University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

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 schoolmistress 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 an 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 affection. Jane, released from
the thraldom in which she had been bound to Erskine, was as
happy as a liberated 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 reins to his more fervid 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 lovely face
which the artist had truly delineated. “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 a
Quaker cap?” Mr Lloyd kissed his little girl, 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.

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 ready assent was
no sooner granted, than she screamed and beckoned to Mary,
who immediately obeyed the 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, Jane Elton is coming to live
with us all the days 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.

“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 seemed to feel just as I do when
I hear the sound of James's 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 were 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; and 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 leaving Mr. Lloyd till you
are married, be it 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 account (as who does not?) an attachment and
veneration. He rarely, if ever, entered into discussion 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 litigious 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: his understanding was too much
elevated, and his affections were too diffused 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 of the purity and
simplicity of her character, the 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

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 book, `light
is sown for the righteous, and joy for 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 sedative influence
of gentle manners, and regular 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 moonlight, 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 an alarming fluttering
in her pulse. “You are not 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 are out by the light of the
blessed moon. Hark! do you not hear them, Mary?”—and
she sung so low that her voice sounded like distant music:

“And do you not see their white robes?” she added, 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 rise 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
her eye; she knelt for a moment beside it, 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!