# A New England Tale/Chapter XI

CHAPTER XI.
There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats;
For I am armed so strong in honesty,
That they pass by me as the idle wind,
Which I respect not.
Julius Cæsar.
Jane, exhausted by the agitations of the night, contrary to her usual custom, remained in bed much longer than the other members of the family, and did not awake from deep and unquiet slumbers, till the bell called the household to prayers.
Mrs. Wilson was scrupulous in exacting the attendance of every member of her family at her morning and evening devotions. With this requisition Jane punctually and cheerfully complied, as she did with all those that did not require a violation of principle. But still she had often occasion secretly to lament, that where there was so much of the form of worship, there was so little of its spirit and truth; and she sometimes felt an involuntary self reproach, that her body should be in the attitude of devotion, while her mind was following her aunt through earth, sea, and skies, ​or pausing to wonder at the remarkable inadaptation of her prayers to the condition and wants of humanity, in general, and especially to their particular modification in her own family.
Mrs. Wilson was fond of the bold and highly figurative language of the prophets; and often identified herself with the Psalmist, in his exultation over his enemies, in his denunciations, and in his appeals for vengeance.
We leave to theologians to decide, whether these expressions from the king of Israel are meant for the enemies of the church, or whether they are to be imputed to the dim light which the best enjoyed under the Jewish dispensation. At any rate, such as come to us in 'so questionable a shape,' ought not to be employed as the medium of a Christian's prayer.
When Jane entered the room, she found her aunt had begun her devotions, which were evidently more confused than usual; and when she said (her voice wrought up to its highest pitch) "Lo! thine enemies, O Lord! lo, thine enemies shall perish; all the workers of iniquity shall be scattered; but my horn shalt thou exalt like the horn of a unicorn: I shall be anointed with fresh oil: mine eye also shall see my desire on my enemies, and my ears shall hear my desire of the wicked that rise up against me;" Jane perceived, from her unusual emotion, that she must allude to something that touched her own affairs, and she conjectured that she had already discovered the robbery. Her conjectures were ​strengthened when she observed, that, during the breakfast, her aunt seemed very much agitated; but she was at a loss to account for the look she darted on her, when one of the children said, "How your hair looks, Jane; this is the first time I ever saw you come to breakfast without combing it."
Jane replied, that she had over-slept.
"You look more," said Elvira, "as if you had been watching all night, and crying too, I should imagine, from the redness of your eyes—and now I think of it," she added, regardless of Jane's embarrassment, "I am sure I heard your door shut in the night, and you walking about your room."
Jane was more confused by the expression of her aunt's face, than by her cousin's observations. What, thought she, can I have done to provoke her? I certainly have done nothing; but there is never a storm in the family, without my biding some of its pitiless pelting.
After breakfast, the family dispersed, as usual, excepting Mrs. Wilson, David, and Jane, who remained to assist her aunt in removing the breakfast apparatus. Mrs. Wilson, neither wishing nor able any longer to restrain her wrath, went up to her desk, and taking hold of a pocket handkerchief which appeared to lie on the top of it, but which, as she stretched it out, showed one end caught and fastened in the desk—"Do you know this handkerchief, Jane Elton?" she said in a voice choking with passion.
​"Yes, ma'am," replied Jane, turning pale—"it is mine." She ventured, as she spoke, to look at David. His eyes were fixed on a newspaper he seemed to be reading; not a muscle of his face moved, nor was there the slightest trace of emotion.
"Yours," said Mrs. Wilson; "that you could not deny, for your name is at full length on it; and when did you have it last?"
"Last night, ma'am."
"And who has robbed me of five hundred dollars? Can you answer to that?"
Jane made no reply. She saw, that her aunt's suspicions rested on her, and she perceived, at once, the cruel dilemma in which she had involved herself by her promise to David.
"Answer me that," repeated Mrs. Wilson, violently.
"That I cannot answer you, ma'am."
"And you mean to deny that you have taken it yourself?"
