 | CHAPTER XVI. A New-England tale, or, Sketches of New-England character and manners. |  |
16. CHAPTER XVI.
Combine your hearts in one.
Henry V.
We have anticipated our story, tempted by a
natural desire to conclude the history of Mrs.
Wilson, that its deep shade might not interfere
with the bright lights that are falling on the destiny
of our heroine. After the dissolution of her
engagement with Erskine, Jane continued her
humble vocation of school-mistress for some
months. Rebecca Lloyd had from the beginning
been one of her pupils, and a favourite among
them; and so devotedly did the child love her instructress,
that Mr. Lloyd often thought impulse
was as sure a guide for her affections as reason for
his. Jane's care of his child furnished him occasion,
and excuse when he needed it, for frequent
intercourse with her; and, in this intercourse,
there were none of those mysterious embarrassments
(mysterious, because inexplicable to all but
the parties) that so often check the progress of
which she had been bound to Erskine, was as happy
as a redeemed captive. Her tastes and her
views were similar to Mr. Lloyd's, and she found
in his society a delightful exchange and a rich
compensation for the solitude to which her mind
and affections had been condemned.
We are ignorant, perhaps Jane was, of the precise
moment when gratitude melted into love, and
friendship resigned the reigns to his more absolute
dominion. But it was not long after this, nor
quite `a year and a day' (the period of mourning
usually allotted to a faithful husband) after her separation
from Erskine, that, as she was sitting with
Mrs. Harvey in her little parlour, Mr. Lloyd entered
with his child. After the customary greetings,
Mrs. Harvey suddenly recollected that some
domestic duties demanded her presence, and saying
with an arch smile to Mr. Lloyd that she
`hoped he would overlook her absence,' she left
the room. Little Rebecca was sitting on her father's
knee; she took from his bosom a miniature
of her mother, which he always wore there, and
seemed intently studying the face which the artist
had delineated with masterly power. “Do the
angels look like my mother?” she asked.
“Why, my child?”
“I thought, father, they might look like her, she
looks so bright and so good.” She kissed the
picture, and after a moment's pause, added,
“Jane looks like mother, all but the cap; dost
not thee think, father, Jane would look pretty in
and said nothing. Rebecca's eyes followed the
direction of her father's: “Oh, Jane!” she exclaimed,
“thou dost not look like mother now, thy
cheeks are as red as my new doll's.”
The child's observation of her treacherous
cheek had certainly no tendency to lessen poor
Jane's colour. She would have been glad to
hide her face any where, but it was broad daylight,
and there was now no escape from the declaration
which had been hovering on Mr. Lloyd's
lips for some weeks, and which was now made in
spite of Rebecca's presence. It cannot be denied,
in deference to the opinion of some very fastidious
ladies, that Jane was prepared for it; for though
the marks of love are not quite as obvious, as the
lively Rosalind describes them, yet we believe
that except in the case of very wary lovers—cautious
veterans—they are first observed by the objects
of the passion.
We are warned from attempting to describe the
scene to which our little pioneer had led the way,
by the fine remark of a sentimentalist, who compares
the language of lovers to the most delicate
fruits of a warm climate—very delicious where
they grow, but not capable of transportation.
Much is expressed and understood in a few sentences,
which would be quite unintelligible to
those whose faculties are not quickened by la
grande passion, and who therefore cannot be expected
to comprehend the mystics of love.
The result of the interview was perfectly satisfactory
to both parties; and as this was one of the
occasions when all the sands of time are `diamond
sparks,' it is impossible to say when it would have
come to a conclusion, had it not been for little
Rebecca, who seemed to preside over the destinies
of that day.
Her father had interpreted his conversation
with Jane to his child, and had succeeded in rendering
the object and the result of it level to her
comprehension, and she had lavished her joy in
loud exclamations and tender caresses; till finding
she was no longer noticed, she had withdrawn
to a window, and was amusing herself with gazing
at the passengers in the street, when she suddenly
turned to Jane, and raising the window at the
same moment, she said, “Oh, there goes Mary to
lecture, may I call her and tell her?”
