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.”