"Certainly I do, ma'am," replied Jane, firmly, for she had now recovered her self-possession. "I am perfectly innocent; and I am sure that, whatever appearances there may be against me, you cannot believe me guilty—you do not."
"And do you think to face me down in this way. I have evidence enough to satisfy any court of justice. Was not you heard up in the night—your guilty face told the story, at breakfast, plainer than words could tell it. David," she continued to her son, who had thrown down the paper ​and walked to the window, where he stood with his back to his mother, affecting to whistle to a dog without; "David, I call you to witness this handkerchief, and what has now been said; and remember, she does not deny that she left it here."
One honest feeling had a momentary ascendancy in David's bosom; and he had risen from his seat with the determination to disclose the truth, but he was checked by the recollection that he should have to restore the money, which he had not yet disposed of. He thought, too, that his mother knew, in her heart, who had taken the money; that she would not dare to disclose her loss, and if she did, it would be time enough for him to interpose when Jane should be in danger of suffering otherwise than in the opinion of his mother, whose opinion, he thought, not worth caring for. Therefore, when called upon by his mother, he made no reply, but turning round and facing the accuser and the accused, he looked as composed as any uninterested spectator.
Mrs. Wilson proceeded, "Restore me my money, or abide the consequences."
"The consequences I must abide, and I do not fear them, nor shrink from them, for I am innocent, and God will protect me."
At this moment they were interrupted by the entrance of Edward Erskine; and our poor heroine, though the instant before she had felt assured and tranquil in her panoply divine, burst into tears, and left the room. She could not endure the thought of degradation in Erskine's ​esteem; and she was very sure that her aunt would not lose such an opportunity of robbing her of his good opinion. She did not mistake. Mrs. Wilson closed the door after Jane; and seating herself, all unused as she was to the melting mood, gave way to a passion of tears and sobs, which were, as we think, a sincere tribute to the loss she had experienced.
"For heaven's sake, tell me what is the matter!" and Erskine to young Wilson; for his impatience for an explanation became irrepressible, not on account of the old woman's emotion, for she might have wept till she was like Niobe, all tears, without provoking an inquiry, but Jane's distress had excited his anxiety.
"The Lord knows," replied David; "there is always a storm in this house;" and he flung out of the room without vouchsafing a more explicit answer.
Erskine turned to Mrs. Wilson: "Can you tell me, madam, what has disturbed Miss Elton?"
Mrs. Wilson was provoked that he did not ask what had disturbed her, and she determined he should not remain another moment without the communication, which she had been turning over in her mind to get it in the most efficient form.
"Oh! Mr. Erskine," she said, with a whine that has been used by all hypocrites from Oliver Cromwell's time down; "oh! my trial is more than I can endure. I could bear, they should devour me and lay waste my dwelling place; I could be supported under that; but it is a grief too heavy for ​me, to reveal to you the sin, and the disgrace, and the abomination, of one that I have brought up as my own—who has fed upon my children's bread."
"Madam," interrupted Erskine, "you may spare yourself and me any more words. I ask for the cause of all this uproar."
Mrs. Wilson would have replied angrily to what she thought Erskine's impertinence, but, remembering that it was her business to conciliate not offend him, she, after again almost exhausting his patience by protestations of the hardship of being obliged to uncover the crimes of her relation, of the affliction she suffered in doing her duty, &c. &c. told him, with every aggravation that emphasis and insinuation could lend to them, the particulars of her discovery.
With unusual self-command he heard her through; and though he was unable to account for the suspicious circumstances, he spurned instinctively the conclusion Mrs. Wilson drew from them.
Her astonishment, that he neither expressed horror, nor indignation, nor resentment towards the offender, was not at all abated when he only replied by a request to speak alone with Miss Elton.
Mrs. Wilson thought he might intend the gathering storm should burst on Jane's head; or, perhaps, he would advise her to fly; at any rate, it was not her cue, to lay a straw in his way at present. She even went herself and gave the request to Jane, adding to it a remark, that as she ​"was not very fond of keeping out of Erskine's way, she could hardly refuse to come when asked."
