Fromthe first day that Miss Vincent entered Mrs. Adair’s house as a pupil, she was anxious to return to Madame La Blond’s. Whilst the Colonel was at home, she knew it would be in vain to mention the subject; but no sooner was he called abroad, than she wrote in the most urgent terms to her mamma to remove her. “I shall never be happy here,” she added, in her letter, “for Mrs. Adair is so strict, and tiresome! You will be surprised, mamma, when Iassure you that she is quite a sanctified Methodist: we have prayers in a morning, and prayers in an evening, and are obliged to write sermons! She is not by any means a suitable person to finish my education; and there are not five young ladies in the school, whose parents drive four horses. At Blazon Lodge how different! They were all fashionable, excepting two. Do, my good mamma, let me return to my dear Madame La Blond. Miss Adair has actually put me into Murray’s small grammar, and I am only in the third class.”
In passing through the gallery, Mrs. Adair found the copy of the letter; and whilst she was reading it, Miss Vincent cautiously advanced, looking earnestlyupon the floor. On seeing the paper in Mrs. Adair’s hands, she hastily exclaimed,
“O, ma’am, that is mine! I have just dropped it: it is a copy of music, I believe!”
“Then I will look it over again,” said Mrs. Adair, as she entered the school-room with the paper in her hand.
Miss Vincent followed, with a countenance of scorn and vexation.
“Take your seat, Miss Vincent.” Here there was a long pause; the young ladies looked at each other, wondering what was to come next. Mrs. Adair read the copy again. “Why do you censure us so severely?” she asked.
“I only think, ma’am—I think—” andhere she hesitated; but at length her former assurance returned, and she said in a more audible voice, “I think, ma’am, we have too much religion introduced. In the circles where mamma presides, it is never mentioned.”
“From my own knowledge of your mamma, I do not think you are exactly correct. But let that pass: and now answer one question: no doubt you are anticipating the time when you will be released from all school duties: when you enter the gay world, how many years do you expect to partake of the joys of a fashionable life?”
Miss Vincent was silent.
“Bating all casualties,” continued Mrs. Adair, “forty years of gaiety isthe utmost that a female can expect; and in scenes of pleasure, days, months, and years glide swiftly away. The value of time is unknown: at least, it is not properly estimated, till grey hairs, wrinkled features, and a debilitated frame check the career; then eternity, with all its hopes and fears, opens to the view. We will for a moment consider you upon the bed of sickness, surrounded by your family; a physician, with an air of irresolution, writing a prescription, and your anxious countenance denoting the insufficiency of all earthly aid; will the remembrance of balls, routs, and artificial scenes, cheer the dying hour? The moment arrives when you close your eyes upon this world and its vanities;‘ashes to ashes, and dust to dust,’ finish the scene! The mouldering earth is lightly scattered over the coffin, and the tomb is deserted by survivors. But remember, a day will come when you will be called to judgment, to answer for your deeds upon earth. In what manner will days, months, and years of folly be justified, in the presence of your Creator and Judge?”
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A littletime after the discovery of the letter Miss Vincent returned home to her mamma, who had been some time seriously indisposed; and, to the great joy of Mrs. Adair, the following week Miss Russel left the school, to accompany her parents to the Continent.
“Now we shall go on pleasantly,” said Mrs. Adair to her daughters; “the only two disagreeable girls we had under our care are removed: and if ever I have another of a similar description,I will send her home immediately, whatever be the consequence.”
Mrs. Adair’s mind, at the time she said this, was a little irritated, for she had heard something particularly unpleasant respecting the conduct of her late pupils. She now resolved to be strict in future; never allow the young ladies to be alone, even in the play-ground, nor permit them to spend an hour from the school between the vacations, except by the express desire of parents in particularcases.
When the young ladies heard there would be no half-day holydays between the vacations, there was a general consternation amongst them. Some murmured, and others were satisfied thatMrs. Adair must have good reason for her proceeding. When Miss Bruce heard the new rule, she said to Isabella Vincent, “I never knew such a thing! Not visit this half year! And my Aunt promised to take me to the exhibition, and Miss Linwood’s works, and I don’t know where! I never knew any thing so provoking! But I will be revenged, that I will!”
“And what will you do?” asked Isabella; “what do you mean by revenge? I am sure it is something very wrong.”
“It is only making others feel as well as ourselves, that’s all.”
“But if they vex us, why should we vex them? I know I always feel sorry when I have made people angry.”
“Don’t talk to me—I will write such a theme!”
“Ah, Miss Bruce! mamma says we should never do wrong.”
“I wish you would not mention your mamma, for it is a very ugly word.”
“O, Miss Bruce, I never heard such a thing!”
“I once loved it dearly,” said Miss Bruce, in a softened tone. “Those were happy days! I can fancy I see somebody now, sitting up in bed, with her nice white cap, so pale, and so pretty; and somebody kneeling by her, and praying for her, and blessing her. But all would not do, to save one I loved!” Here tears trickled from her eyes: but she suddenly recollected herself; “Imust not think of it; it is over, and for ever gone! And now for my theme.”
“Poor Miss Bruce,” said Isabella, in a soothing tone, “I wish you were my sister, and then you would have my mamma, and she would love you so!”
“And do you think I would give up some one, for all the mammas in the world! No, no—there is no one like him. But I will mortify Mrs. Adair, that I will! To think that I must not go to my Aunt’s on Thursday! And there will be my cousins, and Edward Warner, and Margaret James, and some one who is worth them all; though I don’t talk of him as you talk of your Papa.”
After musing a few minutes, with herpencil in her hand, and her head resting upon a slate, she joyfully exclaimed, “I have it, I have it indeed!”
“And what have you got?” cried Isabella, as she sprang from her seat, and looked over Miss Bruce’s shoulder.
“Only my ideas; neither apples nor plums. But I wish you would not wipe my face with your curls. I have got the clue to my fable; I will have Mrs. Adair, and I think your papa too.”
“I am sure you never shall: you never saw papa!”
“Indeed Miss Isabella, you are quite mistaken; I have seen him in shop windows, in magazines, and I am certain he is in a fine gilt frame in our study.”
