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diff --git a/16005-0.txt b/16005-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a8cf080 --- /dev/null +++ b/16005-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6407 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Jane Sinclair; Or, The Fawn Of Springvale +by William Carleton + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Jane Sinclair; Or, The Fawn Of Springvale + The Works of William Carleton, Volume Two + +Author: William Carleton + +Illustrator: M. L. Flanery + +Release Date: June 7, 2005 [EBook #16005] +Last Updated: September 6, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JANE SINCLAIR *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +JANE SINCLAIR; + +OR, THE FAWN OF SPRINGVALE. + + +By William Carleton + + + + +PART I. + + +If there be one object in life that stirs the current of human feeling +more sadly than another, it is a young and lovely woman, whose intellect +has been blighted by the treachery of him on whose heart, as on a +shrine, she offered up the incense of her first affection. Such a being +not only draws around her our tenderest and most delicate sympathies, +but fills us with that mournful impression of early desolation, +resembling so much the spirit of melancholy romance that arises from +one of those sad and gloomy breezes which sweep unexpectedly over the +sleeping surface of a summer lake, or moans with a tone of wail and +sorrow through the green foliage of the wood under whose cooling shade +we sink into our noon-day dream. Madness is at all times a thing of +fearful mystery, but when it puts itself forth in a female gifted with +youth and beauty, the pathos it causes becomes too refined for the +grossness of ordinary sorrow--almost transcends our notion of the +real, and assumes that wild interest which invests it with the dim and +visionary light of the ideal. Such a malady constitutes the very romance +of affliction, and gives to the fair sufferer rather the appearance of +an angel fallen without guilt, than that of a being moulded for mortal +purposes. Who ever could look upon such a beautiful ruin without feeling +the heart sink, and the mind overshadowed with a solemn darkness, as +if conscious of witnessing the still and awful gloom of that disastrous +eclipse of reason, which, alas! is so often doomed never to pass away. + +It is difficult to account for the mingled reverence, and terror, and +pity with which we look upon the insane, and it is equally strange that +in this case we approach the temple of the mind with deeper homage, +when we know that the divinity has passed out of it. It must be from a +conviction of this that uncivilized nations venerate deranged persons as +inspired, and in some instance go so far, I believe, as even to pay them +divine worship. + +The principle, however, is in our nature: that for which our sympathy is +deep and unbroken never fails to secure our compassion and respect, and +ultimately to excite a still higher class of our moral feelings. + +These preliminary observations were suggested to me by the fate of the +beautiful but unfortunate girl, the melancholy, events of whose life +I am about to communicate. I feel, indeed, that in relating them, +I undertake a task that would require a pen of unexampled power and +delicacy. But it is probable that if I remained silent upon a history +at once so true, and so full of sorrow; no other person equally intimate +with its incidents will ever give them to the world. I cannot presume +to detail unhappy Jane’s, calamity with the pathos due to a woe so +singularly deep and delicate, or to describe that faithful attachment +which gave her once laughing and ruby lips the white smile of a maniac’s +misery. This I cannot do; for who, alas, could ever hope to invest a +dispensation so dark as her’s with that rich tone of poetic beauty which +threw its wild graces about her madness? For my part, I consider the +subject not only as difficult, but sacred, and approach it on both +accounts with devotion, and fear, and trembling. I need scarcely inform +the reader that the names and localities are, for obvious reasons, +fictitious, but I may be permitted to add that the incidents are +substantially correct and authentic. + +Jane Sinclair was the third and youngest daughter of a dissenting +clergyman, in one of the most interesting counties in the north of +Ireland. Her father was remarkable for that cheerful simplicity of +character which is so frequently joined to a high order of intellect and +an affectionate warmth of heart. To a well-tempered zeal in the cause +of faith and morals, he added a practical habit of charity, both in word +and deed, such as endeared him to all classes, but especially to those +whose humble condition in life gave them the strongest claim upon his +virtues, both as a man and a pastor. Difficult, indeed, would it be to +find a minister of the gospel, whose practice and precept corresponded +with such beautiful fitness, nor one who, in the midst of his own +domestic circle, threw such calm lustre around him as a husband and +a father. A temper grave but sweet, wit playful and innocent, and +tenderness that kept his spirit benignant to error without any +compromise of duty, were the links which bound all hearts to him. Seldom +have I known a Christian clergyman who exhibited in his own life so much +of the unaffected character of apostolic holiness, nor one of whom +it might be said with so much truth, that “he walked in all the +commandments of the Lord blameless.” + +His family, which consisted of his wife, one son, and three daughters, +had, as might be expected, imbibed a deep sense of that religion, the +serene beauty of which shone so steadily along their father’s path +of life. Mrs. Sinclair had been well educated, and in her husband’s +conversation and society found further opportunity of improving, not +only her intellect, but her heart. Though respectably descended, she +could not claim relationship with what may be emphatically termed the +gentry of the country; but she could with that class so prevalent in the +north of Ireland, which ranks in birth only one grade beneath them. I +say in birth;--for in all the decencies of life, in the unostentatious +bounties of benevolence, in moral purity, domestic harmony, and a +conscientious observance of religion, both in the comeliness of +its forms, and the cheerful freedom of its spirit, this class ranks +immeasurably above every other which Irish society presents. They who +compose it are not sufficiently wealthy to relax those pursuits of +honorable industry which constitute them, as a people, the ornament of +our nation; nor does their good-sense and decent pride permit them to +follow the dictates of a mean ambition, by struggling to reach that +false elevation, which is as much beneath them in all the virtues +that grace life, as it is above them in the dazzling dissipation +which renders the violation or neglect of its best duties a matter of +fashionable etiquette, or the shameful privilege of high birth. To this +respectable and independent class did the immediate relations of Mrs. +Sinclair belong; and, as might be expected, she failed not to bring all +its virtues to her husband’s heart and household--there to soothe him by +their influence, to draw fresh energy from their mutual intercourse, and +to shape the habits of their family into that perception of self-respect +and decent propriety, which in domestic duty, dress, and general +conduct, uniformly results from a fine sense of moral feeling, blended +with high religious principle. This, indeed, is the class whose example +has diffused that spirit of keen intelligence and enterprise throughout +the north which makes the name of an Ulster manufacturer or merchant a +synonym for integrity and honor. From it is derived the creditable love +of independence which operates upon the manners of the people and the +physical soil of the country so obviously, that the natural appearance +of the one may be considered as an appropriate exponent of the +moral condition of the other. Aided by the genius of a practical and +impressive creed, whose simple grandeur gives elevation and dignity +to its followers;--this class it is which, by affording employment, +counsel, and example to many of the lower classes, brings peace and +comfort to those who inhabit the white cottages and warm farmsteads +of the north, and lights up its cultivated landscapes, its broad +champaigns, and peaceful vales, into an aspect so smiling, that even +the very soil seems to proclaim and partake of the happiness of its +inhabitants. Indeed, few spots in the north could afford the spectator +a better opportunity of verifying our observations as to the mild +beauty of the country, than the residence of the amiable clergyman whose +unhappy child’s fate has furnished us with the affecting circumstances +we are about to lay before the reader. + +Springvale House, Mr. Sinclair’s residence, was situated on an eminence +that commanded a full view of the sloping valley from which it had +its name. Along this vale, winding towards the house in a northern +direction, ran a beautiful tributary stream, accompanied for nearly two +miles in its progress by a small but well conducted road, which indeed +had rather the character of a green lane than a public way, being but +very little of a thoroughfare. Nothing could surpass this delightful +vale in the soft and serene character of its scenery. Its sides, +partially wooded, and cultivated with surpassing taste, were not so +precipitous as to render habitation in its bosom inconvenient. They +sloped up gradually and gracefully on each side, presenting to the eye +a number of snow-white residences, each standing upon the brow of +some white table or undulation, and surrounded by grounds sufficiently +spacious to allow of green lawns, ornamented plantations, and gardens, +together with a due proportion of land for cultivation and pasture. From +Mr. Sinclair’s house the silver bends of this fine stream gave exquisite +peeps to the spectator as they wound out of the wood which here and +there clothed its banks, occasionally dipping into the water. On the +loft, attached to the glebe-house of the Protestant pastor of the +parish, the eye rested upon a pond as smooth as a mirror, except where +an occasional swan, as it floated onwards without any apparent effort, +left here and there a slight quivering ripple behind it. Farther down, +springing from between two clumps of trees, might be seen the span of a +light and elegant arch, from under which the river gently wound away to +the right; and beyond this, on the left, about a hundred yards from the +bank, rose up the slender spire of the parish church, out of the bosom +of the old beeches that overshadowed it, and threw a solemn gloom upon +the peaceful graveyard at its side. About two hundred yards again to +the right, in a little green shelving dell beneath the house, stood Mr. +Sinclair’s modest white meeting-house, with a large ash tree hanging +over each gable, and a row of poplars behind it. The valley at the +opposite extremity opened upon a landscape bright and picturesque, +dotted with those white residences which give that peculiar character of +warmth and comfort for which the northern landscapes are so remarkable. +Indeed the eye could scarcely rest upon a richer expanse of country than +lay stretched out before it, nor can we omit to notice the singularly +unique and beautiful effect produced by the numerous bleach-greens that +shone at various degrees of distance, and contrasted so sweetly with the +surface of a land deeply and delightfully verdant. + +In the far distance rose the sharp outlines of a lofty mountain, whose +green and sloping base melted into the “sun-silvered” expanse of +the sea, on the smooth bosom of which the eye could snatch brilliant +glimpses of the snow-white sails that sparkled at a distance as they +fell under the beams of the noonday sun. The landscape was indeed +beautiful in itself, but still rendered more so by the delicate aerial +tints which lay on every object, and touched the whole into a mellower +and more exquisite expression. + +Such was the happy valley in which this peaceful family resided; each +and all enjoying that tranquility which sheds its calm contentment over +the unassuming spirits of those who are ignorant of the crimes that +flow from the selfishness and ambition of busy life. To them, the fresh +breezes of morning, as they rustled through the living foliage, and +stirred the modest flowers of their pleasant path, were fraught with an +enjoyment which bound their hearts to every object around them, +because to each of them these objects were the sources of habitual +gratification. On them the dewy stillness of evening descended with +tender serenity, as the valley shone in the radiance of the sinking sun; +and by them was held that sweet and rapturous communion with nature, +which, as it springs earliest in the affections so does it linger about +the heart when all the other loves and enmities of life are forgotten. +Who is there, indeed, whose spirit does not tremble with tenderness, on +looking back upon the scenes of his early life? And, alas! alas! how few +are there of those that are long conversant with the world, who can take +such a retrospect without feeling their hearts weighed down by sorrow, +and the force of associations too mournful to be uttered in words. +The bitter consciousness that we can be youthful no more, and that +the golden hours of our innocence have passed away for ever, throws a +melancholy darkness over the soul, and sends it back again to retrace, +in the imaginary light of our early time, the scenes where that +innocence had been our playmate. Let no man deny that groves, and +meadows, and green fields, and winding streams, and all the other charms +of rural imagery, unconsciously but surely give to the human heart a +deep perception of that graceful creed which is beautifully termed +the religion of nature. They give purity and strength to feeling, +and through the imagination, which owes so much of its power to their +impressions, they raise our sentiments until we feel them kindled into +union with the lustre of a holier light than even that which leads our +steps to God through the beauty of his own works. For this reason it is, +that all imaginative affections are much stronger in the country than in +the town. Love in the one place is not only freer from the coarseness +of passion, but incomparably more seductive to the heart, and more +voluptuous in its conception of the ideal beauty with which it invests +the object of its attachment. Nor is this surprising. In the country +its various associations are essentially impressive and poetical. +Moonlight--evening--the still glen--the river side--the flowery +hawthorn--the bower--the crystal well--not forgetting the melody of +the woodland songster--are all calculated, to make the heart and +fancy surrender themselves to the blandishments of a passion that is +surrounded by objects so sweetly linked to their earliest sympathies. +But this is not all. In rural life, neither the heart nor the eye is +distracted by the claims of rival beauty, when challenging, in the +various graces of many, that admiration which might be bestowed on one +alone, did not each successive impression efface that which went before +it. In the country, therefore, in spring meadows, among summer groves, +and beneath autumnal skies, most certainly does the passion of love sink +deepest into the human heart, and pass into the greatest extremes of +happiness or pain. Here is where it may be seen, cheek to cheek, now +in all the shivering ecstacies of intense rapture, or again moping +carelessly along, with pale brow and flashing eye, sometimes writhing +in the agony of undying attachment, or chanting its mad lay of hope and +love in a spirit of fearful happiness more affecting than either misery +or despair. + +Everything was beautiful in the history of unhappy Jane Sinclair’s +melancholy fate. The evening of the incident to which the fair girl’s +misery might eventually be traced was one of the most calm and balmy +that could be witnessed even during the leafy month of June. With the +exception of Mrs. Sinclair, the whole family had gone out to saunter +leisurely by the river side; the father between his two eldest +daughters, and Jane, then sixteen, sometimes chatting to her brother +William, and sometimes fondling a white dove, which she had petted and +trained with such success that it was then amenable to almost every +light injunction she laid upon it. It sat upon her shoulder, which, +indeed, was its usual seat, would peck her cheek, cower as if with a +sense of happiness in her bosom, and put its bill to her lips, from +which it was usually fed, either to demand some sweet reward for its +obedience, or to express its attachment by a profusion of innocent +caresses. The evening, as we said, was fine; not a cloud could be seen, +except a pile of feathery flakes that hung far up at the western gate +of heaven; the stillness was profound; no breathing even of the gentlest +zephyr, could be felt; the river beside them, which was here pretty +deep, seemed motionless; not a leaf of the trees stirred; the very +aspens were still as if they had been marble; and the whole air was warm +and fragrant. Although the sun wanted an hour of setting, yet from the +bottom of the vale they could perceive the broad shafts of light which +shot from his mild disk through the snowy clouds we have mentioned, like +bars of lambent radiance, almost palpable to the touch. Yet, although +this delightful silence was so profound, the heart could perceive, +beneath its stillest depths, that voiceless harmony of progressing life, +which, like the music of a dream, can reach the soul independently of +the senses, and pour upon it a sublime sense of natural inspiration. + +Something like this appears to have been felt by the group we have +alluded to. Mr. Sinclair, after standing for a moment on the bank of the +river, and raising his eyes to the solemn splendor of the declining sun, +looked earnestly around him, and then out upon the glowing landscape +that stretched beyond the valley, after which, with a spirit of +high-enthusiasm, he exclaimed, catching at the same time the fire and +grandeur of the poet’s noble conception-- + + These are thy glorious works. Parent of good! + Almighty! thine this universal fame-- + Thus wondrous fair--thyself how wondrous then-- + To us invisible, or dimly seen + In these thy lowest works. + +There was something singularly impressive in the burst of piety which +the hour and the place drew from this venerable pastor, as indeed +there was in the whole group, as they listened in the attitude of deep +attention to his words. Mr. Sinclair was a tall, fine-looking old man, +whose white flowing locks fell down on each side of his neck. His +figure appeared to fine advantage, as, standing a little in front of his +children, he pointed with his raised arm to the setting sun; behind +him stood his two eldest girls, the countenance of one turned with an +expression of awe and admiration towards the west; that of the other +fixed with mingled reverence and affection on her father. William stood +near Jane, and looked out thoughtfully towards the sea, while Jane +herself, light, and young, and beautiful, stood with a hushed face, in +the act of giving a pat of gentle rebuke to the snow-white dove on her +bosom. At length they resumed their walk, and the conversation took a +lighter turn. The girls left their father’s side, and strolled in many +directions through the meadow. Sometimes they pulled wild flowers, +if marked by more than ordinary beauty, or gathered the wild mint and +meadow-sweet to perfume their dairy, or culled the flowery woodbine to +shed its delicate fragrance through their sleeping-rooms. In fact, all +their habits and amusements were pastoral, and simple, and elegant. Jane +accompanied them as they strolled about, but was principally engaged +with her pet, which flew, in capricious but graceful circles over her +head, and occasionally shot off into the air, sweeping in mimic flight +behind a green knoll, or a clump of trees, completely out of her sight; +after which it would again return, and folding its snowy pinions, drop +affectionately upon her shoulder, or into her bosom. In this manner they +proceeded for some time, when the dove again sped off across the river, +the bank of which was wooded on the other side. Jane followed the +beautiful creature with a sparkling eye, and saw it wheeling to return, +when immediately the report of a gun was heard from the trees directly +beneath it, and the next moment it faltered in its flight, sunk, and +with feeble wing, struggled to reach the object of its affection. This, +however, was beyond its strength. After sinking gradually towards the +earth, it had power only to reach the middle of the river, into the +deepest part of which it fell, and there lay fluttering upon the stream. + +The report of the gun, and the fate of the pigeon, brought the +personages of our little drama with hurrying steps to the edge of the +river. One scream of surprise and distress proceeded from the lips of +its fair young mistress, after which she wrung her hands, and wept and +sobbed like one in absolute despair. + +“Oh, dear William,” she exclaimed, “can you not rescue it? Oh, save +it--save it; if it sinks I will never see it more. Oh, papa, who could +be so cruel, so heartless, as to injure a creature so beautiful and +inoffensive?” + +“I know not, my dear Jane; but cruel and heartless must the man be that +could perpetrate a piece of such wanton mischief. I should rather think +it is some idle boy who knows not that it is tame.” + +“William, dear William, can you not save it,” she inquired again of her +brother; “if it is doomed to die, let it die with me; but, alas! now +it must sink, and I will never see it more;” and the affectionate girl +continued to weep bitterly. + +“Indeed, my dear Jane, I never regretted my ignorance of swimming +so much as I do this moment. The truth is, I cannot swim a stroke, +otherwise I would save poor little Ariel for your sake.” + +“Don’t take it so much to heart, my dear child,” said her father; “it +is certainly a distressing incident, but, at the same time, your grief, +girl, is too excessive; it is violent, and you know it ought not to be +violent for the death of a favorite bird.” + +“Oh, papa, who can look upon its struggles for life, and not feel +deeply; remember it was mine, and think of its attachment to me. It +has not only the pain of its wound to suffer, but to struggle with an +element against which it feels a natural antipathy, and with which the +gentle creature is this moment contending for its life.” + +There was, indeed, something very painful and affecting in the situation +of the beautiful wounded dove. Even Mr. Sinclair himself, in witnessing +its unavailing struggles, felt as much; nor were the other two girls +unaffected any more than Jane herself. Their eyes became filled with +tears, and Maria, the eldest, said, “It is better, Jane, to return +home. Poor mute creature! the view of its sufferings is, indeed, very +painful.” + +Just then a tall, slender youth, apparently about eighteen, came out of +the trees on the other bank of the river but on seeing Mr. Sinclair and +his family, he paused, and appeared to feel somewhat embarrassed. It +was evident he had seen the bird wounded, and followed the course of +its flight, without suspecting that it was tame, or that there was +any person near to claim it. The distress of the females, however, +especially of its mistress, immediately satisfied him that it was +theirs, and he was about to withdraw into the wood again, when the +situation of poor Ariel caught his eye. He instantly took off his hat, +flung it across the river, and plunging in swam towards the dove, which +was now nearly exhausted. A few strokes brought him to the spot, on +reaching which, he caught the bird in one hand, held it above the water, +and, with the other, swam down towards a slope in the bank a few +yards below the spot where the party stood. Having gained the bank, he +approached them, but was met half way by Jane, whose eyes, now sparkling +through her tears, spoke her gratitude in language much more eloquent +than any her tongue could utter. + +[Illustration: PAGE 5-- Having gained the bank, he approached them] + +The youth first examined the bird, with a view to ascertain where it +had been wounded, and immediately placed it with much gentleness in the +eager hands of its mistress. + +“It will not die, I should think, in consequence of the wound,” he +observed, “which, though pretty severe, has left the wing unbroken. The +body, at all events, is safe. With care it may recover.” + +William then handed him his hat and Mr. Sinclair having thanked him for +an act of such humanity, insisted that he should go home with them, in +order to procure a change of apparel. At first he declined this offer, +but, after a little persuasion, he yielded with something of shyness +and hesitation: accordingly, without loss of time, they all reached the +house together. + +Having, with some difficulty, been prevailed on to take a glass of +cordial, he immediately withdrew to William’s apartment, for the purpose +of changing his dress. William, however, now observed that he got pale, +and that in a few minutes afterwards his teeth began to chatter, whilst +he shivered excessively. + +“You had better lose no time in putting these dry clothes on,” said he; +“I am rather inclined to think bathing does not agree with you, that is, +if I am to judge by your present paleness and trembling.” + +“No,” said the youth, “it is a pleasure which, for the last two years, I +have been forbidden. I feel very chilly, indeed, and you will excuse me +for declining the use of your clothes. I must return home forthwith.” + +Young Sinclair, however, would not hear of this. After considerable +pains he prevailed on him to change his dress, but no argument could +induce him to stop a moment longer than until this was effected. + +The family, on his entering the drawing-room to take his leave, were +surprised at a determination so sudden and unexpected, but when Mr. +Sinclair noticed his extreme paleness, he suspected that he had got ill, +and that it might not be delicate to press him. + +“Before you leave us,” said the good clergyman, “will you not permit us +to know the name of the young gentleman to whom my daughter is indebted +for the rescue of her dove?” + +“We are as yet but strangers in the neighborhood,” replied the youth: +“my father’s name is Osborne. We have not been more than three days in +Mr. Williams’s residence, which, together with the whole of the property +annexed to it, my father has purchased.” + +“I am aware, I am aware: then you will be a permanent neighbor of ours,” + said Mr. Sinclair; “and believe me, my dear boy, we shall always be +happy to see you at Springvale; nor shall we soon forget the generous +act which first brought us acquainted.” + +Whilst this short dialogue lasted, two or three shy sidelong glances +passed between him and Jane. So extremely modest was the young man that, +from an apprehension lest these glances might have been noticed, his +pale face became lit up with a faint blush, in which state of confusion +he took his leave. + +Conversation was not resumed among the Sinclairs for some minutes after +his departure, each, in fact, having been engaged in reflecting upon the +surpassing beauty of his face, and the uncommon symmetry of his slender +but elegant person. Their impression, indeed, was rather that of wonder +than of mere admiration. The tall youth who had just left them seemed, +in fact, an incarnation of the beautiful itself--a visionary creation, +in which was embodied the ideal spirit of youth, intellect, and grace. +His face shone with that rosy light of life’s prime which only glows on +the human countenance during the brief period that intervenes between +the years of the thoughtless boy and those of the confirmed man: and +whilst his white brow beamed with intellect, it was easy to perceive +that the fire of deep feeling and high-wrought enthusiasm broke out in +timid flashes from his dark eye. His modesty, too, by tempering the +full lustre of his beauty, gave to it a character of that graceful +diffidence, which above all others makes the deepest impression upon a +female heart. + +“Well, I do think,” said William Sinclair, “that young Osborne is +decidedly the finest boy I ever saw--the most perfect in beauty and +figure--and yet we have not seen him to advantage.” + +“I think, although I regretted to see him so, that he looked better +after he got pale,” said Maria; “his features, though colorless, were +cut like marble.” + +“I hope his health may not be injured by what has occurred,” observed +the second; “he appeared ill.” + +“That, Agnes, is more to the point,” said Mr. Sinclair; “I fear the boy +is by no means well; and I am apprehensive, from the deep carnation of +his cheek, and his subsequent paleness, that he carries within him the +seeds of early dissolution. He is too delicate, almost too etherial for +earth.” + +“If he becomes an angel,” said William, smiling, “with a very slight +change, he will put some of them out of countenance.” + +“William,” said the father, “never, while you live attempt to be witty +at the expense of what is sacred or solemn; such jests harden the heart +of him who utters them, and sink his character, not only as a Christian, +but as a gentleman.” + +“I beg your pardon, father---I was wrong--but I spoke heedlessly.” + +“I know you did, Billy; but in future avoid it. Well, Jane, how is your +bird?” + +“I think it is better, papa; but one can form no opinion so soon.” + +“Go, show it to your mamma--she is the best doctor among us--follow her +advice, and no doubt she will add its cure to the other triumphs of her +skill.” + +“Jane is fretting too much about it,” observed Agnes; “why, Jane, you +are just now as pale as young Osborne himself.” + +This observation turned the eyes of the family upon her; but scarcely +had her sister uttered the words when the young creature’s countenance +became the color of crimson, so deeply, and with such evident confusion +did she blush. Indeed she felt conscious of this, for she rose, with +the wounded dove lying gently between her hands and bosom, and passed, +without speaking, out of the room. + +“Don’t you think, papa,” observed Miss Sinclair, “that there is a +striking resemblance between young Osborne and Jane? I could not help +remarking it.” + +“There decidedly is, Maria, now that you mentioned it,” said William. + +The father paused a little, as if to consider the matter, and then added +with a smile-- + +“It is very singular, Mary; but indeed I think there is--both in the +style of their features and their figure.” + +“Osborne is too handsome for a man,” observed Agnes; “yet, after all, +one can hardly say so, his face, though fine, is not feminine.” + +“Beauty, my children!--alas, what is it? Often--too often, a fearful, +a fatal gift. It is born with us, and not of our own merit; yet we are +vain enough to be proud of it. It is at best a flower that soon fades--a +light that soon passes away. Oh! what is it when contrasted with those +high principles whose beauty is immortal, which brighten by age, and +know neither change nor decay. There is Jane--my poor child--she is +indeed very beautiful and graceful, yet I often fear that her beauty, +joined as it is to an over-wrought sensibility, may, before her life +closes, occasion much sorrow either to herself or others.” + +“She is all affection,” said William. + +“She is all love, all tenderness, all goodness; and may the grace of her +Almighty Father keep her from the wail and woe which too often accompany +the path of beauty in this life of vicissitude and trial.” + +A tear of affection for his beautiful child stood in the old man’s eyes +as he raised them to heaven, and the loving hearts of his family burned +with tenderness towards this their youngest and best beloved sister. + +The sun had now gone down, and, after a short pause, the old man desired +William to summon the other members of the household in to prayers. +The evening worship being concluded, the youngsters walked in the lawn +before the door until darkness began to set in, after which they retired +to their respective apartments for the night. + +Sweet and light be your slumbers, O ye that are peaceful and good--sweet +be your slumbers on this night so calm and beautiful; for, alas, there +is one among you into whose I innocent bosom has stolen that destroying +spirit which will yet pale her fair cheek, and wring many a bitter +tear from the eyes that love to look upon her. Her early sorrows +have commenced this night, and for what mysterious purpose who can +divine?