"I have no wish to refuse;" replied Jane, who, ashamed of having betrayed so much emotion, had quite recovered her self-possession, and stood calm in conscious integrity.—"But hear me, ma'am," said she to her aunt, who had turned and was leaving the room—"all connexion between us is dissolved for ever; I shall not remain another night beneath a roof where I have received little kindness, and where I now suffer the imputation of a crime, of which I cannot think you believe me guilty."
Mrs. Wilson was for a moment daunted by the power of unquestionable innocence.—"I know not where I shall go, I know not whether your persecutions will follow me; but I am not friendless—nor fearful."
She passed by her aunt, and descended to the parlour. 'No thought infirm altered her cheek;' her countenance was very serious, but the peace of virtue was there. Her voice did not falter in the least, when she said to Edward, as he closed the door on her entrance into the parlour—"Mr. Erskine, you have no doubt requested to see me in the expectation that I would contradict the statement my aunt must have made to you. I cannot, for it is all true."
Edward interrupted her—"I do not wish it, Jane; I believe you are perfectly innocent of that and of every other crime; I do not wish you ​even to deny it. It is all a devilish contrivance of that wicked woman."
"You are mistaken, Edward; it is not a contrivance; the circumstances are as she has told them to you.—Elvira did not mistake in supposing she heard me up in the night; and my aunt did find my handkerchief in her desk. No, Edward; she is right in all but the conclusion she draws from these unfortunate circumstances; perhaps," she added after a moment's pause, "a kinder judgment would not absolve me."
"A saint," replied Edward cheeringly, "needs no absolution. No one shall be permitted to accuse you, or suspect you; you can surely explain these accidental circumstances, so that even your aunt, malicious—venemous as she is, will not dare to breathe a poisonous insinuation against you, angel as you are."
"Ah," replied Jane, with a sad smile, "there are, and there ought to be, few believers in earth-born angels. No, Mr. Erskine, I have no explanation to make; I have nothing but assertions of my innocence, and my general character to rely upon. Those who reject this evidence must believe me guilty."
She rose to leave the room. Erskine gently drew her back, and asked if it was possible she included him among those who could be base enough to distrust her; and before she could reply he went on to a passionate declaration of his affections, followed by such promises of eternal ​truth, love, and fidelity, as are usual on such occasions.
At another time, Jane would have paused to examine her heart, before she accepted the professions made by her lover, and she would have found no tenderness there that might not be controlled and subdued by reason. But now, driven out from her natural protectors by suspicion and malignant accusation, and touched by the confiding affection that refused to suspect her; the generosity, the magnanimity that were presented in such striking contrast to the baseness of her relations—she received Edward's declarations with the most tender and ingenuous expressions of gratitude; and Erskine did not doubt, nor did Jane at that moment, that this gratitude was firmly rooted in love.
Edward, ardent and impetuous, proposed an immediate marriage: he argued, that it was the only, and would be an effectual, way of protecting her from the persecutions of her aunt.
Jane replied, that she had very little reason to fear that her aunt would communicate to any other person her suspicions. "She had a motive towards you," she added, "that overcame her prudence. I have found a refuge in your heart, and she cannot injure me while I have that asylum. I have too much pride, Edward, to involve you in the reproach I may have to sustain. I had formed a plan this morning, before your generosity translated me from despondency to hope, which I must adhere to, for a few months at ​least. An application has been made to me to teach some little girls who are not old enough for Mr. Evertson's school: my aunt, as usual, put in her veto; I had almost made up my mind to accept the proposal in spite of it, when the events of the morning came to my aid, and decided me at once, and I have already announced to my aunt my determination to leave her house. I trust that in a few months something will occur, to put me beyond the reach of suspicion, and reward as well as justify your generous confidence."