“I wish people would not take suchliberties. Papa has no business to be in windows, and other people’s frames.”
“Why, don’t you know that only great writers, and great fighters, and very good men, and very bad men, are noticed that way! If your papa was not good as well as great, he would not be fixed in our house, unless in the servant’s room, with Jemmy and Sandy, and the Storm, and Auld Robin Grey. Whatever you may think, it is a very great honour to be noticed by somebody that I could name.”
“I have not any thing to do with honour,” cried Isabella, “and talking of things I don’t know.”
“Hush! don’t speak! Can’t you see that I am busy. I wish I knew whatpeople do when they have great books to write. My thoughts jumble so together, I can’t tell what to make of them; it is sad teasing work.”
“If Caroline was here, she could tell you what to write.”
“And do you think that I should ask a dunce? If I could but begin, I know I could go on.” Here Miss Bruce considered a little.“Imust think of my thoughts: no, I must write them down.”
“O, Miss Bruce, Miss Bruce!” cried Isabella, eagerly, “do look through the window; there is a balloon flying, and a paper boy tied to it!”
“I wish you were flying too: don’t you see that I want to write my fable. Let me see: Ass, 1; Farmer Killwell, 2;somebody’s papa, but not mine. Turkey, 3; Barn-fowls, 4; Little schoolgirl, 5. O, how shall I put all these words together to make any thing of them! O, that I could but begin! There it is!” said Miss Bruce joyfully; and she wrote several words upon her slate. “Well, there is nothing like a good beginning! I will finish to-night; so now let us go to the ladies,” and Miss Bruce skipped out of the room, with her slate and Isabella.
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Withsome surprise, Miss Damer, in looking over the themes, read the following fable:
“One bleak, cold winter morning, an ass and her foals were loitering upon the edge of a wild common; not a tree was to be seen, and scarcely a bit of herbage for their breakfast to be found. ‘This is a comfortless life!’ said the ass; ‘the winds are chilly, the snow will soon fall, and we have not a shed to cover us! What shall we do? for I fearwe shall be lost.’ The ass turned her head, for she heard the tinkling of bells, and saw a shepherd driving sheep from the common. ‘Ah! a happy thought! we will go to Farmer Killwell, and tell our sorrows unto him.’ No sooner said than done; they plodded through miry lanes, waded through shallow brooks, and at length arrived at the farmer’s gate. The tale was soon told. The farmer pitied their piteous case; ‘but,’ said he, ‘idleness bringeth want. Exert yourselves, and you will find friends. Begin a school at once; here are my poultry, my birds, and my young cattle to teach: not a moment is to be lost.’—‘It is a good thing to have a good friend!’ said the ass, as she stalked intothe farm-yard. Here she brayed with a most audible voice: ‘Hearken to me, parents and little ones!’ she cried; ‘I am come hither to inspire you all with wisdom.’
“The goose, as wise as a goose can be, stared at the speaker; tossed her head on one side, gave a loud quack, and returned to comfort her goslings, who were fluttering in every direction.
“‘You little ducklings,’ continued the ass, ‘don’t spread your feet so vulgarly. Mrs. Turkey, I have long sighed for the honour of your patronage: the charming little poults, I hope, will gain new beauties from our exertions. Mrs. Barn-fowl, your chickens are too timid; we shall soon teach them to hop with grace.As for these awkward maudlin rabbits, I fear we cannot do any thing with them; and these ill-bred creatures, Mrs. Sow’s progeny, we cannot attempt to teach.’ A sturdy mastiff, who had followed the group of gazers, now barked furiously; dispersed the poultry, pushed Mrs. Sow and her family into the mud; and, spite of Farmer Killwell, drove the ass and her foals out of the farm-yard. A little girl, who was witness to the hubbub, exclaimed, ‘Ah! this is excellent! Mrs. Adair has borrowed a garment from the ass, to teach simple ones wisdom; but she will never teach little girls to love new rules.’”
“Where is the moral to your fable?” asked Miss Damer, with some degree of anger.
“I never thought of the moral; of what use would it be to my theme?” returned Miss Bruce.
“And of what use is any theme or fable without a moral? But I wish to know your motive for writing this ridiculous piece.”
“To vex Mrs. Adair, certainly, because she won’t let me go to my Aunt’s on Thursday.”
“And do you really think that it is in your power to vex Mrs. Adair with this trifling nonsense? You may be assured of this, Miss Bruce, the only notice she will take of this childish, insignificant fable, will be to make you read it to the ladies.”
“I won’t be talked to in this way,though you are my monitress. I will write what I please;” so saying, she snatched the slate from Miss Damer, and in haste rubbed off the words.
“The wisest thing you could do,” said Miss Damer. “Now sit down, and reflect seriously upon your conduct, and then tell me whether you feel quite satisfied with yourself, or whether you are grateful to Mrs. Adair for her care of you, and attention to you. You are the only little girl who has not a mamma: who would be so indulgent, so tender to you, as Mrs. Adair?”
At these words Miss Bruce sobbed violently; but her sorrow was of short duration: “You would vex any thing, Miss Damer, with talking so quietly.I like people to be angry with me, and then I can be angry myself.”
“My dear, I shall not listen to you, so I advise you to cease talking: it is my plan never to argue with unruly little girls. Come, Miss Grey, and Isabella; we will go into theplay-ground.”
Isabella whispered to Miss Bruce as she passed her; “do, dear Miss Bruce, be good. Why should you vex Miss Damer when she is so kind to you?” Miss Bruce pushed her companion’s hand from her shoulder, and turned her face to the wall, and there they found her on their return.
When the bell rang for prayers, Miss Bruce sprang across the room to Miss Damer, who was seated, talking to MissArden, and throwing her arms round her neck, she exclaimed, “You must indeed forgive me; I cannot sleep unless you say, ‘good night.’”
Miss Damer turned round, and kissedher:“Now, my dear, I hope you will never offend me again.”
“Oh, Miss Damer! I will love you for ever, for forgiving me so soon.” The bell rang, and she hastened out of the room.
“Should you not have been a little more stern?” said Miss Arden.
