"No, no," she added, after a moment's hesitation; "this does not look as if Jane had a hope. But, sister Daggett, I wonder you should mind any thing crazy Bet says. She is possessed with as many devils as were sent out of Mary Magdalen."
"I don't mind her, Mrs. Wilson; but I know some very good people who say, that many a thing she has foretold has come to pass; and especially in seasons of affliction, they say, she is very busy with the devil."
"I don't know how that may be," replied Mrs. Wilson, "but as I mean to do my duty by this child, I don't feel myself touched by Bet's crazy ranting."
Mrs. Daggett, nettled by her sister's hint, rose and said, "that, as she was going in the afternoon to attend a meeting in a distant part of the town, (for," said she, "no one can say that distance or weather ever keeps me from my duties,) she had no more time to waste."
Mrs. Convers' husband drove to the door in a smart gig, and she took leave of her sisters, observing, she was glad the child was going to be so well provided for. As she drove away, crazy Bet, who was standing by the gate, apparently intently reading the destiny of a young girl, in the palm of her hand; fixed her eyes for a moment on Mrs. Convers, and whispered to the girl, "all the good seed that fell on that ground was choked by thorns long ago."
Mrs. Wilson told Jane's attendant, Sally, to inform her, she might come to her house the next day, and stay there for the present.
CHAPTER II.
| Or haply prest with cares and woes, Too soon thou hast began. To wander forth.—Burns. |
Jane received the intelligence of her destination without the slightest emotion. The world was "all before her," and she cared not whither led her "mournful way."
Happily for her, the humble friend mentioned in the beginning of her history, Mary Hull, returned on that day, after having performed the last act of filial duty. Jane poured all her sorrows into Mary's bosom, and felt already a degree of relief that she had not believed her condition admitted.
Such is the elastic nature of childhood; its moral, like its physical constitution, is subject to the most sudden changes.
Mary having assuaged the wounds of her youthful friend with the balm of tender sympathy and just consolation, undertook the painful, but necessary, task of exposing to Jane, the evils before her, that she might fortify her against them; that, as she said, being "fore-warned, she might be fore-armed."
She did not soften the trials of dependance upon a sordid and harsh nature. She told her what demands she would have on her integrity, her patience, and her humility.
"But, my child," said she, "do not be downhearted. There has One 'taken you up who will not have you, nor forsake you.' 'The fires may be about you, but they will not kindle on you.' Make the Bible your counsellor; you will always find some good word there, that will be a bright light to you in the darkest night: and do not forget the daily sacrifice of prayer; for, as the priests under the old covenant were nourished by a part of that which they offered, so, when the sacrifice of praise is sent upward, by the broken and contrite heart, there is a strength cometh back upon our own souls: blessed be his name, it is what the world cannot give."
Mary's advice fell upon a good and honest heart, and we shall see that it brought forth much fruit.
The evening was spent in packing Jane's wardrobe, which had been well stocked by her profuse and indulgent parents. Mary had been told, too, that the creditors of Mr. Elton would not touch the wearing apparel of his wife. This was, therefore, carefully packed and prepared for removal; and Mary, who with her stock of heavenly wisdom had some worldly prudence, hinted to Jane, that she had better keep her things out of the sight of her craving cousins.
Jane took up her mother's Bible, and asked Mary, with a trembling voice, if she thought she might be permitted to take that.
"Certainly," replied Mary, "no one will dispute your right to it; it is not like worldly goods, we will not touch the spoils, though we were tempted by more than the 'goodly Babylonish garment, the two hundred shekels of silver, and the wedge of gold' that made Achan to sin."
In obedience to the strictest dictates of honesty, Mary forbore from permitting her zeal for Jane's interests to violate the letter of the law. She was so scrupulous, that she would not use a family trunk, but took a large cedar chest of her own to pack the clothes in.
While they were busily occupied with these preparations, Jane received a note from her aunt, saying, that she advised her to secure some small articles which would never be missed: some of "the spoons, table-linen, her mother's ivory workbox." &c. &c. The note concluded—"As I have undertaken the charge of you for the present, it is but right you should take my advice. There is no doubt my brother's creditors have cheated him a hundred fold the amount of these things, for, poor man! with all his faults, he was so generous, any body could take him in; besides, though these things might help to pay the expense I must be at in keeping you, they will be a mere nothing divided among so many creditors—the dust on the balance."
"Poor woman!" said Mary, to whom Jane had handed the note, "I am afraid she will load the balance with so much of this vile dust, that when she is weighed her scale will be "found wanting." No, Jane, let us keep clean hands, and then we shall have light hearts."
The next morning arrived, and Mary arose before the dawn, in order to remove Jane early, and save her the pain of witnessing the preparations for the vendue. Jane understood her kind friend's design, and silently acquiesced in it, for she had too much good sense to expose herself to any unnecessary suffering. But when every thing was in readiness, and the moment of departure arrived, she shrunk back from Mary's offered arm, and sinking into a chair, yielded involuntarily to the torrent of her feelings. She looked around upon the room and its furniture as if they were her friends.
It has been said by one, who well understands the mysteries of feeling, that objects which are silent every where else, have a voice in the home of our childhood. Jane looked for the last time at the bed, where she had often sported about her mother, and rejoiced in her tender caresses—at the curtains, stamped with illustrations of the Jewish history, which had often employed and wearied her ingenuity in comprehending their similitudes—at the footstool on which she had sat beside her mother; and the old family clock,
| "Whose stroke 'twas heaven to hear, When soft it spoke a promised pleasure near." |
Her eye turned to the glass, which now sent back her wo-begone image, and she thought of the time, but a little while past, when elated with gratified vanity, or joyful anticipation, she had there surveyed her form arrayed in finery—now, the rainbow tints had faded into the dark cloud.
She rose, and walked to the open window, about which she had trained a beautiful honey-suckle. The sun had just risen, and the dew-drops on its leaves sparkled in his rays.
"Oh, Mary!" said she, "even my honey-suckle