University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

More than two years glided away without the occurrence of
any incident in the life of our heroine that would be deemed
worthy of record, by any persons less interested in her history
than Mary Hull, or the writer of her simple annals. The
reader shall therefore be allowed to pass over this interval,
with merely a remark, that Jane had improved in mortal and
immortal graces; that the development of her character
seemed to interest and delight Mr. Lloyd almost as much as
the progress of his own child, and that her uniform patience
had acquired for her some influence over the bad passions of
her aunt, whose rough points seemed to be a little worn by
the continual dropping of Jane's virtues.

In this interval, Martha Wilson had made a stolen match
with a tavern-keeper from a neighbouring village, and had removed
from her mother's house, to display her character on a
new stage, and in a worse light.

Elvira, at eighteen, was much the same as at sixteen, except,
that the gayety of her spirits was somewhat checked by
the apprehension (that seemed to have grown of late) that

Edward Erskine's affections, which had been vacillating for
some time between her and her cousin, would finally preponderate
in Jane's favour. It may appear singular, that the
same person should admire both the cousins; but it must be
remembered, that Edward Erskine was not (as our readers
are) admitted behind the scenes; and it must be confessed,
that he had not so nice a moral sense, as we hope they possess.
He neither estimated the purity of Jane's character,
as it deserved to be estimated, nor felt for the faults of Elvira
the dislike they merited. Edward Erskine belonged to
one of the best families in the county of—. His parents
had lost several children in their infancy, and this boy alone
remained to them—to become the sole object of their cares
and fondness. He was naturally what is called `good-hearted,'
which we believe means thoughtlessly kind and unscrupulously
generous. Flattery, and unlimited indulgence made
him vain, selfish, and indolent. These qualities were, however,
somewhat modified by a frank and easy temper, and sheltered
by an uncommonly handsome exterior. Some of his college
companions thought him a genius, for, though he was seldom
caught in the act of studying, he passed through college
without disgrace; this (for he certainly was neither a genius
nor a necromancer) might be attributed in part to an aptness
at learning, and an excellent memory; but chiefly to an
extraordinary facility at appropriating to himself the results
of the labours of others. He lounged through the prescribed
course of law studies, and entered upon his professional
career with considerable éclat. He had a rich and powerful
voice; and it might be said of him, as of the chosen king of
Israel—that `from the shoulders upwards, he was taller and
fairer than any of his brethren.' These are qualifications
never slighted by the vulgar; and which are said to be passports
to ladies' favour. He had too, for we would do him
ample justice, uncommon talents, but not such as we think
would justify the remark often made of him, “that the young
squire was the smartest man in the country.” In short, he
belonged to that large class of persons who are generous, but
not just; affectionate, but not constant; and often kind,
though it would puzzle a casuist to assign to their motives
their just proportions of vanity and benevolence. He had
recently, by the death of his parents, come into the possession
of a handsome estate; and he was accounted the first match
in the county of —.

Mrs. Wilson could not be insensible to the advantages
that she believed might be grasped by Elvira, and she determined
to relax the strict rule of her house, and to join her
assiduities to her daughter's arts, in order to secure the prize.
She was almost as much embarrassed in her manœuvres as
the famous transporter of the fox, the geese, and the corn.
If she opened her doors to young Erskine, to display her
daughter, Jane must be seen too; and though she was sufficiently
ingenious in contriving ways and means of employing
Jane, and securing a clear field for Elvira, Erskine, with the
impatience and perversity of a spoiled child, set a double
value on the pleasure that was denied him.

The affairs of Mrs. Wilson's household were in this train,
when the following conversation occurred between the cousins:—

“If there is a party made to-morrow, to escort the bride,
do you expect to join it, Jane?” said Elvira to her cousin,
with an expression of anxiety that was quite as intelligible as
her question.

“I should like to do so,” replied Jane.

“Ah, that of course,” answered Elvira; “but I did not
ask what you would like, but what you expect.”

“You know, Elvira, I am not sure of obtaining your
mother's permission.”

“For once in your life, Jane, do be content to speak less
like an oracle, and tell me in plain English, whether you expect
to go, if you can obtain mother's permission.”

“In plain English, then, Elvira, yes,” replied Jane, smiling.

“You seem very sure of an invitation,” answered Elvira,
pettishly. Jane's deep blush revealed the truth to her suspicious
cousin, which she did not wish to confess or evade;
and Elvira continued, “I was sure I overheard Edward say
something to you about the ride last night, when you parted
on the steps.” She paused, and then added, her eyes flashing
fire, “Jane, Edward Erskine preferred me once, and in spite
of your arts, he shall prefer me again. Remember, miss, the
fate of lady Euphrasia.”