--but, alas, alas, her fate is sealed--the fawn of Springvale +is stricken, and even now carries in her young heart a wound that will +never close. + +Osborne’s father, who had succeeded to an estate of one thousand +per annum, was the eldest son of a gentleman whose habits were +badly calculated to improve the remnant of property which ancestral +extravagance had left him. + +Ere many years the fragment which came into his possession dwindled into +a fraction of its former value, and he found himself With a wife and +four children--two sons and two daughters--struggling on a pittance of +two hundred a year. This, to a man possessing the feelings and education +of a gentleman, amounted to something like retributive justice upon his +prodigality. His conflict with poverty, however, (for to him it might +be termed such,) was fortunately not of long duration. A younger brother +who, finding that he must fight his own battle in life, had embraced +the profession of medicine, very seasonably died, and Osborne’s father +succeeded to a sum of twelve thousand pounds in the funds, and an income +in landed property of seven hundred per annum. He now felt himself more +independent than he had ever been, and with this advantage, that his +bitter experience of a heartless world had completely cured him of +all tendency to extravagance. And now he would have enjoyed as much +happiness as is the usual lot of man, were it not that the shadow of +death fell upon his house, and cast its cold blight upon his children. +Ere three years had elapsed he saw his eldest daughter fade out of life, +and in less than two more his eldest son was laid beside her in the +same grave. Decline, the poetry of death, in its deadly beauty came +upon them, and whilst it sang its song of life and hope to their hearts, +treacherously withdrew them to darkness and the worm. + +Osborne’s feelings were those of thoughtlessness and extravagance; but +he had never been either a libertine or a profligate, although the world +forbore not, when it found him humbled in his poverty, to bring such +charges against him. In truth, he was full of kindness, and no parent +ever loved his children with deeper or more devoted affection. The death +of his noble son and beautiful girl brought down his spirit to the +most mournful depths of affliction. Still he had two left, and, as +it happened, the most beautiful, and more than equally possessed his +affections. To them was gradually transferred that melancholy love which +the heart of the sorrowing father had carried into the grave of the +departed; and alas, it appeared as if it had come back to those who +lived loaded with the malady of the dead. The health of the surviving +boy became delicate, and by the advice of his physician, who pronounced +the air in which they lived unfavorable,--Osborne, on hearing that Mr. +Williams, a distant relation, was about to dispose of his house and +grounds, immediately became the purchaser. The situation, which had +a southern aspect, was dry and healthy, the air pure and genial, and, +according to the best medical opinions, highly beneficial to persons of +a consumptive habit. + +For two years before this--that is since his brother’s death--the health +of young Osborne had been watched with all the tender vigilance of +affection. A regimen in diet, study and exercise, had been prescribed +for him by his physician; the regulations of which he was by no means to +transgress. + +In fact his parents lived under a sleepless dread of losing him which +kept their hearts expanded with that inexpressible and burning +love which none but a parent so circumstanced can ever feel. Alas! +notwithstanding the promise of life which early years usually hold +out, there was much to justify them in this their sad and gloomy +apprehension. Woeful was the uncertainty which they felt in +discriminating between the natural bloom of youth and the beauty of that +fatal malady which they dreaded. His tall slender frame, his transparent +cheek, so touching, so unearthly in the fairness of its expression; the +delicacy of his whole organization, both mental and physical--all, all, +with the terror of decline in their hearts, spoke as much of despair as +of hope, and placed the life and death of their beloved boy in an equal +poise. + +But, independently of his extraordinary personal advantages, all his +dispositions were so gentle and affectionate, that it was not I in +human nature to entertain harsh feeling toward him. Although modest and +shrinking, even to diffidence, he possessed a mind full of intellect and +enthusiasm: his imagination, too, overflowed with creative power, and +sought the dreamy solitudes of noon, that it might, far from the bustle +of life, shadow forth those images of beauty which come thickly only +upon those whose hearts are most susceptible of its forms. Many a time +has he sat alone upon the brow of a rock or hill, watching the clouds +of heaven, or gazing on the setting sun, or communing with the thousand +aspects of nature in a thousand moods, his young spirit relaxed into +that elysian reverie which, beyond all other kinds of intellectual +enjoyment, is the most seductive to a youth of poetic temperament. + +There were, indeed, in Osborne’s case, too many of those light and +scarcely perceptible tokens which might be traced, if not to a habit of +decline, at least to a more than ordinary delicacy of constitution. +The short cough, produced by the slightest damp, or the least breath of +ungenial air--the varying cheek, now rich as purple, and again pale as a +star of heaven--the unsteady pulse, and the nervous sense of uneasiness +without a cause--all these might be symptoms of incipient decay, or +proofs of those fine impulses which are generally associated with quick +sensibility and genius. Still they existed; at one time oppressing the +hearts of his parents with fear, and again exalting them with pride. The +boy was consequently enjoined to avoid all violent exercise, to keep out +of Currents, while heated to drink nothing cold, and above all things +never to indulge in the amusement of cold bathing. + +Such were the circumstances under which Osbome first appeared to the +reader, who may now understand the extent of his alarm on feeling +himself so suddenly and seriously affected by his generosity in rescuing +the wounded dove. His mere illness on this occasion was a matter of much +less anxiety to himself than the alarm which he knew it would occasion +his parents and sister. On his reaching home he mentioned the incident +which occurred, admitted that he had been rather warm on going into the +water, and immediately went to bed. Medical aid was forthwith procured, +and although the physician assured them that there appeared nothing +serious in his immediate state, yet was his father’s house a house of +wail and sorrow. + +The next day the Sinclairs, having heard in reply to their inquiries +through the servant who had been sent home with his apparel, that he was +ill, the worthy clergyman lost no time in paying his parents a visit +on the occasion. In this he expressed his regret, and that also of his +whole family, that any circumstance relating to them should have been +the means, even accidentally, of affecting the young gentleman’s health. +It was not, however, until he dwelt upon the occurrence in terms of +approbation, and placed the boy’s conduct in a generous light, that he +was enabled to appreciate the depth and tenderness of their affection +for him. The mother’s tears flowed in silence on hearing this fresh +proof of his amiable spirit, and the father, with a foreboding heart, +related to Mr. Sinclair the substance of that which we have detailed to +the reader. + +Such was the incident which brought these two families acquainted, and +ultimately ripened their intimacy into friendship. + +Much sympathy was felt for young Osborne by the other members of +Mr. Sinclair’s household, especially as his modest and unobtrusive +deportment, joined to his extraordinary beauty, had made so singularly +favorable an impression upon them. Is or was the history of that +insidious malady, which had already been so fatal to his sister and +brother, calculated to lessen the interest which his first appearance +had excited. There was one young heart among them which sank, as if the +Weight of death had come over it, on hearing this melancholy account +of him whose image was now for ever the star of her fate, whether for +happiness or sorrow. From the moment their eyes had met in those few +shrinking but flashing glances by which the spirit of love conveys its +own secret, she felt the first painful transports of the new affection, +and retired to solitude with the arrow that struck her so deeply yet +quivering in her bosom. + +The case of our fair girl differed widely from that of many young +persons, in whose heart the passion of love lurks unknown for a time, +throwing its roseate shadows of delight and melancholy over their peace, +whilst they themselves feel unable in the beginning to develop those +strange sensations which take away from their pillows the unbroken +slumber of early life. + +Jane from the moment her eyes rested on Osborne felt and was conscious +of feeling the influence of a youth so transcendently fascinating. Her +love broke not forth gradually like the trembling light that brightens +into the purple flush of morning; neither was it fated to sink calm and +untroubled like the crimson tints that die only when the veil of night, +like the darkness of death, wraps them in its shadow. Alas no, it sprung +from her heart in all the noontide strength of maturity--a full-grown +passion, incapable of self-restraint, and conscious only of the wild +and novel delight arising from its own indulgence. Night and day that +graceful form hovered before her, encircled in the halo of her young +imagination, with a lustre that sparkled beyond the light of human +beauty. We know that the eye when it looks steadily upon a cloudless +sun, is incapable for some time afterwards of seeing any other object +distinctly; and that in whatever direction it turns that bright image +floats incessantly before it--nor will be removed even although the eye +itself is closed against its radiance. So was it with Jane. Asleep or +awake, in society or in solitude, the vision with which her soul held +communion never for a moment withdrew from before her, until at length +her very heart became sick, and her fancy entranced, by the excess of +her youthful and unrestrained attachment. She could not despair, she +could scarcely doubt; for on thinking of the blushing glances so rapidly +stolen at herself, and of the dark brilliant eye from whence they came, +she knew that the soul of him she loved spoke to her in a language that +was mutually understood. These impressions, it is true, were felt in +her moments of ecstacy, but then came, notwithstanding this confidence, +other moments when maidenly timidity took the crown of rejoicing off her +head, and darkened her youthful brow with that uncertainty, which, while +it depresses hope, renders the object that is loved a thousand times +dearer to the heart. + +To others, at the present stage of her affection, she appeared more +silent than usual, and evidently fond of solitude, a trait which they +had not observed in her before. But these were slight symptoms of what +she felt; for alas, the day was soon to come that was to overshadow +their hearts forever--never, never more were they and she, in the light +of their own innocence, to sing like the morning stars together, or to +lay their untroubled heads in the slumbers of the happy. + +More than a month had now elapsed since the first appearance of Osborne +as one of the _dramatis personae_ of our narrative. A slight fever, +attended with less effect upon the lungs than his parents anticipated, +had passed off, and he was once more able to go abroad and take exercise +in the open air. The two families were now in the habit of visiting each +other almost daily; and what tended more and more to draw closer the +bonds of good feeling between them, was the fact of the Osbornes being +members of the same creed, and attendants at Mr. Sinclair’s place of +worship. Jane, while Charles Osborne was yet ill, had felt a childish +diminution of her affection for her convalescent dove, whilst at the +same time something whispered to her that it possessed a stronger +interest in her heart than it had ever done before. This may seem a +paradox to such of our readers as have never been in love; but it is not +at all irreconcilable to the analogous and often conflicting states of +feeling produced by that strange and mysterious passion. The innocent +girl was wont, as frequently as she could without exciting notice, to +steal away to the garden, or the fields, or the river side, accompanied +by her mute, companion, to which with pouting caresses she would address +a series of rebukes of having been the means of occasioning the illness +of him she loved. + +“Alas, Ariel, little do you know, sweet bird, what anxiety you have +caused your mistress--if he dies I shall never love you more? Yes, coo, +and flutter--but I do not care for you; no, that kiss won’t satisfy me +until he is recovered--then I shall be friends with you, and you shall +be my own Ariel again.” + +She would then pat it petulantly; and the beautiful creature would sink +its head, and slightly expand its wings, as if conscious that there was +a change of mood in her affection. + +But again the innocent remorse of her girlish heart would flow forth in +terms of tenderness and endearment; again would I she pat and cherish +it; and with the artless I caprice of childhood exclaim-- + +“No, my own Ariel, the fault was not yours; come, I shall love you--and +I will not be angry again; even if you were not good I would love you +for his sake. You are now dearer to me a thousand times than you ever +were; but alas! Ariel, I am sick, I am sick, and no longer happy. Where +is my lightness of heart, my sweet bird, and where, oh where is the joy +I used to feel?” + +Even this admission, which in the midst of solitude could reach no other +human ear, would startle the bashful creature into alarm; and whilst her +cheek became alternately pale and crimson at such an avowal thus uttered +aloud, she would wipe away the tears that arose to her eyes whenever the +depths of her affection were stirred by those pensive broodings which +gave its sweetest charm to youthful love. + +In thus seeking solitude, it is not to be imagined that our young +heroine was drawn thither by a love of contemplating nature in those +fresher aspects which present themselves in the stillness of her remote +recesses. She sought not for their own sakes the shades of the grove, +the murmuring cascade, nor the voice of the hidden rivulet that +occasionally stole out from its leafy cover, and ran in music towards +the ampler stream of the valley. + +No, no; over her heart and eye the spirit of their beauty passed idly +and unfelt. All of external life that she had been wont to love and +admire gave her pleasure no more. The natural arbors of woodbine, the +fairy dells, and the wild flowers that peeped in unknown sweetness about +the hedges, the fairy fingers, the blue-bells, the cow-slips, with many +others of her fragrant and graceful favorites, all, all, charmed her, +alas, no more. Nor at home, where every voice was tenderness, and every +word affection, did there exist in her stricken heart that buoyant sense +of enjoyment which had made her youth like the music of a brook, where +every thing that broke the smoothness of its current only turned it +into melody. The morning and evening prayer--the hymn of her sister +voices--their simple spirit of tranquil devotion--and the touching +solemnity of her father, worshipping God upon the altar of his own +heart--all, all this, alas--alas, charmed her no more. Oh, no--no; +many motives conspired to send her into solitude, that she might in the +sanctity of unreproving nature cherish her affection for the youth whose +image was ever, ever before her. At home such was the timid delicacy of +her love, that she felt as if its indulgence even in the stillest depths +of her own heart, was disturbed by the conversation of her kindred, and +the familiar habits of domestic life. Her father’s, her brother’s, and +her sisters’ voices, produced in her a feeling of latent shame, which, +when she supposed for a moment that they could guess her attachment, +filled her with anxiety and confusion. She experienced besides a sense +of uneasiness on reflecting that she practiced, for the first time in +their presence, a dissimulation so much at variance with the opinion she +knew they entertained of her habitual candor. It was, in fact, the first +secret she had ever concealed from them; and now the suppression of it +in her own bosom made her feel as if she had withdrawn that confidence +which was due to the love they bore her. This was what kept her so much +in her own room, or sent her abroad to avoid all that had a tendency +to repress the indulgence of an attachment that had left in her heart a +capacity for no other enjoyment. But in solitude she was far from every +thing that could disturb those dreams in which the tranquility of nature +never failed to entrance her. There was where the mysterious spirit +that raises the soul above the impulses of animal life, mingled with +her being--and poured upon her affection the elemental purity of that +original love which in the beginning preceded human guilt. + +It is, indeed, far from the contamination of society--in the stillness +of solitude when the sentiment of love comes abroad before its passion, +that the heart can be said to realize the object of its devotion, and to +forget that its indulgence can ever be associated with error. This is, +truly, the angelic love of youth and innocence; and such was the nature +of that which the beautiful girl felt. Indeed, her clay was so divinely +tempered, that the veil which covered her pure and ethereal spirit, +almost permitted the light within to be visible, and exhibited the +workings of a soul that struggled to reach the object whose communion +with itself seemed to constitute the sole end of its existence. + +The evening on which Jane and Charles Osborne met for the first time, +unaccompanied by their friends, was one of those to which the power of +neither pen nor pencil can do justice. The sun was slowly sinking among +a pile of those soft crimson clouds, behind which fancy is so apt to +picture to itself the regions of calm delight that are inhabited by the +happy spirits of the blest; the sycamore and hawthorn were yet musical +with the hum of bees, busy in securing their evening burthen for the +hive. Myriads of winged insects were sporting in the sunbeams; the +melancholy plaint of the ringdove came out sweetly from the trees, +mingled with the songs of other birds, and the still sweeter voice of +some happy groups of children at play in the distance. The light of the +hour, in its subdued but golden tone, fell with singular clearness upon +all nature, giving to it that tranquil beauty which makes every thing +the eye rests upon glide with quiet rapture into the heart. The moth +butterflies were fluttering over the meadows, and from the low stretches +of softer green rose the thickly-growing grass-stalks, laying their +slender ear’s bent with the mellow burthen of wild honey--the ambrosial +feast for the lips of innocence and childhood. It was, indeed, an +evening when love would bring forth its sweetest memories, and dream +itself into those ecstacies of tenderness that flow from the mingled +sensations of sadness and delight. + +It would be difficult, perhaps impossible, to see on this earth a young +creature, whose youth and beauty, and slender grace of person gave her +more the appearance of some visionary spirit, too exquisitely ideal for +human life. Indeed, she seemed to be tinted with the hues of heaven, and +never did a mortal being exist in such fine and harmonious keeping with +the scene in which she moved. So light and sylph-like was her figure, +though tall, that the eye almost feared she would dissolve from before +it, and leave nothing to gaze at but the earth on which she trod. Yet +was there still apparent in her something that preserved, with singular +power, the delightful reality that she was of humanity, and subject to +all those softer influences that breathe their music so sweetly over the +chords of the human heart. The delicate bloom of her cheek, shaded +away as it was, until it melted into the light that sparkled from her +complexion--the snowy forehead, the flashing eye, in which sat the very +soul of love--the lips, blushing of sweets--her whole person breathing +the warmth of youth, and feeling, and so characteristic in the easiness +of its motions of that gracile flexibility that has never been known +to exist separate from the power of receiving varied and profound +emotions--all this told the spectator, too truly, that the lovely being +before him was not of another sphere, but one of the most delightful +that ever appeared in this. + +But hush!--here is a strain of music! Oh! what lips breathed forth that +gush of touching melody which flows in such linked sweetness from the +flute of an unseen performer? How soft, how gentle, but oh, how very +mournful are the notes! Alas! they are steeped in sorrow, and melt away +in the plaintive cadences of despair, until they mingle with silence. +Surely, surely, they come from one whose heart has been brought low by +the ruined hopes of an unrequited passion. Yes, fair girl, thou at least +dost so interpret them; but why this sympathy in one so young? Why is +thy bright eye dewy with tears for the imaginary sorrows of another? +And again--but ha!--why that flash of delight and terror?--that sudden +suffusion of red over thy face and neck--and even now, that paleness +like death! Thy heart, thy heart--why does it throb, and why do thy +knees totter? Alas! it is even so; the Endymion of thy dreams, as +beautiful as even thou thyself in thy purple dawn of womanhood,--he +from whom thou now shrinkest, yet whom thou dreadest not to meet, is +approaching, and bears in his beauty the charm that will darken thy +destiny. + +The appearance of Osborne, unaccompanied, taught this young creature +to know the full extent of his influence over her. Delight, terror, and +utter confusion of thought and feeling, seized upon her the moment he +became visible. She wished herself at home, but had not power to go; +she blushed, she trembled, and, in the tumult of the moment, lost all +presence of mind and self-possession. He had come from behind a hedge, +on the path-way along which she walked, and was consequently approaching +her, so that it was evident they must meet. On seeing her he ceased to +play, paused a moment, and were it not that it might appear cold, and +rather remarkable, he, too, would have retraced his steps homewards. In +truth, both felt equally confused and equally agitated, for, although +such an interview had been, for some time previously, the dearest wish +of their hearts, yet would they both almost have felt relieved, had they +had an opportunity of then escaping it. Their first words were uttered +in a low, hesitating voice, amid pauses occasioned by the necessity +of collecting their scattered thoughts, and with countenances deeply +blushing from a consciousness of what they felt. Osborne turned back, +mechanically, and accompanied her in her walk. After this there was +a silence for some time, for neither had courage to renew the +conversation. At length Osborne, in a faltering voice addressed her: + +“Your dove,” said he, “is quite recovered, I presume.” + +“Oh, yes,” she replied, “it is perfectly well again.” + +“It is an exceedingly beautiful bird, and remarkably docile.” + +“I have had little difficulty in training it,” she returned, and then +added, very timidly, “it is also very affectionate.” + +The youth’s eyes sparkled, as if he were about to indulge in some +observation suggested by her reply, but, fearing to give it expression, +he paused again; in a few minutes, however, he added-- + +“I think there is nothing that gives one so perfect an idea of purity +and innocence as a snow-white dove, unless I except a young and +beautiful girl, such as--” + +He glanced at her as he spoke, and their eyes met, but in less than a +moment they were withdrawn, and cast upon the earth. + +“And of meekness and holiness too,” she observed, after a little. + +“True; but perhaps I ought to make another exception,” he added, +alluding to the term by which she herself was then generally known. As +he spoke, his voice expressed considerable hesitation. + +“Another exception,” she answered, inquiringly, “it would be difficult, +I think, to find any other emblem of innocence so appropriate as a +dove.” + +“Is not a Fawn still more so,” he replied, “it is so gentle and meek, +and its motions are so full of grace and timidity, and beauty. Indeed +I do not wonder, when an individual of your sex resembles it in the +qualities I have mentioned, that the name is sometimes applied to her.” + +The tell-tale cheek of the girl blushed a recognition of the compliment +implied in the words, and after a short silence, she said, in a tone +that was any thing but indifferent, and with a view of changing the +conversation-- + +“I hope you are quite recovered from your illness.” + +“With the exception of a very slight cough, I am,” he replied. + +“I think,” she observed, “that you look somewhat paler than you did.” + +“That paleness does not proceed from indisposition, but from a far +different”--he paused again, and looked evidently abashed. In the course +of a minute, however, he added, “yes, I know I am pale, but not because +I am unwell, for my health is nearly, if not altogether, restored, but +because I am unhappy.” + +“Strange,” said Jane, “to see one unhappy at your years.” + +“I think I know my own character and disposition well,” he replied; “my +temperament is naturally a melancholy one; the frame of my mind is +like that of my body, very delicate, and capable of being affected by a +thousand slight influences which pass over hearts of a stronger mould, +without ever being felt. Life to me, I know, will be productive of much +pain, and much enjoyment, while its tenure lasts, but that, indeed, +will not be long. My sands are measured, for I feel a presentiment, a +mournful and prophetic impression, that I am doomed to go down into an +early grave.” + +The tone of passionate enthusiasm which pervaded these words, uttered +as they were in a voice wherein pathos and melody were equally blended, +appeared to be almost too much for a creature whose sympathy in all +his moods and feelings was then so deep and congenial. She felt some +difficulty in repressing her tears, and said, in a voice which no effort +could keep firm. + +“You ought not to indulge in those gloomy forebodings; you should +struggle against them, otherwise they will distress your mind, and +injure your health.” + +“Oh, you do not know,” he proceeded, his eyes sparkling with that +light which is so often the beacon of death--“you do not know the +fatal fascination by which a mind, set to the sorrows of a melancholy +temperament, is charmed out of its strength. But no matter how dark may +be my dreams--there is one light for ever upon them--one image ever, +ever before me--one figure of grace and beauty--oh, how could I deny +myself the contemplation of a vision that pours into my soul a portion +of itself, and effaces: every other object but an entrancing sense of +its own presence. I cannot, I cannot--it bears me away into a happiness +that is full of sadness--where I indulge alone, without knowing why, in +my feast of tears’--happy! happy! so I think, and so I feel; yet why +is my heart sunk, and why are all my visions filled with death and the +grave?” + +“Oh, do not talk so frequently of death,” replied the beautiful girl, +“surely you need not fear it for a long while. This morbid tone of mind +will pass away when you grow into better health and strength.” + +“Is not this hour calm?” said he, flashing his dark eyes full upon her, +“see how beautiful the sun sinks in the west;--alas! so I should wish to +die--as calm, and the moral lustre of my life as radiant.” + +“And so you shall,” said Jane, in a voice full of that delightful spirit +of consolation which, proceeding from such lips, breathes the most +affecting power of sympathy, “so you shall, but like him, not until +after the close of a long and well-spent life.” + +“That--that,” said he, “was only a passing thought. Yes, the hour is +calm, but even in such stillness, do you not observe that the aspen +there to our left, this moment quivers to the breezes which we +cannot feel, and by which not a leaf of any other tree about us is +stirred--such I know myself to be, an aspen among men, stirred into +joy or sorrow, whilst the hearts of others are at rest. Oh, how can my +foretaste of life be either bright or cheerful, for when I am capable of +being moved by the very breathings of passion, what must I not feel +in the blast, and in the storm--even now, even now!”--The boy, here +overcome by the force of his own melancholy enthusiasm, paused abruptly, +and Jane, after several attempts to speak, at last said, in a voice +scarcely audible-- + +“Is not hope always better than despair?” + +Osborne instantly fixed his eyes upon her, and saw, that although her’s +were bent upon the earth, her face had become overspread with a deep +blush. While he looked she raised them, but after a single glance, at +once quick and timid, she withdrew them again, a still deeper blush +mantling on her cheek. He now felt a sudden thrill of rapture fall upon +his heart, and rush, almost like a suffocating sensation, to his throat; +his being became for a moment raised to an ecstacy too intense for the +power of description to portray, and, were it not for the fear which +ever accompanies the disclosure of first and youthful love, the tears of +exulting delight would have streamed down his cheeks. + +Both had reached a little fairy dell of vivid green, concealed by trees +on every side, and in the middle of which rose a large yew, around whose +trunk had been built a seat of natural turf whereon those who strolled +about the ground might rest, when heated or fatigued by exercise or the +sun. Here the girl sat down. + +A change had now come over both. The gloom of the boy’s temperament was +gone, and his spirit caught its mood from that of his companion. Each at +the moment breathed the low, anxious, and tender timidity of love, in +it purest character. The souls of both vibrated to each other, and felt +depressed with that sweetest emotion which derives all its power from +the consciousness that its participation is mutual. Osborne spoke low, +and his voice trembled; the girl was silent, but her bosom panted, and +her frame shook from head to foot. At length, Osborne spoke. + +“I sometimes sit here alone, and amuse myself with my flute; but of +late--of late--I can hear no music that is not melancholy.” + +“I, too, prefer mournful--mournful music,” replied Jane. “That was a +beautiful air you played just now.” + +Osborne put the flute to his lips, and commenced playing over again the +air she had praised; but, on glancing at the fair girl, he perceived +her eyes fixed upon him with a look of such deep and devoted passion as +utterly overcame him. Her eyes, as before, were immediately withdrawn, +but there dwelt again upon her burning cheek such a consciousness of her +love as could not, for a moment, be mistaken. In fact she betrayed all +the confused symptoms of one who felt that the state of her heart had +been discovered. Osborne ceased playing; for such was his agitation that +he scarcely knew what he thought or did. + +“I cannot go on,” said he in a voice which equally betrayed the state +of his heart; “I cannot play;” and at the same time he seated himself +beside her. + +Jane rose as he spoke, and in a broken voice, full of an expression like +distress, said hastily: + +“It is time I should go;--I am,--I am too long out.” + +Osborne caught her hand, and in words that burned with the deep and +melting contagion of his passion, said simply: + +“Do not go:--oh do not yet go!” + +She looked full upon him, and perceived that as he spoke his face became +deadly pale, as if her words were to seal his happiness or misery. + +“Oh do not leave me now,” he pleaded; “do not go, and my life may yet be +happy.” + +“I must,” she replied, with great difficulty; “I cannot stay; I do not +wish you to be unhappy;” and whilst saying this, the tears that ran in +silence down her cheeks proved too clearly how dear his happiness must +ever be to her. + +Osborne’s arm glided round her waist, and she resumed her seat,--or +rather tottered into it. + +“You are in tears,” he exclaimed. “Oh could it be true! Is it not, my +beloved girl? It is--it is--love! Oh surely, surely it must--it must!” + +She sobbed aloud once or twice; and, as he kissed her unresisting lips, +she murmured out, “It is; it is; I love you.” + +Oh life! how dark and unfathomable are thy mysteries! And why is it that +thou permittest the course of true love, like this, so seldom to run +smooth, when so many who, uniting through the impulse of sordid passion, +sink into a state of obtuse indifference, over which the lights and +shadows that touch thee into thy finest perceptions of enjoyment pass in +vain. + +It is a singular fact, but no less true than singular, that since the +world began there never was known any instance of an anxiety, on the +part of youthful lovers, to prolong to an immoderate extent the scene +in which the first mutual avowal of their passions takes place. The +excitement is too profound, and the waste of those delicate spirits, +which are expended in such interviews, is much too great to permit the +soul to bear such an excess of happiness long. Independently of this, +there is associated with it an ultimate enjoyment, for which the lovers +immediately fly to solitude; there, in the certainty of waking bliss, to +think over and over again of all that has occurred between them, and to +luxuriate in the conviction, that at length the heart has not another +wish, but sinks into the solitary charm which expands it with such a +sense of rapturous and exulting delight. + +The interview between our lovers was, consequently, not long. The secret +of their hearts being now known, each felt anxious to retire, and to +look with a miser’s ecstacy upon the delicious hoard which the scene +we have just described had created. Jane did not reach home until the +evening devotions of the family were over, and this was the first time +she had ever, to their knowledge, been absent from them before. Borne +away by the force of what had just occurred, she was proceeding up to +her own room, after reaching home, when Mr. Sinclair, who had remarked +her absence, desired that she be called into the drawing-room. + +“It is the first neglect,” he observed, “of a necessary duty, and it +would be wrong in me to let it pass without at least pointing it out +to the dear child as an error, and knowing from her own lips why it has +happened.” + +Terror and alarm, like what might be supposed to arise from the +detection of secret guilt, seized upon the young creature so violently +that she had hardly strength to enter the drawing-room without support: +her face became the image of death, and her whole frame tottered and +trembled visibly. + +“Jane, my dear, why were you absent from prayers this evening?” inquired +her father, with his usual mildness of manner. + +This question, to one who had never yet been, in the slightest instance, +guilty of falsehood, was indeed a terrible one; and especially to a girl +so extremely timid as was this his best beloved daughter. + +“Papa,” she at last replied, “I was out walking;” but as she spoke +there was that in her voice and manner which betrayed the guilt of an +insincere reply. + +“I know, my dear, you were; but although you have frequently been