# A New England Tale/Chapter XVI

CHAPTER XVI.
God, the best maker of all marriages,
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 ​affection. Jane, released from the thraldom in 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 ​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. 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, ​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, 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 ​seemed to feel just as I do when I hear the sound 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 ​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 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: ​his understanding was too much elevated, and his 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 ​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
"Minds are for sects of various kinds decreed, 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 ​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 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 ​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 seamed 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 hear them, Mary?"—and she sung so low that her voice sounded like distant music:
"Sister spirit, come away!"
"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 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 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!