“My dear friend, ask yourself whether you could be so to a little girl who has no mother.”
Tears started into Miss Arden’s eyes. “I did not think of that.”
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Oneevening after school-hours, Mrs. Adair went into Jane’s apartment, who at this time was chiefly confined to her chamber, and found her busily employed sealing small parcels. One was directed, “For my friend Miss Damer;” another, “For my dear little Isabella Vincent;” and a third, “For my amiable young friend Miss Arden.” Mrs. Adair seated herself with the work in which she was engaged: and as her eyes glanced to the sealed parcels, tears stole down her cheeks.
“My dear mother,” said Jane with tenderness, “I am only making a little preparation before my journey. You must have been aware, some time, that the days of my life were numbered; and they will now be very few. But do not grieve on my account: it is the appointment of One, who is unerring in his ways. Excepting the separation from you and my sister, I feel that I have no regret at leaving this world.
“Death is a subject that I have often contemplated. The grave, and the last perishable garment in which I shall be clothed, have now lost all their terrors. The evening I first arrived at school, when my mind was filled with grief at our separation, I remember being greatlyshocked at the slow, solemn, deep tones of the village church-bell. I cannot describe my feelings at the time. Sorrow at leaving home rendered the awful muffled peal more dismal to my ears: but from that night I may date my first serious thoughts of another world. I have never troubled my friends with my reflections, but that bell was as a monitor, to warn me that I was not for this world.”
Miss Arden now entered the room; and Mrs. Adair gladly escaped, to indulge her tears in secret. With a calm collected countenance she then re-joined herpupils;but at the same time experienced the sorrow of a parent, who knows she is soon to be deprived of a beloved child. For Jane’s appearancetoo plainly denoted, that the period was at hand “when the keepers of the house would tremble.” At this time her uneasiness was increased by a melancholy, distressing letter from Mrs. Vincent, urging her not to delay a moment coming to her; that she was to undergo an operation, that would either close life or restore her to her family. Various feelings agitated Mrs. Adair’s mind as she read the letter. After a little reflection, she fixed upon the proper mode of acting, and in an hour a chaise was at the door, to convey her to her old friend.
Jane had now been confined wholly to her chamber a fortnight. Her disease was of a fluctuating nature: sometimesshe appeared almost in perfect health; at others, as one dropping into the grave. She was seated in an arm-chair, supported with pillows. When Mrs. Adair entered the chamber, one hand rested upon a book that lay open upon a small table, and near the book was her watch; her head was thrown back, and her face was covered with a muslin handkerchief. Mrs. Adair, who had slowly opened the door, now as cautiously advanced; listened to hear her daughter breathe; and then gently raised the handkerchief. Jane started. Afraid of disturbing her, Mrs. Adair remained some time with fixed attention, holding the handkerchief from her face. A hectic flush was upon her cheeks; but her countenancewas placid and happy. When she returned into her own chamber, Elizabeth was there, who anxiously inquired if she had seen her sister. “But have you taken leave of her?” she cried.
Mrs. Adair drew the veil of her bonnet over her face, as she said, “taking leave is a trial of all others—” and here she paused; “this is not of any consequence to you.”
“O, my dear mother, we have no earthly hope, no support but yourself; let my sister’s eyes rest for the last time upon the mother she has so tenderly loved; she will not die in peace unless you are with her.”
“My feelings are as irritable as your own,” said Mrs. Adair; “leave me toact according to my own judgment: not another word. Bring Isabella to me, for the chaise is at the door.”
While the ladies were walking with Miss Wilkins, the teacher, Elizabeth went into her sister’s chamber; and at the door met Mrs. Lloyd, the housekeeper, who hadbeenordered by Mrs. Adair to explain the motive of the journey to Jane.
“O, sister,” cried Elizabeth, “how could my mother, so considerate and good as she is, leave you in this state!”
“We cannot tell all her motives,” said Jane; “only consider what were my mother’s feelings, when she fixed her eyes upon this poor emaciated frame, as she supposed, for the last time.”
“It was cruelty in the extreme,” cried Elizabeth.
“Do no speak rashly, my dear Elizabeth; we will hope—” and her eyes brightened with an expression of joy, “that all will yet be well; that, through the mercy of Providence, Mrs. Vincent will be restored to health, and that I shall be permitted to remain a little longer with you.”
“O, that it were to the day of my own death,” exclaimed Elizabeth with fervency. “There are few persons to whom my heart earnestly inclines, and I would have them with me through this life, and all eternity.”
“My dear sister, these things are not at our disposal. But let us consider thesubject: every night we experience temporary dissolution: and then we are separated, even as if the hand of death had smitten us; when we go to rest, we have no positive assurance that we are to open our eyes again upon the objects of this world; still we project schemes; calculate upon probable and improbable events; but the entire suspension of our faculties is never taken into the account. Yet we are ignorant whether we are to open our eyes on the objects of this world, or that which is to come. I own I have not any desponding thoughts; I rest alone upon the mercies and the merits of a suffering and a redeeming Saviour; he is my sole refuge. To our mother, my conscience acquits me eitherof intentional errors, or errors of omission. This is a source of the purest consolation; it clears the rough, the thorny path to the valley of death. Elizabeth, my dearest sister, listen to me before I go hence, and be no more seen. Every night recall to mind the actions of the day. Let this be the question you put to yourself: “Have I done my duty in all things?” Where you have failed, let the morning sun, as it rises, be a token to you that another day is given for wise and good purposes; in the grave there is no remembrance of error, no atonement to be made for transgression, for neglect of the social duties of life.”
Elizabeth gazed at her sister with feelings of tenderness and sorrow.
“All things pass away,” said Jane, as she raised her eyes to her sister’s agitated face; “but ‘when this mortal has put on immortality,’ then Elizabeth, when we meet again, it will not be for transient days, and years, but for ages of eternity.”
Exhausted with speaking so long, she pointed to the book upon the table. “The spirit is willing,” said she, faintly, “but my voice is weak; will you oblige me, sister?”