Edward entreated—protested—argued—but all in vain; he was obliged at length to resign his will to Jane's decision. Edward's next proposal was to announce the engagement immediately. On this he insisted so earnestly, and offered for it so many good reasons, that Jane consented. Mrs. Wilson was summoned to the parlour, and informed of the issue of the conference, of which she had expected so different a termination. She was surprised—mortified—and most of all, wrathful—that her impotent victim, as she deemed Jane, should be rescued from her grasp. She began the most violent threats and reproaches; Edward interrupted her by telling her that she dare not repeat the first, and from the last her niece would soon be for ever removed; as he should require they should in future be perfect strangers. Mrs. Wilson felt like a wild animal just encaged; she might lash herself to fury, but no one heeded her.
Edward left the room, saying, that he should send his servant to convey Jane's baggage ​where-ever she would order it to be sent. Jane went quietly to her own apartment, to make the necessary arrangements; there she soon overheard the low growlings of Mrs. Wilson's angriest voice, communicating, as she inferred from the loud responsive exclamations and whimpering, her engagement to Elvira. Mrs. Wilson's perturbed spirit was not quieted even by this outpouring; and after walking up and down, scolding at the servants and the children, she put on her hat and shawl, and sallied out to a shop, to pay a small debt she owed there. No passion could exclude from her mind for any length of time the memory of so disagreeable a circumstance as the necessity of paying out money. After she had discharged the debt, and the master of the shop had given her the change, he noticed her examining one of the bills he had handed her with a look of scrutiny and some agitation. He said, "I believe that is a good bill, Mrs. Wilson; I was a little suspicious of it too at first; I took it, this morning, from your son David, in payment of a debt that has been standing more than a year. I thought myself so lucky to get any thing, that I was not very particular."
Mrs. Wilson's particularity seemed to have a sudden quietus, for she pushed the bill into the full purse after the others, muttering something about the folly of trusting boys being rightly punished by the loss of the debt.
The fact was, that Mrs. Wilson recognised this bill the moment she saw it, as one of the parcel she ​had received the day before, and which she had marked, at the time, for she was eagle-eyed in the detection of a spurious bill. These is nothing more subtle, more inveterate than a habit of self-deception. It was not to the world alone that Mrs. Wilson played the hypocrite, but before the tribunal of her own conscience she appeared with hollow arguments and false pretences. From the moment she had discovered her loss in the morning, she had, at bottom, believed David guilty; she recollected the threats of the preceding day, and her first impulse was to charge him with the theft, and to demand the money; but then, she thought, he was violent and determined, and that, without exposing him, (even Mrs. Wilson shrank from the consequences of exposure to her son) she could not regain her money. She was at a loss how to account for the appearance of Jane's handkerchief; but neither that, nor Jane's subsequent emotion at the breakfast table, nor her refusal to make any explanation of the suspicious circumstances, enabled Mrs. Wilson to believe that Jane had borne any part in the dishonesty of the transaction. Such was the involuntary tribute she paid to the tried, steadfast virtue of this excellent being. Still she could not restrain the whirlwind of her passion; and it burst, as we have seen, upon Jane. She was at a loss to account for Jane's refusal to vindicate herself. It was impossible for her to conceive of the reasons that controlled Jane, which would have been no more to Mrs. Wilson, than were to Sampson the new ropes he snapped ​asunder at the call of Delilah. She felt so fearful, at first, that any investigation would lead to the discovery of the real criminal, that she had not communicated the fact of the handkerchief to any one, even to Elvira, whose discretion, indeed, she never trusted; but, after she found that Jane was in a dilemma, from which she would not extricate herself by any explanations, she thought herself the mistress of her niece's fate; and the moment she saw Erskine, she determined to extract good out of the evil that had come upon her, to dim the lustre of Jane's good name, that 'more immediate jewel of her soul,' and thus to secure for her daughter the contested prize. But Mrs. Wilson, it seems, was destined to experience, on this eventful day, how very hard is the way of the transgressor. Her niece's fortunes were suddenly placed beyond her control or reach; and nothing remained of all her tyranny and plots, but the pitiful and malignant pleasure of believing, that Jane thought herself in some measure in her power, though she knew that she was not.
After the confirmation of her conjecture at the shop, she saw that secrecy was absolutely necessary; and she was too discreet to indulge herself with telling Elvira of any of the particulars, about which she had been so vociferous to the young lovers.