At this moment the sweet child might have asked
any thing without the chance of a refusal, and
a ready assent was no sooner granted, than she
screamed and beckoned to Mary, who immediately
obeyed her summons.
Mary entered, and Rebecca closing the door
after her, said, “I guess thee will not want to go
to lecture to-day, Mary, for I have a most beautiful
secret to tell thee, hold down thy ear, and promise
never to tell as long as thy name is Mary
Hull;” and then, unable any longer to subdue her
voice to a whisper, she jumped up and clapped
her hands, and shouted, “Joy, joy, joy! Mary,
of her life, and is going to be my own mother.”
Mary looked to Mr. Lloyd, and then to Jane,
and read in their faces the confirmation of the happy
tidings; and to Rebecca's utter amazement, the
tears streamed from her eyes. “Oh, Mary!” said
she, turning disappointed away, “now I am
ashamed of thee, I thought thee would be as glad
as I am.”
But Mr. Lloyd and Jane knew how to understand
this expression of her feelings; they advanced
to her and gave her their hands; she joined
them: “the Lord hath heard my prayer,” she
said, and she wept aloud.
“I thank thee, Mary,” replied Mr. Lloyd;
“God grant I may deserve thy confidence.”
“If she has prayed for it, what then does she
cry for?” said Rebecca, who stood beside her father,
watching Mary's inexplicable emotion, and
vainly trying to get some clue to it.
“Come with me, my child, and I will tell thee,”
replied her father, and he very discreetly led out
the child, and left Jane with her faithful friend.
The moment he had closed the door, Mary said
smiling through her tears of joy, “It has taken
me by surprise at last, but for all that I am not
quite so blind as you may think. Do you remember,
Jane, telling me one day when you laid your
book down to listen to Mr. Lloyd, who was talking
to Rebecca, that since your mother's voice
had been silent, you had never heard one so sweet
as Mr. Lloyd's? I thought to myself then you
of James' voice; not that I mean to compare myself
to you, or James to Mr. Lloyd, but it is the
nature of the feeling—it is the same in the high and
the low, the rich and the poor.”
“Was that all the ground of your suspicion?”
asked Jane, smiling at her friend's boasted sagacity.
“No, not quite all; James has been very impatient
for our marriage; and from time to time I
have told Mr. Lloyd I wished he would look out
for some one to take charge of his house, and I
advised him not to get a very young person, for,
says I, they are apt to be flighty. I never saw
one that was not, but Jane Elton. He smiled and
blushed, and asked me what made me think that
you was so much above the rest of your sex, and
so I told him, and he never seemed to weary with
talking about you.”
“I am rejoiced,” replied Jane, “that your partiality
to me reconciles you to the disparity in our
ages.”
“Oh, that is nothing; that is, in your case it is
nothing. Let us see, eleven years. In most cases
it would be too much, to be sure; there is just
four years between James and I, that is just right,
I think; but then, dear Jane, you are so different
from other people, you need not go by common
rules.”
The overflowing of Mary's heart was checked
by the entrance of some company. As she parted
with Jane, she whispered, “I shall not think of
sooner or later; when I see you in your own
home, it will be time enough to think of my affairs.”