out +walking, yet I do not remember that you ever stayed, away from our +evening worship before. Why is this?” + +Her father’s question was repeated in vain. She hung her head and +returned no answer. She tried to speak, but from her parched lips not +a word could proceed. She felt as if all the family that moment were +conscious of the occurrence between her and her lover; and if the wish +could have relieved her, she would almost have wished to die, so much +did she shrink abashed in their presence. + +“Tell me, my daughter,” proceeded her father, more seriously, “has your +absence been occasioned by anything that you are ashamed or afraid to +mention? From me, Jane, you ought to have no secrets;--you are yet too +young to think away from your father’s heart and from your mother’s +also;--speak candidly, my child,--speak candidly,--I expect it.” + +As he uttered the last words, the head of their beautiful flower sank +upon her bosom, and in a moment she lay insensible upon the sofa on +which she had been sitting. + +This was a shock for which neither the father nor the family were +prepared. William flew to her,--all of them crowded about her, and +scarcely had he raised that face so pale, but now so mournfully +beautiful in its insensibility, when her mother and sisters burst into +tears and wailings, for they feared at the moment that their beloved +one must have been previously seized with sudden illness, and was then +either taken, or about to be taken from their eyes for ever. By the +coolness of her father, however, they were directed how to restore her, +in which, after a lapse of not less than ten minutes, they succeeded. + +When she recovered, her mother folded her in her arms, and her sisters +embraced her with tenderness and tears. Her father then gently caught +her hand in his, and said with much affection: + +“Jane, my child, you are ill. Why not have told us so?” + +The beautiful girl knelt before him for a moment, but again rose up, and +hiding her head in his bosom, exclaimed--weeping-- + +“Papa, bless me, oh, bless me, and forgive me.” + +“I do; I do,” said the old man; and as he spoke a few large tears +trickled down his cheeks, and fell upon her golden locks. + + + + +PART II. + + +It is a singular fact, but one which we know to be true, that not only +the affection of parents, but that of brothers and sisters, goes +down with greater tenderness to the youngest of the family, all other +circumstances being equal. This is so universally felt and known, that +it requires no further illustration from us. At home, Jane Sinclair +was loved more devotedly in consequence of being the most innocent and +beautiful of her father’s children; in addition to this, however, she +was cherished with that peculiar sensibility of attachment by which the +human heart is always swayed towards its youngest and its last. + +On witnessing her father’s tenderness, she concealed her face in his +bosom, and wept for some time in silence, and by a gentle pressure of +her delicate arms, as they encircled his neck, intimated her sense of +his affectionate indulgence towards her; and perhaps, could it have +been understood, a tacit acknowledgment of her own unworthiness on that +occasion to receive it. + +At length, she said, after an effort to suppress her tears, “Papa, I +will go to bed.” + +“Do, my love; and Jane, forget not to address the Throne of God before +you sleep.” + +“I did not intend to neglect it, papa. Mamma, come with me.” She then +kissed her sisters and bade good-night to William; after which she +withdrew, accompanied by her mother, whilst the eyes of those who +remained were fixed upon her with love and pride and admiration. + +“Mamma,” said she, when they reached the apartment, “allow me to sleep +alone tonight.” + +“Jane, your mind appears to be depressed, darling,” replied her mother; +“has anything disturbed you, or are you really ill?” + +“I am quite well, mamma, and not at all depressed; but do allow me to +sleep in the closet bed.” + +“No, my dear, Agnes will sleep there, and you can sleep in your own as +usual; the poor girl will wonder why you leave her, Jane; she will feel +so lonely, too.” + +“But, mamma, it would gratify me very much, at least for this night. I +never wished to sleep away from Agnes before; and I am certain she will +excuse me when she knows I prefer it.” + +“Well, my love, of course Jean have no objection; I only fear you are +not so well as you imagine yourself. At all events, Jane, remember your +father’s advice to pray to God; and remember this, besides, that from +me at least you ought to have no secrets. Good-night, dear, and may the +Lord take care of you!” + +She then kissed her with an emotion of sorrow for which she could +scarcely account, and passed down to the room wherein the other members +of the family were assembled. + +“I know not what is wrong with her,” she observed, in reply to their +enquiries. “She declares she is perfectly well, and that her mind is not +at all depressed.” + +“In that I agree with her,” said William; “her eye occasionally sparkled +with something that resembled joy more than depression.” + +“She begged of me to let her sleep alone to-night,” continued the +mother; “so that you, Agnes, must lie in the closet bed.” + +“She must, certainly, be unwell then,” replied Agnes, “or she would +hardly leave me. Indeed I know that her spirits have not been so good of +late as usual. Formerly we used to chat ourselves asleep, but for some +weeks past she has been quite changed, and seldom spoke at all after +going to bed. Neither did she sleep so well latterly as she used to.” + +“She is, indeed, a delicate flower,” observed her father, “and a very +slight blast, poor thing, will make her droop--droop perhaps into an +early grave!” + +“Do not speak so gloomily, my dear Henry,” said her mother. “What is +there in her particular case to justify any such apprehension?” + +“Her health has been always good, too,” observed Maria; “but the fact +is, we love her so affectionately that many things disturb us about her +which we would never feel if we loved her less.” + +“Mary,” said her father, “you have in a few words expressed the true +state of our feelings with respect to the dear child. We shall find +her, I trust, in good health and spirits in the morning; and please the +Divine Will, all will again be well--but what’s the matter with you, +Agnes?” + +Mr. Sinclair had, a moment before, observed that an expression of +thought, blended with sorrow, overshadowed the face of his second +daughter. The girl, on hearing her father’s enquiry, looked mournfully +upon him, whilst the tears ran silently down her cheeks. + +“I will go to her,” said she, “and stay with her if she lets me. Oh, +papa, why talk of an early grave for her? How could we lose her? I could +not--and I cannot bear even to think of it.” + +She instantly rose and proceeded to Jane’s room, but in a few minutes +returned, saying, “I found her at prayers, papa.” + +“God bless her, God bless her! I knew she would not voluntarily neglect +so sacred a duty. As she wishes to be alone, it is better not to disturb +her; solitude and quiet will no doubt contribute to her composure, and +it is probably for this purpose that she wishes to be left to herself.” + +After this the family soon retired to bed, with the exception of +Mr. Sinclair himself, who, contrary to his practice, remained for a +considerable time longer up than usual. It appeared, indeed, as if the +shadow of some coming calamity had fallen upon their hearts, or that the +affection they had entertained for her was so mysteriously deep as to +produce that prophetic sympathy which is often known to operate in a +presentiment of sorrow that never fails to be followed by disaster. It +is difficult to account for this singular succession of cause to effect, +as they act upon our emotions, except probably by supposing that it is +an unconscious development of those latent faculties which are decreed +to expand into a full growth in a future state of existence. Be this +as it may, these loving relatives experienced upon that night a mood of +mind such as they had never before known, even when the hand of death +had taken a brother and sister from among them. It was not grief but a +wild kind of dread, slight it is true, but distinct in its character, +and not dissimilar to that fear which falls upon the spirits during one +of those glooms that precede some dark and awful convulsion of nature. +Her father remained up, as we have said, longer than the rest, and in +the silence which succeeded their retirement for the night, his voice +could be occasionally heard in deep and earnest supplication. It was +evident that he had recourse to prayer; and by some of the expressions +caught from time to time, they gathered that “his dear child,” and “her +peace of mind” were the object of the foreboding father’s devotions. + +Jane’s distress, at concealing the cause of her absence from prayers, +though acute at the moment of enquiry, was nevertheless more transient +than one might suppose from the alarming effects it produced. Her mind +was at the time in a state of tumult and excitement, such as she had +never till then experienced, and the novel guilt of dissimulation, by +superinducing her first impression of deliberate crime, opposed itself +so powerfully to the exulting sense of her newborn happiness, that both +produced a shock of conflicting emotions which a young mind, already so +much exhausted, could not resist. She felt, therefore, that a strange +darkness shrouded her intellect, in which all distinct traces of +thought, and all memory of the past were momentarily lost. Her frame, +too, at the best but slender and much enfeebled by the preceding +interview with Osborne, and her present embarrassment, could not bear +up against this chaotic struggle between delight and pain. It was, no +doubt, impossible for her relatives to comprehend all this, and hence +their alarm. She was too pure and artless to be suspected of concealing +the truth; and they consequently entertained not the slightest suspicion +of that kind; but still their affections were aroused, and what might +have terminated in an ordinary manner, ended in that unusual mood we +have described. + +With a scrupulous attention to her father’s precept, as well as from a +principle of early and sincere piety, she strove on reaching her bedroom +to compose her mind in prayer, and to beg the pardon of Heaven for her +wilful suppression of the truth. This was a task, however, to which +she was altogether unequal. In vain she uttered words expressive of her +sorrow, and gave language to sentiments of deep repentance; there was +but one idea, but one image in her mind, viz.: her beautiful boy, and +the certainty that she was the object of his love. Again and again she +attempted to pray, but still with the same success. It was to no purpose +that she resolved to banish him from her thoughts, until at least the +solemn act of her evening-worship should be concluded; for ere she had +uttered half a sentence the image would return, as if absolutely to mock +her devotions. In this manner she continued for some time, striving +to advance with a sincere heart in her address to heaven; again +recommencing with a similar purpose, and as often losing herself in +those visions that wrapped her spirit in their transports. At length she +arose, and for a moment felt a deep awe fall upon her. The idea that +she could not pray, seemed to her as a punishment annexed, by God to +her crime of having tampered with the love of truth, and disregarded +her father’s injunctions not to violate it. But this, also, soon passed +away: she lay down, and at once surrendered her heart and thought and +fancy to the power of that passion, which, like the jealous tyrant of +the East, seemed on this occasion resolved to bear no virtue near the +heart in which it sat enthroned. Such, however, was not its character, +as the reader will learn when he proceeds; true love being in our +opinion rather the guardian of the other virtues than their foe. + +The next morning, when Jane awoke, the event of yesterday flashed on her +memory with a thrill of pleasure that made her start up in a recumbent +posture in the bed. Her heart bounded, her pulse beat high, and a sudden +sensation of hysterical delight rushed to her throat with a transport +that would have been painful, did she not pass out of a state of such +panting ecstacy and become dissolved in tears. She wept, but how far +did she believe the cause of her emotion to be removed from sorrow? She +wept, yet alas! alas! never did tears of such delight flow from a source +that drew a young heart onward to greater darkness and desolation. Weep +on, fair girl, in thy happiness; for the day will come when thou will +not be able to find one tear in thy misery! + +Her appearance the next morning exhibited to the family no symptoms +of illness. On the contrary, she never looked better, indeed seldom so +well. Her complexion was clearer than usual, her spirit more animated, +and the dancing light of her eye plainly intimated by its sparkling that +her young heart was going on the way of its love rejoicing. Her family +were agreeably surprised at this, especially when they reflected upon +their anxiety concerning her on the preceding night. To her distress +on that occasion they made not the slightest allusion; they felt it +sufficient that the beloved of their hearts was well, and that from the +evident flow of her spirits there existed no rational ground for any +apprehension respecting her. After breakfast she sat sewing for some +time with her sisters, but it was evident that her mind was not yet +sufficiently calm to permit her as formerly to sustain a proper part +in their conversation. Ever and anon they could observe by the singular +light which sparkled in her eyes, as with a sudden rush of joy, that her +mind, was engaged on some other topic, and this at a moment when some +appeal or interrogatory to herself rendered such abstracted enjoyment +more obvious. Sensible, therefore, of her incompetency as yet to +regulate her imagination so as to escape notice, she withdrew in about +an hour to her own room, there once more to give loose to indulgence. + +Our readers may perceive that the position of Jane Sinclair, in her own +family, was not very favorable to the formation of a firm character. +The regulation of a mind so imaginative, and of feelings so lively and +susceptible, required a hand of uncommon skill and delicacy. Indeed her +case was one of unusual difficulty. In the first place, her meekness and +extreme sweetness of temper rendered it almost impossible in a family +where her own qualities predominated, to find any deviation from +duty which might be seized upon without harshness as a pretext for +inculcating those precautionary principles that were calculated to +strengthen the weak points which her character may have presented. +Even those weak points, if at the time they could be so termed, were +perceptible only in the exercise of her virtues, so that it was a matter +of some risk, especially in the case of one so young, to reprove an +excess on the right side, lest in doing so you checked the influence of +the virtue that accompanied it. Such errors, if they can be called so, +when occurring in the conduct of those whom we love, are likely to call +forth any thing but censure. It is naturally supposed, and in general +with too much truth, that time and experience will remove the excess, +and leave the virtue not more than equal to the demands of life upon +it. Her mother, however, was, as the reader may have found, by no means +ignorant of those traits a the constitution of her mind from which +danger or happiness might ultimately be apprehended; neither did he +look on them With indifference. In truth, they troubled him much, and +on more than one occasion he scrupled not fully to express his fears of, +their result. It was he, the reader perceives, who on the evening of her +first interview with Osborne, gave so gloomy a tone to the feelings +of the family, and impressed them at all events more deeply than they +otherwise would have felt with a vague presentiment of some unknown evil +that was to befall her. She was, however, what is termed, the pet of +the family, the centre to which all their affections turned; and as she +herself felt conscious of this, there is little doubt that the extreme +indulgence, and almost blameable tenderness which they exercised towards +her, did by imperceptible degrees disqualify her from undergoing with +firmness those conflicts of the heart, to which a susceptibility of the +finer emotions rendered her peculiarly liable. Indeed among the various +errors prevalent in domestic life, there is scarcely one that has +occasioned more melancholy consequences than that of carrying indulgence +towards a favorite child too far; and creating, under the slightest +instances of self-denial, a sensitiveness or impatience, arising from +a previous habit of being gratified in all the whims and caprices, of +childhood or youth. The fate of favorite children in life is almost +proverbially unhappy, and we doubt not that if the various lunatic +receptacles were examined, the malady, in a majority of cases, might be +traced to an excess of indulgence and want of proper discipline in early +life. Had Mr. Sinclair insisted on knowing from his daughter’s lips the +cause of her absence from prayers, and given a high moral proof of the +affection he bore her, it is probable that the consciousness on her part +of his being cognizant of her passion, would have kept it so far within +bounds as to submit to the control of reason instead of ultimately +subverting it. This, however, he unhappily omitted to do, not because +he was at all ignorant that a strict sense of duty, and a due regard for +his daughter’s welfare, demanded it; but because her distress, and the +childlike simplicity with which she cast herself upon his bosom, touched +his spirit, and drew forth all the affection of a parent who “loved not +wisely but too well.” + +Let not my readers, however, condemn him too harshly for this, for alas, +he paid, in the bitterness of a father’s misery, a woeful and mysterious +penalty of a father’s weakness. His beloved one went before, and the old +man could not remain behind her; but their sorrows have passed away, and +both now enjoy that peace, which, for the last few years of their lives, +the world did not give them. + +From this time forth Jane’s ear listened only to the music of a happy +heart, and her eye saw nothing but the beauty of that vision which shone +in her pure bosom like the star of evening in some limpid current that +glides smoothly between rustic meadows, on whose green banks the heart +is charmed into happiness by the distant hum of pastoral life. + +Love however will not be long without its object, nor can the soul +be happy in the absence of its counterpart. For some time after the +interview in which the passion of our young lovers was revealed, Jane +found solitude to be the same solace to her love, that human sympathy is +to affliction. The certainty that she was now beloved, caused her heart +to lapse into those alternations of repose and enjoyment which above all +other states of feeling nourish its affections. Indeed the change was +surprising which she felt within her and around her. On looking back, +all that portion of her life that had passed before her attachment to +Osborne, seemed dark and without any definite purpose. She wondered at +it as at a mystery which she could not solve; it was only now that she +lived; her existence commenced, she thought, with her passion, and with +it only she was satisfied it could cease. Nature wore in her eyes a new +aspect, was clothed with such beauty, and breathed such a spirit of love +and harmony, as she only perceived now for the first time. Her parents +were kinder and better she thought than they had before appeared to her, +and her sisters and brother seemed endued with warmer affections and +blighter virtues than they had ever possessed. Every thing near her and +about her partook in a more especial manner of this delightful change; +the servants were won by sweetness so irresistible--the dogs were +more kindly caressed, and Ariel--her own Ariel was, if possible, more +beloved. + +Oh why--why is not love so pure and exalted as this, more characteristic +of human attachments? And why is it that affection, as exhibited in +general life, is so rarely seen unstained by the tint of some darker +passion? Love on, fair girl--love on in thy purity and innocence! The +beauty that thou seest in nature, and the music it sends forth, exist +only in thy own heart, and the light which plays around thee like a +glory, is only the reflection of that image whose lustre has taken away +the shadows from thy spirit! + +In the mean time the heart, as we said, will, after the repose which +must follow excitement, necessarily move towards that object in which it +seeks its ultimate enjoyment. A week had now elapsed, and Jane began to +feel troubled by the absence of her lover. Her eye wished once more to +feast upon his beauty, and her ear again to drink in the melody of +his voice. It was true--it was surely true--and she put her long white +fingers to her forehead while thinking of him--yes, yes--it was true +that he loved her--but her heart called again for his presence, and +longed to hear him once more repeat, in fervid accents of eloquence the +enthusiasm of his passion. + +Acknowledged love, however, in pure and honorable minds places the +conduct under that refined sense of propriety, which is not only felt +to be a restraint upon the freedom of virtuous principle itself, but is +observed with that jealous circumspection which considers even suspicion +as a stain upon its purity. No matter how intense affection in a +virtuous bosom may be, yet no decorum of life is violated by it, +no outwork even of the minor morals surrendered, nor is any act or +expression suffered to appear that might take away from the exquisite +feeling of what is morally essential to female modesty. For this reason, +therefore, it was that our heroine, though anxious to meet Osborne +again, could not bring herself to walk towards her accustomed haunts, +lest he might suspect that she thus indelicately sought him out. He had +frequently been there, and wondered that she never came; but however +deep his disappointment at her absence, or it might be, neglect, yet in +consequence of their last interview, he could not summon courage to pay +a visit, as he had sometimes before, to her family. + +Nearly a fortnight had now elapsed, when Jane, walking one day in a +small shrubbery that skirted the little lawn before her father’s door, +received a note by a messenger whom she recognized as a servant of Mr. +Osborne’s. + +The man, after putting it into her hands, added: + +“I was desired, if possible, to bring back an answer.” + +She blushed deeply on receiving it, and shook so much that the tremor +of her small white hands gave evident proof of the agitation which it +produced in her bosom. She read as follows:-- + +“Oh why is it that I cannot see you! or what has become of you? This +absence is painful to me beyond the power of endurance. Alas, if you +loved with the deep and burning devotion that I do, you would not thus +avoid me. Do you not know, and feel, that our hearts have poured into +each other the secret of our mutual passion. Oh surely, surely, you +cannot forget that moment--a moment for which I could willingly endure +a century of pain. That moment has thrown a charm into my existence that +will render my whole future life sweet. All that I may suffer will be, +and already is softened in the consciousness that you love me. Oh let +me see you--I cannot rest, I cannot live without you. I beseech you, I +implore you, as you would not bring me down to despair and sorrow--as +you would not wring my heart with the agony of disappointment, to meet +me this evening at the same place and the same hour as before. + +“Yours--yours for ever, + +“H. O. + +“N.B.--The bearer is trustworthy, and already acquainted with the secret +of our attachment, so that you need not hesitate to send me a reply by +him--and let it be a written one.” + +After pursuing this, she paused for a moment, and felt so much +embarrassed by the fact of their love being known to a third person, +that she could not look upon the messenger, while addressing him, +without shame-facedness and confusion. + +“Wait a little,” she said at length, “I will return presently”--and +with a singular conflict between joy, shame, and terror, she passed with +downcast looks out of the shrubbery, sought her own room, and having +placed writing materials before her, attempted to write. It was +not, however, till after some minutes that she could collect herself +sufficiently to use them. As she took the pen in her hand, something +like guilt seemed to press upon her heart--the blood forsook her cheeks, +and her strength absolutely left her. + +“Is not this wrong,” she thought. “I have already been guilty of +dissimulation, if not of direct-falsehood to my father, and now I am +about to enter into a correspondence without his knowledge.” + +The acuteness of her moral sense occasioned her, in fact, to feel much +distress, and the impression of religious sanction early inculcated +upon a mind naturally so gentle and innocent as hers, cast by its solemn +influence a deep gloom over the brief history of their loves. She laid +the pen down, and covering her face with both hands, burst into a flood +of tears. + +“Why is it,” she said to herself, “that a conviction as if of guilt +mingles itself with my affection for him; and that snatches of pain +and melancholy darken my mind, when I join in our morning and evening +worship? I fear, I fear, that God’s grace and protection have been +withdrawn from me ever since I deceived my father. But these errors,” + she proceeded, “are my own, and not Henry’s, and why should he suffer +pain and distress because I have been uncandid to others?” + +Upon this slender argument she proceeded to write the following reply, +but still with an undercurrent of something like remorse stealing +through a mind that felt with incredible delicacy the slightest +deviation from what was right, yet possessed not the necessary firmness +to resist what was wrong. + +“I know that it is indelicate and very improper--yes, and sinful in me +to write to you--and I would not do so, but that I cannot bear to think +that you should suffer pain. Why should you be distressed, when you know +that my affection for you will never change?--will, alas! I should add, +can never change. Dear Henry, is it not sufficient for our happiness +that our love is mutual? It ought at least to be so; and it would be +so, provided we kept its character unstained by any deviation from moral +feeling or duty in the sight of God. You must not continue to write to +me, for I shall not, and I can not persist in a course of deliberate +insincerity to those who love me with so much affection. I will, +however, see you this day, two hours earlier than the time appointed in +your note. I could not absent myself from the family then, without again +risking an indirect breach of truth, and this I am resolved never to do. +I hope you will not think less of me for writing to you, although it be +very wrong on my part. I have already wept for it, and my eyes are even +now filled with tears; but you surely will not be a harsh judge upon the +conduct of your own + +“Jane Sinclair.” + + +Having sealed this letter, she hid it in her bosom, and after delaying +a short time to compose her features, again proceeded to the shrubbery, +where she found the servant waiting. Simple as was the act of handing +him the note, yet so inexpressibly delicate was the whole tenor of her +mind, that the slightest step irreconcilable with her standard of female +propriety, left behind it a distinct and painful trace that disturbed +the equilibrium of a character so finely balanced. With an abashed face +and burning brow, she summoned courage, however, to give it, and was +instantly proceeding home, when the messenger observed that she had +given him the wrong letter. She then took the right one from her bosom, +and placing it in his hands would again have hurried into the house.” + +“You do not mean, I suppose, to send him back his own note,” observed +the man, handing her Osborne’s as he spoke. + +“No, no,” she replied, “give it to me; I knew not--in fact, it was a +mistake.” She then received Osborne’s letter, and hastily withdrew. + +The reader may have observed, that so long as Jane merely contemplated +the affection that subsisted between Osborne and herself, as a matter +unconnected with any relative association, and one on which the heart +will dwell with delight while nothing intrudes to disturb its serenity, +so long was the contemplation of perfect happiness. But the moment she +approached her family, or found herself on the eve of taking another +step in its progress, such was her almost morbid candor, and her timid +shrinking from any violation of truth, that her affection for this very +reason became darkened, as she herself said, by snatches of melancholy +and pain. + +It is indeed difficult to say whether such a tender perception of good +and evil as characterized all her emotions, may not have predisposed her +mind to the unhappy malady which eventually overcame it; or whether, on +the other hand, the latent existence of the malady in her temperament +may not have rendered such perceptions too delicate for the healthy +discharge of human duties. + +Be this as it may, our innocent and beautiful girl is equally to be +pitied; and we trust that in either case the sneers of the coarse and +heartless will be spared against a character they cannot understand. At +all events, it is we think slightly, and but slightly evident, that +even at the present stage of her affection, something prophetic of her +calamity, in a faintly perceptible degree may, to an observing mind, be +recognized in the vivid and impulsive power with which that affection +has operated upon her. If anything could prove this, it is the fervency +with which, previous to the hour of appointment, she bent in worship +before God, to beseech His pardon for the secret interview she was about +to give her lover. And in any other case, such an impression, full of +religious feeling as it was, would have prevented the subject of it +from acting contrary to its tendency; but here was the refined dread of +error, lively even to acuteness, absolutely incapable of drawing back +the mind from the transgression of moral duty which filled it with a +feeling nearly akin to remorse. + +Jane that day met the family at dinner, merely as a matter of course, +for she could eat nothing. There was, independently of this, a timidity +in her manner which they noticed, but could not understand. + +“Why,” said her father, “you were never a great eater, Janie, but +latterly you live, like the chameleon, on air. Surely your health cannot +be good, with such a poor appetite;--your own Ariel eats more.” + +“I feel my health to be very good, papa; but--” she hesitated a little, +attempted to speak, and paused again; “Although my health is good,” she +at last proceeded, “I am not, papa,--I mean my spirits are sometimes +better than they ever were, and sometimes more depressed.” + +“They are depressed now, Jane,” said her mother. + +“I don’t know that, mamma. Indeed I could not describe my present state +of feeling; but I think,--indeed I know I am not so good as I ought +to be. I am not so good, mamma, and maybe one day you will all have to +forgive me more than you think.” + +Her father laid his knife and fork down, and fixing his eyes +affectionately upon her, said: + +“My child, there is something wrong with you.” + +Jane herself, who sat beside her mother, made no reply; but putting her +arms about her neck, she laid her cheek against hers, and wept for many +minutes. She then rose in a paroxysm of increasing sorrow, and throwing +her arms about her father’s neck also, sobbed out as upon the occasion +already mentioned:-- + +“Oh, papa, pity and forgive me;--your poor Jane, pity her and forgive +her.” + +The old man struggled with his grief, for he saw that the tears of the +family rendered it a duty upon him to be firm: nay, he smiled after a +manner, and said in a voice of forced good humor: + +“You are a foolish slut, Jane, and play upon us, because you know we pet +and love you too much. If you cannot eat your dinner go play, and get an +appetite for to-morrow.” + +She kissed him, and as was her habit of compliance with his slightest +wish, left the room as he had desired her. + +“Henry,” said his wife, “there is something wrong with her.” + +For a time he could not speak; but after a deep silence he wiped away a +few straggling-tears, and replied: + +“Yes! yes! do you not see that there is a mystery upon my child!--a +mystery which weighs down my heart with affliction.” + +“Dear papa,” said Agnes, “don’t forbode evil for her.” + +“It’s a mere nervous affection,” said William. “She ought to take more +exercise. Of late she has been too much within.” + +Maria and Agnes exchanged looks; and for the first time, a suspicion of +the probable cause flashed simultaneously across their minds. They sat +beside each other at dinner, and Maria said in a whisper: + +“Agnes, you and I are thinking of the same thing.” + +“I am thinking of Jane,” said her candid and affectionate sister. + +“My opinion is,” rejoined Maria, “that she is attached to Charles +Osborne.” + +“I suspect it is so,” whispered Agnes. “Indeed from many things that +occur to me I am now certain of it.” + +“I don’t see any particular harm in that,” replied Maria. + +“It may be a very unhappy attachment for Jane, though,” said Agnes. +“Only think, Maria, if Osborne should not return her affection: I know +Jane,--she would sink under it.” + +“Not return her affection!” replied her sister. “Where would he find +another so beautiful, and every way so worthy of him?” + +“Very true, Maria; and I trust in heaven he may think so. But how, if he +should never know or suspect her love for him?” + +“I cannot answer that,” said the other; “but we will talk more about it +by-and-by.” + +Whilst this dialogue went on in a low tone, the other members of the +family sat in silence and concern, each evidently anxious to develop the +mystery of Jane’s recent excitement at dinner. At length the old man’s +eye fell upon his two other daughters, and he said: + +“What is this, children--what is this whispering all about? Perhaps some +of you can explain the conduct of that poor child.” + +“But, papa,” said Agnes, “you are not to know all our secrets.” + +“Am I not, indeed, Aggy? That’s pretty evident from the cautious tone in +which you and Mary speak.” + +“Well, but Agnes is right, Henry,” said her mother: “to know the +daughters’ secrets is my privilege--and yours to know William’s--if he +has any.” + +“Upon my word, mother, mine are easily carried, I assure you.” + +“Suppose, papa,” observed Agnes, good-humoredly, “that I was to fall in +love, now--as is not---- + +“Improbable that you may--you baggage,” replied her father, smiling, +whilst he completed the sentence; “Well, and you would not tell me if +you did?” + +“No indeed, sir; I should not. Perhaps I ought,--but I could not, +certainly, bring myself to do it. For instance, would it be either +modest or delicate in me, to go and say to your face, ‘Papa, I’m in +love.’ In that case the next step, I suppose, would be to make you the +messenger between us. Now would you not expect as much, papa, if I told +you?” said the arch and lively girl. + +“Aggy, you are a presuming gipsy,” replied the old man, joining in the +laugh which she had caused. “Me your messenger!” + +“Yes, and a steady one you would make, sir--I am sure you would not, at +all events, overstep your instructions.” + +“That will be one quality essentially necessary to any messenger of +yours, Agnes,” replied her father, in the same spirit. + +“Papa,” said she, suddenly changing her manner, and laying aside her +gayety, “what I said in jest of myself may be seriously true of another +in this family. Suppose Jane----” + +“Jane!” exclaimed the old man;--“impossible! She is but a girl!--but +a child!” “Agnes, this is foolish of you,” said her sister. “It is +possible, after all, that you are doing poor Jane injustice. Papa, Agnes +only speaks from suspicion. We are not certain of anything. It was I +mentioned it first, but merely from suspicion.” + +“If Jane’s affections are engaged,” said her father, “I tremble to think +of the consequences should she experience the slightest disappointment. +But it cannot be, Maria,--the girl has too much sense, and her +principles are too well established.” + +“What is it you mean, girls?” inquired their mother, in a tone of +surprise and alarm. + +“Indeed, Agnes,” said Maria, reprovingly, “it is neither fair nor +friendly to poor Jane, to bring out a story founded only on a mere +surmise. Agnes insists, mamma, that Jane is attached to Charles +Osborne.” + +“It certainly occurred to us only a few moments ago, I allow,” replied +Agnes; “but if I am mistaken in this, I will give up my judgment in +everything else. And I mentioned it solely to prevent our own distress, +particularly papa’s, with respect to the change that is of late so +visible in her conduct and manner.” + +Strange to say, however, that Mr. Sinclair and his wife both repudiated +the idea of her attachment to Osborne, and insisted that Agnes’ +suspicion was rash and groundless. + +It was impossible, they said, that such an attachment could exist; +Jane and Osborne had seen too little of each other, and were both of +a disposition too shy and diffident to rush so precipitately into a +passion that is usually the result of far riper years than either of +them had yet reached. + +Mr. Sinclair admitted that Jane was a girl full of affection, and likely +to be extremely susceptible, yet it was absurd, he added, to suppose for +a moment, that she would suffer them to be engaged, or her peace of mind +disturbed, by a foolish regard for a smooth-faced boy, and she herself +not much beyond sixteen. + +There is scarcely to be found, in the whole range of human life +and character, any observation more true, and at the same time more +difficult to be understood, than the singular infatuation of parents +who have survived their own passions,--whenever the prudence of their +children happens to be called in question. + +We know not whether such a fact be necessary to the economy of life, and +the free breathings of youthful liberty, but this at least is clear to +any one capable of noting down its ordinary occurrences, that no matter +how acutely and vividly parents themselves may have felt the passion of +love when young, they appear as ignorant of the symptoms that mark its +stages in the lives of their children, as if all memory of its existence +had been obliterated out of their being. Perhaps this may be wisely +designed, and no doubt it is, but, alas! its truth is a melancholy +comment upon the fleeting character of the only passion that charms +our early life, and fills the soul with sensations too ethereal to be +retained by a heart which grosser associations have brought beneath the +standard of purity necessary for their existence in it. + +Jane, as she bent her way to the place of appointment, felt like one +gradually emerging out of darkness into light. The scene at dinner +had quickened her moral sense, which, as the reader already knows, was +previous to that perhaps morbidly acute. Every step, however, towards +the idol of her young devotion, removed the memory of what had occurred +at home, and collected around her heart all the joys and terrors that in +maidenly diffidence characterize the interview she was about to give her +lover. Oh how little do we know of those rapid lights and shadows which +shift and tremble across the spirits of the gentle sex, when approaching +to hold this tender communion with those whom they love. Nothing that +we remember resembles the busy working of the soul on such occasions, +so much as those lucid streamers which flit in sweeps of delicate light +along the northern sky, filling it at once with beauty and terror, +and emitting at the same time a far and almost inaudible undertone of +unbroken music. + +Trembling and fluttering like a newly-caught bird, Jane approached the +place of meeting and found Osborne there awaiting her. The moment he +saw the graceful young creature approach him, he felt that he had +never until then loved her so intensely. The first declaration of their +attachment was made during an accidental interview, but there is a +feeling of buoyant confidence that flashes up from the heart, when, at +the first concerted meeting of love we see the object of our affection +advance towards us,--for that deliberate act of a faithful heart +separates the beloved one, in imagination, to ourselves, and gives +a fulness to our enjoyment which melts us in an exulting tenderness +indescribable by language. Those who have doubted the punctuality of +some beloved girl, and afterwards seen her come, will allow that our +description of that rapturous moment is not overdrawn. + +“My dear, dear Jane,” exclaimed Osborne, taking her hand and placing her +beside him, + +“I neither knew my own heart nor thee extent of its affection for +you until this meeting. In what terms shall I express--but I will not +attempt it--I cannot--but my soul burns with love for you, such as was +ever felt by mortal.” + +“It is my trust and confidence in your love that brings me here,” she +replied; “and indeed, Charles, it is more than that--I know your health +is, at the best, easily affected, and your spirits naturally prone to +despondency; and I feared,” said the artless girl, “that--that--indeed +I feared you might suffer pain, and that pain might bring on ill health +again.” + +“And I am so dear to you, Jane?” + +Jane replied by a smile and looked inexpressibly tender. + +“I am, I am!” he exclaimed with rapture; “and now the +world--life--nothing--nothing can add to the fulness of my happiness. +And your note, my beloved--the conclusion of it--your own Jane Sinclair! +But you must be more my own yet--legally and forever mine! Mine! Shall +I be able to bear it!--shall I? Jane?” said he, his enthusiastic +temperament kindling as he spoke--“Oh what, my dearest, my own dearest, +if this should not last, will it not consume me? Will it not destroy me? +this overwhelming excess of rapture!” + +“But you must restrain it, Charles; surely the suspense arising from the +doubt of our being beloved is more painful than the certainty that we +are so.” + +“Yes; but the exulting sense, my dear Jane, to me almost +oppressive,--but I rave, I rave; it is all delight--all happiness! Yes, +it will prolong life,--for we know what we live for.” + +“We do,” said Jane, in a low, sweet voice, whilst her eye fed upon his +beauty. “Do I not live for you, Charles?” + +His lip was near her cheek as she spoke; he then gently drew her to him, +and in a voice lower, and if possible more melodious than her own, said, +“Oh Jane, is there not something inexpressibly affectionate--some wild +and melting charm in the word wife?” + +“That is a feeling,” she replied, evidently softened by the tender +spirit of his words, “of which you are a better judge than I can be.” + +“Oh say, my dearest, let me hear you say with your own lips, that you +will be my wife.” + +“I will,” she whispered--and as she spoke, he inhaled the fragrance of +her breath. + +“My wife!” + +“Your wife!” + +Sweet, and long, and rapturous was the kiss which sealed this sacred +and entrancing promise. The pathetic sentiment that pervaded their +attachment kept their passion pure, and seldom have two lovers so +beautiful, sat cheek to cheek together, in an embrace guileless and +innocent as theirs. + +Jane, however, withdrew herself from his arms, and for a few moments +felt not even conscious, so far was her heart removed from evil, that an +embrace under such circumstances was questionable, much less improper. +Following so naturally from the tenderness of their dialogue, it seemed +to be rather the necessary action arising from the eloquence of their +feeling, than an act which might incur censure or reproof. Her fine +sense of propriety, however, could be scarcely said to have slumbered, +for, with a burning cheek and a sobbing voice, she exclaimed, + +“Charles, these secret meetings must cease. They have involved me in a +course of dissimulation and falsehood towards my family, which I cannot +bear. You say you love me, and I know you do, but surely you could not +esteem, nor place full confidence in a girl, who, to gratify either her +own affection or yours, would deceive her parents.” + +“But, my dearest girl, you reason too severely. Surely almost all who +love must, in the earliest stages of affection, practice, to a certain +extent, a harmless deception upon their friends, until at least their +love is sanctioned. Marriages founded upon mutual attachment would be +otherwise impracticable.” + +“No deception, dear Charles, can be harmless. I cannot forget the +precepts of truth, and virtue, and obedience to a higher law even +than his own will, which my dear papa taught me, and I will never more +violate them, even for you.” + +“You are too pure, too full of truth, my beloved girl, for this world. +Social life is carried on by so much dissimulation, hypocrisy, and +falsehood, that you will be actually unfit to live in it.” + +“Then let me die in it sooner than be guilty of any one of them. No, +dear Charles, I am not too full of truth. On the contrary, I cannot +understand how it is that my love for you has plunged me into deceit. +Nay more, Charles,” she exclaimed, rising up, and placing her hand +on her heart, “I am wrong here--why is it, will you tell me, that our +attachment has crossed and disturbed my devotions to God. I cannot +worship God as I would, and as I used to do. What if His grace be +withdrawn from me? Could you love me then? Could you love a cast-a-way? +Charles, you love truth too well to cherish affection for a being, a +reprobate perhaps, and full of treachery and falsehood. I am not such, +but I fear sometimes that I am.” + +Her youthful lover gazed upon her as she stood with her sparkling eyes +fixed upon vacancy. Never did she appear so beautiful, her features were +kindled into an expression which was new to him--but an expression so +full of high moral feeling, beaming like the very divinity of truth from +her countenance, yet overshadowed by an unsettled gloom, which gave to +her whole appearance the power of creating both awe and admiration in +the spectator. + +The boy was deeply affected, and in a voice scarcely firm, said in +soothing and endearing accents, whilst he took her hand in his, + +“Jane, my best beloved, and dearest--say, oh say in what manner I can +compose your mind, or relieve you from the necessity of practising the +deceit which troubles you so much.” + +“Oh,” said she, bending her eye on him, “but it is sweet to be beloved +by those that are dear to us. Your sympathy thrills through my whole +frame with a soothing sensation inexpressibly delightful. It is sweet to +me--for you, Charles, are my only confident. Dear, dear Charles, how I +longed to see you, and to hear your voice.” + +As she made this simple but touching admission of the power of her love, +she laid her head on his bosom and wept. Charles pressed her to his +heart, and strove to speak, but could not--she felt his tears raining +fast upon her face. + +At length he said, pressing his beautiful once more to his beating +bosom--“the moment, the moment that I cease to love you, may it, O God, +be my last.” + +She rose, and quietly wiping her eyes, said--“I will go--we will meet no +more--no more in secret.” + +“Oh, Jane,” said her lover, “how shall I make myself worthy of you; +but why,” he added, “should our love be a secret? Surely it will be +sanctioned by our friends. You shall not be distressed by the +necessity of insincerity, although it would be wrong to call the simple +concealment of your love for me by so harsh a name.” + +“But my papa,” she said, “he is so good to me; they are all so +affectionate, they love me too much; but my dear papa, I cannot stand +with a stain on my conscience in his presence. Not that I fear him; +but it would be treacherous and ungrateful: I would tell him all, but I +cannot.” + +“My sweet girl, let not that distress you. Your father shall be made +acquainted with it from other lips. I will disclose the secret to my +father, and, with a proud heart, tell him of our affection.” + +It never once occurred to a creature so utterly unacquainted with the +ways of the world as Jane was that Mr. Osburne might disapprove of their +attachment, and prevent a boy so youthful from following the bent of his +own inclinations. + +“Dear Charles,” said she, smiling, “what a load their approval will +take off my heart. I can then have papa’s pardon for my past duplicity +towards him; and my mind will be so much soothed and composed. We can +also meet each other with their sanction.” + +“My wife! my wife!” said Osborne, looking on her with a rapturous gaze +of love and admiration--and carrying her allusion to the consent of +their families up to the period when he might legitimately give her that +title--“My wife,” he exclaimed, “my young, my beautiful, my pure and +unspotted wife. Heavens! and is--is the day surely to come when I am to +call you so!” + +The beautiful girl hung her head a moment as if abashed, then gliding +timidly towards him, leant upon his shoulder, and putting her lips up to +his ear, with a blush as much of delight as of modesty, whispered--“My +husband, my husband, why should not these words, dear Charles, be as +sweet a charm to my heart, as those you’ve mentioned are to yours. I +would, but I cannot add--no, I will not suffer it,” she exclaimed, on +his attempting, in the prostration of the moment, to embrace her. “You +must not presume upon the sincerity of an affectionate and ingenuous +heart. Farewell, dear Charles, until we can see each other without a +consciousness that we are doing wrong.” Saying which, she extended her +hand to him, and in a moment was on her way home. + +And was the day to come when he could call her his? Alas! that day was +never registered in the records of time. + +Oh! how deeply beloved was our heroine by her family, when her moods of +mind and state of spirits fixed the tone of their domestic enjoyments +and almost influenced the happiness of their lives. O gentle and pure +spirit, what heart cannot love thee, when those who knew thee best +gathered their affections so lovingly around thee, the star of their +hearth--the idol of their inner shrine--the beautiful, the meek, the +affectionate, and even then, in consequence of thy transcendant charms, +the far-famed Fawn of Springvale! + +In the early part of that evening, Jane’s spirits, equable and calm, +hushed in a great measure the little domestic debate which had been +held at dinner, concerning the state of her affections. The whole family +partook of her cheerfulness, and her parents in particular, cast several +looks of triumphant sagacity, at Maria and Agnes, especially at the +latter. + +“Jane,” said her father in the triumph of his heart, “you are not aware +that Agnes is in love.” + +The good-humored tone in which this was spoken, added to the utterly +unsuspicious character of the innocent being to whom the words were +addressed, rendered it impossible for Jane to suppose that there was any +latent meaning in his observation that could be levelled at herself. +In truth, there was not, for any satire it contained was directed +especially to Agnes. There are tones of voice, the drift of which no +effort, however forced, or studied, can conceal, particularly from, +those who, by intimacy and observation, are acquainted with them, and +with the moods of mind and shades of feeling which prompt them. Jane +knew intuitively by the tone in which her father spoke--and by the +expression of his countenance, that the words were not meant to apply by +any direct analogy to herself. She consequently preserved her composure +and replied to the question, with the same good humor in which the words +were uttered. + +“Agnes in love! Well, papa, and surely that is not unnatural.” + +“Thank you, Jane,” replied Agnes. “Papa, that’s a rebuff worth +something; and Jane,” she proceeded, anxious still to vindicate her +own sagacity with respect to her sister, “suppose I should be in love, +surely I may carry on an innocent intercourse with my lover, without +consulting papa.” + +“No, Agnes, you should not,” replied her sister, vehemently; “no +intercourse--no intercourse without papa’s knowledge, can be innocent. +There is deceit and dissimulation in it--there is treachery in it. It is +impossible to say how gloomily such an intercourse may end. Only think, +my dear Agnes,” she proceeded, in a low, but vehement and condensed +voice--“only think, dear Agnes, what the consequences might be to you if +such an attachment, and such a clandestine mode of conducting it, should +in consequence of your duplicity to papa, cause the Almighty God to +withdraw His grace from you, and that, you should thereby become a +cast-away--a castaway! I shudder to think of it! I shudder to think of +it.” + +“Jane, sit beside me,” said Mr. Sinclair; “you are rather too hard upon +poor Agnes--but, still come, and sit beside me. You are my own sweet +child--my own dutiful and candid girl.” + +“I cannot, I cannot, papa, I dare not,” she exclaimed, and without +uttering another word she arose, and rushed out of the room. In less +than a minute, however, she returned again, and approaching him, +said--“Papa, forgive me, I will, I trust, soon be a better girl than I +am; bless me and bid me good-night. Mamma, bless me you too, I am your +poor Jane, and I know you all love me more than you ought. Do not think +that I am unhappy--don’t think it. I have not been for some time so +happy as I am to-night.” + +She then passed out of the room, and retired to her own apartment. + +When she was gone, Agnes, who sat beside | her father, turned to him, +and leaned her I head upon his breast, burst into bitter tears. “Papa,” + she exclaimed, “I believe you will now admit that I have gained the +victory. My sister’s peace of mind or happiness is gone for ever. Unless +Osborne either now is, or becomes in time attached to her, I know not +what the consequences may be.” + +“It will be well for Osborne, at all events, if he has not practised +upon her affections,” said William; “that is, granting that the +suspicion, be just. But the truth is, I don’t think Osborne has any +thing to do with her feelings. It is merely some imaginary trifle that +she has got into her foolish little head, poor girl. Don’t distress +yourself, father--you know she was always over-scrupulous. Even the most +harmless fib that ever was told, is a crime in her eyes. I wish, for +my part, she had a little wholesome wickedness about--I don’t mean +that sir, in a very unfavorable light,” he said in reply to a look of +severity from his father, “but I wish she had some leaning to error +about her. She would, in one sense at least, be the better for it.” + +“We shall see,” said his father, who evidently spoke in deep distress of +mind, “we shall consider in the course of the evening what ought to be +done.” + +“Better to take her gently,” observed her mother, wiping away a tear, +“gentleness and love will make her tell anything--and that there is +something on her mind no one can doubt.” + +“I won’t have her distressed, my dear,” replied her father. “It cannot +be of much importance I think after all--but whatever it may be, her own +candid mind will give it forth spontaneously. I know my child, and will +answer for her.” + +“Why then, papa, are you so much distressed, if you think it of no +importance?” asked Maria. + +“If her finger ached, it would distress me, child, and you know it.” + +“Why, she and Osborne have had no opportunity of being together, out of +the eyes of the family,” observed William. + +“That’s more than you know, William,” said Agnes; “she has often walked +out.” + +“But she always did so,” replied her mother. + +“She would never meet him privately,” said her father firmly, “of that I +am certain as my life.” + +“That, papa,” returned Agnes, “I am afraid, is precisely what she has +done, and what now distresses her. And I am sure that whatever is wrong +with her, no explanation will be had from herself. Though kind and +affectionate as ever, she has been very shy with me and Maria of +late--and indeed, has made it a point to keep aloof from us! Three or +four times I spoke to her in a tone of confidence, as if I was about to +introduce some secret of my own, but she always under some pretense or +other left me. I had not thought of Osborne at the time, nor could I +guess what troubled her--but something I saw did.” Her father sighed +deeply, and, clasping his hands, uttered a silent ejaculation to heaven +on her behalf. “That is true,” said he, “it is now the hour of evening +worship; let us kneel and remember her trouble, the poor child, whatever +it may be.” “Had I not better call her down, papa,” said Agnes. + +“Not this evening,” he replied, “not this evening--she is too much +disturbed, and will probably prefer praying alone.” + +The old man then knelt down, and after the usual form of evening +worship, uttered a solemn and affecting appeal upon her behalf, to Him, +who can pour balm upon the wounded spirit, and say unto the weary and +heavy laden, “Come unto Me, and I will give you rest.” But when he went +on in words more particularly describing her state of mind, to mention, +and plead for “their youngest,” and “their dearest,” and “their best +beloved,” his voice became tremulous, and for a moment he paused, but +the pause was filled with the sobbings of those who loved her, and +especially by the voice of that affectionate sister who loved her +most--for of them all, Agnes only wept aloud. At length the prayer was +concluded, and rising up with wet eyes, they perceived that the beloved +object of their supplications had glided into the room, and joined their +worship unperceived. + +“Dear Jane,” said her father, “we did not know you were with us.” + +She made no immediate reply, but, after a moment’s apparent struggle, +went over, and laying her head upon his bosom, sobbed out--“Papa, your +love has overcome me. I will tell you all.” + +“Soul of truth and candor,” exclaimed the old man, clasping her to his +bosom, “heroic child! I knew she would do it, and I said so. Go out now, +and leave us to ourselves. Darling, don’t be distressed. If you feel +difficulty I will not ask to hear it. Or perhaps you would rather +mention it to your mamma.” + +“No--to you papa--to you--and you will not be harsh upon me, I am a weak +girl, and have done very wrong.” + +It was indeed a beautiful thing to see this fair and guiltless penitent +leaning against her indulgent father’s bosom, in which her blushing +face was hid, and disclosing the history of an attachment as pure and +innocent as ever warmed the heart of youth and beauty. Oh no wonder, +thou sweetest and most artless of human beings, that when the heavy +blight of reason came upon thee, and thou disappearedst from his eyes, +that the old man’s spirit became desolate and his heart broken, and +that he said after thy dissolution to every word of comfort uttered to +him--“It is vain, it is vain--I cannot stay. I hear her voice calling +me--she calls me, my beautiful--my pride--my child--my child--she calls +me, and I cannot stay.” Nor did he long. + +To none else did her father that night reveal the purport of this +singular disclosure, except to Mrs. Sinclair herself--but the next +morning before breakfast, the secret had been made known to the rest. +All trouble and difficulty, as to the conduct they should pursue, were +removed in consequence of Osborne’s intention to ask his father to +sanction their attachment, and until the consequence of that step should +be known, nothing further on their part could be attempted. On this +point, however, they were not permitted to remain long in suspense, +for ere two o’clock that day, Mr. Osborne had, in the name of his son, +proposed for the hand of our fair girl, which proposal we need scarcely +say was instantly and joyfully accepted. It is true, their immediate +union was not contemplated. Both were much too youthful and +inexperienced to undertake the serious duties of married life, but it +was arranged that Osborne, whose health, besides, was not sufficiently +firm, should travel, see the world, and strengthen his constitution by +the genial air of a warmer and more salubrious climate. + +Alas! why is it that the sorrows of love are far sweeter than its joys? +We do not mean to say that our young hero and heroine, if we may presume +so to call them, were insensible to this lapse of serene delight which +now opened upon them. No--the happiness they enjoyed was indeed such +as few taste in such a world as this is. Their attachment was now +sanctioned by all their mutual friends, and its progress was unimpeded +by an scruple arising from clandestine intercourse, or a breach of duty. +But, with secrecy, passed away those trembling snatches of unimaginable +transport which no state of permitted love has ever yet known. The +stolen glance, the passing whisper, the guarded pressure of the soft +white hand timidly returned, and the fearful rapture of the hurried +kiss--alas! alas!--and alas! for the memory of Eloiza! + +Time passed, and the preparations necessary for Osborne’s journey +were in fact nearly completed. One day, about a fortnight before his +departure, he and Jane were sitting in a little ozier summer-house in +Mr. Sinclair’s garden, engaged in a conversation more tender than usual, +for each felt their love deeper and their hearts sink as the hour of +separation approached them. Jane’s features exhibited such a +singular union of placid confidence and melancholy, as gave something +Madonna-like and divine to her beauty. Osborne sat, and for a long time +gazed upon her with a silent intensity of rapture for which he could +find no words. At length he exclaimed in a reverie-- + +“I will swear it--I may swear it.” + +“Swear what, Charles?” + +“That the moment I see a girl more beautiful, I will cease to write to +you--I will cease to love you.” + +The blood instantly forsook her cheeks, and she gazed at him with wonder +and dismay. + +“What, dear Charles, do you mean?” + +“Oh, my pride and my treasure!” he exclaimed, wildly clasping her to +his bosom--“there is none so fair--none on earth or in heaven itself so +beautiful--that, my own ever dearest, is my meaning.” + +The confidence of her timid and loving heart was instantly restored--and +she said smiling, yet with a tear struggling through her eyelid, “I +believe I am I think I am beautiful. I know they call me the Fawn of +Springvale, because I am gentle.” + +“The angels are not so gentle, nor so pure, nor so innocent as you are, +my un-wedded wife.” + +“I am glad I am,” she replied; “and I am glad, too, that I am +beautiful--but it is all on your account, and for your sake, dear +Charles.” + +The fascination--the power of such innocence, and purity, and love, +utterly overcame him, and he wept in transport upon her bosom. + +The approach of her sisters, however, and the liveliness of Agnes, soon +changed the character of their dialogue. For an hour they ran and chased +each other, and played about, after which Charles took his leave of +them for the evening. Jane, as usual, being the last he parted from, +whispered to him,as he went-- + +“Charles, promise me, that in future you won’t repeat--the--the words +you used in, the summer-house.” + +“What words, love?” “You remember--about--about--what you said you might +_swear_--and that, in that case, you would cease to love me.” + +“Why dearest, should I promise you this?” “Because,” she said, in a low, +sweet whisper, “they disturb me when I think of them--a slight thing +makes my heart sink.” + +“You are a foolish, sweet girl--but I promise you, I shall never again +use them.” + +She bestowed on him a look and smile that were more than a sufficient +compensation for this; and after again bidding him farewell, she tripped +lightly into the house. + +From this onward, until the day of their separation, the spirits of our +young lovers were more and more overcast, and the mirthful intercourse +of confident love altogether gone. Their communion was now marked +by despondency and by tears, for the most part shed during their +confidential interviews with each other. In company they were silent and +dejected, and ever as their eyes met in long and loving glances, they +could scarcely repress their grief. Sometimes, indeed, Jane on being +spoken to, after a considerable silence, would attempt in vain to reply, +her quivering voice and tearful eyes affording unequivocal proof of the +subject which engaged her heart. Their friends, of course, endeavored +to console and sustain them on both sides; and frequently succeeded +in soothing them into a childlike resignation to the necessity that +occasioned the dreary period of absence that lay before them. These +intervals of patience, however, did not last long; the spirits of our +young lovers were, indeed, disquieted within them, and the heart of each +drooped under the severest of all its calamities--the pain of loss for +that object which is dearest to its affections. + +It was arranged that, on the day previous to Charles’ departure, +Osborne’s family should dine at Mr. Sinclair’s; for they knew that the +affliction caused by their separation would render it necessary that +Jane, on that occasion, should be under her own roof, and near the +attention and aid of her friends. Mr. Osborne almost regretted the +resolution to which he had come of sending his son to travel, for he +feared that the effect of absence from the fair girl to whom he was so +deeply attached, might possibly countervail the benefits arising from a +more favorable climate; but as he had already engaged the services of an +able and experienced tutor, who on two or three previous occasions had +been over the Continent, he expected, reasonably enough, that novelty, +his tutor’s good sense, and the natural elasticity of youth would soon +efface a sorrow in general so transient, and in due time restore him to +his usual spirits. He consequently adhered to his resolution--the day of +departure was fixed, and arrangements made for the lovers to separate, +as we have already intimated. + +Jane Sinclair, from the period when Osborne’s attachment and hers was +known and sanctioned by their friends, never slept a night from her +beloved sister Agnes; nor had any other person living, not even Osborne +himself, such an opportunity as Agnes had of registering in the record +of a sisterly heart so faithful a transcript of her love. + +On the night previous to their leave taking, Agnes was astonished at the +coldness of her limbs, and begged her to allow additional covering to be +put on the bed. + +“No, dear Agnes, no; only grant me one favor--do not speak to me--leave +my heart to its own sorrows--to its own misery--to its own despair; for, +Agnes, I feel a presentiment that I shall never see him again.” + +She pressed her lips against Agnes’ cheek when she had concluded, and +Agnes almost started, for that lip hitherto so glowing and warm, felt +hard and cold as marble. + +Osborne, who for some time past had spent almost every day at Mr. +Sinclair’s, arrived the next morning ere the family had concluded +breakfast. Jane immediately left the table, for she had tasted nothing +but a cup of tea, and placing herself beside him on the sofa, looked +up mournfully into his face for more than a minute; she then caught his +hand, and placing it between hers, gazed upon him again, and smiled. The +boy saw at once that the smile was a smile of misery, and that the agony +of separation was likely to be too much for her to bear. The contrast at +that moment between them both was remarkable. She pale, cold, and almost +abstracted from the perception of her immediate grief; he glowing in +the deep carmine of youth and apparent health--his eye as well as hers +sparkling with a light which the mere beauty of early life never gives. +Alas, poor things! little did they, or those to whom they were so very +dear, imagine that, as they then gazed upon each other, each bore in +lineaments so beautiful the symptoms of the respective maladies that +were to lay them low. + +“I wish, Jane, you would try and get up your spirits, love, and see and +be entertaining to poor Charles, as this is the last day he is to be +with you.” + +She looked quickly at her mother, “The I last, mamma?” + +“I mean for a while, dear, until after his I return