out for other help,
for now Miss Jane, the only righteous one, is gone
out from us, I sha'nt stay to hear nothing but disputings,
and scoldings, and prayers.” But, says I,
Sukey, you don't object to the prayers? Yes,
says she, I don't like lip-prayers—it is nothing but
a mockery.”

“Sukey has too much reason,” replied Jane.
“But now, Mary, you must not think from what
you have seen that I am not happy, for I have reason
to be grateful, and I ought to be very, very
happy.”

`Ought,' thought Mary, `she may be contented,
and resigned, and even cheerful, because she
ought—but happiness is not duty-work.' However,
she had discretion enough to suppress her
homely metaphysics; and patting Jane's head affectionately,
she replied, “Yes, my child, and if
you wish it, I will set these tears down for tears
of joy, not sorrow.” Jane smiled at her friend's
unwonted sophistry, and they parted: Mary, confirmed
in a favourite notion, that every allotment
of Providence is designed as a trial for the character;
that all will finally work together for good;
and that Jane was going on in the path to perfection,
which, though no methodist, she was not (in
her partial friend's opinion,) far from attaining.
Jane was very much relieved by Mary's wise suggestions
and sincere sympathy.

A sagacious observer of human nature and fortunes
has said, that “if there were more knowledge,
there would be less envy.” The history of our
heroine is a striking exemplification of the truth of
this remark: when all was darkness without, she
had been looked upon by the compassionate as an
object of pity, for they could not see the sunshine
of the breast; and now that she was considered as
the chief favourite of the fickle goddess, there was
not one that would have envied her, if the internal
conflict she suffered—if that most unpleasant
of all feelings, disagreement with herself, had been
as visible, as her external fortunes were.

Erskine was in too good humour with himself, and
with Jane, to find fault with any thing: yet he certainly
was a little disappointed, that in spite of his
earnest persuasions to the contrary, she firmly persisted
in the plan of the school; and we fear he
was surprised, perhaps slightly mortified, that she
showed no more joy at having secured a station,
to which he knew so many had aspired.