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.
contrary to her usual custom, remained in bed
much longer than the other members of the fami-
ly, and did not awake from deep and unquiet
slumbers, till the bell called the household to
prayers.
Mrs. Wilson was scrupulous in exacting the at-
tendance of every member of her family at her
morning and evening devotions. With this requi-
sition Jane punctually and cheerfully complied,
as she did with all those that did not require a vio-
lation of principle. But still she had often occa-
sion 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,
Mrs. Wilson was fond of the bold and highly
figurative language of the prophets; and often
identified herself with the Psalmist, in his exulta-
tion 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 evi-
dently 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 ene-
mies, and my ears shall hear my desire of the
wicked that rise up against me;" Jane per-
ceived, 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
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 em-
barrassment, "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 re-
mained to assist her aunt in removing the break-
fast 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 hand-
kerchief, Jane Elton?" she said in a voice chok-
ing 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 emo-
tion.
"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 dol-
lars? 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 involv-
ed herself by her promise to David.
"Answer me that," repeated Mrs. Wilson, vio-
lently.
"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, plain-
er than words could tell it. David," she con-
tinued to her son, who had thrown down the paper
One honest feeling had a momentary ascendan-
cy 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 inter-
pose when Jane should be in danger of suffering
otherwise than in the opinion of his mother, whose
opinion, he thought, not worth caring for. There-
fore, 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 mo-
ney, 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 he-
roine, though the instant before she had felt as-
sured and tranquil in her panoply divine, burst
into tears, and left the room. She could not en-
dure the thought of degradation in Erskine's
"For heaven's sake, tell me what is the matter!"
said 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, with-
out 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 an-
swer.
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 Crom-
well'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 sup-
ported under that; but it is a grief too heavy for
"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, remem-
bering 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 instinc-
tively 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 ga-
thering 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 re-
quest to Jane, adding to it a remark, that as she
"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 be-
tween us is dissolved for ever; I shall not remain
another night beneath a roof where I have receiv-
ed little kindness, and where I now suffer the im-
putation 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 friend-
less -- 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
"You are mistaken, Edward; it is not a con-
trivance; 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 ac-
cuse 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, an-
gel 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 expla-
nation to make; I have nothing but assertions of
my innocence, and my general character to rely
upon. Those who reject this evidence must be-
lieve 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 re-
ply he went on to a passionate declaration of his
affections, followed by such promises of eternal
At another time, Jane would have paused to ex-
amine her heart, before she accepted the profes-
sions 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 ma-
lignant accusation, and touched by the confiding
affection that refused to suspect her; the gene-
rosity, the magnanimity that were presented in
such striking contrast to the baseness of her rela-
lations -- she received Edward's declarations with
the most tender and ingenuous expressions of gra-
titude; and Erskine did not doubt, nor did Jane
at that moment, that this gratitude was firmly root-
ed in love.
Edward, ardent and impetuous, proposed an im-
mediate 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 to-
wards you," she added, "that overcame her pru-
dence. I have found a refuge in your heart,
and she cannot injure me while I have that asy-
lum. I have too much pride, Edward, to in-
volve 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
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 inform-
ed 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-
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
After the confirmation of her conjecture at the
shop, she saw that secrecy was absolutely necessa-
ry; 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
Jane would have replied, "I am not;" but she
checked the words, for she felt as if the senti-
ment they expressed, was a breach of fidelity to
Erskine; and instead of them she said, hesitating-
ly, "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 embar-
rassment and awkwardness the communication she
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 ac-
count 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 fa-
vourite 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 no-
bleness, the disinterestedness of Erskine's con-
duct, 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 imagi-
nation?"
"No," answered Jane, "such virtues as Edward's
shine with a light of their own; imagination can-
not enhance their value."
"Still," said Mr. Lloyd, "they shine but on one
happy individual. Well, my dear Jane," he con-
tinued, after a few moments pause, "I will believe
without seeing. I will believe thou hast good
reasons for thy faith, though they are incommuni-
cable. If Erskine make thee happy, I shall be
resigned."
Happily for both parties, this very unsatisfac-
tory conference was broken off by the entrance
of Erskine's servant, who came, as he said, for
Miss Elton's baggage. Jane explained, as con-
cisely as possible, to Mr. Lloyd, her plans for the
present, and then took advantage of this opportu-
nity 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 in-
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 feel-
ing of joy within to vibrate to the beauty with-
out; and he certainly could not be acquitted of
the `sullen neglect of nature,' that he had deem-
ed treason an hour before.
"I knew," thought he, "she was fallible, and
why should I be surprised at her failure? It can-
not be Erskine, but the creature of her imagina-
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 occa-
sion. 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 ap-
propriation to any other person, though, certainly,
not the sorrow which her engagement to Erskine
occasioned him. Mr. Lloyd was really a disinter-
ested man. He had so long made it a rule to imi-
tate 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 Ers-
kine, to endeavour to rectify his principles, to ex-
ert over him an insensible influence, and, if pos-
sible, 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 vil-
lage, 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, announ-
ced 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 in-
different, and then wondering whether it was in-
difference; 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 con-
tinued 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 in-
tention, 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
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 al-
lowable, 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 feel-
"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 rea-
son 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.' How-
ever, she had discretion enough to suppress her
homely metaphysics; and patting Jane's head af-
fectionately, 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, con-
firmed in a favourite notion, that every allotment
of Providence is designed as a trial for the charac-
ter; that all will finally work together for good;
and that Jane was going on in the path to perfec-
tion, 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 sug-
gestions and sincere sympathy.
A sagacious observer of human nature and for-
tunes 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 inter-
nal 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 cer-
tainly was a little disappointed, that in spite of his
earnest persuasions to the contrary, she firmly per-
sisted 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.