Perhaps few ladies, old or young, were ever less encumbered with baggage than Jane Elton, and yet, so confused was she with the events of the night and morning, that the labour of packing ​up, which at another time she would have despatched in twenty minutes, seemed to have no more tendency to a termination than such labours usually have in dreams. In the midst of her perplexities one of the children entered and said Mr. Lloyd wished to speak to her. She was on the point of sending him an excuse, for she felt an involuntary disinclination to meet his penetrating eye at this moment, when recollecting how much she owed to his constant, tender friendship, she subdued her reluctance, and obeyed his summons. When she entered the room, "I am come," said he, "Jane, to ask thee to walk with me. I am an idler and have nothing to do, and thou art so industrious thou hast time to do every thing. Come, get thy hat. It is 'treason against nature' sullenly to refuse to enjoy so beautiful a day as this." Jane made no reply. He saw she was agitated, and leading her gently to a chair, said, "I fear thou art not well, or, what is much worse, not happy."
Jane would have replied, "I am not;" but she checked the words, for she felt as if the sentiment they expressed, was a breach of fidelity to Erskine; and instead of them she said, hesitatingly, "I ought not to be perfectly happy till my best (I should say one of my best) friends knows and approves what I have done this morning."
"What hast thou done, Jane?" exclaimed Mr. Lloyd, anticipating from her extraordinary embarrassment and awkwardness the communication she ​was about to make; "hast thou engaged thyself to Erskine?"
She faltered out, "Yes."
Mr. Lloyd made no reply; he rose and walked up and down the room, agitated, and apparently distressed. Jane was alarmed; she could not account for his emotion; she feared he had some ground for an ill opinion of Edward, that she was ignorant of. "You do not like Edward?" said she; "you think I have done wrong?"
The power of man is not limited in the moral as in the natural world. Habitual discipline had given Mr. Lloyd such dominion over his feelings, that he was able now to say to their stormy wave, 'thus far shalt thou come, and no farther.' By a strong and sudden effort he recovered himself, and turning to Jane, he took her hand with a benignant expression—"My dear Jane, thy own heart must answer that question. Dost thou remember a favourite stanza of thine?
"Nae treasures nor pleasures Could make us happy lang; The heart aye's the part aye That makes us right or wrang."
Jane imagined that Mr. Lloyd felt a distrust of her motives. "Ah!" she replied, "the integrity of my heart will fail to make me happy, if I have fallen under your suspicion. If you knew the nobleness, the disinterestedness of Erskine's conduct, you would be more just to him, and to me."
​"It is not being very unjust to him, or to any one, to think him unworthy of thee, Jane. But since these particulars would raise him so much in my opinion, why not tell them to me? May not 'one of your best friends' claim to know, that which affects, so deeply, your happiness?"
Jane began a reply, but hesitated, and faltered out something of its being impossible for her to display to Mr. Lloyd, Erskine's generosity in the light she saw it.
"Dost thou mean, Jane, that the light of truth is less favourable to him than the light of imagination?"
"No," answered Jane, "such virtues as Edward's shine with a light of their own; imagination cannot enhance their value."
"Still," said Mr. Lloyd, "they shine but on one happy individual. Well, my dear Jane," he continued, after a few moments pause, "I will believe without seeing. I will believe thou hast good reasons for thy faith, though they are incommunicable. If Erskine make thee happy, I shall be resigned."
Happily for both parties, this very unsatisfactory conference was broken off by the entrance of Erskine's servant, who came, as he said, for Miss Elton's baggage. Jane explained, as concisely as possible, to Mr. Lloyd, her plans for the present, and then took advantage of this opportunity to retreat to her own apartment, where she had no sooner entered than she gave way to a flood of tears, more bitter than any her aunt's ​injustice had cost her. She had, previous to her interview with Mr. Lloyd, determined not to disclose to him, or Mary Hull, the disagreeable affair of the robbery. She wished to spare them the pain, the knowledge of a perplexity from which they could not extricate her, must give to them. She was sure Mary, whose discernment was very quick, and who knew David well, would, at once, suspect him; and therefore, she thought, that in telling the story, she should violate the spirit of her promise; and, at bottom, she felt a lurking fearfulness that Mr. Lloyd might think there was more of gratitude than affection in her feelings to Erskine; she thought it possible, too, he might not estimate Edward's magnanimity quite as highly as she did; for "though," she said, "Mr. Lloyd has the fairest mind in the world, I think he has never liked Erskine. They are, certainly, very different"—and she sighed as she concluded her deliberations.
