When the young ladies heard there would be no half-day holydays betweenthe vacations, there was a general consternation amongst them. Somemurmured, and others were satisfied that Mrs. Adair must have goodreason for her proceeding. When Miss Bruce heard the new rule, she saidto Isabella Vincent, "I never knew such a thing! Not visit this halfyear! And my Aunt promised to take me to the exhibition, and MissLinwood's works, and I don't know where! I never knew any thing soprovoking! But I will be revenged, that I will!"
"And what will you do?" asked Isabella; "what do you mean by revenge? Iam 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 sorrywhen 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. "Thosewere happy days! I can fancy I see somebody now, sitting up in bed, withher nice white cap, so pale, and so pretty; and somebody kneeling byher, and praying for her, and blessing her. But all would not do, tosave one I loved!" Here tears trickled from her eyes: but she suddenlyrecollected herself; "I must not think of it; it is over, and for evergone! And now for my theme."
"Poor Miss Bruce," said Isabella, in a soothing tone, "I wish you weremy 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 theworld! 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! Andthere will be my cousins, and Edward Warner, and Margaret James, andsome one who is worth them all; though I don't talk of him as you talkof your Papa."
After musing a few minutes, with her pencil in her hand, and her headresting upon a slate, she joyfully exclaimed, "I have it, I have itindeed!"
"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 wipemy face with your curls. I have got the clue to my fable; I will haveMrs. 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 shopwindows, in magazines, and I am certain he is in a fine gilt frame inour study."
"I wish people would not take such liberties. Papa has no business tobe in windows, and other people's frames."
"Why, don't you know that only great writers, and great fighters, andvery good men, and very bad men, are noticed that way! If your papa wasnot good as well as great, he would not be fixed in our house, unless inthe servant's room, with Jemmy and Sandy, and the Storm, and Auld RobinGrey. Whatever you may think, it is a very great honour to be noticed bysomebody that I could name."
"I have not any thing to do with honour," cried Isabella, "and talkingof 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 sotogether, 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, Iknow I could go on." Here Miss Bruce considered a little. "I must thinkof my thoughts: no, I must write them down."
"O, Miss Bruce, Miss Bruce!" cried Isabella, eagerly, "do look throughthe 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 myfable. Let me see: Ass, 1; Farmer Killwell, 2; somebody's papa, but notmine. Turkey, 3; Barn-fowls, 4; Little schoolgirl, 5. O, how shall I putall these words together to make any thing of them! O, that I could butbegin! There it is!" said Miss Bruce joyfully; and she wrote severalwords upon her slate. "Well, there is nothing like a good beginning! Iwill finish to-night; so now let us go to the ladies," and Miss Bruceskipped out of the room, with her slate and Isabella.
CHAPTER XII.
With some surprise, Miss Damer, in looking over the themes, read thefollowing fable:
"One bleak, cold winter morning, an ass and her foals were loiteringupon the edge of a wild common; not a tree was to be seen, and scarcelya bit of herbage for their breakfast to be found. 'This is a comfortlesslife!' said the ass; 'the winds are chilly, the snow will soon fall, andwe have not a shed to cover us! What shall we do? for I fear we shallbe 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 soonersaid than done; they plodded through miry lanes, waded through shallowbrooks, and at length arrived at the farmer's gate. The tale was soontold. The farmer pitied their piteous case; 'but,' said he, 'idlenessbringeth want. Exert yourselves, and you will find friends. Begin aschool at once; here are my poultry, my birds, and my young cattle toteach: not a moment is to be lost.'--'It is a good thing to have a goodfriend!' said the ass, as she stalked into the farm-yard. Here shebrayed with a most audible voice: 'Hearken to me, parents and littleones!' 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 herhead on one side, gave a loud quack, and returned to comfort hergoslings, who were fluttering in every direction.
