One evening 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 greatly shocked
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 her pupils; 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 appearance too 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: sometimes she 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 countenance was 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
to act 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 had been ordered 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 the subject: 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 either of
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 flowing into 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."