There still remained a delicate point to adjust:
Mr. Lloyd had been brought up a Quaker, and he
had seen no reason to depart from the faith or
mode of worship which had come down to him
from his ancestors, and for which he felt on that
accoutn (as who does not?) an attachment and
veneration. He rarely, if ever, entered into discussions
upon religious subjects, and probably did
not feel much zeal for some of the peculiarities of
his sect. He was not disposed to question their
utility in their ordinary operation upon common
character. He knew how salutary were the restraints
of discipline upon the mass of men, and he
considered the discipline of habits and opinions infinitely
more salutary than the direct and coarse
interference of power. He perceived, or thought
he perceived, that as a body of men, the `Friends'
were upon the whole more happy and prosperous
than any other. No contentions ever came among
them. This circumstance Mr. Lloyd ascribed in
a considerable degree to the uniformity of their
opinions, habits, and lives, and to their custom of
restricting their family alliances within the limits
of their own sect. Mr. Lloyd regarded with complacency
most of the characteristics of his own religious
society; and those which he could not
wholly approve, he was yet disposed to regard in
the most favourable light; but he was no sectarian:
affections were too diffusive to be confined within
the bounds of sect. Such ties could not bind such
a spirit. If any sectarian peculiarities had interfered
to restrain him in the exercise of his duty, or
while acting under the strong impulses of his generous
nature, he would have shaken them off
`like dew-drops from a lion's mane.' Exclusion
from the society would have been painful to him
for many reasons, but the fear of it could not occasion
a moment's hesitation in his offering his hand
to a woman whom he loved and valued, and whose
whole life he saw animated by the essential spirit
of Christianity. He determined now to inform his
society of his choice, and to submit to the censure
and exclusion from membership that must follow.
But Mr. Lloyd was saved the painful necessity of
breaking ties which were so strong that they might
be called natural bonds.
Jane had been early led to inquire into the particular
modification of religion professed by her
benefactor, and respect for him had probably lent
additional weight to every argument in its favour;
this was natural; and it was natural too, that after
her matured judgment sanctioned her early preference,
she should from motives of delicacy have
hesitated to declare it. If it cannot be denied
that this proselyte was won by the virtues of Mr.
Lloyd, it is to be presumed that no Christian will
deny the rightful power of such an argument.
If the reader is not disposed to allow that Jane's
choice of the religion of her friend was the result
preference she always gave to the spirit over the
letter, to the practice over the profession, she
must call to her aid the decision of the poet,
who says that
As different soils are formed for different seed.”
Not a word had passed between Mr. Lloyd and
Jane on the subject of the mental deliberations
and resolves of each, when a few days after their
engagement, Jane said to him, “I have a mind to
improve the fatal hint of my little mischievous
friend, and see how becoming I can make a “quaker
cap.”
“What dost thou mean, Jane?” inquired Mr.
Lloyd, who seemed a little puzzled by the gravity
of her face, which was not quite in keeping with
the playfulness of her words.
“Seriously,” she replied, with your consent and
approbation, “I mean to be a `member by request'
of your society of friends.”
“Shall my people be thy people?” exclaimed
Mr. Lloyd with great animation. This, indeed,
converts to pure gold the only circumstance that
alloyed my happiness; but do not imagine, dear
Jane, that I think it of the least consequence, by
what name the different members of the christian
family are called.”
“But you think it right and orderly,” she replied,
smiling, “that the wife should take the name
of the husband?”
“I think it most happy, certainly.”
There remained now no reason for deferring the
marriage longer than was rendered necessary by
the delays attending the admission of a new member
into the friends' society.
It was a beautiful morning in the beginning of
May—the mist had rolled away from the valley,
and wreathed with silvery clouds the sides and
summits of the mountains—the air was sweet with
the `herald blossoms' of spring—and nature, rising
from her wintry bed, was throwing on her woods
and fields her drapery of tender green—when a
carriage, containing Mr. Lloyd, Mary Hull, and
little Rebecca, stopped at Mrs. Harvey's door;
Jane, arrayed for a journey, stood awaiting it on
the piazza; old John, the basket-maker, was beside
her, leaning on his cane, and good Mrs. Harvey
was giving Jane's baggage to James, who carried
it to the carriage. “Farewell, dear Jane,”
said Mrs. Harvey, affectionately kissing her;—
“now go, but do not forget there are other
`friends' in the world, beside quakers. Return
to us soon; we are all impatient to see you the
happy mistress of the house in which you was
born.”
John followed her to the carriage, and respectfully
taking her hand and Mr. Lloyd's—“You've
been my best friends,” said he; “take an old
man's blessing, whose sun, thanks to the Lord who
brought Jemmy back! is setting without a cloud.