"'You little ducklings,' continued the ass, 'don't spread your feet sovulgarly. Mrs. Turkey, I have long sighed for the honour of yourpatronage: the charming little poults, I hope, will gain new beautiesfrom our exertions. Mrs. Barn-fowl, your chickens are too timid; weshall soon teach them to hop with grace. As for these awkward maudlinrabbits, I fear we cannot do any thing with them; and these ill-bredcreatures, Mrs. Sow's progeny, we cannot attempt to teach.' A sturdymastiff, 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 thefarm-yard. A little girl, who was witness to the hubbub, exclaimed, 'Ah!this is excellent! Mrs. Adair has borrowed a garment from the ass, toteach simple ones wisdom; but she will never teach little girls to lovenew rules.'"
"Where is the moral to your fable?" asked Miss Damer, with some degreeof 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 toknow your motive for writing this ridiculous piece."
"To vex Mrs. Adair, certainly, because she won't let me go to my Aunt'son Thursday."
"And do you really think that it is in your power to vex Mrs. Adair withthis trifling nonsense? You may be assured of this, Miss Bruce, the onlynotice she will take of this childish, insignificant fable, will be tomake you read it to the ladies."
"I won't be talked to in this way, though you are my monitress. I willwrite 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, andreflect seriously upon your conduct, and then tell me whether you feelquite satisfied with yourself, or whether you are grateful to Mrs. Adairfor her care of you, and attention to you. You are the only little girlwho has not a mamma: who would be so indulgent, so tender to you, asMrs. Adair?"
At these words Miss Bruce sobbed violently; but her sorrow was of shortduration: "You would vex any thing, Miss Damer, with talking soquietly. I like people to be angry with me, and then I can be angrymyself."
"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 the play-ground."
Isab
ella whispered to Miss Bruce as she passed her; "do, dear MissBruce, be good. Why should you vex Miss Damer when she is so kind toyou?" Miss Bruce pushed her companion's hand from her shoulder, andturned 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 toMiss Damer, who was seated, talking to Miss Arden, and throwing herarms round her neck, she exclaimed, "You must indeed forgive me; Icannot sleep unless you say, 'good night.'"
Miss Damer turned round, and kissed her: "Now, my dear, I hope you willnever 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 girlwho has no mother."
Tears started into Miss Arden's eyes. "I did not think of that."
CHAPTER XIII.
One evening after school-hours, Mrs. Adair went into Jane's apartment,who at this time was chiefly confined to her chamber, and found herbusily employed sealing small parcels. One was directed, "For my friendMiss Damer;" another, "For my dear little Isabella Vincent;" and athird, "For my amiable young friend Miss Arden." Mrs. Adair seatedherself with the work in which she was engaged: and as her eyes glancedto the sealed parcels, tears stole down her cheeks.
"My dear mother," said Jane with tenderness, "I am only making a littlepreparation before my journey. You must have been aware, some time, thatthe days of my life were numbered; and they will now be very few. But donot grieve on my account: it is the appointment of One, who is unerringin his ways. Excepting the separation from you and my sister, I feelthat I have no regret at leaving this world.
"Death is a subject that I have often contemplated. The grave, and thelast perishable garment in which I shall be clothed, have now lost alltheir terrors. The evening I first arrived at school, when my mind wasfilled with grief at our separation, I remember being greatly shockedat the slow, solemn, deep tones of the village church-bell. I cannotdescribe my feelings at the time. Sorrow at leaving home rendered theawful muffled peal more dismal to my ears: but from that night I maydate my first serious thoughts of another world. I have never troubledmy friends with my reflections, but that bell was as a monitor, to warnme that I was not for this world."
Miss Arden now entered the room; and Mrs. Adair gladly escaped, toindulge her tears in secret. With a calm collected countenance she thenre-joined her pupils; but at the same time experienced the sorrow of aparent, who knows she is soon to be deprived of a beloved child. ForJane's appearance too plainly denoted, that the period was at hand"when the keepers of the house would tremble." At this time heruneasiness was increased by a melancholy, distressing letter from Mrs.Vincent, urging her not to delay a moment coming to her; that she was toundergo an operation, that would either close life or restore her to herfamily. Various feelings agitated Mrs. Adair's mind as she read theletter. After a little reflection, she fixed upon the proper mode ofacting, and in an hour a chaise was at the door, to convey her to herold friend.