Mr. Lloyd, after remaining for a few moments in the posture Jane had left him, returned to his own home, abstracted and sad. 'The breath of Heaven smelt as wooingly,' and the sun shone as brightly as before, but there was now no feeling of joy within to vibrate to the beauty without; and he certainly could not be acquitted of the 'sullen neglect of nature,' that he had deemed treason an hour before.
"I knew," thought he, "she was fallible, and why should I be surprised at her failure? It cannot be Erskine, but the creature of her ​imagination, that she loves. She is too young to possess the Ithuriel touch that dissolves false appearances: she could not detect, under so specious a garb, the vanity and selfishness that counterfeit manly pride and benevolence. If he were but worthy of her, I should be perfectly happy."
Mr. Lloyd was mistaken; he would not, even in that case, have been perfectly happy. He did not, though he was very much of a self-examiner, clearly define all his feelings on this trying occasion. He had loved Jane first as a child, and then as a sister; and of late he had thought if he could love another woman, as a wife, it would be Jane Elton. But his lost Rebecca was more present to his imagination than any living being. He had formed no project for himself in relation to Jane; yet he would have felt disappointment at her appropriation to any other person, though, certainly, not the sorrow which her engagement to Erskine occasioned him. Mr. Lloyd was really a disinterested man. He had so long made it a rule to imitate the Parent of the universe, in still educing good from evil, that, in every trial of his life, it was his first aim to ascertain his duty, and then to perform it. He could weave the happiness of others, even though no thread of his own was in the fabric. In the present case, he resolved still to watch over Jane; to win the friendship of Erskine, to endeavour to rectify his principles, to exert over him an insensible influence, and, if possible, to render him more worthy of his enviable destiny.
​In the course of the day, Mary Hull heard the rumours that had already spread through the village, of Jane's removal to Mrs. Harvey's, and her engagement. She ran to the library door, and in the fulness of her heart, forgetful of the decorum of knocking, she entered and found Mr. Lloyd sitting with his little girl on his knee. "Mary, I am glad to see thee," said the child; "I cannot get a word from father; he is just as if he was asleep, only his eyes are wide open."
Mary, regardless of the child's prattle, announced the news she had just heard. Mr. Lloyd coldly replied, that he knew it already; and Mary left the room, a little hurt that he had not condescended to tell her, and wondering what made him so indifferent, and then wondering whether it was indifference; but as she could not relieve her mind, she resolved to go immediately to Jane, with whom the habits of their early lives, and her continued kindness, had given and established the right of free intercourse.
She found Jane alone, and not looking as happy as she expected. "You have come to give me joy, Mary," she said, smiling mournfully as she extended her hand to her friend.
"Yes," replied Mary, "I came with that intention, and you look as if joy was yet to be given. Well," she continued after a pause, "I always thought you and Mr. Lloyd were different from every body else in the world, but now you puzzle me more than ever. I expected to see your aunt Wilson look grum—that's natural to her, when ​any good befalls any one else; and Elvira, who every body knows has been setting her cap every way for Erskine, ever since she was old enough to think of a husband; she has a right to have her eyes as red as a ferret's. But there is Mr. Lloyd, looking as sorrowful as if he had seen some great trouble, and could not relieve it; and you, my dear child, I have seen you pass through many a dark passage of your life with a happier face than you wear now, when you are going to have the pride of the county for your husband, to be mistress of the beautiful house on the hill, and have every thing heart can desire."