“From my heart I will,” exclaimed Elizabeth; “would that I could not only oblige, but retain you for our comfort, for this world to my mother will be a wilderness indeed.”
“Not so,” said Jane, tears flowinginto her eyes; “my affectionate, my warm-hearted sister will be my substitute! O, Elizabeth, friend dearest to me, may you be blessed where your heart is fixed.”
Elizabeth started, and her countenance became pale as death.
“Sister,” Jane slowly added, “you could not keep the secret from me; I have traced it in all your actions; but, rest assured, it will descend with me to the grave.”
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Elizabethwas restless and uneasy the whole of the day that her mother had taken her departure for Colonel Vincent’s. The evening was wet and gloomy; the young people could not, therefore, take their usual exercise in the play-ground. After sitting some time with her sister and Miss Arden, she sauntered into the school-room, to observe how they were employed. Some of the young ladies were attending to their lessons for the following day. Oneparty had spread the road to happiness upon a work-box; all anxious to attain the desired haven. Another young lady was seated alone, joining the map of Europe. In a corner of the room, apart from all her companions, Miss Bruce was reading the admirable instructive tale “Display.” Elizabeth looked over her shoulder, “My dear, I thought you had read that book six months ago.”
“O yes, ma’am; but I can read it over and over again: there is not a new book now in the school.”
“You mean,” said Elizabeth, smiling, “that you have read them all. But can you explain the word “Display?” for I think most young ladies are partial to it, in one shape or another.” A carriagenow stopped at the door; and Elizabeth exclaimed, “who is in that carriage?” Miss Grey, who was near the window, raised herself upon a box, and looking over the blind, cried, “Mrs. Adair, ma’am, and Miss Isabella Vincent.”
Elizabeth hastened from the room, and met her mother at the hall door, joyfully exclaiming, “O, my dear mother, this is an unexpected, welcome pleasure! But how is Mrs. Vincent?”
“Composed and comfortable; the operation was performed yesterday: but it was not my intention to desert you: how could you think so?”
The truth was, Mrs. Adair had called upon the physician, and begged that he would inform her daughter that shewould return in the evening: but a press of engagements had prevented his visit to Jane, who now with joy beheld her mother enter her chamber.
“I thought you would return to see me on my journey,” she exclaimed; “and you are returned, my dear mother. Blessed be this hour!”
Miss Arden and Miss Damer, from the hour they met in the summer-house, were strict friends. Their capacities were similar, and they were at the head of the different classes. On the days appointed for geography, the young ladies were in a room called the study. Miss Arden had observed that one of the servants, a respectable looking young woman, generally contrived to enter theapartment, and busy herself with one thing or another: but always looked, anxiously at the globes, or the maps, and stopped a moment to listen, either to the teacher or the pupils. Miss Arden noticed the circumstance to her friend; “I will certainly ask Catherine,” she said, “if she has any motive in attending to our pursuits; there is something in her countenance that excites my curiosity.”
The first time she met her alone, she made the inquiry.
“I have, indeed, ma’am, a motive,” said Catherine; “I would give all my wages, could I but learn as you do.”
“But of what use, Catherine, would learning be to you? You can read your Bible; and it will shew you all that isnecessary for you to know. Your duty as a servant, and the way to heaven, the place where we all hope to meet, when we have done with this world, and its cares.”
“Ah, ma’am, I am not satisfied even with knowing this, though it is all that a servant should know.”
“I do not understand you, Catherine. Tell me why you wish to gain other knowledge?”
“Because, ma’am, I am most wishful to be useful to my parents. They are poor, and have a large family to bring up. If I could but open a little school in our village, what a blessing should I be to them!”
“Well, Catherine,” said Miss Arden,after considering a little, “I will do what I can for you—I mean if Miss Damer approves; for I dare not trust to my own judgment. Meet me in the school-room early to-morrow morning, and I well tell you how it is to be.”
When the friends met in the play-ground, they talked the subject over.
“There cannot, I think, be any thing wrong in doing good to a fellow-creature,” said Miss Damer, “therefore I think we may venture; but we must rise an hour earlier than usual.”
Catherine was delighted when she heard the result of their conference; and, with many expressions of thankfulness, promised to leave a lamp at their door.
The young ladies began the employment of teaching with alacrity. They endeavoured to ground Catherine in those things that would be useful in a village school. But geography her mind was bent upon, so Miss Arden presented to her a book; likewise several little works, which she thought would be useful.
One morning, however, they were surprised in the midst of their lessons. “Begin that line again,” said Miss Arden. Elizabeth had walked gently into the room, and now stood by the table where the two young ladies were seated, and Catherine standing. When they beheld her, they all started, and looked aghast. “You are very early at yourtasks, young ladies! But I did not know that we had a new pupil. Pray when did she arrive?”
“I beg you a thousand pardons, ma’am, for leading the young ladies to do wrong! It was all my fault,” said Catherine.
Miss Arden related the matter plainly as it was.
“I commend Catherine,” said Elizabeth, “for her wish to serve her parents; nor am I offended with you, young ladies, for wishing to serve her. But you must beware that we are not to do a wrong thing, even with the very best motives. There is always something mean in acting clandestinely. Why could you not have been candid, andtold me her wish? You must not meet here again. Catherine, when you have leisure, continue your lessons; and I will fix upon some other mode of instructing you; at least a proper time, not by the light of a lamp.”
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Whenthe physician was first called in to attend Jane, he strictly forbad any person sleeping with her: Elizabeth, therefore, removed to a small camp bed, which was placed by her sister.
A few mornings after Mrs. Adair’s visit to Mrs. Vincent, Jane suddenly awoke; and in an earnest, quick tone of voice, begged that her sister would come to her. “But first draw aside the window curtain,” said she, “That is right. Now come into my bed—only this morning—never—never again.”
Surprised at a request so unusual, Elizabeth instantly obeyed. “Do not sit up, sister, nor creep from me; lay your head upon my pillow.”
Jane now folded her arms round her sister’s neck, and kissed her tenderly.—“This is my first and last proof of affection! O, sister! where—and when shall we meet again?”