Jane had now been confined wholly to her chamber a fortnight. Herdisease was of a fluctuating nature: sometimes she appeared almost inperfect health; at others, as one dropping into the grave. She wasseated in an arm-chair, supported with pillows. When Mrs. Adair enteredthe chamber, one hand rested upon a book that lay open upon a smalltable, and near the book was her watch; her head was thrown back, andher face was covered with a muslin handkerchief. Mrs. Adair, who hadslowly opened the door, now as cautiously advanced; listened to hear herdaughter breathe; and then gently raised the handkerchief. Jane started.Afraid of disturbing her, Mrs. Adair remained some time with fixedattention, holding the handkerchief from her face. A hectic flush wasupon her cheeks; but her countenance was placid and happy. When shereturned into her own chamber, Elizabeth was there, who anxiouslyinquired 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 isnot 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 sotenderly loved; she will not die in peace unless you are with her."
"My feelings are as irritable as your own," said Mrs. Adair; "leave meto act according to my own judgment: not another word. Bring Isabellato me, for the chaise is at the door."
While the ladies were walking with Miss Wilkins, the teacher, Elizabethwent into her sister's chamber; and at the door met Mrs. Lloyd, thehousekeeper, who had been ordered by Mrs. Adair to explain the motiveof the journey to Jane.
"O, sister," cried Elizabeth, "how could my mother, so considerate andgood as she is, leave you in this state!"
"We cannot tell all her motives," said Jane; "only consider what were mymother's feelings, when she fixed her eyes upon this poor emaciatedframe, 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 eyesbrightened with an expression of joy, "that all will yet be well; that,through the mercy of Providence, Mrs. Vincent will be restored tohealth, and that I shall be permitted to remain a little longer withyou."
"O, that it were to the day of my own death," exclaimed Elizabeth withfervency. "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 usconsider 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 openour eyes again upon the objects of this world; still we project schemes;calculate upon probable and improbable events; but the entire suspensionof our faculties is never taken into the account. Yet we are ignorantwhether we are to open our eyes on the objects of this world, or thatwhich is to come. I own I have not any desponding thoughts; I rest aloneupon 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 ofintentional errors, or errors of omission. This is a source of thepurest consolation; it clears the rough, the thorny path to the valleyof 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 inall things?" Where you have failed, let the morning sun, as it rises, bea token to you that another day is given for wise and good purposes; inthe grave there is no remembrance of error, no atonement to be made fortransgression, 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 hersister'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; willyou oblige me, sister?"
"From my heart I will," exclaimed Elizabeth; "would that I could notonly oblige, but retain you for our comfort, for this world to my motherwill be a wilderness indeed."
"Not so," said Jane, tears flowing into her eyes; "my affectionate, mywarm-hearted sister will be my substitute! O, Elizabeth, friend dearestto 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; Ihave traced it in all your actions; but, rest assured, it will descendwith me to the grave."
CHAPTER XIV.
Elizabeth was restless and uneasy the wh
ole of the day that her motherhad taken her departure for Colonel Vincent's. The evening was wet andgloomy; the young people could not, therefore, take their usual exercisein the play-ground. After sitting some time with her sister and MissArden, she sauntered into the school-room, to observe how they wereemployed. Some of the young ladies were attending to their lessons forthe following day. One party had spread the road to happiness upon awork-box; all anxious to attain the desired haven. Another young ladywas seated alone, joining the map of Europe. In a corner of the room,apart from all her companions, Miss Bruce was reading the admirableinstructive tale "Display." Elizabeth looked over her shoulder, "Mydear, 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 newbook now in the school."
"You mean," said Elizabeth, smiling, "that you have read them all. Butcan you explain the word "Display?" for I think most young ladies arepartial to it, in one shape or another." A carriage now stopped at thedoor; and Elizabeth exclaimed, "who is in that carriage?" Miss Grey, whowas near the window, raised herself upon a box, and looking over theblind, 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, welcomepleasure! But how is Mrs. Vincent?"
"Composed and comfortable; the operation was performed yesterday: but itwas not my intention to desert you: how could you think so?"
Boarding School: Familiar conversations between a governess and her pupils. Page 4