from the Continent.” + +She seemed relieved by this. “Oh no, not the last, Charles,” she +said--“Yet I know not how it is--I know not; but sometimes, indeed, I +think it is--and if it were, if it were--” + +A paleness more deadly spread over her face; and with a gaze of mute and +undying-devotion she clasped her hands, and repeated--“if it should be +the last--the last!” + +“I did not think you were so foolish or so weak a girl, Jane,” said +William, “as to be so cast down, merely because Charles is taking a skip +to the Continent to get a mouthful of fresh air, and back again. Why, +I know them that go to the Continent four times a year to transact +business a young fellow, by the way, that has been paying his addresses +to a lady for the last six or seven years. I wish you saw them part, as +I did--merely a hearty shake of the hand--‘good by, Molly, take care of +yourself till I see you again;’ and ‘farewell, Simon, don’t forget the +shawl;’ and the whole thing’s over, and no more about it.” + +There was evidently something in these words that jarred upon a spirit +of such natural tenderness as Jane’s. While William was repeating them, +her features expressed a feeling as if of much inward pain; and when he +had concluded, she rose up, and seizing both his hands, said, in a tone +of meek and earnest supplication: + +“Oh! William dear, do not, do not--it is not consolation--it is +distress.” + +“Dear Jane,” said the good-natured brother, at once feeling his error, +“pardon me, I was wrong; there is no resemblance in the cases--I only +wanted to raise your spirits.” + +“True, William, true; I ought to thank you, and I do thank you.” + +Whilst this little incident took place, Mr. Sinclair came over and sat +beside Charles. + +“You see, my dear Charles,” said he, “what a heavy task your separation +from that poor girl is likely to prove. Let me beg that you will be as +firm as possible, and sustain her by a cheerful play of spirits, if you +can command them. Do violence to your! own heart for this day for her +sake.” + +“I will be firm, sir,” said Osborne, “if I can: but if I fail--if +I--look at her,” he proceeded, in a choking voice, “look at her, and +then ask yourself why I--I should be firm?” + +Whilst he spoke, Jane came over, and seating herself between her father +and him, said: + +“Papa, you will stay with me and Charles this day, and support us. +You know, papa, that I am but a weak, weak girl; but when I do a wrong +thing, I feel very penitent--I cannot rest.” + +“You never did wrong, darling,” said Osborne, pressing his lips to her +cheek, “you never did wrong.” + +“Papa says I did not do much wrong; yet at one time I did not think so +myself; but there is a thing presses upon me still. Papa,” she added, +turning abruptly to him, “are there not such things in this life as +judgments from heaven?” + +“Yes, my dear, upon the wicked who, by deep crimes, provoke the justice +of the Almighty; but the ways of God are so mysterious, and the innocent +so often suffer whilst the guilty escape, that we never almost hazard +an opinion upon individual cases.” “But there are cast-aways?” “Yes, +darling; but here is Charles anxious to take you out to walk. With such +a prospect of happiness and affection before you both, you ought surely +to be in the best of spirits.” + +“Well, I can see why you evade my question,” she replied; but she added +abruptly, “bless us, papa, bless us.” She knelt down, and pulled Charles +gently upon his knees also, and joining both hands together, bent her +head as if to receive the benediction. + +Oh, mournful and heart-breaking was her loveliness, as she knelt down +before the streaming eyes of her family--a Magdeline in beauty, without +her guilt. + +The old man, deeply moved by the distress of the interesting pair then +bent before him, uttered a short prayer suitable to the occasion, after +which he blessed them both, and again recommended them to the care of +heaven, in terms of touching and beautiful simplicity. His daughter +seemed relieved by this, for, after rising, she went to her mother and +said: + +“We are going to walk, mamma. I must endeavor to keep my spirits up this +day, for poor Charles’ sake.” + +“Yes, love, do,” said her mother, “that’s a good girl. Let me see how +cheerful and sprightly you’ll be; and think, dear, of the happy days +that are before you and Charles yet, when you’ll live in love and +affection, surrounded and cherished by both your families.” + +“Yes, yes,” said she, “I often think of that--I’ll try mamma--I’ll try.” + +Saying which, she took Charles’s arm, and the young persons all went out +together. + +Jane’s place, that evening, was by Osborne’s side, as it had been with +something like a faint clinging of terror during the whole day. She +spoke little, and might be said rather to respond to all he uttered, +than to sustain a part in the dialogue. Her distress was assuredly deep, +but they knew not then, nor by any means suspected how fearful was its +character in the remote and hidden depths of her soul. She sat with +Osborne’s right hand between hers, and scarcely for a moment ever took +her sparkling eyes off his countenance. Many times was she observed +to mutter to herself, and her lips frequently moved as if she had been +speaking, but no words were uttered, nor any sense of her distress +expressed. Once, only, in the course of the evening, were they startled +into a hush of terror and dismay, by a single short laugh, uttered +so loud and wildly, that a pause followed it, and, as if with one +consentaneous movement, they all assembled about her. Their appearance, +however, seemed to bring her to herself, for with her left hand she +wafted them away, saying, “Leave us--leave us--this is a day of sorrow +to us--the day will end, but when, when, alas, will the sorrow? Papa, +some of us will need your prayers now--the sunshine of Jane’s life is +over--I am the Fawn of Springvale no more--my time with the holy +and affectionate flock of whom I was and am an unworthy one, will be +short--I may be with you a day, as it were, the next is come and Jane is +gone for ever.” + +“Father,” said Osborne, “I shall not go;” and as he spoke he pressed her +to his bosom--“I will never leave her.” + +The boy’s tears fell rapidly upon her pale cheeks, and on feeling them +she looked up and smiled. + +The sobbings of the family were loud, and bitter were the tears which +the tender position of the young and beautiful pair wrung from the +eyes that looked upon them. “Your health, my boy,” said his father, “my +beautiful and only boy, render it necessary that you should go. It is +but for a time, Jane dear, my daughter, my boy’s beloved, it is only for +a time--let him leave you for a little, and he will return confirmed +in health and knowledge, and worthy my dear, dear girl, to be yours for +ever.” + +“My daughter,” said Mr. Sinclair, “was once good and obedient, and she +will now do whatever is her own papa’s wish.” + +“Name it, papa, name it,” said she, still smiling. + +“Suffer Charles to go, my darling--and do not--oh! do not take his +departure so much to heart.” + +“Charles, you must go,” said she. “It is the wish of your own father and +of mine--but above all, it is the wish of your own--you cannot, you must +not gainsay him. What we can prosper which is founded on disobedience +or deceit? You know the words you once loved so well to repeat--I will +repeat them now--you must, you will not surely refuse the request of +_your own Jane Sinclair_.” + +The boy seemed for some time irresolute but at length he clasped her in +his arms, and, again, said, in a vehement burst of tenderness: + +“No, father, my heart is resolved, I will never leave her. It will kill +me, it will lay me in an early grave, and you will have no son to look +upon.” + +“But you will see the heroic example that Jane will set you,” said Mr. +Sinclair, “she will shame you into firmness, for she will now take leave +of you at once; and see then if you love her as you say you do, whether +you will not respect her so far as to follow her example. Jane, bid +Charles farewell.” + +This was, perhaps, pressing her strength too far; at all events, the +injunction came so unexpectedly, that a pause followed it, and they +waited with painful expectation to see what she would do. For upwards +of a minute she sat silent, and her lips moved as if she were communing +with herself. At length she rose up, and stooping down kissed her +lover’s cheek, then, taking his hand as before between hers, she said in +a voice astonishingly calm. + +“Charles, farewell--remember that I am your Jane Sinclair. Alas!” she +added, “I am weak and feeble--help me out of the room.” Both her parents +assisted her to leave it, but, on reaching the door, she drew back +involuntarily, on hearing Osborne’s struggles to detain her. + +“Papa,” she said, with a look inexpressibly wobegone and +suppliant--“Mamma!” “Sweet child, what is it?” said both. “Let me take +one last look of him--it will be the last--but not--I--I trust, the last +act of my duty to you both.” + +She turned round and gazed upon him for some time--her features, as she +looked, dilated into an expression of delight. + +“Is he not,” said she, in a low placid whisper, while her smiling +eye still rested upon him--“is he not beautiful? Oh! yes, he is +beautiful--he is beautiful.” + +“He is, darling--he is,” said both--“come away now--be only a good firm +girl and all will soon be well.” + +“Very, very beautiful,” said she, in a low contented voice, as without +any further wish to remain, she accompanied her parents to another room. + +Such was their leaving-taking--thus did they separate. Did they ever +meet! + + + + +PART III. + + +In the history of the affections we know that circumstances sometimes +occur, where duty and inclination maintain a conflict so nicely balanced +so as to render it judicious not to exact a fulfillment of the former, +lest by deranging the structure of our moral feelings, we render the +mind either insensible to their existence, or incapable of regulating +them. This observation applies only to those subordinate positions +of life which involve no great principle of conduct, and violate no +cardinal point of human duty. We ought neither to do evil nor suffer +evil to be done, where our authority can prevent it, in order that good +may follow. But in matters where our own will creates the offence, it is +in some peculiar cases not only prudent but necessary to avoid straining +a mind naturally delicate, beyond the powers which we know it to +possess. We think, for instance, that it was wrong in Mr. Sinclair, at +a moment when the act of separating from Osborne might have touched, the +feelings of his daughter into that softness which lightens and relieves +the heart, abruptly to suppress emotions so natural, by exacting a proof +of obedience too severe and oppressive to the heart of one who loved as +Jane did. She knew it was her duty to obey him the moment he expressed +his wish; but he was bound by no duty to demand such an unnecessary +proof of her obedience. The immediate consequences, however, made him +sufficiently sensible of his error, and taught him that a knowledge of +the human heart is the most difficult task which a parent has to learn. + +Jane, conducted by her parents, having reached another apartment, sat +down--her father taking a chair on one side, and her mother on the +other. + +“My darling,” said Mr. Sinclair, “I will never forget this proof of your +obedience to me, on so trying an occasion. I knew I might rely upon my +daughter.” + +Jane made no reply to this, but sat apparently wrapped up in an ecstacy +of calm and unbroken delight. The smile of happiness with which she +contemplated Osborne, on taking her last look of him, was still upon her +face, and contrasted so strongly with the agony which they knew she must +have felt, that her parents, each from an apprehension of alarming the +other, feared openly to allude to it, although they felt their hearts +sink in dismay and terror. + +“Jane, why do you not speak to your papa and me?” said her mother; +“speak to us, love, speak to us--if it was only one word.” + +She appeared not to hear this, nor to be at all affected by her mother’s +voice or words. After the latter spoke she smiled again, and immediately +putting up her long white fingers through the ringlets that shaded +her cheek, she pulled them down as one would pressing them with slight +convulsive energy as they passed through, her fingers. + +“Henry, dear, what--what is the matter with her?” inquired her +mother, whose face became pale with alarm. “Oh! what is wrong with my +child!--she does not know us!--Gracious heaven, whats is this!” + +“Jane, my love, wont you speak to your papa?” said Mr. Sinclair. “Speak +to me, my darling,--it is I,--it is your own papa that asks you?” + +She looked up, and seemed for a moment struggling to recover a +consciousness of her situation; but it passed away, and the scarcely +perceptible meaning which began almost to become visible in her eye, was +again succeeded by that smile which they both so much dreaded to see. + +The old man shook his head, and looked with a brow darkened by sorrow, +first upon his daughter, and afterwards upon his wife. “My heart’s +delight,” he exclaimed, “I fear I have demanded more from your obedience +than you could perform without danger to yourself. I wish I had allowed +her grief to flow, and not required such an abrupt and unseasonable +proof of her duty. It was too severe an injunction to a creature so mild +and affectionate,--and would to God that I had not sought it!” + +“Would to heaven that you had not, my dear Henry. Let us try, however, +and move her heart,--if tears could come she would be relieved.” + +“Bring Agnes in,” said her father, “bring in Agnes, she may succeed +better with her than we can,--and if Charles be not already gone, there +is no use in distressing him by at all alluding to her situation. She +is only overpowered, I trust, and will soon recover.” The mother, on her +way to bring Agnes to her sister, met the rest of the family returning +to the house after having taken leave of Osborne. The two girls were +weeping, for they looked upon him as already a brother; whilst William, +in a good-humored tone, bantered them for the want of firmness. + +“I think, mother,” said he, “they are all in love with him, if they +would admit it. Why here’s Maria and Agnes, and I dare say they’re +making as great a rout about him as Jane herself! But bless me! what’s +the, matter, mother, that you look so pale and full of alarm?” + +“It’s Jane--it’s Jane,” said Agnes. “Mother, there’s something wrong!” + and as she spoke she stopped, with uplifted hands, apparently fastened +to the earth. + +“My poor child!” exclaimed her mother,--“for heaven’s sake come in, +Agnes. Oh, heaven grant that it may soon pass away. Agnes, dear girl, +you know her best--come in quick; her papa wants you to try what you can +do with her.” + +In a moment this loving family, with pale faces and beating hearts, +stood in a circle about their affectionate and beautiful sister. +Jane sat with her passive hand tenderly pressed between her +father’s,--smiling; but whether in unconscious happiness or unconscious +misery, who alas! can say? + +“You see she knows none of us,” said her mother. “Neither her papa +nor me. Speak to her each of you, in turn. Perhaps you may be more +successful. Agnes,--” + +“She will know me,” replied Agnes; “I am certain she will know me;”--and +the delightful girl spoke with an energy that was baaed upon the +confidence of that love which subsisted between them. Maria and her +brother both burst into tears; but Agnes’s affection rose above the mood +of ordinary grief. The confidence that her beloved sister’s tenderness +for her would enable her to touch a chord in a heart so utterly her own +as Jane’s was, assumed upon this occasion the character of a wild but +mournful enthusiasm, that was much more expressive of her attachment +than could be the loudest and most vehement sorrow. + +“If she could but shed tears,” said her mother, wringing her hands. + +“She will,” returned Agnes, “she will. Jane,” she exclaimed, “Jane, +don’t you know your own Agnes?--your own Agnes, Jane?” + +The family waited in silence for half a minute, but their beloved +one smiled on, and gave not the slightest token of recognizing either +Agnes’s person or her voice. Sometimes her lips moved, and she appeared +to be repeating certain words to herself, but in a voice so low and +indistinct that no one could catch them. + +Agnes’s enthusiasm abandoned her on seeing that that voice to which her +own dearest sister ever sweetly and lovingly responded, fell upon her +ear as an idle and unmeaning sound. Her face became deadly pale, and her +lip quivered, as she again addressed the unconscious girl. Once more she +took her hand in hers, and placing herself before her, put her fingers +to her cheek in order to arrest her attention. + +“Jane, look upon me; look upon me;--that’s a sweet child,--look upon me. +Sure I am Agnes--your own Agnes, who will break her heart if my sweet +sister doesn’t speak to her.” + +The stricken one raised her head, and looked into her face; but it was, +alas! too apparent that she saw her not; for the eye, though smiling, +was still vacant. Again her lips moved, and she spoke so as to be +understood towards the door through which she had entered. + +“Yes,” she exclaimed, in the same low, placid voice, “yes, he is +beautiful! Is he not beautiful? Fatal beauty!--fatal beauty! It is a +fatal thing--it is a fatal thing!--but he is very, very beautiful!” + +“Jane,” said Maria, taking her hand from Agnes’s, “Jane, speak to Maria, +dear. Am not I, too, your own Maria? that loves you not less than--my +darling, darling child--they do not live that love you better than your +own Maria;--in pity, darling, in pity speak to me!” + +The only reply was a smile, that rose into the murmuring music of a low +laugh; but this soon ceased, her countenance became troubled, and her +finely-pencilled brows knit, as if with an inward sense of physical +pain. William, her father, her mother, each successively addressed her, +but to no purpose. Though a slight change had taken place, they could +not succeed in awakening her reason to a perception of the circumstances +in which she was placed. They only saw that the unity of her thought, or +of the image whose beauty veiled the faculties of her mind was broken, +and that some other memory, painful in its nature, had come in to +disturb the serenity of her unreal happiness; but this, which ought +to have given them hope, only alarmed them the more. The father, while +these tender and affecting experiments were tried, sat beside her, his +eyes laboring under a weight of deep and indescribable calamity, and +turning from her face to the faces of those who attempted to recall her +reason, with a mute vehemence of sorrow which called up from the depths +of their sister’s misery a feeling of compassion for the old man whom +she had so devotedly loved. + +“My father’s heart is breaking,” said William, groaning aloud, and +covering his face with his hands. “Father, your face frightens me +more than Jane’s;--don’t, father, don’t. She is young,--it will pass +away--and father dear where is your reliance upon her--upon her aid!” + +“Dear Henry,” said his wife, “you should be our support. It is the +business of your life to comfort and sustain the afflicted.” + +“Papa,” said Agnes, “come with me for a few minutes, until you recover +the shock which--which----” + +She stopped, and dropping her head upon the knees of her smiling and +apparently happy sister, wept aloud. + +“Agnes--Agnes,” said William, (they were all in tears except her father) +“Agnes, I am ashamed of you;”--yet his own cheeks were wet, and his +voice faltered. “Father, come with me for awhile. You will when alone +for a few minutes, bethink you of your duty--for it is your duty to bear +this not only as becomes a Christian man, but a Christian minister, who +is bound to give us example as well as precept.” + +“I know it, William, I know it;--and you shall witness my fortitude, my +patience, my resignation under this--this-----. I will retire. But is +she not--alas! I should say, was she not my youngest and my dearest! You +admit yourselves she was the best.” + +“Father, come,” said William. + +“Dear father--dear papa, go with him,” said Agnes. + +“My father,” said Maria, “as he said to _her_, will be himself.” + +“I will go,” said the old man; “I know how to be firm; I will reflect; I +will pray; I will weep. I must, I must----” + +He pressed the beautiful creature to his bosom, kissed her lips, and as +he hung over her, his tears fell in torrents upon her cheeks. + +Oh! what a charm must be in sympathy, and in the tears which it sheds +over the afflicted, when those of the grey-haired father could soothe +his daughter’s soul into that sorrow which is so often a relief to the +miserable and disconsolate! + +When Jane first felt his tears upon her cheeks, she started slightly, +and the smile departed from her countenance. As he pressed her to his +heart she struggled a little, and putting her arms out, she turned up +her eyes upon his face, and after a long struggle between memory and +insanity, at length whispered out “papa!” + +“You are with me, darling,” he exclaimed; “and I am with you, too: and +here we are all about you,--your mother, and Agnes, and all.” + +“Yes, yes,” she replied; “but papa,--and where is my mamma?” + +“I am here, my own love; here I am. Jane, collect yourself, my treasure. +You are overcome with sorrow. The parting from Charles Osborne has been +too much for you.” + +“Perhaps it was wrong to mention his name,” whispered William. “May it +not occasion a relapse, mother?” + +“No,” she replied. “I want to touch her heart, and get her to weep if +possible.” + +Her daughter’s fingers were again involved in the tangles of her +beautiful ringlets, and once more was the sweet but vacant smile +returning to her lips. + +“May God relieve her and us,” said Maria; “the darling child is +relapsing!” + +Agnes felt so utterly overcome, that she stooped, and throwing her arms +around her neck wept aloud, with her cheek laid to Jane’s. + +Again the warmth of the tears upon the afflicted one’s face seemed +to soothe or awaken her. She looked up, and with a troubled face +exclaimed:-- + +“I hope I am not!--Agnes, you are good, and never practised deceit,--am +I? am I?” + +“Are you what, love? are you what, Jane, darling?” + +“Am I a cast-away? I thought I was. I believe I am--Agnes?” + +“Well, dear girl!” + +“I am afraid of my papa.” + +“Why, Jane, should you be afraid of papa. Sure you know how he loves +you--dotes upon you?” + +“Because I practised deceit upon him. I dissembled to him. I sinned, +sinned deeply;--blackly, blackly. I shudder to think of it;” and she +shuddered while speaking. + +“Well, but Jane dear,” said her mother, soothingly, “can you not weep +for your fault. Tears of repentance can wipe out any crime. Weep, my +child, weep, and it will relieve your heart.” + +“I would like to see my papa,” she replied. “I should be glad to hear +that he forgives me: how glad! how glad! That’s all that troubles your +poor Jane; all in the world that troubles her poor heart--I think.” + +These words were uttered in a tone of such deep and inexpressible +misery, and with such an innocent and childlike unconsciousness of the +calamity which weighed her down that no heart possessing common humanity +could avoid being overcome. + +“Look on me, love,” exclaimed her father. “Your papa is here, ready to +pity and forgive you.” + +“William,” said Agnes, “a thought strikes me,--the air that Charles +played when they first met has been her favorite ever since you know +it--go get your flute and play it with as much feeling as you can.” + +Jane made no reply to her father’s words. She sat musing, and once or +twice put up her hand to her sidelocks, but immediately withdrew it, and +again fell into a reverie. Sometimes her face brightened into the fatal +smile, and again became overshadowed with a gloom that seemed to +proceed from a feeling of natural grief. Indeed the play of meaning and +insanity, as they chased each other over a countenance so beautiful, was +an awful sight, even to an indifferent beholder, much less to those who +then stood about her. + +William in about a minute returned with his flute, and placing himself +behind her, commenced the air in a spirit more mournful probably than +any in which it had ever before been played. For a long time she noticed +it not: that is to say, she betrayed no external marks of attention to +it. They could perceive, however, that although she neither moved nor +looked around her, yet the awful play of her features ceased, and; their +expression became more intelligent and natural. At length she sighed +deeply several times, though without appearing to hear the music; and at +length, without uttering a word to any one of them, she laid her head I +upon her father’s bosom, and the tears fell; in placid torrents down her +cheeks. By a signal from his hand, Mr. Sinclair intimated that for the +present they should be silent; and by another addressed to William, that +he should play on. He did so, and she wept copiously under the influence +of that charmed melody for more than twenty minutes. + +“It would be well for me,” she at length said, “that is, I fear it +would, that I had never heard that air, or seen him who first sent +its melancholy music to my heart. He is gone; but when--when will he +return?” + +“Do not take his departure so heavily, dear child,” said her father. +“If you were acquainted with life and the world you would know that a +journey to the Continent is nothing. Two years to one as young as you +are will soon pass.” + +“It would, papa, if I loved him less. But my love for him--my love for +him--that now is my misery. I must, however, rely upon other strength +than my own. Papa, kneel down and pray for me,--and you, mamma, and all +of you; for I fear I am myself incapable of praying as I used to do, +with an un-divided heart.” + +Her father knelt down, but knowing her weak state of mind, he made +his supplication as short and simple as might be consistent with the +discharge of a duty so solemn. + +“Now,” said she, when it was concluded, “will you, mamma, and Agnes, +help me to bed; I am very much exhausted, and my heart is sunk as if it +were never to beat lightly again. It may yet; I would hope it,--hope it +if I could.” + +They allowed her her own way, and without any allusion whatsoever to +Charles, or his departure, more than she had made herself, they embraced +her; and in a few minutes she was in bed, and as was soon evident to +Agnes, who watched her, in a sound sleep. + +Why is it that those who are dear to us are more tenderly dear to us +while asleep than while awake? It is indeed difficult to say but we +know that there are many in life and nature, especially in the and +affections, which we feel as distinct truths without being able to +satisfy ourselves they are so. This is one of them. What parent does +not love the offspring more glowingly while the features are composed +in sleep? What young husband does not feel his heart melt with a warmer +emotion, on contemplating the countenance of his youthful wife, when +that countenance is overshadowed with the placid but somewhat mournful +beauty of repose? + +When the family understood from Agnes that Jane had fallen into a +slumber, they stole up quietly, and standing about her, each looked +upon her with a long gaze of relief and satisfaction; for they knew that +sleep would repair the injury which the trial of that day had wrought +upon a mind so delicately framed as her’s. We question not but where +there is beauty it is still more beautiful in sleep. The passions are +then at rest, and the still harmony of the countenance unbroken by the +jarring discords and vexations of waking life; every feature then falls +into its natural place, and renders the symmetry of the face chaster, +whilst its general expression breathes more of that tender and pensive +character, which constitutes the highest order of beauty. + +Jane’s countenance, in itself so exquisitely lovely, was now an object +of deep and melancholy interest. Upon it might be observed faint traces +of those contending emotions whose struggle had been on that day so +nearly fatal to her mind for ever. The smile left behind it a faint and +dying light, like the dim radiance of a spring evening when melting into +dusk;--whilst the secret dread of becoming a cast-away, and the still +abiding consciousness of having deceived her father, blended into the +languid serenity of her face a slight expression of the pain they had +occasioned her while awake. + +“Unhappy girl! There she lay in her innocence and beauty like a summer +lake whose clear waters have settled into stillness after a recent +storm; reflecting, as they pass, the clouds now softened into milder +forms, which had but a little time before so deeply agitated them. + +“Oh, no wonder,” said her father, “that the boy who loves her should +say he would not leave her, and that separation would break down the +strength of his heart and spirit. A fairer thing--a purer being never +closed her eyelids upon the cares and trials of life. Light may those +caros be, oh! beloved of our hearts; and refreshing the slumbers that +are upon you; and may the blessing and merciful providence of God guard +and keep you from evil! Amen! Amen!” + +Maria on this occasion was deeply affected Jane’s arm lay outside the +coverlid, and her sister observed that her white and beautiful +fingers were affected from time to time with slight starting twitches, +apparently nervous. + +This, contrasted with the stillness of her face, impressed the girl +with an apprehension that the young mourner, though asleep, was still +suffering pain; but when her father spoke and blessed her, she felt her +heart getting full, and bending over Jane she imprinted a kiss upon her +cheek;--affectionate, indeed, was that kiss, but timid and light as the +full of the thistle-down upon a leaf of the rose or the lily. When she +withdrew her lips, a tear was visible on the cheek of the sleeper--a +circumstance which, slight as it was, gave a character of inexpressible +love and tenderness to the act. They then quietly left her, with the +excertion of Agnes, and all were relieved and delighted at seeing her +enjoy a slumber so sound and refreshing. + +The next morning they arose earlier than usual, in order to watch +the mood in which she might awake; and when Agnes, who had been her +bed-fellow, came down stairs, every eye was turned upon her with an +anxiety proportioned to the disastrous consequences that might result +from any unfavorable turn in her state of feeling. + +“Agnes,” said her father, “how is she?--in what state?--in what frame of +mind?” + +“She appears much distressed, papa--feels conscious that Charles is +gone--but as yet has made no allusion to their parting yesterday. Indeed +I do not think she remembers it. She is already up, and begged this +moment of me to leave her to herself for a little.” + +“‘I want strength, Agnes,’ said she, ‘and I know there is but one source +from which I can obtain it. Advice, consolation, and sympathy, I may and +will receive here; but strength--strength is what I most stand in need +of, and that only can proceed from Him who gives rest to the heavy +laden.’ + +“‘You feel too deeply, Jane,’ I replied; ‘you should try to be firm.’ + +“‘I do try, Agnes; but tell me, have I not been unwell, very unwell?’ + +“‘Your feelings, dear Jane, overcame you yesterday, as was natural +they should--but now that you are calm, of course you will not yield to +despondency or melancholy. Your dejection, though at present deep, will +soon pass away, and ere many days you will be as cheerful as ever.’ + +“‘I hope so; but Charles is gone, is he not?’ + +“‘But you know it was necessary that he should travel for his health; +besides, have you not formed a plan of correspondence with each other?’ + +“Then,” proceeded Agnes, “she pulled out the locket which contained his +hair, and after looking on it for about a minute, she kissed it, pressed +it to her heart, and whilst in the act of doing so a few tears ran down +her cheeks. + +“I am glad of that,” observed her mother; “it is a sign that this heavy +grief will not long-abide upon her.” + +“She then desired me,” continued Agnes, “to leave her, and expressed a +sense of her own weakness, and the necessity of spiritual support, as I +have already told you. I am sure the worst is over.” + +“Blessed be God, I trust it is,” said her father; “but whilst I live, I +will never demand from her such a proof of her obedience as that which +I imposed upon her yesterday. She will soon be down to breakfast, and +we must treat the dear girl kindly, and gently, and affectionately; +tenderly, tenderly must she be treated; and, children, much depends upon +you--keep her mind engaged. You have music--play more than you do--read +more--walk more--sing more. I myself will commence a short course of +lectures upon the duties and character of women, in the single and +married state of life; alternately with which I will also give you a +short course upon _Belles-Lettres_. If this engages and relieves her +mind, it will answer an important purpose; but at all events it will be +time well spent, and that is something.” + +When Jane appeared at breakfast, she was paler than usual; but then the +expression of her countenance, though pensive, was natural. Mr. Sinclair +placed her between himself and her mother, and each kissed her in +silence ere she sat down. + +“I have been very unwell yesterday,papa. I know I must have been; but I +have made my mind up to bear his absence with fortitude--not that it is +his mere absence which I feel so severely, but an impression that some +calamity is to occur either to him or me.” + +“Impressions of that kind, my dear child, are the results of low spirits +and a nervous habit. You should not suffer your mind to be disturbed by +them; for, when it is weakened by suffering, they gather strength, and +sometimes become formidable.” + +“There is no bearing my calamity, papa, as it ought to be borne, without +the grace of God, and you know we must pray to be made worthy of that. I +dare say that if I am resigned and submissive that my usual cheerfulness +will gradually return. I have confidence in heaven, papa, but none in my +own strength, or I should rather say in my own weakness. My attachment +to Charles resembles a disease more than a healthy and rational passion. +I know it is excessive, and I indeed think its excess is a disease. Yet +it is singular I do not fear my heart, papa, but I do my head; here is +where the danger lies--here--here;” and as she spoke, she applied her +hand to here forehead and gave a faint smile of melancholy apprehension. + +“Wait, Jane,” said her brother; “just wait for a week or ten days, and +if you don’t scold yourself for being now so childish, why never call me +brother again. Sure I understand these things like a philosopher. I have +been three times in love myself.” + +Jane looked at him, and a faint sparkle of her usual good nature lit up +her countenance. + +“Didn’t I tell you,” he proceeded, addressing them--“look; why I’ll soon +have her as merry as a kid.” + +“But who were you in love with, William,” asked Agnes. + +“I was smitten first with Kate Sharp, the Applewoman, in consideration +of her charmin’ method of giving me credit for fruit when I was a +school-boy, and had no money. I thought her a very interesting woman, +I assure you, and preferred my suit to her With signal success. I say +signal, for you know she was then, as she is now, very hard of hearing, +and I was forced to pay my suit to her by signs.” + +“Dear William,” said she, “I see your motive, and love you for it; +but it is too soon--my spirits are not yet in tone for mirth or +pleasantry--but they will be--they will be. I know it is too bad to +permit an affliction that is merely sentimental to bear me down in this +manner; but I cannot help it, and you must all only look on me as a +weak, foolish girl, and forgive me, and pity me. Mamma, I will lie down +again, for I feel I am not, well; and oh, papa, if you ever prayed with +fervor and sincerity, pray for strength to your own Jane, and happiness +to her stricken heart.” + +She then retired, and for the remainder of that day confined herself +partly to her bed, and altogether to her chamber; and it was observed, +that from the innocent caprices of a sickly spirit, she called Agnes, +and her mother, and Maria--sometimes one, and sometimes another--and +had them always about her, each to hear a particular observation that +occurred to her, or to ask some simple question, of no importance to +any person except to one whose mind had become too sensitive upon the +subject which altogether engrossed it. Towards evening she had a long +fit of weeping, after which she appeared more calm and resigned. +She made her mother read her a chapter in the Bible, and expressed a +resolution to bear every thing she said as became one she hoped not yet +beyond the reach of Divine grace and Christian consolation. + +After a second night’s sleep she arose considerably relieved from the +gloomy grief which had nearly wrought such a dreadful change in her +intellect. Her father’s plan of imperceptibly engaging her attention +by instruction and amusement was carried into effect by him and her +sisters, with such singular success, that at the lapse of a month she +was almost restored to her wonted spirits. We say almost, because it +was observed that, notwithstanding her apparent serenity, she never +afterwards reached the same degree of cheerfulness, nor so richly +exhibited in her complexion that purple glow, the hue of which lies like +a visible charm upon the I cheek of youthful beauty. + +Time, however, is the best philosopher, and our heroine found that ere +many weeks she could, with the exception of slight intervals, look back +upon the day of separation from Osborne, and forward to the expectation +of his return, with a calmness of spirit by no means unpleasing to one +who had placed such unlimited confidence in his affection. His first +letter soothed, relieved, transported her. Indeed, so completely was she +overcome on receiving it, that the moment it was placed in her hands, +her eyes seemed to have been changed into light, her limbs trembled with +the agitation of a happiness so intense; and she at length sank into an +ecstacy of joy, which was only relieved by a copious flood of tears. + +For two years after this their correspondence was as regular as the +uncertain motions of a tourist could permit it. Jane appeared to be +happy, and she was so within the limits of an enjoyment, narrowed in +its character by the contingency arising from time and distance, and the +other probabilities of disappointment which a timid heart and a pensive +fancy will too often shape into certainty. Fits of musing and melancholy +she often had without any apparent cause, and when gently taken to task, +or remonstrated with concerning them, she had only replied by weeping, +or admitted that she could by no means account for her depression, +except by saying that she believed it to be a defect in the habit and +temper of her mind. + +His tutor’s letters, both to Charles’s father and hers, were nearly as +welcome to Jane as his own. He, in fact, could say that for his pupil, +which his pupil’s modesty would not permit him to say for himself. Oh! +how her heart glowed, and conscious pride sparkled in her eye, when +that worthy man described, the character of manly beauty which time +and travel had gradually given to his person! And when his progress +in knowledge and accomplishments, and the development of his taste and +judgment became the theme of his tutor’s panegyric, she could not listen +without betraying the vehement enthusiasm of a passion, which absence +and time had only strengthened in her bosom. + +These letters induced a series of sensations at once novel and +delightful, and such as were calculated to give zest to an attachment +thus left, to support itself, not from the presence of its object, but +from the memory of tenderness that had already gone by. She knew Charles +Osborne only as a boy--a beautiful boy it is true--and he knew her only +as a graceful creature, whose extremely youthful appearance made it +difficult whether to consider her merely as an advanced girl, or as a +young female who had just passed into the first stage of womanhood. But +now her fancy and affection had both room to indulge in that vivacious +play which delights to paint a lover absent under such circumstances in +the richest hues of imaginary beauty. + +“How will he look,” she would say to her sister Agnes, “when he returns +a young man, settled into the fulness of his growth? Taller he will be, +and much more manly in his deportment. But is there no danger, Agnes, of +his losing in grace, in delicacy of complexion, in short, of losing in +beauty what he may gain otherwise?” + +“No, my dear, not in the least; you will be ten times prouder of him +after his return than you ever were. There is something much more noble +and dignified in the love of a man than in that of a boy, and you will +feel this on seeing him.” + +“In that case, Agnes, I shall have to fall in love with him over again, +and to fall in love with the same individual twice, will certainly be +rather a novel case--a double passion, at least, you will grant, Agnes.” + +“But he will experience sensations quite as singular on seeing you, when +he returns. You are as much changed--improved I mean--in your person, as +he can be for his life. If he is now a fine, full-grown young man, you +are a tall, elegant--I don’t, want to flatter you, Jane,--I need not say +graceful, for that you always were, but I may add with truth, a majestic +young woman. Why, you will scarcely know each other.” + +“You do flatter me, Agnes; but am I so much improved?” + +“Indeed you are quite a different girl from what you were when he saw +you.” + +“I am glad of it; but as I told him once, it is on his account that I am +so glad; do you know, Agnes, I never was vain of my beauty until I saw +Charles?” + +“Did you ever feel proud in being beautiful in the eyes of another, +Jane?” + +“No, I never did--why should I?” + +“Well, that is not vanity--it is only love visible in a different +aspect, and not the least amiable either, my dear.” + +“Well, I should be much more melancholy than I am, were not my fancy so +often engaged in picturing to myself the change which may be on him when +he returns. The feeling it occasions is novel and agreeable, sometimes, +indeed, delightful, and so far sustains me when I am inclined to be +gloomy. But believe me, Agnes, I could love Charles Osborne even if he +were not handsome. I could love him for his mind, his principles, and +especially for his faithful and constant heart.” + +“And for all these he would deserve your love; but you remember what you +told me once: it seems he has not yet seen a girl that he thinks more +handsome than you are. Did you not mention to me that he said when he +did, he would cease to write to you and cease to love you? You see he is +constant.” + +“Yes; but did I not tell you the sense in which he meant it?” + +“Yes; and now you throw a glance at yourself in the glass! Oh Jane, +Jane, the best of us and the freest from imperfection is not without a +little pride and vanity; but don’t be too confident, my saucy beauty; +consider that you complained to William yesterday, about the unusual +length of time that has elapsed since you received his last letter, +and yet he could, write to his fa---- What, what, dear girl, what’s the +matter? you are as pale as death.” + +“Because, Agnes, I never think of that but my heart and spirits sink. +It has been one of the secret causes of my occasional depressions ever +since he went. I cannot tell why, but from the moment the words were +spoken, I have not been without a presentiment of evil.” + +“Even upon your own showing, Jane, that is an idle and groundless +impression, and unworthy the affection which you know, and which we all +know he bears you; dismiss it, dear Jane, dismiss it, and do not give +yourself the habit of creating imaginary evils.” + +“I know I am prone to such a habit, and am probably too much of a +visionary for my own happiness; but setting that gloomy presentiment +aside, have you not, Agnes, been struck with several hints in his +letters, both to me and his father, unfavorable to the state of his +health.” + +“That you will allow, could not be very ill, when he was able to +continue his travels.” + +“True, but according to his own admission his arrangements were +frequently broken up, by the fact of his being ‘unwell,’ and ‘not in a +condition to travel,’ and so did not reach the places in time to which +he had requested me to direct many of my letters. I fear, Agnes, that +his health has not been so much improved by the air of the continent as +we hoped it would.” + +“I have only to say this, Jane, that if he does not appreciate your +affection as he ought to do, then God forgive him. He will be guilty of +a crime against the purest attachment of the best of hearts, as well as +against truth and honor. I hope he may be worthy of you, and I am sure +he will. He is now in Bath, however, and will soon be with us.” + +“I am divided, Agnes, by two principles--if they may be called such--or +if you will, by two moods of mind, or states of feeling; one of them +is faith and trust in his affection--how can I doubt it?--the other is +malady, I believe, a gloom, an occasional despondency for which I cannot +account, and which I am not able to shake off. My faith and trust, +however, will last, and his return will dispel the other.” + +This, in fact, was the true state of the faithful girl’s heart. From +the moment Osborne went to travel, her affection, though full of the +tenderest enthusiasm, lay under the deep shadow of that gloom, which was +occasioned by the first, and we may say the only act of insincerity she +was ever guilty of towards her father. The reader knows that even this +act was not a deliberate one, but merely the hurried evasion of a young +and bashful girl, who, had her sense of moral delicacy been less acute, +might have never bestowed a moment’s subsequent consideration upon it. +Let our fair young readers, however, be warned even by this very +slight deviation from truth, and let them also remember that one act of +dissimulation may, in the little world of their own moral sentiments and +affections, lay the foundation for calamities under which their hopes +and their happiness in consequence of that act may absolutely perish. +Still are we bound to say that Jane’s deportment during the period, +stipulated upon for Osborne’s absence was admirably decorous, and +replete with moral beauty. Her moments of enjoyment derived from his +letters, were fraught with an innocent simplicity of delight in fine +keeping with a heart so fall of youthful fervor and attachment. And when +her imagination became occasionally darkened by that gloom which she +termed her malady, nothing could be more impressive than the tone of +deep and touching piety which mingled with and elevated her melancholy +into a cheerful solemnity of spirit, that swayed by its pensive dignity +the habits and affections of her whole family. + +‘Tis true she was one of a class rarely to be found amoung even the +highest of her own sex, and her attachment was consequently that of a +heart utterly incapable of loving twice. Her first affection was too +steadfast and decisive ever to be changed, and at the same time too +full and unreserved to maintain the materials for a second passion. +The impression she received was too deep ever to be erased. She might +weep--she might mourn--she might sink--her soul might be bowed down to +the dust--her heart might break--she might die--but she never, never, +could love again. That heart was his palace, where the monarch of her +affections reigned--but remove his throne, and it became the sepulchre +of her own hopes--the ruin, haunted by the moping brood of her own +sorrows. Often, indeed, did her family wonder at the freshness of memory +manifested in the character of her love for Osborne. There was nothing +transient, nothing forgotten, nothing perishable in her devotion to him. +In truth, it had something of divinity in it. Every thing past, and much +also of the future was present to her. Osborne breathed and lived at the +expiration of two years, just as he had done the day before he set out +on his travels. In her heart he existed as an undying principle, and the +duration of her love for him seemed likely to be limited only by those +laws of nature, which, in the course of time, carry the heart beyond the +memory of all human affections. + +It would, indeed, be almost impossible to see a creature so lovely and +angelic as was our heroine, about the period when Osborne was expected +to return. Retaining all the graceful elasticity of motion that +characterized her when first introduced to our readers, she was now +taller and more majestic in her person, rounder and with more symmetry +in her figure, and also more conspicuous for the singular ease and +harmony of her general deportment. Her hair, too, now grown to greater +luxuriance, had become several shades deeper, and, of course, was much +more rich than when Charles saw it last. But if there was any thing +that, more than another, gave an expression of tenderness to her beauty, +it was the under-tone of color--the slightly perceptible paleness which +marked her complexion as that of a person whose heart though young had +already been made acquainted with some early sorrow. + +Had her lover then seen her, and witnessed the growth of charms that +had taken place during his absence, he and she might both, alas, have +experienced another and a kinder destiny. + +The time at length arrived when Charles, as had been settled upon by +both their parents, was expected to return. During the three months +previous he had been at Bath, accompanied of course by his friend +and tutor. Up until a short time previous to his arrival there, his +communications to his parents and to Jane were not only punctual and +regular, but remarkable for the earnest spirit of dutiful affection +and fervid attachment which they breathed to both. It is true that his +father had, during the whole period of his absence, been cognizant of +that which the vigilance of Jane’s love for him only suspected--I +allude to the state of his health, which it seems occasionally betrayed +symptoms of his hereditary complaint. + +This gave Mr. Osborne deep concern, for he had hoped that so long a +residence in more genial climates would have gradually removed from his +son’s constitution that tendency to decline which was so much dreaded +by them all. Still he was gratified to hear, that with the exception of +those slight recurrences, the boy grew fast and otherwise with a healthy +energy into manhood. The principles he had set out with were unimpaired +by the influence of continental profligacy. His mind was enlarged, his +knowledge greatly extended, and his taste and manners polished to a +degree so unusual, that he soon became the ornament of every circle in +which he moved. His talents, now ripe and cultivated, were not only of +a high, but also of a striking and brilliant character--much too +commanding and powerful, as every one said, to be permitted to sink into +the obscurity of private life. + +This language was not without its due impression on young Osborne’s +mind; for his tutor could observe that soon after his return to England +he began to have fits of musing, and was often abstracted, if not +absolutely gloomy. He could also perceive a disinclination to write +home, for which he felt it impossible to account. At first he attributed +this to ill health, or to those natural depressions which frequently +precede or accompany it; but at length on seeing his habitual absences +increase, he inquired in a tone of friendly sympathy, too sincere to be +doubted, why it was that a change so unusual had become so remarkably +visible in his spirits. + +“I knew not,” replied Osborne, “that it was so; I myself have not +observed what you speak of.” + +“Your manner, indeed, is much changed,” said his friend; “you appear to +me, and I dare say to others, very like a man whose mind is engaged upon +the consideration of some subject that is deeply painful to him, and of +which he knows not how to dispose. If it be so, my dear Osborne, command +my advice, my sympathy, my friendship.” + +“I assure you, my dear friend, I was perfectly unconscious of this. +But that I _have_ for some time past been thinking--more seriously than +usual of the position in society which I ought to select, I grant you. +You are pleased to flatter me with the possession of talents that you +say might enable any man to reach a commanding station in public life. +Now, for what purpose are talents given? or am I justified in sinking +away into obscurity when I might create my own fortune, perhaps my own +rank, by rendering some of the noblest services to my country. That +wish to leave behind one a name that cannot die, is indeed a splendid +ambition!” + +“I thought,” replied the other, “that you had already embraced views of +a different character, entered into by your father to promote your-own +happiness.” + +Osborne started, blushed, and for more than half a minute returned no +answer. “True,” said he at last, “true, I had forgotten that.” + +His tutor immediately perceived that an ambition not unnatural, indeed, +to a young man possessing such fine talents, had strongly seized upon +his heart, and knowing as he did his attachment to Jane, he would have +advised his immediate return home, had it not been already determined +on, in consequence of medical advice, that he himself should visit Bath +for the benefit of his health, and his pupil could by no arguments be +dissuaded from accompanying him. + +This brief view of Osborne’s intentions, at the close of the period +agreed on for his return, was necessary to explain an observation made +by Agnes in the last dialogue which we have given between herself and +her younger sister. We allude to the complaint which she playfully +charged Jane with having made to her brother concerning the length of +time which had elapsed since she last heard from her lover. The truth +is, that with the exception of Jane herself, both families were even +then deeply troubled in consequence of a letter directed by Charles’s +tutor to Mr. Osborne. That letter was the last which the amiable +gentleman ever wrote, for he had not been in Bath above a week when he +sank suddenly under a disease of the heart, to which he had for some +years been subject. His death, which distressed young Osborne very +much, enabled him, however, to plead the necessity of attending to his +friend’s obsequies, in reply to his father’s call on him to return to +his family. The next letter stated that he would not lose a moment in +complying with his wishes, as no motive existed to detain him from home, +and the third expressed the uncommon benefit which he had, during his +brief residence there, experienced from the use of the waters. Against +this last argument the father had nothing to urge. His son’s health +was to him a consideration paramount to every other, and when he found +himself improved either by the air or waters of Bath, he should not +hurry his return as he had intended. “Only write to your friends,” said +he, “they are as anxious for the perfect establishment of your health as +I am.” + +This latter correspondence between Mr. Osborne and his son, was +submitted to Mr. Sinclair, that it might be mentioned to serve as an +apology for Charles’s delay in replying to her last letter. This step +was suggested by Mr. Sinclair himself, who dreaded the consequences +which any appearance of neglect might have upon a heart so liable to +droop as that of his gentle daughter. Jane, who was easily depressed, +but not suspicious, smiled at the simplicity of her papa, as she said, +in deeming it necessary to make any apology for Charles Osborne’s not +writing to her by return of post. + +“It will be time enough,” she added, “when his letters get cool, and +come but seldom, to make excuses for him. Surely, my dear papa, if any +one blamed him, I myself would be, and ought to be the first to defend +him.” + +“Yet,” observed William, “you could complain to me about his letting +a letter of yours stand over a fortnight before he answered it. +Jane--Jane--there’s no knowing you girls; particularly when you’re in +love; but, indeed, then you don’t know yourselves, so how should we?” + +“But, papa,” she added, looking earnestly upon him; “it is rather +strange that you are so anxious to apologize for Charles. I cannot +question my papa, and I shall not; but yet upon second thoughts, it is +very strange.” + +“No, my love, but I would not have you a day uneasy.” + +“Well,” she replied, musing--but with a keen eye bent alternately +upon him and William; “it is a simple case, I myself have a very ready +solution for his want of punctuality, if it can be called such, or if it +continue such.” + +“And pray what is it, Jane,” asked William. + +“Excuse me, dear William--if I told you it might reach him, and then he +might shape his conduct to meet it--I may mention it some day, though; +but I hope there will never be occasion. Papa, don’t you ask me, because +if you do, I shall feel it my duty to tell you; and I would rather not, +sir, except you press me. But why after all should I make a secret +of it. It is, papa, the test of all things, as well as of Charles’s +punctuality--for, of his affection I will never doubt. It is time--time; +but indeed I wish you had not spoken to me about it; I was not uneasy.” + +The poor girl judged Osborne through a misapprehension which, had she +known more I of life, or even reflected upon his neglect in writing +to her, would have probably caused her to contemplate his conduct in a +different light. She thought because his letters were nearly as frequent +since his return to England, as they had been during his tour on the +continent, that the test of his respect and attachment was sustained. +In fact, she was ignorant that he had written several letters of late to +his own family, without having addressed to her a single line; or even +mentioned her name, and this circumstance was known to them all, with +the exception of herself, as was the tutor’s previous letter, of which +she had never heard. + +It was no wonder, therefore, that her father, who was acquainted with +this, and entertained such serious apprehensions for his daughter’s +state of mind, should feel anxious, that until Osborne’s conduct were +better understood, no doubt of his sincerity should reach the confiding +girl’s heart. The old man, however, unconsciously acted upon his own +impressions rather than on Jane’s knowledge of what had occurred. In +truth, he forgot that the actual state of the matter was unknown to her, +and the consequence was, that in attempting to efface an impression that +did not exist, he alarmed her suspicion by his mysterious earnestness of +manner, and thereby created the very uneasiness he wished to remove. + +From this day forward, Jane’s eye became studiously vigilant of the +looks and motions of the family. Her melancholy returned, but I it was +softer and serener than it had ever been before; so did the mild but +pensive spirit of devotion which had uniformly accompanied it. The +sweetness of her manner was irresistible, if not affecting, for there +breathed through the composure of her countenance an air of mingled +sorrow and patience, so finely blended, that it was difficult to +determine, on looking at her, whether she secretly rejoiced or mourned. + +A few days more brought another letter from Osborne to his father, which +contained a proposal for which the latter, in consequence of the tutor’s +letter, was not altogether unprepared. It was a case put to the father +for the purpose of ascertaining whether, if he, Charles, were offered +an opportunity of appearing in public life, he would recommend him to +accept it. He did not say that such an opening had really presented +itself, but he strongly urged his father’s permission to embrace it if +it should. + +This communication was immediately laid before Mr. Sinclair, who advised +his friend, ere he took any other step, or hazarded an opinion upon +it, to require from Charles an explicit statement of the motives which +induced him to solicit such a sanction. “Until we know what he means,” + said he, “it is impossible for us to know how to advise him. That he +has some ambitious project in view, is certain. Mr. Harvey’s (his tutor) +letter and this both prove it.” + +“But in the meantime, we must endeavor to put such silly projects out of +his head, my dear friend. I am more troubled about that sweet girl than +about any thing else. I cannot understand his neglect of her.” + +“Few, indeed, are worthy of that angel,” replied her father, sighing; +“I hope he may. If Charles, after what has passed, sports with her +happiness, he will one day have a fearful reckoning of it, unless he +permits his conscience to become altogether seared.” + +“It cannot, happen,” replied the other; “I know my boy, his heart is +noble; no, no, he is incapable of dishonor, much less of perfidy so +black as that would be. In my next letter, however, I shall call upon +him to explain himself upon that subject, as well as the other, and if +he replies by an evasion, I shall instantly command him home.” + +They then separated, with a feeling of deep but fatherly concern, +one anxious for the honor of his son, and the other trembling for the +happiness of his daughter. + +Mr. Sinclair was a man in whose countenance could be read all the +various emotions that either exalted or disturbed his heart. If he felt +joy his eye became irradiated with benignant lustre, that spoke at once +of happiness; and, when depressed by care or sorrow, it was easy to +see by the serious composure of his face, that something troubled or +disturbed him. Indeed, this candor of countenance is peculiar to those +only who have not schooled their faces into hypocrisy. After his return +from the last interview with Mr. Osborne, his family perceived at a +glance that something more than usually painful lay upon his mind; and +such was the affectionate sympathy by which they caught each other’s +feelings, that every countenance, save! one, became partially +overshadowed. Jane, although her eye was the first and quickest! to +notice this anxiety of her father, exhibited no visible proof of +a penetration so acute and lively. The serene light that beamed so +mournfully from her placid but melancholy brow, was not darkened by what +she saw; on the contrary, that brow became, if possible, more serene; +for in truth, the gentle enthusiast had already formed a settled plan +of exalted resignation that was designed to sustain her under an +apprehension far different from that which Osborne’s ambitious +speculations in life would have occasioned her to feel had she known +them. + +“I see,” said she with a smile, “that my papa has no good news to tell. +A letter has come to his father, but none to me; but you need not fear +for my firmness, papa. I know from whence to expect support; +indeed, from the beginning I knew that I would require it. You often +affectionately chid me for entertaining apprehensions too gloomy; but +now they are not gloomy, because, if what I surmise be true, Charles and +I will not be so long separated as you imagine. The hope of this, papa, +is my consolation.” + +“Why, what do you surmise, my love, asked her father. + +“That Charles is gone, perhaps irretrievably gone in decline; you +know it is the hereditary complaint of his family. What else could, +or would--yes, papa, or ought to keep him so long from home--from +his friends--from me. Yes, indeed,” she added with a smile, “from me, +papa--from his own Jane Sinclair, and he so near us, in England, and the +time determined on for his return expired.” + +“But you know, Jane,” said her father, gratified to find that her +suspicion took a wrong direction, “the air of Bath, he writes, is +agreeing with him.” + +“I hope it may, papa; I hope it may; but you may rest assured, that +whatever happens, the lesson you have taught me, will, aided by divine +support, sustain my soul, so long as the frail tenement in which it is +lodged may last. That will not be long.” + +“True religion, my love, is always cheerful, and loves to contemplate +the brighter side of every human event. I do not like to see my dear +child so calm, nor her countenance shaded by melancholy so fixed as that +I have witnessed on it of late.” + +“Eternity, papa--a happy eternity, what is it, but the brighter side of +human life--here we see only as in a glass darkly; there, in our final +destiny, we reach the fulness of our happiness. I am not melancholy, but +resigned; and resignation has a peace peculiar to itself; a repose which +draws us gently, for a little time, out of the memory of our sorrows; +but without refreshing the heart--without refreshing the heart. No, +papa, I am not melancholy--I am not melancholy; I could bear Charles’s +death, and look up to my God for strength and support under it; but,” + she added, shaking her head, with a smile marked by something of a wild +meaning, “if he could forget me for another,--no I will not say for +another, but if he could only forget me, and his vows of undying +affection, then indeed--then--then--papa--ha!--no--no--he could not--he +could not.” + +This conversation, when repeated to the family, deeply distressed them, +involved in doubt and uncertainty as they were with respect to Osborne’s +ultimate intentions. Until a reply, however, should be received to his +father’s letter, which was written expressly to demand an explanation +on that point, they could only soothe the unhappy girl in the patient +sorrow which they saw gathering in her heart. That, however, which +alarmed them most, was her insuperable disrelish to any thing in the +shape of consolation or sympathy. This, to them, was indeed a new trait +in the character of one who had heretofore been so anxious to repose +the weight of her sufferings upon the bosoms of those who loved her. +Her chief companion now was Ariel, her dove, to which she was seen +to address herself with a calm, smiling aspect, not dissimilar to +the languid cheerfulness of an invalid, who might be supposed as yet +incapable from physical weakness to indulge in a greater display +of animal spirits. Her walks, too, were now all solitary, with the +exception of her mute companion, and it was observed that she never, +in a single instance, was known to traverse any spot over which she and +Osborne had not walked together. Here she would linger, and pause, and +muse, and address Ariel, as if the beautiful creature were capable of +comprehending the tenor of her language. + +“Ariel,” said she one day, speaking to the bird; “there is the yew tree, +under which your preserver and I first disclosed our love. The yew tree, +sweet bird, is the emblem of death, and so it will happen; for Charles +is dying, I know--I feel that he will die; and I will die, early; we +will both die early; for I would not be able to live here after him, +Ariel, and how could I? Yet I should like to see him once--once before +he dies; to see him, Ariel, in the fulness of his beauty; my eye to rest +upon him once more; and then I could die smiling.” + +She then sat down under the tree, and in a voice replete with exquisite +pathos and melody sang the plaintive air which Osborne had played on +the evening when the first rapturous declaration of their passion was +made. This incident with the bird also occurred much about the same hour +of the day, a remembrance which an association, uniformly painful to her +moral sense, now revived with peculiar power, for she started and became +pale. “My sweet bird,” she exclaimed, “what is this; I shall be absent +from evening worship again--but I will not prevaricate now; why--why +is this spot to be fatal to me? Come, Ariel, come: perhaps I may not be +late.” + +She hastened home with a palpitating heart, and unhappily arrived only +in time to find the family rising from prayer. + +As she stood and looked upon them, she smiled, but a sudden paleness +at the same instant overspread her face, which gave to her smile an +expression we are utterly incompetent to describe. + +“I am late,” she exclaimed, “and have neglected a solemn and a necessary +duty. To me, to me, papa, how necessary is that duty.” + +“It is equally so to us all, my child,” replied her father; “but,” he +added, in order to reconcile her to an omission which had occasioned her +to suffer so much pain before, “we did not forget to pray for you, Jane. +With respect to your absence, we know it was unintentional. Your mind +is troubled, my love, and do not, let me beg of you, dwell upon minor +points of that kind, so as to interrupt the singleness of heart with +which you ought to address God. You know, darling, you can pray in your +own room.” + +She mused for some minutes, and at length said, “I would be glad to +preserve that singleness of heart, but I fear I will not be able to do +so long.” + +“If you would stay more with us, darling,” observed her mamma, “and talk +and chat more with Maria and Agnes, as you used to do, you would find +your spirits improved. You are not so cheerful as we would wish to see +you.” + +“Perhaps I ought to do that, mamma; indeed I know I ought, because you +wish it.” + +“We all wish it,” said Agnes, “Jane dear, why keep aloof from us? Who in +the world loves you as we do; and why would you not, as you used to do, +allow us to cheer you, to support you, or to mourn and weep with you; +anything--anything,” said the admirable girl, “rather than keep your +heart from ours;” and as she spoke, the tears fell fast down her cheeks. + +“Dear Agnes,” said Jane, putting her arm about her sister’s neck, and +looking up mournfully into her face; “I cannot weep for myself--I cannot +weep even with you; you know I love you--how I love you--oh, how I love +you all; but I cannot tell why it is--society, even the society of them +I love best, disturbs me, and you know not the pleasure--melancholy +I grant it to be, but you know not the pleasure that comes to me from +solitude. To me--to me there is a charm in it ten times more soothing to +my heart than all the power of human consolation.” + +“But why so melancholy at all, Jane,” said Maria, “surely there is no +just cause for it.” + +She smiled as she replied, “Why am I melancholy, Maria?