The sun had risen, and gilded every part of the room. Jane raised herself, as if by magic. “Let me behold every thing—for I shall never behold any objects upon earth again! This day my soul will be required by my Heavenly Father! Ah, my soul! it is an awful thing to die; even with hope and trust in thy Almighty Power! But Thouart mighty to strike,—merciful and gracious in raising thy servants unto glory.”
Jane now paused; other thoughts seemed to arise. Her glazed eyes wandered from object to object. “Ah! there is my writing-desk; give that to my mother! There is my Bible; that is for my dear little favourite! Here is my watch; but I cannot see the minute finger move. It is of no consequence: time will soon be over! Keep it, my dear Elizabeth, and when you look upon it, remember we are to meet again!—Ah! thou bright luminary!” she exclaimed, with fervency, “I hail thee, this, my last morning upon earth, as the evidence of that Being, who will lead me through the valley of the shadow ofdeath, to never-ending glory! What is this life, my dearest Elizabeth, when we come to die? But where is my mother? I am weak—very weak, and faint.”
“Let me support you, dear Jane,” said Elizabeth, trembling with emotion.
“Well, sister,” said Jane, faintly, “you shall support me. I will die in your arms!”
Jane dropped in a state of insensibility upon her pillow. Elizabeth rang the bell; and the next minute Mrs. Adair was in the room. She stepped to the side of the bed where her youngest daughter lay; and, stooping, listened to hear her breathe. “My affectionate, my dutiful child!” Here she ceased, fortears checked her utterance. Jane sighed deeply; her eyes gradually opened, and, at length, rested upon her mother: by slow degrees recollection returned.
“Where could my thoughts be!” she exclaimed in hurried accents. “Is my mother here? Ah, yes! I behold her! I did not know you, indeed I did not! But bless me; bless your daughter.”
Mrs. Adair tenderly embraced Jane; and in faltering accents blessed her.
“My dearest, kindest mother, be comforted! We are parting—but to meet again! The trial will soon be over! My hope is fixed upon the promises of a merciful Redeemer! I am only going a little—a very little while before you! How joyful is the thought, that we arenot separating for ever!—this is my joy,” and her eyes brightened as she spoke, “that I have reverenced my God, and loved my mother. But this pain;—O, it is violent!—Mother—”...Here the voice ceased; not a sigh, not a whisper was heard.
Mrs. Adair, who had been supporting her daughter, now gently placed her head upon the pillow, and silently led Elizabeth out of the room.
At the door of her own apartment she saw Mrs. Lloyd; and desiring her to take the charge of Elizabeth, who appeared almost convulsed with anguish, instantly returned into the chamber she had so recently quitted. After indulging that grief, which the most unfeelingin some measure experience, when they behold the lifeless remains of a being they had loved, she calmly proceeded to accomplish the desire of the departed, in preparing her for that narrow spot, which confines all that was mighty, rich, noble, excellent—the despised of the world, the neglected of the world; that spot which is the boundary of ambition, and the sure refuge for the distressed.
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WhenMrs. Adair had retired to her own chamber, on the night of her daughter’s decease, and was reflecting upon the awful event of the morning, her attention was drawn from the subject by a low whispering sound. Aware that the teachers and servants were retired to rest, she could not account for the circumstance; she now heard doors slowly opening, and was persuaded that different persons were passing her room. Alarmed, but at the same time collected,she cautiously opened her own door; and perceiving a glimmering light proceed from the chamber where her daughter’s remains were laid, resolved to be satisfied, and with light, slow steps, advanced to the spot. There, with surprise, she beheld several of her pupils. At the head of the bed stood Miss Arden, with eyes mournfully bent upon the face of the departed; Miss Damer stooped to kiss the corpse, and then burst into a violent flood of tears. “That smile,” said Miss Cotton, “proves that the soul is rejoicing in heaven. Where shall we again behold upon earth one so amiable or so lovely?”
“O, that I may be equally prepared, when my hour comes,” cried Miss Arden.
“Hush! hush!” cried Isabella Vincent,in a tone of terror, “did you not hear some one breathe? O, do hide me.” She now covered her face with her frock.
Miss Grey took her passive hand, and tried to comfort her. “Look at Miss Jane, and then you will not be frightened; now do look—it is so simple to be afraid; she appears only as if she were asleep. There is not any thing terrible in death, only to wicked people; I am sure I should not be afraid to die to-night.”
“I dare not look! indeed I dare not! do take me to my own room.”
“You must look at Miss Jane, or you will always be frightened at being alone. You know I am but a little girl as well as yourself; but I should not be afraid to sleep here to-night. Think how goodshe was! living or dead, she would never injure us.”
“O, take me away: I don’t know what you are saying; why does not some one speak? O, do somebody speak, or I shall be frightened to death.”
Miss Grey whispered to her companion that Mrs. Adair was come into the room.
“Is she? O how glad I am! Now I don’t mind.” Saying this, she uncovered her face, and crept quietly to Mrs. Adair; who was asking why they had assembled in the chamber at so improper an hour.
“We should have been miserable, ma’am,” said Miss Cotton, “unless we had seen Miss Jane to-night; and as we shall never behold her again, we thought, ma’am, you would pardon us. I couldnot have slept; and the other ladies declared the same.”
“But wherefore did you come, Isabella?”
“O, ma’am, because I dared not to be alone.”
“But why are you afraid to look at my daughter?”
“O, I am not afraid now; I will look at Miss Jane,” said Isabella with assumed courage; “but do let me take hold of your hand, ma’am; then I know I shall be safe.”
“You have better protection than mine, my little girl, or you would be poorly defended. He who made you, he alone can guard you: but there is not any thing to fear from the dead.”
Mrs. Adair led her pupil to the head of the bed.
“Look, my dear, how happy and composed she appears; as quiet and sound as your little brother, when he is asleep.”
By degrees, Isabella ventured to turn her eyes upon the corpse; “I am not afraid, I am not afraid indeed,” said she, almost gasping for breath. At length her eyes were fixed upon the face of the deceased: “She can’t be dead—she must be asleep! But hush! I do not hear her breathe! Where is Miss Jane’s breath now, ma’am?” As she said this, she timidly stretched forth her hand, and lightly touched the face of the departed; then hastily starting back, cried; “must we all be so cold—as cold as marble?”