Jane replied, good naturedly, “I do remember her; but
if her proud and artful character suits me, the poverty and
helplessness of my condition bears a striking resemblance to
the forlorn Amanda's. I trust, however, that my fate will resemble
neither of your heroines, for you cannot expect me,
on account of the honour of being your rival, to be dashed
from a precipice, to point the moral of your story; and I am
very certain of not marrying a lord.”

“Yes, for there is no lord in this vulgar country to
marry; but, with all your affectation of modesty, you aspire
to the highest station within your reach.”

Jane made no reply, and Elvira poured out her spleen in
invectives, which neither abated her own ill humour, nor disturbed
her cousin's equanimity. She was determined to

compass her purposes, and in order to do so, she imparted her
conjectures to her mother, who had become as faithful, as she
was a powerful auxiliary.

In the evening they were all assembled in the parlour.
Edward Erskine entered, and his entrance produced a visible
sensation in every member of the little circle. Mrs. Wilson
dropped half a needleful of stitches on her knitting work,
and gave it to Jane to take them up. Jane seemed to find
the task very difficult; for a little girl, who sat by the working
stand, observed, “Miss Jane, I could take up the stitches
better than you do; you miss them half.”

“Give me my spectacles—I'll do it myself,” said Mrs.
Wilson. “Some people are very easily discomposed.”

It was a warm evening in the latter part of September;
the window was open; Jane retreated to it, and busied herself
in pulling the leaves off a rose-bush. Erskine brought
matters to a crisis by saying, “I called, Mrs. Wilson, to ask
of you the favour of Miss Elton's company to-morrow on the
bridal escort.”

“I am sorry,” replied Mrs. Wilson, “that any young
woman's manners, who is brought up in my house, should authorize
a gentleman to believe she will, of course, ride with
him if asked.”

“I beg your pardon, madam,” replied Edward (for he, at
least, had no fear of the redoubtable Mrs. Wilson), “I have
been so happy as to obtain Miss Elton's consent, subject to
yours.”

“Is it possible!” answered Mrs. Wilson, sneeringly—
“quite an unlooked-for deference from Miss Elton; not unnecessary,
however, for she probably recollected, that to-morrow
is lecture day; and, indifferent as she is to the privilege

of going to meeting, she knows that no pleasures ever prevent
my going.”

“No, madam,” replied Erskine, “the pleasures of others
weigh very light against your duties.”

Before Mrs. Wilson had made up her mind whether or
not to resent the sarcasm, Erskine rose, and joining Jane at
the window, whispered to her, “Rouse your spirit, for heaven's
sake; do not submit to such mean tyranny.”

Jane had recovered her self-possession, and she replied,
smiling, “It is my duty to subdue, not rouse my spirit.”

“Duty!” exclaimed Erskine; “leave all that ridiculous
cant for your aunt: I abhor it. I have your promise, and
your promise to me is surely as binding as your duty to your
aunt.”

“That promise was conditional,” replied Jane, “and it is
no longer in my power to perform it.”

“Nor in your inclination, Miss Elton?”

Jane was not well pleased that Erskine should persevere,
at the risk of involving her with her aunt; and to avoid his
importunity, and her aunt's displeasure, she left the room.
“The girl wants spirit,” said Erskine, mentally; “she is
tame, very tame. It is quite absurd for a girl of seventeen
to talk about duties.”

He was about to take leave, when Mrs. Wilson, who knew
none of the skilful tactics of accomplished manœuverers,
though her clumsy assaults were often as irresistible, said,
“Don't be in such haste, Mr. Erskine. Elvira may go with
you.”

Edward's first impulse was to decline the offer; but he
paused. Elvira was sitting by her mother, and she turned
upon him a look of appeal and admiration; his vanity, which
had been piqued by Jane, was soothed by this tribute, and

he said, “If Miss Wilson is inclined to the party, I will call
for her to-morrow.”

Miss Wilson confessed her inclination with a glow of
pleasure that consoled him for his disappointment.

Elvira made the most of the advantage she had gained.
Mrs. Wilson had of late, though the effort cost her many a
groan, indulged Elvira's passion for dress, in the hope that
the glittering of the bait would attract the prey. In this
calculation she was not mistaken; for, though Erskine affected
a contempt for the distinctions of dress, he had been too
much flattered for his personal charms, to permit him to be
insensible to them; and when he handed Elvira into his gig,
he noticed, with pleasure, that she was the best dressed and
most stylish looking girl in the party. His vanity was still
further gratified, when he overheard his servant say to one of
his fellows, “By George, they are a most noble looking pair!”
Such is the cormorant appetite of vanity, never satisfied with
the quantity, and never nice as to the quality of the food it
devours.