--why? why should +I not? Do I not read the approaching death of Charles Osborne in the +gloom of every countenance about me? Why do you whisper to each other +that which you will not let me hear? Why is there a secret and anxious, +and a mysterious intercourse between this family and his, of the purport +of which I am kept ignorant--and I alone?” + +“But suppose Charles Osborne is not sick,” said William; “suppose he was +never in better health than he is at this moment--” he saw his father’s +hand raised, and paused, then added, carelessly, “for supposition’s sake +I say merely.” + +“But you must not suppose that, William,” she replied, starting, “unless +you wish to blight your sister. On what an alternative then, would +you force a breaking heart. If not sick, if not dying, where is he? +I require him--I demand him. My heart,” she proceeded, rising up and +speaking with vehemence--“my heart calls for him--shouts aloud in its +agony--shouts aloud--shouts aloud for him. He is, he is sick; the malady +of his family is upon him; he is ill--he is dying; it must be so; ay, +and it shall be so; I can bear that, I can bear him to die, but never +to become faithless to a heart like mine. But I am foolish,” she added, +after a pause, occasioned by exhaustion; “Oh, my dear William, why, by +idle talk, thus tamper with your poor affectionate sister’s happiness? I +know you meant no harm, but oh, William, William, do it no more.” + +“I only put it, dear Jane, I only put it as a mere case,”--the young man +was evidently cut to the heart, and could not for some moments speak. + +She saw his distress, and going over to him, took his hand and. +said, “Don’t, William, don’t; it is nothing but merely one of your +good-humored attempts to make your sister cheerful. There,” she added, +kissing his cheek; “there is a kiss for you; the kiss of peace let it +be, and forgiveness; but I have nothing to forgive you for, except too +much affection for an unhappy sister, who, I believe, is likely to be +troublesome enough to you all; but, perhaps not long--not long.” + +There were few dry eyes in the room, as she uttered the last words. + +“I do not like to see you weep,” she added, “when I could have wept +myself, and partaken of your tears, it was rather a relief to me than +otherwise. It seems, however, that my weeping days are past; do not, oh +do not--you trouble me, and I want to compose my mind for a performance +of the solemn act which I have this evening neglected. Mamma, kiss me, +and pray for me; I love you well and tenderly, mamma; I am sure you know +I do.” + +The sorrowing mother caught her to her bosom, and, after kissing her +passive lips, burst out into a sobbing fit of grief. + +“Oh, my daughter, my daughter,” she exclaimed, still clasping her to her +heart, “and is it come to this! Oh, that we had never seen him!” + +“This, my dear,” said Mr. Sinclair to his wife, “is wrong; indeed, it is +weakness; you know she wants to compose her mind for prayer.” + +“I do, papa; they must be more firm; I need to pray. I know my +frailties, you know them too, sir; I concealed them from you as long +as I could, but their burden was too heavy for my heart; bless me now, +before I go; I will kneel.” + +The sweet girl knelt beside him, and he placed his hand upon her +stooping head, and blessed her. She then raised herself, and looking up +to him with a singular expression of wild sweetness beaming in her eyes, +she said, leaning her head again upon his breast, + +“There are two bosoms, on which, I trust, I and my frailties can repose +with hope; I know I shall soon pass from the one to the other-- + +“The bosom of my _father_ and my _God_, will not they be sweet, papa?” + +She spoke thus with a smile of such unutterable sweetness, her beautiful +eyes gazing innocently up into her father’s countenance, that the heart +of the old man was shaken through every fibre. He saw, however, what +must be encountered, and was resolved to act a part worthy of the +religion he professed. He arose, and taking her hand in his, said, “You +wish to pray, dearest love; that is right; your head has been upon my +bosom, and I blessed you; go now, and, with a fervent heart, address +yourself to the throne of grace; in doing this, my sweet child, piously +and earnestly, you will pass from my bosom to the bosom of your God. +Cast yourself upon Him, my love; above all things, cast yourself with +humble hope and earnest supplication upon His. This, my child, indeed is +sweet; and you will find it so; come, darling, come.” + +He led her out of the room, and after a few words more of affectionate +advice, left her to that solitude for which he hoped the frame of mind +in which she then appeared was suitable. + +“Her sense of religion,” he said, after returning to the family, “is +not only delicate, but deep; her piety is fervent and profound. I do +not therefore despair but religion will carry her through whatever +disappointment Charles’s flighty enthusiasm may occasion her.” + +“I wish, papa,” said Agnes, “I could think so. As she herself said, she +might bear his death, for that would involve no act of treachery, of +falsehood on his part; but to find that he is capable of forgetting +their betrothed vows, sanctioned as they were by the parents of +both--indeed, papa, if such a thing happen----” + +“I should think it will not,” observed her mother; “Charles has, as you +have just said, enthusiasm; now, will not that give an impulse to his +love, as well as to his ambition?” + +“But if ambition, my dear, has become the predominant principle in his +character, it will draw to its own support all that nourished his other +passions. Love is never strong where ambition exists--nor ambition where +there is love.” + +“I cannot entertain the thought of Charles Osborne being false to her,” + said Maria; “his passion for her was more like idolatry than love.” + +“He is neglecting her, though,” said William; “and did she not suppose +that that is caused by illness, I fear she would not bear it even as she +does.” + +“I agree with you, William,” observed Agnes; “but after all, it is +better to have patience until Mr. Osborne hears from him. His reply +will surely be decisive as to his intentions. All may end better than we +think.” + +Until this reply should arrive, however, they were compelled to remain +in that state of suspense which is frequently more painful than the +certainty of evil itself. Jane’s mind and health were tended with all +the care and affection which her disinclination to society would permit +them to show. They forced themselves to be cheerful in order that she +might unconsciously partake of a spirit less gloomy than that which +every day darkened more deeply about her path; Any attempt to give her +direct consolation, however, was found to produce the very consequences +which they wished so anxiously to prevent. If for this purpose +they entered into conversation with her, no matter in what tone of +affectionate sweetness they addressed her, such was the irresistible +pathos of her language, that their hearts became melted, and, instead +of being able to comfort the beloved mourner, they absolutely required +sympathy themselves. Since their last dialogue, too, it was evident +from her manner that some fresh source of pain had been on that occasion +opened in her heart. For nearly a Week afterwards her eye was fixed from +time to time upon her brother William, with a long gaze of hesitation +and enquiry--not unmingled with a character of suspicion that appeared +still further, to sink her spirits by a superadded weight of misery. + +Nearly a fortnight had now elapsed since Charles Osborne ought to have +received his father’s letter, and yet no communication had reached +either of the families. Indeed the gradual falling off of his +correspondence with Jane, and the commonplace character of his few last +letters left little room to hope that his affection for her stood the +severe test of time and absence. One morning about this period she +brought William into the garden, and after a turn or too, laid her hand, +gently upon his arm, saying, + +“William, I have a secret to entrust you with.” + +“A secret, Jane--well, I will keep it honorably--what is it, dear?” + +“I am very unhappy.” + +“Surely that’s no secret to me, my pool girl.” + +She shook her head. + +“No, no; that’s not it; but this is--I strongly suspect that you all +know more about Charles than I do.” + +She fixed her eyes with an earnest penetration on him as she spoke. + +“He is expected home soon, Jane.” + +“He is not ill, William; and you have all permitted me to deceive myself +into a belief that he is; because you felt that I would rather ten +thousand times that he were dead than false--than false.” + +“He could not, he dare not be false to you, my dear, after having been +solemnly betrothed to you, I may say with the consent of your father and +his.” + +“Dare not--ha--there is meaning in that, William; your complexion is +heightened, too; and so I have found out your secret, my brother. Sunk +as is my heart, you see I have greater penetration than you dream of. +So he is not sick, but false; and his love for me is gone like a dream. +Well, well; but yet I have laid down my own plan of resignation. You +would not guess what it is? Come, guess; I will hear nothing further +till you guess.” + +He thought it was better to humor her, and replied in accordance with +the hope of I his father. + +“Religion, my dear Jane, and reliance on God.” + +“That was my first plan; that was my plan in case the malady I suspected +had taken him from me--but what is my plan for his falsehood?” + +“I cannot guess, dear Jane.” + +“Death, William. What consoler like death? what peace so calm as that of +the grave? Let the storm of life howl ever so loudly, go but six inches +beneath the clay of the church-yard and how still is all there!” + +“Indeed, Jane, you distress yourself without cause; never trust me again +if Charles will not soon come home, and you and he be happy. Why, +my dear Jane, I thought you had more fortitude than to sink under a +calamity that has not yet reached you. Surely it will be time enough +when you find that Charles is false to take it so much to heart as you +do.” + +“That is a good and excellent advice, my dear William; but listen, and I +will give a far better one: never deceive your father; never prevaricate +with papa, and then you may rest satisfied that your heart will not be +crushed by such a calamity as that which has fallen upon me. I deceived +papa; and I am now the poor hopeless cast-away that you see me. Remember +that advice, William--keep it, and God will bless you.” + +William would have remonstrated with her at greater length, but he saw +that she was resolved to have no further conversation on the subject. +When it was closed she walked slowly and composedly out of the garden, +and immediately took her way to those favorite places among which she +was latterly in the habit of wandering. One of her expressions, however, +sunk upon his affectionate heart too deeply to permit him to rest under +the fearful apprehension which it generated. After musing for a little +he followed her with a pale face and a tearful eye, resolved to draw +from her, with as much tenderness as possible, the exact meaning which, +in her allusion to Osborne’s falsehood, she had applied to death. + +He found her sitting upon the bank of the river which we have already +described, and exactly opposite to the precise spot in the stream from +which Osborne had rescued Ariel. The bird sat on her shoulder, and he +saw by her gesture that she was engaged in an earnest address to it. He +came on gently behind her, actuated by that kind curiosity which knows +that in such unguarded moments a key may possibly be obtained to +the abrupt and capricious impulse by which persons laboring under +impressions so variable may be managed. + +[Illustration: PAGE 44-- Spot which would have been fatal to you] + +“I will beat you, Ariel,” said she, “I will beat you--fie upon you. You +an angel of light--no, no--have I not often pointed you out the spot +which would have been fatal to you, were it not for him--for him! Stupid +bird! there it is! do you not see it? No, as I live, your eye is turned +up sideways towards me, instead of looking at it, as if you asked why, +dear mistress, do you scold me so? And indeed I do not know, Ariel. I +scarcely know--but oh, my dear creature, if you knew--if you knew--it is +well you don’t. I am here--so are you--but where is he?” + +She was then silent for a considerable time, and sat with her head on +her hand. William could perceive that she sighed deeply. + +He advanced; and on hearing his foot she started, looked about, and on +seeing him, smiled. + +“I am amusing myself, William,” said she. + +“How, my dear Jane--how?” + +“Why, by the remembrance of my former misery. You know that the +recollection of all past happiness is misery to the miserable--is it +not? but of that you are no judge, William--you were never miserable.” + +“Nor shall you be so, Jane, longer than until Charles returns; but +touching your second plan of resignation, love. I don’t understand how +death could be resignation.” + +“Do you not? then I will tell you. Should Charles prove false to +me--that would break my heart. I should die, and then--then--do you not +see--comes Death, the consoler.” + +“I see, dear sister; but there will be no necessity for that. Charles +will be, and is, faithful and true to you. Will you come home with me, +dear Jane?” + +“At present I cannot, William; I have places to see and things to think +of that are pleasant to me. I may almost say so; because as I told you +they amuse me. Let misery have its mirth, William; the remembrance of +past happiness is mine.” + +“Jane, if you love me come home with me now?” + +“If I do. Ah, William, that’s ungenerous. You are well aware that I +do, and so you use an argument which you know I won’t resist. Come,” + addressing the dove, “we must go; we are put upon our generosity; for of +course we do love poor William. Yes, we will go, William; it is better, +I believe.” + +She then took his arm, and both walked home without speaking another +word; Jane having relapsed into a pettish silence which her brother felt +it impossible to break without creating unnecessary excitement in a mind +already too much disturbed. + +From this day forward Jane’s mind, fragile as it naturally was, appeared +to bend at once under the double burden of Osborne’s approaching death, +and his apprehended treachery; for wherever the heart is found to choose +between two contingent evils, it is also by the very constitution of our +nature compelled to bear the penalty of both, until its gloomy choice +is made. At present Jane was not certain whether Osborne’s absence and +neglect were occasioned by ill health or faithlessness; and until she +knew this the double dread fell, as we said, with proportionate misery +upon her spirit. + +Bitterly, indeed, did William regret the words in which he desired her +“to suppose that Charles Osborne was not sick.” Mr. Sinclair himself saw +the error, but unhappily too late to prevent the suspicion from entering +into an imagination already overwrought and disordered. + +Hitherto, however, it was difficult, if not impossible, out of her own +family, to notice in her manner or conversation the workings of a mind +partially unsettled by a passion which her constitutional melancholy +darkened by its own gloomy creations. To strangers she talked +rationally, and with her usual grace and perspicuity, but every one +observed that her cheerfulness was gone, and the current report went, +by whatever means it got abroad, that Jane Sinclair’s heart was +broken--that Charles Osborne proved faithless--and that the beautiful +Fawn of Springvale was subject to occasional derangement. + +In the meantime Osborne was silent both to his father and to her, and +as time advanced the mood of her mind became too seriously unhappy +and alarming to justify any further patience on the part either of his +family or Mr. Sinclair’s. It was consequently settled that Mr. Osborne +should set out for Bath, and compel his son’s return, under the hope +that a timely interview might restore the deserted girl to a better +state of mind, and reproduce in his heart that affection which appeared +to have either slumbered or died. With a brow of care the excellent man +departed, for in addition to the concern which he felt for the calamity +of Jane Sinclair and Charles’s honor, he also experienced all the +anxiety natural to an affectionate father, ignorant of the situation +in which he might find an only son, who up to that period had been, and +justly too, inexpressibly dear to him. + +His absence, however, was soon discovered by Jane, who now began to give +many proofs of that address with which unsettled persons can manage to +gain a point or extract a secret, when either in their own opinion is +considered essential to their gratification. Every member of her own +family now became subjected to her vigilance; every word they spoke was +heard with suspicion, and received as if it possessed a double meaning. +On more than one occasion she was caught in the attitude of a listener, +and frequently placed herself in such a position when sitting with her +relations at home, as enabled her to watch their motions in the glass, +when they supposed her engaged in some melancholy abstraction. + +Yet bitter, bitter as all this must have been to their hearts, it was +singular to mark, that as the light of her reason receded, a new and +solemn feeling of reverence was added to all of love, and sorrow, and +pity, that they had hitherto experienced towards her. Now, too, was +her sway over them more commanding, though exercised only in the woeful +meekness of a broken heart; for, indeed, there is in the darkness of +unmerited affliction, a spirit which elevates its object, and makes +unsuffering nature humble in its presence. Who is there that has a +heart, and few, alas, have, that does not feel himself constrained to +bend his head with reverence before those who move in the majesty of +undeserved sorrow? + +Mr. Osborne had not been many days gone, when Jane, one morning after +breakfast, desired the family not to separate for about an hour, or +if they did, to certainly reassemble within that period. “And in the +meantime,” she said, addressing Agnes, “I want you, my dear Agnes, to +assist me at my toilette, as they say. I am about to dress in my very +best, and it cannot, you know, be from vanity, for I have no one now to +gratify but yourselves--come.” + +Mr. Sinclair beckoned with his hand to Agnes to attend her, and they +accordingly left the room together. + +“What is the reason, Agnes,” she said, “that there is so much mystery in +this family? I do not like these nods, and beckonings, and gestures, all +so full of meaning. It grieves me to see my papa, who is the very soul +of truth and candor, have recourse to them. But, alas, why should I +blame any of you, when I know that it is from an excess of indulgence to +poor Jane, and to avoid giving her pain that you do it?” + +“Well, we will not do it any more, love, if it pains or is disagreeable +to you.” + +“It confounds me, Agnes, it injures my head, and sometimes makes me +scarcely know where I am, or who are about me. I begin to think that +there’s some dreadful secret among you; and I think of coffins, and +deaths, or of marriages, and wedding favors, and all that. Now, I can’t +bear to think of marriages, but death has something consoling in it; +give me death the consoler: yet,” she added, musing, “we shall not die, +but we shall all be changed.” + +“Jane, love, may I ask you why you are dressing with such care?” + +“When we go down stairs I shall tell you. It’s wonderful, wonderful!” + +“What is, dear?” + +“My fortitude. But those words were prophetic. I remember well what I +felt when I heard them; to be sure he placed them in a different light +from what I at first understood them in; but I am handsomer now, I +think. You will be a witness for me below, Agnes, will you not?” + +“To be sure, darling.” + +“Agnes, where are my tears gone of late? I think I ought to advertise +for them, or advertise for others, ‘Wanted for unhappy Jane Sinclair’”-- + +Agnes could bear no more. “Jane,” she exclaimed, clasping her in her +arms, and kissing her smiling lips, for she smiled while uttering the +last words, “oh, Jane, don’t, don’t, my darling, or you will break +my heart--your own Agnes’s heart, whom you loved so well, and whose +happiness or misery is bound I up in yours.” + +“For unhappy Jane Sinclair!--no I won’t distress you, dear Agnes; let +the advertisement go; here, I will kiss you, love, and dry your tears, +and then when I am dressed you shall know all.” + +She took up her own handkerchief as she spoke, and after having again +kissed her sister, wiped her cheeks and dried her eyes with childlike +tenderness and affection. She then, looked sorrowfully upon Agnes, and +said--“Oh, Agnes, Agnes, but my heart is heavy--heavy!” + +Agnes’s tears were again beginning to flow, but Jane once more kissed +her, and hastily wiping her eyes, exclaimed in that sweet, low voice +with which we address children, “Hush, hush, Agnes, do not cry, I will +not make you sorry any more.” + +She then went on to dress herself, but uttered not another word until +she and Agnes met the family below stairs. + +“I am now come, papa and mamma, and William, and my darling Maria--but, +Maria, listen,--I won’t have a tear, and you, Agnes,--I am come now to +tell you a secret.” + +“And, dearest life,” said her mother, “what is it?” + +“What made them call me the Fawn of Springvale?” + +“For your gentleness, love,” said Mr. Sinclair. + +“And for your beauty, darling,” added her mother. + +“Papa has it,” she replied quickly; “for my gentleness, for my +gentleness. My beauty, mamma, I am not beautiful.” + +While uttering these words, she approached the looking-glass, and +surveyed herself with a smile of irony that seemed to disclaim her own +assertion. But it was easy to perceive that the irony was directed to +some one not then present, and that it was also associated with the +memory of something painful to her in an extreme degree. + +Not beautiful! Never did mortal form gifted with beauty approaching +nearer to our conception of the divine or angelic, stand smiling in the +consciousness of its own charms before a mirror. + +“Now,” she proceeded, “I am going to make everything quite plain. I +never told you this before, but it is time I should now. Listen--Charles +Osborne bound himself by a curse, that if he met, during his absence, +a girl more beautiful than I am--or than I was then, I should say,--he +would cease to write to me--he would cease to love me. Now, here’s my +secret,--he has found a girl more beautiful than I am,--than I was then, +I, mean,--for he has ceased to write to me--and of course he has +ceased to love me. So mamma, I am not beautiful, and the Fawn of +Springvale--his own Jane Sinclair is forgotten.” + +She sat down and hung her head for some minutes, and the family, +thinking that she either wept or was about to weep, did not think it +right to address her. She rose up, however, and said: + +“Agnes is my witness: Did not you, Agnes, say that I am now much +handsomer than when Charles saw me last?” + +“I did, darling, and I do.” + +“Very well, mamma--perhaps you will find me beautiful yet. Now the case +is this, and I will be guided by my papa. Let me see--Charles may +have seen a girl more beautiful than I was then,--but how does he know +whether she is more beautiful than I am now?” + +It was--it was woful to see a creature of such unparalleled grace and +loveliness working out the calculations of insanity, in order to sustain +a broken heart. + +“But then,” she added, still smiling in conscious beauty, “why does he +not come to see me now? Why does he not come?” After musing again for +some time, she dropped on her knees in one of those rapid transitions of +feeling peculiar to persons of her unhappy class; and joining her +hands, looked up to Agnes with a countenance utterly and indescribably +mournful, exclaiming as she did it, in the same words as before:-- + +“Oh Agnes, Agnes, but my heart is heavy!” + +She then laid down her head on her sister’s knees, and for a long time +mused and murmured to herself, as if her mind was busily engaged on some +topic full of grief and misery. This was evident by the depth of +her sighs, which shook her whole frame, and heaved with convulsive +quiverings through her bosom. Having remained in this posture about ten +minutes, she arose, and without speaking, or noticing any of the family, +went out and sauntered with slow and melancholy steps about the place +where she loved to walk. + +Mr. Sinclair’s family at this period, and indeed, for a considerable +time past were placed, with reference to their unhappy daughter in +circumstances of peculiar distress. Their utter ignorance of Osborne’s +designs put it out of their power to adopt any particular mode of +treatment in Jane’s case. They could neither give her hope, nor prepare +her mind for disappointment; but were forced to look passively on, +though with hearts wrung into agony, whilst her miserable malady every +day gained new strength in its progress of desolation. The crisis was +near at hand, however, that was to terminate their suspense. A letter +from Mr. Osborne arrived, in which he informed them that Charles had +left Bath, for London, in company with a family of rank, a few days +before he reached it. He mentioned the name of the baronet, whose +beautiful daughter, possessing an ample fortune, at her own disposal, +fame reported to have been smitten with his son’s singular beauty and +accomplishments. It was also said, he added, that the lady had prevailed +on her father to sanction young Osborne’s addresses to her, and that +the baronet, who was a strong political partizan, calculating upon his +preeminent talents, intended to bring him into parliament, in order to +strengthen his party. He added that he himself was then starting for +London, to pursue his son, and rescue him from an act which would stamp +his name with utter baseness and dishonor. + +This communication, so terrible in its import to a family of such +worth and virtue, was read to them by Mr. Sinclair, during one of those +solitary rambles which Jane was in the habit of taking every day. + +“Now, my children,” said the white-haired father, summoning all the +fortitude of a Christian man to his aid,--“now must we show ourselves +not ignorant of those resources which the religion of Christ opens to +all who are for His wise purposes grievously and heavily afflicted. Let +us act as becomes the dignity of our faith. We must suffer: let it be +with patience, and a will resigned to that which laid the calamity upon +us,--and principally upon the beloved mourner who is dear, dear--and +oh! how justly is she dear to all our hearts! Be firm, my children--and +neither speak, nor look, nor act as if these heavy tidings had reached +us. This is not only our duty, but our wisest course under circumstances +so distressing as ours. Another letter from Mr. Osborne will decide all +and until then we must suffer in silent reliance upon the mercy of God. +It may, however, be a consolation to you all to know, that if this young +man’s heart be detached from that of our innocent and loving child, I +would rather--the disposing will of God being still allowed--see her +wrapped in the cerements of death than united to one, who with so little +scruple can trample upon the sanctions of religion, or tamper with the +happiness of a fellow-creature. Oh, may God of His mercy sustain our +child, and bear her in His own right hand through this heavy woe!” + +This affecting admonition did not fall upon them in vain,--for until the +receipt of Mr, Osborne’s letter from London, not even Jane, with all +her vigilance, was able to detect in their looks or manner any change +or expression beyond what she had usually noticed. That letter at length +arrived, and, as they had expected, filled up the measure of Osborne’s +dishonor and their affliction. The contents were brief but fearful. Mr. +Osborne stated that he arrived in London on the second day after his +son’s marriage, and found, to his unutterable distress, that he and +his fashionable wife had departed for the continent on the very day the +ceremony took place. + +“I could not,” proceeded his father, “wrench my heart so suddenly out of +the strong affection it felt for the hope of my past life, as to curse +him; but, from this day forward I disown him as my son. You know not, my +friend, what I feel, and what I suffer; for he who was the pride of my +declining years has, by this act of unprincipled ambition, set his seal +to the unhappiness of his father. I am told, indeed, that the lady is +very beautiful--and amiable as she is beautiful--and that their passion +for each other amounts to idolatry;--but neither her beauty, nor her +wealth, nor her goodness could justify my son in an act of such cruel +and abandoned perfidy to a creature who seems to be more nearly related +to the angelic nature than the human.” + +“You see, my children,” observed Mr. Sinclair, “that the worst, as far +as relates to Osborne, is before us. I have nothing now to add to what I +have already said on the receipt of the letter from Bath. You know +your duty, and with God’s assistance I trust you will act up to it. +At present it might be fatal to our child were she to know what has +happened; nor, indeed, are we qualified to break the matter to her, +without the advice of some medical man, eminent in cases similar to that +which afflicts her.” + +These observations were scarcely concluded when Jane entered the room, +and as usual, cast a calm but searching glance around her. She saw that +they had been in tears, and that they tried in vain to force their faces +I into a hurried composure, that seemed strangely at variance with what +they felt. + +After a slight pause she sat down, and putting her hand to her temple, +mused for some minutes. They observed that a sorrow more deep and +settled than usual, was expressed on her countenance. Her eyes were +filled, although tears did not come, and the muscles of her lips +quivered excessively; yet she did not speak; and such was the solemnity +of the moment to them, who knew all, that none of them could find voice +sufficiently firm to address her. + +“Papa,” said she, at length, “this has been a day of busy thought with +me. I think I see, and I am sure I feel my own situation. The only +danger is, that I may feel it too much. I fear I have felt it--(she +put her hand to her forehead as she spoke)--I fear I have felt it too +deeply already. Pauses--lapses, or perhaps want of memory for a certain +space, occasioned by--by------” she hesitated. “Bear with me, papa, +and mamma; bear with me; for this is a great effort; let me recollect +myself, and do not question me or--speak to me until I------. It is, it +is woeful to see me reduced to this; but nothing is seriously wrong with +me yet--nothing. Let me see; yes, yes, papa, here it is. Let us not be +reduced to the miserable necessity of watching each other, as we have +been. Let me know the worst. You have nearly broken me down by suspense. +Let me know the purport of the letter you received to-day.” + +“To-day, love!” exclaimed her mother. “Yes, mamma, to-day. I made John +show it me on his way from the post-office. The superscription was Mr. +Osborne’s hand. Let me, O let me,” she exclaimed, dropping down upon +her knees, “as you value my happiness here and hereafter, let me at +once know the worst--the very worst. Am I not the daughter of a pious +minister of the Gospel, and do you think I shall or can forget the +instructions I received from his lips? Treat me as a rational being, if +you wish me to remain rational. But O, as you love my happiness here, +and my soul’s salvation, do not, papa, do not, mamma, do not, Maria, do +not, Agnes, William,--do not one or all of you keep your unhappy sister +hanging in the agony of suspense! It will kill me!