Jane had been gently led in the bands of love. She had been taught even more by the example than the precepts of her mother.
She had seen her mother bear with meekness the asperity and unreasonableness of her father's temper, and often turn away his wrath with a soft answer.
The law of imitation is deeply impressed on our nature. Jane had insensibly fallen into her mother's ways, and had, thus early, acquired a habit of self-command. Mrs. Elton, though, alas, negligent of some of her duties, watched over the expanding character of her child, with Christian fidelity. "There she had garnered up her heart." She knew that amiable dispositions were not to be trusted, and she sought to fortify her child's mind with Christian principles. She sowed the seed, and looked with undoubting faith for the promised blessing.
"I must soon sleep," she would say to Mary, "but the seed is already springing up. I am sure it will not lack the dews of Heaven; and you, Mary, may live to see, though I shall not, 'first the blade, then the ear, and after that the full corn in the ear.'"
Mary had seconded Mrs. Elton's efforts. She looked upon herself as an humble instrument; but she was a most efficient one. She had a rare and remarkable knack at applying rules, so that her life might be called a commentary on the precepts of the Gospel. Mary's practical religion had, sometimes, conveyed a reproach (the only reproach a Christian may indulge in) to Mrs. Wilson, who revenged herself by remarking, that "Mary was indulging in that soul-destroying doctrine of the Methodists—perfection;" and then she would add, (jogging her foot, a motion that, with her, always indicated a mental parallel, the result of which was, 'I am holier than thou,') there is no error so fatal, as resting in the duties of the second table." Mrs. Wilson had not learned, that the duties of the second table cannot be done, if the others are left undone; the branches must be sustained by the trunk; for he, from whose wisdom there is no appeal, has said, "If ye love me, ye will keep my commandments."
Happily for our little friend, Mary was not to be removed far from her; an agreeable situation was, unexpectedly, offered to her grateful acceptance.
CHAPTER III.
Now Spring returns, but not to me returns
The vernal year my better days have known;
Dim in my breast life's dying taper burns,
And all the joys of life with health are flown.
Bruce.
A few weeks before the death of Mrs. Elton, a Mr. Lloyd, a Quaker, who was travelling with his wife and infant child, for the benefit of Mrs. Lloyd's health, had stopped at the inn in ———. Mrs. Lloyd was rapidly declining with a consumption. On this day she had, as is not unfrequent in the fluctuation of this disease, felt unusually well. Her cough was lulled by the motion of the carriage, and she had requested her husband to permit her to ride further than his prudence would have dictated.
The heat and unusual exertion, proved too much for her. In the evening she was seized with a hemorrhage, which reduced her so much as to render it unsafe to move her. She faded away quietly, and fell into the arms of death as gently as a leaf falleth from its stem, resigning her spirit in faith to him who gave it.
An extraordinary attachment subsisted between Mr. and Mrs. Lloyd, which had its foundation in the similarity of their characters, education, views, and pursuits; and had been nourished by the circumstances that had drawn and kept them together.
The father of Mr. Lloyd was an Englishman; he, with his wife, and only son Robert, then eight years old, had emigrated to Philadelphia. Mrs. Elwyn, the sister of Mrs. Lloyd, a widow, with an only daughter, accompanied them. The severities of a long and tempestuous voyage, operating on a very timid spirit and delicate constitution, completely undermined Mrs. Elwyn's health, and she survived the voyage but a few days.
Before her death she gave her daughter to her sister, saying to her, "Let her be thine own, dear Anne. She is but one year younger than thy Robert: and, if it please God so to incline their hearts, let them be united, that, as we have not been divided in life, our children may not be. Keep her from the world and its vanities, and train her for Heaven, dear sister."
Mrs. Lloyd loved her sister so devotedly, that she would, at any time, have yielded her wishes to Mrs. Elwyn's; but that was unnecessary, for in this plan they perfectly coincided.
The children were educated together, and were so much alike in their characters, that one seemed the soft reflection of the other. The habits of the family were secluded and simple; formed on the model of the excellent leader of their sect, William Penn, who, Mr. Lloyd used to say, it was his aim to follow, in all that he followed Christ. Benevolence was his business, and he went to it as regularly as a merchant goes to his counting-house. He finally fell a victim to his zeal, in the service of his fellow-creatures; or rather, to use one of his last expressions which had in it the sweet savour of piety and resignation, "He was taken from his Father's work to his Father's rest."
During one of those seasons when Philadelphia suffered most from the ravages of the yellow fever, Mr. Lloyd sent the young people to lodgings on the banks of the Schuylkill, while he and his wife remained in the city to administer relief to the poor sufferers, who were chained by poverty to the scene of this dreadful plague. Constant fatigue and watchfulness impaired the strength of this excellent pair. They both took the fever and died. They were mourned by their children, as such parents should be, with deep, but not complaining grief.
Robert was but sixteen at the time of his father's death. At the age of twenty-one he married Rebecca Elwyn. As Robert led his bride out of the meeting, where, with the consent and hearty approbation of their Society, they had been united, the elders said, they were as goodly a pair as their eyes ever rested on; and their younger friends observed, they were sure their love was as "fervent, mutual, and dear," as William Penn himself could have desired. Three years glided on in uninterrupted felicity. Excepting when they were called to feel for others' woes, their happiness was not darkened by a single shadow; nor did it degenerate into selfish indulgence, but, constantly enlarging its circle, embraced within its compass all that could be benefited by their active efforts and heavenly example. They lived after the plain way of their sect; not indulging in costly dress or furniture, but regulating all their expenses by a just and careful economy, they seldom were obliged to stint themselves in the indulgence of their benevolent propensities.
Three years after their marriage Mrs. Lloyd gave birth to a girl. This event filled up the measure of their joy. A few weeks after its birth, as Mr. Lloyd took the infant from its mother's bosom and pressed it fondly to his own, he said, "Rebecca, the promise is to us and our children; the Lord grant that we may train His gift in His nurture and admonition."
"Thou mayest, dear Robert; God grant it," Rebecca mournfully replied; "but the way is closed up to me. Do not shudder thus, but prepare thy mind for the 'will of the Lord.' I could have wished to have lived, for thy sake, and my little one; but I will not rebel, for I know all is right."
Mr. Lloyd hoped his wife was needlessly alarmed; but he found from her physician, that immediately after the birth of the child, some alarming symptoms had appeared, which indicated a hectic. Mrs. Lloyd had begged they might be concealed from her husband, from the generous purpose of saving him, as long as possible, useless anxiety. The disease, however, had taken certain hold, and that morning, after a conversation with her physician, during which her courage had surprised him, she had resolved to begin the difficult task of fortifying her husband for the approaching calamity.
Spring came on, and its sweet influences penetrated to the sick room of Rebecca. Her health seemed amended, and her spirits refreshed; and when Mr. Lloyd proposed that they should travel, she cheerfully consented. But she cautioned her husband not to be flattered by an apparent amendment, for, said she, "though my wayward disease may be coaxed into a little clemency, it will not spare me."