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
bearer, for Jane Elton, a work-box, dressing-glass, and a few
other small articles, for which he has no use, and which must
have to her a value from association with her late residence.”

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
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 judge of right
and 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 young 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 farther 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

favor, and she entered immediately upon the duties of her
new and responsible situation.

We must now introduce those who are willing to go farther
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 send 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
do the 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 colors 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 tell
the girls to be ready to go with me to the afternoon conference,[2]
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 suffered 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
Banker's, to inquire whether the tracts have come; that's a
good thought;” 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,” Elvira laughed in
derision.

“Pooh, Jane, you have brought your strict notions 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 were 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 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.