Elvira had penetration enough to detect the weakest points
in the fortress she had to assail; and so skilfully and successfully
did she ply her arts on this triumphant day, that Erskine
scarcely thought of Jane, and we fear not once with
regret.

Poor Jane remained at home, mortified that Edward went
without her, and vexed with herself that she was mortified.
To avoid seeing the party on their return, she went out to
walk, and was deliberating whither to direct her steps, when
she met her friend Mr. Lloyd. “Ah, Jane,” said he, “I just
came on an errand from my saucy little girl; she has succeeded
for the first time to-day in hitching words together, so
as to make quite an intelligible sentence; and she is so much

elated, that she has bid me tell thee she cannot go to sleep
till `dear Jane' has heard her read.”

Jane replied, she “should be glad to hear her;” but with
none of the animation with which she usually entered into
the pleasures of her little friend. Mr. Lloyd was disappointed;
but he thought she had been suffering some domestic
vexation, and they walked on silently.

After a few moments he said, “Quaker as I am, I do not
like a silent meeting;—though I should be used to it, for,
except that I must answer the questions of my Rebecca, and
am expected by thy friend Mary to reply to her praises of
thee, I have not much more occasion for the gift of speech
than the brothers of La Trappe.”

“You forget,” replied Jane, who felt her silence gently
reproached, “that besides all the use you have for that precious
faculty, in persuading the stupid and the obstinate to
adopt your benevolent plans of reform, you sometimes condescend
to employ it in behalf of a very humble young
friend.”

“But that young friend must lay aside her humility so
far as to flatter me with the appearance of listening.”

Jane was a little disconcerted, and Mr. Lloyd did not
seem quite free from embarrassment; but as he had roused
her from her abstractedness, he began to expatiate on the
approach of evening, the charms of that hour when the din of
toil has ceased, and no sound is heard but the sweet sounds
of twilight breathing the music of nature's evening hymn;
he turned his eye to the heavens, which, in their “far blue
arch,” disclosed star after star, and then the constellations in
their brightness. He spoke of the power that formed, and
the wisdom that directed them. Jane was affected by his
devotion; it was a Promethean touch, that infused a soul

into all nature. She listened with delight, and before they
reached the house, her tranquillity was quite restored; and
the child and father were both entirely satisfied with the
pleasure she manifested in the improvement of her little favourite.
But her trials were not over: after the lesson was
past—“Dear Jane,” said Rebecca, “why did not thee go with
the party to-day? I saw them all go past here, and Mr.
Erskine and Elvira were laughing, and I looked out sharp
for thee; would not any body take thee, Jane?”

Jane did what of all other things she would least have
wished to have done—she burst into tears.

The sweet child, whose directness had taken her by surprise,
crept up into her lap, and putting her arms around her
neck, said affectionately, “I am sorry for thee, dear Jane;
don't cry, father would have asked thee, if he had gone.”
Poor Jane hid her blushes and her tears on the bosom of her
kind, but unskilful comforter. She felt the necessity of saying
something; but confessions she could not make, and pretences
she never made.

Mr. Lloyd saw and pitied her confusion: he rose, and
tenderly placing his hand on her head, he said, “My dear
young friend, thou hast wisely and safely guided thy little
bark thus far down the stream of life; be still vigilant and
prudent, and thou wilt glide unharmed through the dangers
that alarm thee.” He then relieved Jane from his presence,
saying, “I am going to my library, and will send Mary to
escort thee home.”

Jane could not have borne a plainer statement of her
case; and though it was very clear that Mr. Lloyd had detected
the lurking weakness of her heart, yet she was soothed
by his figurative mode of insinuating his knowledge and his
counsel. Persons of genuine sensibility possess a certain

tact, that enables them to touch delicate subjects without
giving pain. This touch differs as much from a rude and
unfeeling grasp as does the management of a fine instrument
in the hands of a skilful surgeon, from the mangling and
hacking of a vulgar operator.