Jane made no explanation, nor reply, and after a few moments consideration Mary proceeded—"To be sure, I could wish Erskine was more like Mr. Lloyd; but then he is six or eight years younger than Mr. Lloyd, and in that time, with your tutoring, you may make him a good deal like Mr. Lloyd (Mr. Lloyd was Mary's beau-ideal of a man); that is, if your endeavours are blessed. It is true, I always thought you would not marry any man that was not religious; not but what 'tis allowable, for even professors do it; but then, Jane, you are more particular and consistent than a great many professors; and, I know, you think there is nothing binds hearts together like religion—that bond endures where there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage."
Poor Jane had listened to Mary's pros and cons with considerable calmness; but now she laid her head in her friend's lap, and gave vent to the ​feelings, she had been all day arguing down, by a flood of tears. "Ah! my dear Jane, is it there the shoe pinches? I an't sorry to find you have thought of it though. If the 'candle of the Lord' is lighted up in the heart, we ought to look at every thing by that light. But now you have decided, turn to the bright side. I don't know much about Mr. Erskine; he is called a nice young man, and who knows what he may become, when he sees how good and how beautiful it is to have the whole heart and life ordered and governed by the christian rule. I often think to myself, Jane, that your life, and Mr. Lloyd's too, are better than preaching. Don't take on so, my child," she continued, soothingly; "you have Scripture for you; for the Bible says, "the believing wife may sanctify the unbelieving husband;' and that must mean that her counsel and example shall win him back to the right way, and persuade him to walk in the paths of holiness. Cheer up, my child, there is a good ministry before you; and I feel as if you had many happy days to come yet. Those that sow in tears, shall reap with joy. It is a load off my mind, at any rate, that you are away from your aunt's, and under good Mrs. Harvey's roof. I stopped at your aunt's on my way here, and she raised a hue and cry about your leaving her house so suddenly: she said, your grand fortune had turned your head; 'she was not disappointed, she had never expected any gratitude from you! but 'twas not for worldly hire she did her duty!' Poor, poor soul! I would not judge her uncharitably; ​but I do believe she has the 'hope that will perish.' I just took no notice of her, and came away. As I was passing through the kitchen, Sukey says to me, "Mrs. Wilson may look out for other help, for now Miss Jane, the only righteous one, is gone out from us, I sha'nt stay to hear nothing but disputings, and scoldings, and prayers." But, says I, Sukey, you don't object to the prayers? Yes, says she, I don't like lip-prayers—it is nothing but a mockery."
"Sukey has too much reason," replied Jane. "But now, Mary, you must not think from what you have seen that I am not happy, for I have reason to be grateful, and I ought to be very, very happy."
'Ought,' thought Mary, 'she may be contented, and resigned, and even cheerful, because she ought—but happiness is not duty-work.' However, she had discretion enough to suppress her homely metaphysics; and patting Jane's head affectionately, she replied, "Yes, my child, and if you wish it, I will set these tears down for tears of joy, not sorrow." Jane smiled at her friend's unwonted sophistry, and they parted: Mary, confirmed in a favourite notion, that every allotment of Providence is designed as a trial for the character; that all will finally work together for good; and that Jane was going on in the path to perfection, which, though no methodist, she was not (in her partial friend's opinion,) far from attaining. Jane was very much relieved by Mary's wise suggestions and sincere sympathy.
​A sagacious observer of human nature and fortunes has said, that "if there were more knowledge, there would be less envy." The history of our heroine is a striking exemplification of the truth of this remark: when all was darkness without, she had been looked upon by the compassionate as an object of pity, for they could not see the sunshine of the breast; and now that she was considered as the chief favourite of the fickle goddess, there was not one that would have envied her, if the internal conflict she suffered—if that most unpleasant of all feelings, disagreement with herself, had been as visible, as her external fortunes were.
Erskine was in too good humour with himself, and with Jane, to find fault with any thing: yet he certainly was a little disappointed, that in spite of his earnest persuasions to the contrary, she firmly persisted in the plan of the school; and we fear he was surprised, perhaps slightly mortified, that she showed no more joy at having secured a station, to which he knew so many had aspired.