“We must all be so, indeed! There is no warmth, my little girl, when the soul is fled.”
“But what is the soul, ma’am? and where is it?” asked Miss Bruce.
“Your question is beyond my power to answer. The vital spirit, which we call the soul, is given by God, to direct us to do that which is right; and, from childhood to the grave, is our faithful friend. My daughter, whose lifeless remains you are now contemplating, was in all her ways actuated by this spirit, to obedience, and to goodness; and in a state of glory she will again exist, with a mind purified and exalted. What would be the use of life, and of the wonderful powers with which we aregifted, were we to lie down in the grave, as the beasts that perish?”
“But how will Miss Jane rise again, ma’am?” asked Miss Bruce.“Itis in the Bible, that at the last day we shall be ‘raised in the twinkling of an eye.’ O, that I could behold Miss Jane rise now; then I should never die!”
“We read,” said Mrs. Adair, “that the seed is cast into the earth, and rises up wheat, or any other grain: but we do not know how this comes to pass. The seed, that looks so insignificant in our eyes, after it has been in the earth the appointed time, gradually breaks forth in all its glory. We likewise shall be put into the earth; no longer valued, but by the remembrance of our worth;there we shall moulder and decay, and in time be forgotten by all the inhabitants upon earth. But the season of the resurrection will come: the soul will resume her influence; we shall burst the fetters of the tomb, and appear before the Judge of nations, to answer for our deeds upon earth. Be good, then, my dear young friends; and, you will then neither have cause to fear death, or future judgment. And now take your leave—your final leave of one, who was in all things worthy of imitation; and learn with equal ease, to sleep or die.”
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TheSunday after the funeral, the young ladies appeared at church, with very serious and sorrowful countenances; and afterwards, with Miss Arden and Miss Damer, Jane was often a subject of conversation: they loved to recall her to remembrance; and the proofs she had left of her regard were particularly prized by them.
But serious impressions seldom remain long upon the minds of very young people. Miss Bruce was almost thefirst to return to her old pursuits with gaiety of heart.
One evening, unknown to the teacher, she had strolled to the front garden gate, apparently on the watch for mischief. Isabella, who was intent upon learning her lessons for the following day, had likewise passed the boundary of the play-ground, and had sauntered the same way.
Miss Bruce in a moment caught her hand, opened the gate, and ran with her into the lane.
“Where are you taking me to?” exclaimed Isabella; “you have frightened me so!”
“Nonsense! I only want you to go with me to the cake shop: we shan’t be five minutes away.”
“But I have no business at the cake shop. And don’t you see that I am learning my lessons! You will make me forget all! ‘Five times nine, forty-five.’ O, dear, I shall forget every thing!”
“What a dunce!” cried Miss Bruce; “only at forty-five! I will teach you ten times further; and to add, and to subtract, if you will come with me. I do believe Miss Wilkins is there! Come along, or we shall be finely punished!” Saying this, Miss Bruce dragged Isabella down the lane, whilst she struggled to make her escape.
“I will not go, Miss Bruce! you have no right to take me! I declare you have made me drop my questions!”
“Never mind; I will give you question and answer too. Don’t you see that stile? and that nice white cottage by that large pool of water, where those children are throwing stones? We have only to turn down by those tall trees, and we shall be there in a moment.”
“I dare not go: I know Mrs. Adair will be so angry!”
“I am determined you shall come! you are the most stupid little thing in England!” As Miss Bruce said this, she took firm hold of her companion’s frock and arm, and drew her towards the water. Isabella in vain tried to escape. By this time, they had almost reach the pool; a boy, who had been amusing two children, making circleswith stones in the water, stepped from the edge of the pond, and marching boldly up to Miss Bruce, as boldly asked her, “what business she had to tease the little lady?”
“Do you think, Sir, I shall answer a rude, vulgar boy like you?”
The boy looked at her with contempt, and stooping to Isabella, said, “Do, little lady, tell me what this great girl is holding your frock for?”
“She wants me to go with her for cakes, and I want to learn my lessons.”
“O, you are the ladies, then, from the great school! I thought I had seen you before. I see how it is; this great girl is like Jack Ranger; she wants to get you into a scrape, that you may bemarked as well as herself! But I’ll defend you, never fear! It is not a crab-stick that can frighten me! Come with me, and see who dares to hinder us!” He now caught her hand, and tried to draw her from her companion.
“You shall not go with her, against your mind, were she as big as Hercules! We are English, and are not to be conquered.” Miss Bruce suddenly let go her companion’s frock, and gave the boy a violent slap upon the face. “Go home, you little ragged creature, mend your coat, and do not talk to ladies.”
The boy instantly recovered himself from the blow; and looking at Miss Bruce with scorn, exclaimed, “I am not a mender of old clothes, Miss!Take that for your pains, and your boarding-school manners!”
The blow he returned made blood to gush violently from Miss Bruce’s nose. Isabella screamed; the children cried out, “very well, Tom! I would not be you for something.”
A pretty woman, but with a stern countenance, now came forth from the cottage, and asked what the rout was about.
“Only our Tom and the lady boxing,” cried the children.
“For shame of yourself, Sir! How dare you behave so to your betters?”
“I would have struck her,” said the boy, sullenly, “had she been as tall as the steeple, and as great as King GeorgeBut come, little Miss, with me, and let that great girl do what she likes.”
He now ran off with Isabella.
“Very well, Sir! but I shall tell your father of this, or my name’s not Grace Johnson! But come into the cottage, Miss; and let us see what we can do with your frock, for it is in a sad state.”
Miss Bruce followed the cottager, a little ashamed of her appearance; but more afraid of consequences. She was, however, one of those self-willed young ladies, who think upon a thing one moment, and act upon it the next.
When Isabella and her champion arrived at the garden-gate, behold it was locked! What was to be done was now the consideration.
“We’ll tell the truth at once,” said the boy: “it may be blamed, but, as the copy says, it never can be shamed. But don’t look so down, Miss: never mind a bit of a thrashing! Father gives me many a one; but I never flinch!”