God grant you both,” he added, joining their hands,
“a long and a happy day. Truly says the good
the upright in heart.”'
James was the only person that did not seem to
have his portion of the common gladness. He had,
with a poor grace, consented to defer his nuptials
till Mary's return from Philadelphia. He did not
mind the time, he said, “five or six weeks would
not break his heart, though he had waited almost
as long as Jacob now; and he was not of a distrustful
make; but it was a long way to Philadelphia,
and the Lord only knew what might happen.”
But nothing did happen; at least, nothing to justify
our constant lover's forebodings.
Jane was received with cordiality into the
friends' society, and their hands were joined,
whose hearts were `knit together.'
The travellers returned, in a few weeks, to—,
happy in each other, and devoting themselves to
the good and happiness of the human family.
Their good works shone before men; and “they
seeing them, glorified their Father in heaven.”
We dare not presume upon the good nature of our
readers so far, as to give the detail of Mary's
wedding; at which, our little friend Rebecca, was
the happy mistress of ceremonies.
There yet remains something to be told of one
of the persons of our humble history, whom our
readers may have forgotten, but to whom Mr.
Lloyd extended his kind regards—the poor lunatic,
crazy Bet. He believed that her reason might
be restored by skilful management—by confinement
to one place, and one set of objects, and by the
habits in her attendants. He induced Mary, in
whose judiciousness and zeal he placed implicit
confidence, to undertake the execution of his plan;
but after a faithful experiment of a few months,
they were obliged to relinquish all hope of restoring
the mind to its right balance. Mary said, when
the weather was dull, she was as quiet as any body;
but if the sun shone out suddenly, it seemed
as if its bright beams touched her brain. A thunder-storm,
or a clear moon-light, would throw her
back into her wild ways. “The poor thing,”
Mary added, “had such a tender heart, that there
seemed to be no way to harden it. If she sees a
lamb die, or hears a mournful note from a bird,
when she has her low feelings, she'll weep more
than some mothers at the loss of a child.”
No cure could be effected; but Mary's house
continued to be the favourite resort of the interesting
vagrant. Her visits there became more frequent
and longer protracted. Mary observed,
that the excitement of her mind was exhausting
her life, without Bet's seeming conscious of decay
of strength, or any species of suffering.
The last time Mary saw her, was a brilliant
night during the full harvest moon; she came to
her house late in the evening; the wildness of
her eye was tempered with an affecting softness;
her cheek was brightened with the hectic flush that
looks like `mockery of the tomb'—Mary observed
her to tremble, and perceived that there was
well,” said she.
“No, I am not well,” Bet replied, in a low plaintive
tone; “but I shall be soon—here,” said she,
placing Mary's hand on her heart—“do not you
feel it struggling to be free.”
Mary was startled—the beating was so irregular,
it seemed that every pulsation must be the
last. “Oh!” she exclaimed, “poor creature, let
me put you in bed; you are not fit to be sitting
here.”
“Oh, no!” Bet replied, in the same feeble,
mournful tone; “I cannot stay here. The spirits
of heaven are keeping a festival by the light of the
blessed moon. Hark! do you not bear them,
Mary?”—and she sung so low that her voice
sounded like distant music:
pointing through the window to the vapour
that curled along the margin of the river, and
floated on the bosom of the meadow.
Mary called to her husband, and whispered,
“The poor thing is near death; let us get her on
the bed.”
Bet overheard her. “No, do not touch me,”
she exclaimed; “the spirit cannot soar here.”
She suddenly sprang on her feet, as if she had
caught a new inspiration, and darted towards the
door. Mary's infant, sleeping in the cradle, arrested
and folded her hands on her breast. Then rising,
she said to Mary, “The prayer of the dying sanctifies.”
The door was open, and she passed
through it so suddenly that they hardly suspected
her intention before she was gone. The next
morning she was discovered in the church-yard,
her head resting on the grassy mound that covered
the remains of her lover. Her spirit had
passed to its eternal rest!
| CHAPTER XVI. A New-England tale, or, Sketches of New-England character and manners. | |