Mr. Lloyd had heard the village gossip of Edward Erskine's
divided attentions to the cousins. Nothing that concerned
Jane was uninteresting to him; and he had watched
with eager anxiety the character and conduct of Erskine.
He had never liked the young man; but he thought that he
had probably done him injustice, and he had too fair a mind
to harbour a prejudice. “Perhaps,” he said to himself, “I
have judged him hardly; I am apt to carry my strait-coat
habits into every thing; the young man's extravagant way of
talking, his sacrifices to popularity, and his indolence and
love of pleasure, may all have been exaggerated in my eyes
by their opposition to the strict, sober ways in which I have
been bred; at any rate, I will look upon the bright side.
Jane Elton, pure, excellent as she is, cannot love such a man
as Edward Erskine appears to me to be; and she is too
noble, I am sure, to regard the advantages which excite the
cupidity of her vulgar aunt.”

The result of Mr. Lloyd's investigations was not favourable
to Erskine. Still his faults were so specious, that they
were often mistaken for virtues; and virtues he had, though
none unsullied. There was nothing in his character or history,
as far as Mr. Lloyd could ascertain it, that would give
him a right to interfere with his advice to Jane; but still
he felt as if she was on the brink of a precipice, and he had
no right to warn her of her danger. Perhaps this was a
false delicacy, considering the amount of the risk; but there
are few persons of principle and refinement who do not shrink

from meddling with affairs of the heart. Mr. Lloyd hoped—
believed that Jane would not marry Edward Erskine; but
he did not allow enough for the inexperience of youth, for
the liability of a young lady of seventeen to fall in love; for
the faith that hopes all things, and believes all things—it
wishes to believe.

The fall, the winter, and the spring wore away, and, as
yet, no certain indication appeared of the issue of this, to our
villagers, momentous affair. Edward certainly preferred
Jane, and yet he was more at his ease with Elvira. He could
not but perceive the decided superiority of Jane; but Elvira
made him always think more and better of himself; and this
most agreeable effect of her flatteries and servility reflected
a charm on her. Jane was never less satisfied with herself
than during this harassing period of her life. A new set of
feelings were springing up in her heart, over which she felt
that she had little control. At times, her confidence in Edward
was strong; and then, suddenly, a hasty expression, or
an unpremeditated action, revealed a trait that deformed the
fair proportions of the hero of her imagination. Elvira's continual
projects, and busy rivalry, provoked, at last, a spirit of
competition; which was certainly natural, though wrong; but,
alas! our heroine had infirmities. Who is without them?

In the beginning of the month of June, David Wilson
came from college, involved in debt and in disgrace. His
youthful follies had ripened into vices, and his mother had
no patience, no forbearance for the faults, which she might
have traced to her own mismanagement, but from which she
found a source that relieved her from responsibility. The
following was the close of an altercation, noisy and bitter, between
this mother and son:—“I am ruined, utterly ruined, if
you refuse me the money. Elvira told me you received a

large sum yesterday; and 'tis but one hundred dollars that
I ask for.”

“And I wonder you can have the heart to ask,” replied
Mrs. Wilson, sobbing with passion, not grief; “you have no
feeling; you never had any for my afflictions. It is but two
months, yesterday, since Martha died, and I have no reason
to hope for her she died without repentance.”

“Ha!” replied David, “Elvira told me, that she confessed,
to her husband, her abuse of his children, her love of the
bottle, (which, by the by, every body knew before,) and a
parcel of stuff that, for our sakes, I think she might have kept
to herself.”

“Yes, yes, she did die in a terrible uproar of mind about
some things of that kind; but she had no feeling of her lost
state by nature.”

“Oh, the devil!” grumbled the hopeful son and brother;
“if I had nothing to worry my conscience but my state by
nature, I might get one good night's sleep, instead of lying
from night till morning like a toad under a harrow.”

This comment was either unheard or unheeded by the
mother, and she went on: “David, your extravagance is more
than I can bear. I have been wonderfully supported under
my other trials. If my children, though they are my flesh
and blood, are not elected, the Lord is justified in their destruction,
and I am still. I have done my duty, and I know
not `why tarry His chariot wheels.”'

“It is an easy thing, ma'am,” said David, interrupting
his mother, “to be reconciled to everlasting destruction; but
if your mind is not equally resigned to the temporal ruin of
a child, you must lend me the money.”

“Lend it! You have already spent more than your portion

in riotous living, and I cannot, in conscience, give you
any thing.”

Mrs. Wilson thus put a sudden conclusion to the conversation,
and retreated from the field, like a skilful general,
having exhausted all her ammunition.

As she closed the door, David muttered, “curses on her
conscience; it will never let her do what she is not inclined
to, and always finds a reason to back her inclinations. The
money I must have; if fair means will not obtain it, foul
must.”