“If I am not afraid of that, I am afraid of Mrs. Adair looking serious; and not wishing me good-night. But do look and see if you can see monitrix.”
“Monitrix! what, in the name of goodness, is that? Have you a great dog at school?”
“O dear, no; I mean the lady who hears my lessons before I say them to Miss Adair.”
“Is that all!” The boy stepped on one side, and looked up at the house.“No, I see nobody; there is not a creature in the windows. But I’ll tell you what, you shall stop here, and I’ll go to the lady of the school. You shan’t get anger, if I can help it; and I have helped it many a time at our school, that the lads know, to my sorrow.”
The boy hastily ran to the front door, and rang the bell. In the mean time Isabella crept under the court railing to conceal herself. When the servant opened the door, he asked if the lady was in.
“Do you mean my mistress?”
“To be sure I do; the mistress of the school; and must see her in a moment.”
Mrs. Adair was passing through the hall; and made her appearance, with a countenance not a little forbidding.
“What do you want with me?” she asked.
“Only, madam,” and here the boy hesitated; “I beg your pardon, madam; somehow, I have a little lady here: and I don’t know what to do with her.”
“You mean something respecting one of my scholars; what is it? for I am at a loss to understand you.”
“Bless me! surely she’s not run away!”
The boy sprang to the gate, and quickly returned.
“She is quite snug; I thought she had given me the slip. A great girl, ma’am, ran away with her. She did not come down to the pond of her own free good will. This is as true as truth is.She pulled, and the great girl pulled; but with all her might, madam, the little lady could not get away. So then I marched up to the big girl; and asked her what business she had with the little one? So she was angry and vexed with my ragged coat; and made my face ring again: and I gave her a good hard blow in return, and ran off with little Miss. I looked up for Miss Monitrix, but could not find her; so here she is, under the rails.”
This was all a puzzle to Mrs. Adair; but she stepped into the lane with the boy, and there she saw Isabella, seated, in great trouble, upon a stone. The affair was now explained. Isabella was taken to Elizabeth, with the assurancethat no one would be angry with her; but that she must not mention the affair to any person.
Mrs. Adair now proposed going with the boy to his father’s. There was an expression of honest warmth in his countenance, which, in a moment, changed her own manner; and, as they were going down the lane, she asked how far they were from his father’s house.
“‘Tis but a cottage, madam. Grandmother says we were once well off in the world; but things will go wrong some how or another: but I’ll make good what I wrote to-day.”
“And what was it, my good boy?”
“Only to work while I am able,madam; and then when I am old, I will rest from my labour. But there is our cottage. I wish you could have seen my own mother, for she was a nice woman. Don’t you see that clump of trees, and a barn with red tiles, and a little boy wheeling a barrow? That’s my own brother, ma’am, and there’s my father at the stile, looking about him.”
As they drew nearer the cottage, they saw the man and his son step over the stile into the field, followed by a female.
“Well, I declare,” said the boy, “there is mother with her bonnet! I wonder what they are all after! And there’s grandmother come to the door!”
He now called out: “Grandmother! here is the lady from the great school, coming to look for Miss.”
“Then I fear, madam, you are coming to look for what you will not find. Whilst my daughter went down to the pond, to the children, she slipped off. My son thinks that the young lady is gone to London in one of the stage-coaches. If so, Tom, I fear thou wilt be well paid.”
“Ah, grandmother, that’s nothing new! If my own mother was living, it would not be so.”
“With your permission,” said Mrs. Adair, as she entered the cottage, “I will take a seat till your daughter returns.”
“Certainly, madam; here is a comfortable seat. But we are not the neatest people in the world,” said the oldwoman, as she took up a child’s frock from the floor. Mrs. Adair looked round, and thought she had never been in any place that had so little the appearance of comfort.
The boy looked at her, and seemed to read her countenance.
“It was not always so, madam: I remember we were once happy folks; but it was a sad day for Dick and I, when father’s wife took place of father’s love.”
“Thou shouldst think well of thy father’s wife, and honour his choice. Stepmothers, child, have a hard task: they cannot please, do what they will.”
“Grandmother,” said the boy, “kindness makes kindness, all the world over.But, come what will, when uncle comes home, Dick and I will go to Plymouth, if we walk barefoot. I am sure he would break his heart, if he had not me to fight his battles; but I will never forsake him by land or by sea.”
“Go to the children, and take care of them,” said the old woman.
“And come to my house at four o’clock on Saturday afternoon, and ask for Mrs. Adair.”
The boy made a bow in a blunt manner; but, as he waved his hand in passing her, she thought there was an appearance of good breeding, that would not have disgraced a boy in a much higher sphere.
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Mrs. Adairwaited a considerable time in the cottage, and then returned home without receiving any satisfactory account of her pupil. All that she could learn was, that a little girl in a green bonnet had been seen stepping into a stage-coach. As coaches were continually passing the end of the village, she knew it was in vain making further inquiries. She wrote, however, immediately to Mr. Bruce, and sent a messenger with the letter, that he might meet them in town.
It has been observed, that Miss Bruce, in most cases, acted without reflection. The idea that she had done wrong did not strike her with full force, until the carriage in which she had placed herself arrived in London: the lights from the lamps, however, seemed to throw light upon her thoughts. When the coach stopped at the inn, the bustle of people gathering their luggage together, the idea that she did not know the road to her father’s house, the certainty that she had acted in a very foolish manner, and fear of the reception from her father, excited many disagreeable thoughts. She was seated in a corner of the coach, at a loss how to proceed, when the coachman came to the door.“Miss,” said he “won’t you alight? perhaps you are waiting for somebody?”
“I will thank you to take me home,” and this was said in a very humble tone.
The man whistled at the request. “I don’t know, Miss, whether I can or no. Did not your friends know that you were coming? But now I think of it, you seemed in a fright when you got into the coach: what, was you running away, Miss?”
Vexed at the question, Miss Bruce quickly answered, “I am going to see my papa. I have business with him.”
“Well, your business is not mine, Miss; but somehow, I think you have been cheating your schoolmistress. But come your way, till I can see for somebody to go with you.”
I only wish some of my young readers could have seen Miss Bruce, how simple she looked when she followed the coachman into the inn. She wished to be at school, and with Miss Damer again—but it was then too late.
And here I would advise young people to beware of the first wrong step, for it generally leads to trouble and mortification, and often to disgrace.
Miss Bruce stood some time unnoticed at the entrance of a large room, partitioned into boxes. Waiters and travellers just looked at the young lady, and then passed on: people were too much engaged, with dishes, papers, packages, and glasses, to attend to the little stranger.
At length, however, one solitary gentleman,who perhaps had daughters of his own, took compassion upon the forlorn traveller.
“Come hither, my dear, and sit by me.”
Miss Bruce gladly accepted the offer, for she was a strange figure for a stage coach passenger. Her white frock was rumpled, and in a sad state from the blow she had received; the tippet was in the same style; her old green silk garden bonnet hung half off her head. One of her long sleeves she had untied from her tippet, and taken it off; the other remained. Garden gloves, cut at the fingers, completed the dress. Thus neatly attired, in an hour and ten minutes after her arrival in London she was ushered by a new footman into her father’s study,where he was seated reading a pamphlet. In a moment he turned the book open upon the table, raised one of the candlesticks above his head, and with a keen satirical look exclaimed, “what runaway is this?”
“Papa, it is I!” This was said in a very trembling accent.
“And pray who is I, that comes thus attired, and unasked at this unseasonable hour? Only wants three minutes of eleven,” said Mr. Bruce as he fixed his eyes upon the time-piece. “With whom did you travel?”
“With a little boy, and a great man, papa, and a little woman, with a baby and a lapdog.”
As Miss Bruce was speaking, she wouldhave given a trifle to have been at school again.
“A goodly company indeed, young lady! By this I conclude that you have disgraced yourself! Sit here” (pointing to a chair behind the door); “it is the only place for idle, thoughtless truants. And now give a reason for your conduct: But there is no reason, with foolish, giddy girls! I will have every word correct: no varnishing, or lies.”
After much hesitation, and many tears, Miss Bruce went through the whole of her story. While she was speaking, her father seemed lost in thought. No sooner had she finished, but he started from his chair, and with his eyes fixed upon the floor, walkedsome time from one end of the study to the other. He then stopped, and looked sternly at his daughter. “And so you have been trying your skill at boxing! An admirable accomplishment for a young lady! You have taken upon yourself to be rude to your school companion; to be ungrateful to Mrs. Adair, and ventured to ride ten miles in a stage-coach! And in what a dress! You are indeed an enterprizing young lady! Now let me tell you, Miss Bruce, one simple truth: you have acted in all things contrary to that which you know is right. But pray what is the meaning of the word right?”
“To do all things that I know I should do; I do not know any thing more, papa; indeed I do not.”
“You know the right, but a perverse and wilful disposition leads you to do wrong.”
Mr. Bruce rang the bell, and ordered the housekeeper into hispresence. When she entered the room, he commanded her to close the door. “Take my daughter,” said he, “to the chamber that was occupied last night. You are not to speak to her, nor allow any servant in the house to do so. Give her a little bread and milk: go, child.”
“Papa,”—here Miss Bruce sobbed; and would have added, “O, do forgive me!” but her father sternly bade her leave him.
Mr. Bruce looked at his daughter when she was asleep. He heard hermurmuring and intreating; and listened to words that affected him deeply. He sat down by her bed-side until she was tranquil: and whether he shed tears of tenderness over her is best known to himself; but the following morning, though his feelings were softened, his countenance was equally stern. His carriage was at the door; and at ten o’clock he and his daughter arrived at Mrs. Adair’s. Neither at breakfast nor during the ride had he uttered one word. “Madam,” said he, the moment he beheld the mistress of his child, “I have brought a runaway. I will not make an apology for her conduct: it is not in my way; it rests entirely with yourself whether she will be accepted or rejected.Providence, in the justness of his ways, has deprived her of an excellent mother. How far servants are capable of giving right ideas of female decorum, you are yourself to judge. When I fixed Margaret with you, it was not to education alone that I looked; my views and hopes extended to principles, temper, and conduct. The mere mechanical parts of education may at all times be purchased for money; automatons may be made to perform wonders. But we all know that something more is wanting to give solidity and consequence to character. If you refuse my daughter, she will lose her best friend.”
“Not another word, Sir, on the subject; I still expect to make something ofthis little girl. She is rash, careless, and perhaps a little mischievous: but I am not without hope; and past grievances we will now forget. Go,” said Mrs. Adair, turning to her pupil, “bring a frock to me; remember I pardon you now, but I shall never do so again; and take care that you do not tell any person that you ran away, and were so foolish.—It is well she is my god-daughter, and my namesake,” said Mrs. Adair, as her pupil crossed the hall: then, addressing Mr. Bruce, she added, “Depend upon my word, Sir; I will be the friend of your daughter in remembrance of her mother; this is the strongest claim upon my attention; far more so than that of a name.”
“I bless you again and again for yourkindness,” said Mr. Bruce with warmth. “I have now no fears for Margaret; she must remain with you, until you can say, ‘your daughter is now all I can desire.’”
“This is exacting too much; ‘all that you can desire,’ is beyond my power to make her; but I will try to make her a comfort to you. I have good ground to work upon, and I hope you will have reason to think, that I have not neglected the soil.”
As Mr. Bruce was returning to his carriage, his daughter, who was descending the stairs with a clean frock, flew to him, exclaiming, “do say you forgive me! I will never vex you again; O, dear papa, say you will but forgive me.”
“Well, child, I do forgive you.”
“O, how good and kind you are! I will never forget it. But, dear papa, won’t you say something more?”
“God bless you, child! and may he always bless you.”
Mr. Bruce hastened to the carriage, drew up the window, and the boy drove off. Tears streamed from Miss Bruce’s eyes; “O, that papa would but have given me one kiss, I should have been so happy!”
“If you are good,” said Mrs. Adair, “when next he sees you he will give you two.”
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