--it will kill me!” + +Suppressed sobs there were, which no firmness could restrain. But in a +few moments those precepts of the Christian pastor, which we have before +mentioned, came forth among this sorrowing family, in the same elevated +spirit which dictated them. When Jane had concluded this appeal to her +father, there was a dead, silence in the room, and every eye glanced +from, him to her, full of uncertainty as to what course of conduct he +would pursue. He turned his eyes upwards for a few moments, and said: + +“Can truth, my children, under any circumstances, be injurious to----” + +“Oh no, no, papa,” exclaimed Jane; “I know--I feel the penalty paid for +even the indirect violation of it.” + +“In the name of God, then,” exclaimed the well-meaning man, “we will +rely upon the good sense and religious principle of our dear Jane, and +tell her the whole truth.” + +“Henry, dear!” said Mrs. Sinclair in a tone of expostulation. + +“Oh papa,” said Agnes, “remember your own words!” + +“The truth, my papa, the truth!” said Jane. “You are its accredited +messenger.” + +“Jane,” said he, “is your trust strong in the support of the Almighty?” + +“I have no other dependence, papa.” + +“Then,” said he, “this is the truth: Charles Osborne has been false to +you. He has broken his vows;--he is married to another woman. And +now, my child, may the God of truth, and peace, and mercy, sustain and +console you!” + +“And He will, too, my papa!--He will!” she exclaimed, rising up;--“He +will! He will!--I--I know--I think I know something. I violated truth, +and now truth is my punishment. I violated it to my papa, and now my +papa is the medium of that punishment. Well, then, there’s a Providence +proved. But, in the mean time, mamma, what has become of my beauty? +It is gone--it is gone--and now for humility and repentance--now for +sackcloth and ashes. I am now no longer beautiful!--so off, off go the +trappings of vanity!” + +She put her hands up to her bosom, and began to tear down her dress with +a violence so powerful, that it took William and Maria’s strength to +prevent her. She became furious. “Let me go,” she exclaimed, “let me go; +I am bound to a curse; but Charles, Charles--don’t you see he will +be poisoned: he will kiss her lips and be poisoned; poisoned lips for +Charles, and I too see it!--and mine here with balm upon them, and peace +and love! My boy’s lost, and I am lost, and the world has destroyed us.” + +She wrought with incredible strength, and attempted still, while +speaking, to tear her garments off; put finding herself overpowered, she +at length sat down and passed from this state of violence into a mood +so helplessly calm, that the family, now in an outcry of grief, with the +exception of her father who appeared cool, felt their very hearts shiver +at the vacant serenity of her countenance. + +Her mother went over, and, seizing her husband firmly by the arms, +pulled him towards her, and with an ashy face and parched lips, +exclaimed, “There, Charles--all is now over--our child is an idiot!” + +“Oh do not blame me,” said the brokenhearted father; “I did it for the +best. Had I thought--had I thought--but I will speak to her, for I think +my voice will reach her heart--you know how she loved me.” + +“Jane,” said he, approaching her, “Jane, my dearest life, will you not +speak to your papa?” + +She became uneasy again, and, much to their relief, broke silence. + +“I am not,” said she, calmly; “it is gone; I was once though--indeed, +indeed I was; and it was said so; I was called the Fawn of--of--but it +seems beauty passes like the flower of the field.” + +“Darling, speak to me, to your papa.” + +“I believe I am old now; an old woman, I suppose. My hair is gray, and +I am wrinkled; that’s the reason why they scorn me; well I was once both +young and beautiful; but that is past. Charles,” said she, catching +her father’s hand and looking into it, “you are old, too, I believe. +Why--why--why, how is this? Your hair is long and white. Oh, what +a change since I knew you last. White hair! long, white, venerable, +hair--that’s old age-- + + “Pity old age within whose silver hairs + Honor and reverence evermore do lie.” + +“Thank God, dear Henry,” said her mother, “she is not at all events an +idiot. Children,” said she, “I trust you will remember your father’s +advice, and bear this--this----.” But here the heart and strength of +the mother herself were overcome, and she was sinking down when her son +caught her ere she fell, and carried her out in his arms, accompanied by +Maria and Agnes. + +It would be difficult for any pen to paint the distraction of her +father, thus placed in a state of divided apprehension between his +daughter and his wife. + +“Oh, my child, my child,” he exclaimed, “Perhaps in the midst of this +misery, your mother may be dying! May the God of all consolation support +you and her! What, oh what will become of us!” + + +“Well, well,” his daughter went on; “life’s a fearful thing that can +work such anges; but why may we not as well pass at once from youth to +old age as from happiness to misery? Here we are both old; ay, and if we +are gray it is less with age than affliction--that’s one comfort--I am +young enough to be beautiful yet; but age, when it comes prematurely on +the youthful, as it often does--thanks to treachery and disappointment, +ay, and thanks to a thousand causes which we all know but don’t wish to +think of; age, I say, when it comes prematurely on the youthful, is +just like a new and unfinished house that is suffered to fall into +ruin--desolation, naked, and fresh, and glaring--without the reverence +and grandeur of antiquity. Yes--yes--yes; but there is another cause; +and that must be whispered only to the uttermost depths of silence--of +silence; for silence is the voice of God. That word--that word! Oh, +how I shudder to think of it! And who will pity me when I acknowledge +it--there is one--one only--who will mourn for my despair and the fate, +foreordained and predestined, of one whom he loved--that is my papa--my +papa only--my papa only; for he knows that I am a _castaway_---A +CAST-AWAY!” + +These words were uttered with an energy of manner and a fluency of +utterance which medical men know to be strongly characteristic of +insanity, unless indeed where the malady is silent and moping. The +afflicted old man now discovered that his daughter’s mind had, in +addition to her disappointment, sunk under the frightful and merciless +dogma, which we trust will soon cease to darken and distort the +beneficent character of God. Indeed it might have been evident to him +before that in looking upon herself as a castaway, Jane’s sensitive +spirit was gradually lapsing into the gloomy horrors of predestination. +But this blindness of the father to such a tendency was very natural +in a man to whose eye familiarity with the doctrine had removed its +deformity. The old man looked upon her countenance with an expression +of mute affliction almost verging on despair; for a moment he forgot the +situation of his wife and everything but the consequences of a discovery +so full of terror and dismay. + +“Alas, my unhappy child,” he exclaimed, “and is this, too, to be added +to your misery and ours? Now, indeed, is the cup of our affliction full +even to overflowing. O God! who art good and full of mercy,” he added, +dropping on his knees under the bitter impulse of the moment, “and who +wiliest not the death of a sinner, oh lay not upon her or us a weight +of sorrow greater than we can bear. We do not, O Lord! for we dare not, +desire Thee to stay Thy hand; but oh, chastise us in mercy, especially +her--her--Our hearts’ dearest--she was ever the child, of our loves; but +now she is also the unhappy child of all our sorrows; the broken idol of +affections which we cannot change. Enable us, O God, to acquiesce under +this mysterious manifestation of Thy will, and to receive from Thy hand +with patience and resignation whatsoever of affliction it pleaseth Thee +to lay upon us. And touching this stricken one--if it were Thy blessed +will to--to--but no--oh no--not our will, oh Lord, but Thine be done!” + +It was indeed a beautiful thing to see the sorrow-bound father bowing +down his gray locks with humility before the footstool of his God, and +forbearing even to murmur under a dispensation so fearfully calamitous +to him and his. Religion, however, at which the fool and knave may sneer +in the moments of convivial riot, is after all the only stay on which +the human heart can rest in those severe trials of life which almost +every one sooner or later is destined to undergo. The sceptic may indeed +triumph in the pride of his intellect or in the hour of his passion; +but no matter on what arguments his hollow creed is based, let but the +footstep of disease or death approach, and he himself is the first to +abandon it and take refuge in those truths which he had hitherto laughed +at or maligned. When Mr. Sinclair arose, his countenance, through all +the traces of sorrow which were upon it, beamed with a light which no +principle, merely human, could communicate to it. A dim but gentle and +holy radiance suffused his whole face, and his heart, for a moment, +received the assurance it wanted so much. He experienced a feeling for +which language has no terms, or at least none adequate to express its +character. It was “that peace of God which passeth all understanding.” + +In a few minutes after he had concluded his short but earnest prayer, +Agnes returned to let him know that her mamma was better and would +presently come in to sit with Jane, whom she could not permit, she said, +to regain out of her sight. Jane had been silent for some time, but the +extreme brilliancy of her eyes and the energy of her excitement were too +obvious to permit any expectation of immediate improvement. + +When her mother and Maria returned, accompanied also by William, she +took no note whatsoever of them, nor indeed did she appear to have an +eye for anything external to her own deep but unsettled misery. Time +after time they spoke to her as before, each earnestly hoping that some +favorite expression or familiar tone of voice might impinge, however +slightly, upon her reason, or touch some chord of her affections. These +tender devices of their love, however, all failed; no corresponding +emotion was awakened, and they resolved, without loss of time, to see +what course of treatment medical advice recommend them to pursue on her +behalf. Accordingly William proceeded with a heavy heart to call in the +aid of a gentleman who can bear full testimony to the accuracy of our +narrative--we allude to that able and eminent practitioner, Doctor +M’Cormick of. Belfast, whose powers, of philosophical analysis, and +patient investigation are surpassed only by the success of the masterly +skill with which he applies them. The moment he left the room for this +purpose, Jane spoke. + +“It will be hard,” she said, “and I need not conceal it, for my very +thought has a voice at the footstool of the Almighty; the intelligences +of other worlds know it; all; the invisible spirits of the universe +know it; those that are evil rejoice, and the good would murmur if +the fulness of their own happiness permitted them. No--no--I need not +conceal it--hearken, therefore--hearken;” and she lowered her voice to +a whisper--“the Fawn of Springvale--Jane Sinclair--is predestined to +eternal misery. She is a _cast-away_. I may therefore speak and raise my +voice to warn; who shall dare,” she added, “who shall dare ever to part +from the truth! Those--those only who have been foredoomed--like me. Oh +misery, misery, is there no hope? nothing but despair for one so young, +and as they said, so gentle, and so beautiful, Alas! alas! Death to me +now is no consoler!” + +She clasped her beautiful hands together as she spoke, and looked with +a countenance so full of unutterable woe that no heart could avoid +participating in her misery. + +“Jane, oh darling of all our hearts,” said her weeping mother, “will you +not come over and sit beside your mamma--your mamma, my treasure, who +feels that she cannot long live to witness what you suffer.” + +“The Fawn of Springvale,” she proceeded, “the gentle Fawn of Springvale, +for it was on the account of my gentleness I was so called, is +stricken--the arrow is here--in her poor broken heart; and what did she +do, what did the gentle creature do to suffer or to deserve all this +misery?” + +“True, my sister--too true, too true,” said Maria, bursting into an +agony of bitter sorrow; “what strange mystery is in the gentle one’s +affliction? Surely, if there was ever a spotless or a sinless creature +on earth, she was and is that creature.” + +“Beware of murmuring, Maria,” said her father; “the purpose, though +at present concealed, may yet become sufficiently apparent for us to +recognize in it the benignant dispensation of a merciful God. Our duty, +my dear child, is now to bear, and be resigned. The issues of this sad +calamity are with the Almighty, and with Him let us patiently leave +them.” + +“Had I never disclosed my love,” proceeded Jane, “I might have stolen +quietly away from them all and laid my cheek on that hardest pillow +which giveth the soundest sleep; but would not concealment,” she added, +starting; “would not that too have been dissimulation? Oh God help +me!--it is, it is clear that in any event I was foredoomed!” + +Agnes, who had watched her sister with an interest too profound to +suffer even the grief necessary on such an occasion to take place, now +went over, and taking her hand in one of hers, placed the fingers of the +other upon her sister’s cheek, thus attempting to fix Jane’s eyes upon +her own countenance-- + +“Do you not know who it is,” said she, “that is now speaking to +you?--Look upon me, and tell me do you forget me so soon?” + +“Who can tell yet,” she proceeded, “who can tell yet--time may retrieve +all, and he may return: but the yew tree--I fear--I fear--why, it is +an emblem of death; and perhaps death may unite us--yes, and I say he +will--he will--he will. Does he not feel pity? Oh yes, in a thousand, +thousand cases he is the friend of the miserable. Death the Consoler! +Oh from how many an aching brow does he take away the pain for ever? How +many sorrows does he soothe into rest that is never broken!--from how +many hearts like mine, does he pluck the arrows that fester in them, and +bids them feel pain no more! In his house, that house appointed for all +living--what calmness and peace is there? How sweet and tranquil is the +bed which he smoothes down for the unhappy; there the wicked cease +from troubling, and the weary are at rest. Then give me Death the +Consoler?--Death the Consoler!” + +A sense of relief and wild exultation beamed from her countenance, +on uttering the last words, and she rose up and walked about the room +wringing her hands, yet smiling at the idea of being relieved by Death +the Consoler! It is not indeed unusual to witness in deranged persons, +an unconscious impression of pain and misery, accompanied at the same +time by a vague sense of unreal happiness--that is, a happiness which, +whilst it balances the latent conviction of their misery does not, +however, ultimately remove it. This probably constitutes that pleasure +in madness, which, it is said, none but mad persons know. + +At length she stood, and, for a long time seemed musing upon various and +apparently contrasted topics, for she sometimes smiled as a girl at play, +and sometimes relapsed into darkness of mood and pain, and incoherency. +But after passing through these rapid changes for many minutes, she +suddenly exclaimed in a low but earnest voice, “Where is he?” + +“Where is who, love?” said her mother. + +“Where is he?--why does he not come?--something more than usual must +prevent him, or he would not stay away so long from ‘his own Jane +Sinclair.’ But I forgot; bless me, how feeble my memory is growing! +Why this is the hour of our appointment, and I will be late unless I +hurry--for who could give so gentle and affectionate a being as Charles +pain?” + +She immediately put on her bonnet, and was about to go abroad, when +her father, gently laying his hand upon her arm, said, in a kind but +admonitory voice, in which was blended a slightly perceptible degree of +parental authority-- + +“My daughter, surely you will not go out--you are unwell.” + +She started slightly, paused, and looked as if trying to remember +something that she had forgotten. The struggle, however, was vain--her +recollection proved too weak for the task it had undertaken. After a +moment’s effort, she smiled sweetly in her father’s face, and said-- + +“You would not have me break my appointment, nor give poor Charles pain, +and his health, moreover, so delicate. You know he would die rather than +give me a moment’s anxiety. Die!--see that again--I know not what puts +death into my head so often.” + +“Henry,” said her mother, “it is probably better to let her have her own +way for the present--at least until Dr. M’Cormick arrives. You and Agnes +can accompany her, perhaps she may be the better for it.” + +“I cannot refuse her,” said the old man; “at all events, I agree with +you; there can, I think, be no possible harm in allowing her to go. +Come, Agnes, we must, alas! take care of her.” + +She then went out, they walking a few paces behind her, and proceeded +down the valley which we have already described in the opening of this +story, until she came to the spot at the river, where she first met +Osborne. Here she involuntarily stood a moment, and putting her hand +to her right shoulder, seemed to miss some object, that was obviously +restored to her recollection by an association connected with the place. +She shook her head, and sighed several times, and then exclaimed-- + +“Ungrateful bird, does it neglect me too?” + +Her father pressed Agnes’s arm with a sensation of joy, but spoke not +lest his voice might disturb her, or break the apparent continuity of +her reviving memory. She seemed to think, however, that she delayed here +too long, for without taking further notice of anything she hurried on +to the spot where the first disclosure of their loves had taken place. +On reaching it she looked anxiously and earnestly around the copse or +dell in which the yew tree, with its turf seat stood. + +[Illustration: PAGE 52-- How is this?--how is this?--he is not here!] + +“How is this?--how is this?”--she murmured to herself, “he is not here!” + +Both her father and Agnes observed that during the whole course of +the unhappy but faithful girl’s love, they never had witnessed such +a concentrated expression of utter woe and sorrow as now impressed +themselves upon her features. + +“He has not come,” said she; “but I can wait--I can wait--it will teach +my heart to be patient.” + +She then clasped her hands, and sitting down under the shade of the yew +tree, mused and murmured to herself alternately, but in such an evident +spirit of desolation and despair, as made her father fear that her heart +would literally break down under the heavy burden of her misery. When +she had sat here nearly an hour, he approached her and gently taking her +hand, which felt as cold as marble, said-- + +“Will you not come home, darling? Your mamma is anxious you should +return to her. Come,” and he attempted gently to draw her with him. + +“I can wait, I can wait,” she replied, “if he should come and find me +gone, he would break his heart--I can wait.” + +“Oh do not droop, my sweet sister; do not droop so much; all will yet be +well,” said Agnes, weeping. + +“I care for none but him--to me there is only one being in life--all +else is a blank; but he will not come, and is it not too much, to try +the patience of a heart so fond and faithful.” + +“It is not likely he will come to-day,” replied Agnes; “something has +prevented him; but to-morrow--” + +“I will seek him elsewhere,” said Jane, rising suddenly; “but is it not +singular, and indeed to what strange passes things may come? A young +lady seeking her lover!--not over-modest certainly--nay, positively +indelicate--fie upon me! Why should I thus expose myself? It is unworthy +of my father’s daughter, and Jane Sinclair will not do it.” + +She then walked a few paces homewards, but again stopped and earnestly +looked in every direction, as if expecting to see the object of her +love. Long indeed did she linger about a spot so dear to her; and often +did she sit down again and rise to go--sometimes wringing her hands in +the muteness of sorrow, and sometimes exhibiting a sense of her neglect +in terms of pettish and indirect censure against Osborne for his delay. +It was in one of those capricious moments that she bent her steps +homewards; and as she had again to pass that part of the river where the +accident occurred to the dove, Agnes and her father observed that +she instinctively put her hand to her shoulder, and appeared as if +disappointed. On this occasion, however, she made no observation +whatever, but, much to their satisfaction, mechanically proceeded +towards Springvale House, which she reached without uttering another +word. + +Until a short time before the arrival of Dr. M’Cormick, this silence +remained unbroken. She sat nearly in the same attitude, evidently +pondering on something that excited great pain, as was observable by her +frequent startings, and a disposition to look wildly about her, as if +with an intention of suddenly speaking. These, however, passed quickly +away, and she generally relapsed into her wild and unsettled reveries. + +When the doctor arrived, he sat with her in silence for a considerable +time--listening to her incoherencies from an anxiety to ascertain, +as far as possible, by what she might utter, whether her insanity was +likely to be transient or otherwise. The cause of it he had already +heard from report generally, and a more exact and circumstantial account +on that day from her brother William. + +“It is difficult,” he at length said, “to form anything like an exact +opinion upon the first attack of insanity, arising from a disappointment +of the heart. Much depends upon the firmness of the general character, +and the natural force of their common sense. If I were to judge, not +only by what I have heard from this most beautiful and interesting +creature, as well as from the history of her heart, which her brother +gave me so fully, I would say that I think this attack will not be a +long one. I am of opinion that her mind is in a state of transition not +from reason but to it; and that this transition will not be complete +without much physical suffering. The state of her pulse assures me of +this, as does the coldness of her hands. I should not be surprised if, +in the course of this very night she were attacked with strong fits. +These, if they take place, will either restore her to reason or confirm +her insanity. Poor girl,” said the amiable man, looking on her whilst +his eyes filled with tears, “he must have been a heartless wretch to +abandon such a creature. My dear Jane,” he added, addressing her, for +he had been, and still is, familiar with the family; “I am sorry to find +you are so unwell, but you will soon be bettor. Do you not know me.” + +“It was sworn,” said the unhappy mourner; “it was sworn and I felt +this here--here “--and she placed her hand upon her heart; “I felt this +little tenant of my poor bosom sink--sink, and my blood going from my +cheeks when the words were uttered. More beautiful! more beautiful! why, +and what is love if it is borne away merely by beauty? I loved him +not for his beauty alone. I loved him because he--he--because he loved +me--but at first I did love him for his beauty; well, he has found +another more beautiful; and his own Jane Sinclair, his Fawn of +Springvale, as he used to call me, is forgotten. But mark me--let none +dare to blame him--he only fulfilled his destined part--the thing was +foredoomed, and I knew that by my suppression of the truth to my papa, +the seal of reprobation was set to my soul. Then--then it was that I +felt myself a cast-away! And indeed,” she added, rising up and laying +the forefinger of her right hand, on the palm of her left, “I would at +any time sacrifice myself for his happiness; I would; yet alas,” she +added, sitting down and hanging her head in sorrow; “why--why is it +that I am so miserable, when he is happy? Why is that, Miss Jane +Sinclair--why is that?” She then sighed deeply, and added in a tone of +pathos almost irresistible--“Oh that I had the wings of a dove, that I +might flee away and be at rest.” + +She had scarcely spoken, when, by a beautiful and affecting coincidence, +Ariel entered the room, and immediately flew into her bosom. She put her +hand up and patted it for some time rather unconsciously than otherwise. + +“Ah, you foolish bird,” she at length said; “have you no better place +of rest, no calmer spot to repose upon, than a troubled and a broken +heart?” + +This incident of the dove, together with the mournful truth of this +melancholy observation, filled every eye with tears, except those of +her father, who now exhibited a spirit of calm obedience to what he +considered an affliction that called upon him to act as one whose faith +was not the theory of a historic Christian. + +“But how,” added Jane, “can I be unhappy with the Paraclete in my bosom? +The Paraclete--oh that I were not reprobate and foredoomed--then indeed, +he might be there--all, all by one suppression of truth--but surely my +papa pities his poor girl for that, there is, I know, one that loves me, +and one that pities me. My papa knows that I am foredoomed, and cannot +but pity me: but where is he, and why does he delay so long. Hush! I +will sing-- + + The dawning of morn, the daylight’s sinking, + The night’s long hours still find me thinking + Of thee, thee--only thee!” + +She poured a spirit into these words so full of the wild sorrow of +insanity, as to produce an effect that was thrilling and fearful upon +those who were forced to listen to her. Nay, her voice seemed, in +some degree, to awaken her own emotions, or to revive her memory to a +confused perception of her situation. And in mercy it would appear that +Providence unveiled only half her memory to reason; for from the effect +which even that passing glimpse had upon her, it is not wrong to infer +that had she seen it in its full extent, she would have immediately sunk +under it. + +After singing the words of Moore with all the unregulated pathos of a +maniac, she wrung her hands, and was for a considerable time silent. +During this interval she sighed deeply, and after a pause of half an +hour arose suddenly, and seizing her father by the breast of the coat, +brought him over, and placed him on the sofa beside her. She then looked +earnestly into his face, and was about to speak, but her thoughts were +too weak for the task, and after putting her hand to her forehead, as +if to assist her recollection, she let it fall passively beside her, and +hung-her head in a mood, partaking at once of childish pique and deep +dejection. + +The doctor, who watched her closely, observed, that in his opinion the +consequences of the unhappy intelligence that day communicated to her, +had not yet fully developed themselves. “The storm has not yet burst,” + he added, “but it is quite evident that the elements for it are fast +gathering. She will certainly have a glimpse of reason before the +paroxysms appear, because, in point of fact, that is what will induce +them.” + +“How soon, doctor,” asked her mother, “do you think she will have to +encounter this fresh and woeful trial?” + +“I should be disposed to think within the lapse of twenty-four hours; +certainly within forty-eight.” + +The amiable doctor’s opinion, however, was much more quickly verified +than he imagined; for Jane, whose heart yearned towards her father with +the beautiful instinct of an affection which scarcely insanity itself +could overcome, once more looked earnestly into his face, with an eye in +which meaning and madness seemed to struggle for the mastery. She gazed +at him for a long time, put her hands upon his white hair, into which +she gently twined her long white fingers; once or twice she smiled, and +said something in a voice too low to be heard: but all at once she gave +a convulsive start, clasped her hands wofully, and throwing herself on +his bosom, exclaimed: + +“Oh papa, papa--your child is lost: pray for me--pray for me.” + +Her sobs became too thick and violent for further utterance; she panted +and wrought strongly, until at length she lay with locked teeth and +clenched hands struggling in a fit which eventually, by leaving her, +terminated in a state of lethargic insensibility. + +For upwards of three days she suffered more than any person unacquainted +with her delicacy of constitution could deem her capable of enduring. +And, indeed, were it not that the aid rendered by Dr. M’Cormick was so +prompt and so skilful, it is possible that the sorrows of the faithful +Jane Sinclair might have here closed. On the fourth day, however, she +experienced a change; but, alas, such a change as left the loving and +beloved group who had hung over her couch with anxious hopes of her +restoration to reason, now utterly hopeless and miserable. She arose +from her paroxysms a beautiful, happy, and smiling maniac, from whose +soul in mercy had been removed that susceptibility of mental pain, which +constitutes the burthen and bitterness of ordinary calamity. + +The first person who discovered this was her mother, who, on the fourth +morning of her illness, had stolen to her bedside to see how her beloved +one felt. Agnes, who would permit no other person to nurse her darling +sister, lay asleep with her head reclining on the foot of the bed, +having been overcome by her grief and the fatigue of incessant watching. +As her mother stooped down to look into the sufferer’s face, her heart +bounded with delight oh seeing Jane’s eyes smiling upon her with all the +symptoms of recognition. + +“Jane, my heart’s dearest,” she said, in a soothing, low inquiry, “don’t +you know me?” + +“Yes, very well,” she replied; “you are my mamma, and this is Agnes +sleeping on the foot of the bed. Why does she sleep there?” + +The happy mother scarcely heard her child’s question, for ere the words +were well uttered she laid her head down upon the mourner’s bosom, in +a burst of melancholy joy, and wept so loudly that her voice awakened +Agnes, who, starting up, exclaimed: + +“Oh, mother, mother--what is this? Is--?” she said, “No, no--she must +not--she would not leave her Agnes. Oh mother--mother, is it so?” + +“No, no, Agnes love; no--but may the mercy of God be exalted for ever, +Jane knows her mamma this morning, and she knows you too, Agnes.” + +That ever faithful sister no sooner heard the words, than a smile of +indescribable happiness overspread her face, which, however, became +instantly pale, and the next moment she sunk down, and in a long swoon +forgot both the love and sorrow of her favorite sister. In little more +than a minute the family were assembled in the sickroom, and heard from +Mrs. Sinclair’s lips the history, as she thought, of their beloved one’s +recovery. Agnes was soon restored, and indeed it would be impossible +to witness a scene of such unexpected delight, as that presented by the +rejoicing group which surrounded the bed of the happy--alas, too happy, +Jane Sinclair. + +“Is it possible, my dear,” said her father, “that our darling is +restored to her sense and recollection?” + +“Try her, Henry,” said the proud mother. + +“Jane, my love, do you not know me?” he asked. + +“To be sure, papa; to be sure,” she replied smiling. + +“And you know all of us, my heart’s treasure?” + +“Help me up a little,” she replied; “now I will show you: you are my +papa--there is my mamma--that is William--and Maria there will kiss me.” + +Maria, from whose eyes gushed tears of delight, flew to the sweet girl’s +bosom. + +“But,” added Jane, “there is another--another that must come to my bosom +and stay there--Agnes!” + +“I am here, my own darling,” replied Agnes, stooping and folding her +arms about the beautiful creature’s snow-white neck, whilst she kissed +her lips with a fervor of affection equal to the delight experienced at +her supposed recovery. + +“There now, Agnes, you are to sleep with mo to-night: but I want my +papa. Papa, I want you.” + +Her father stood forward, his mild eyes beaming with an expression of +delight and happiness. + +“I am here, my sweet child.” + +“You ought to be a proud man, papa; a proud man: although I say it, +that ought _not_ to say it, you are father to the most beautiful girl in +Europe. Charles Osborne has traveled Europe, and can find none at all +so beautiful as the Fawn of Springvale, and so he is coming home one of +these days to marry me, because, you know, because he could find none +else so beautiful. If he had--if he had--you know--you may be assured, I +would not be the girl of his choice. Yet I would marry him still, if it +were not for one thing; and that is--that I am foredoomed; a reprobate +and a cast-away; predestined--predestined--and so I would not wish to +drag him to hell along with me; I shall therefore act the heroic part, +and refuse him. Still it is something--oh it is much--and I am proud +of it, not only on my own account, but on his, to be the most beautiful +girl in Europe! I am proud of it, because he would not marry if I were +not.” + +Oh unhappy, but affectionate mourners, what--what was all you had yet +suffered, when contrasted with the sudden and unexpected misery of this +bitter moment Your hearts had gathered in joy and happiness around the +bed of that sweet girl, the gleams of whose insanity you had mistaken +for the light of reason; and now has hope disappeared, and the darkness +of utter despair fallen upon you all for ever. + +“I wish to rise,” she proceeded, “and to join the morning prayer; until +then I shall only dress in my wrapper: after that I shall dress as +becomes me. I know I have nothing to hope either in this world or the +next, consequently pride in me is not a sin: the measure of my misery +has been filled up; and the only interval, of happiness left me, is that +between this and death. Dress me, Agnes.” + +The pause arising from the revulsion of feeling, occasioned by the +discovery of her settled insanity, was indeed an exemplification of that +grief which lies too deep for tears. Sone of them could weep, but +they looked upon her and each other, with a silent agony, which far +transcended the power of clamorous sorrow. + +“Children,” said her father, whose fortitude, considering the nature of +this his great affliction, was worthy of better days; “let us neither +look upon our beloved one, nor upon each other. There,” said he, +pointing upwards, “let us look there. You all know how I loved--how I +love her. You all know how she loved me; but I cast--or I strive to +cast the burthen, of my affliction upon Him who has borne all for our +salvation, and you see I am tearless. Dress the dear child, Agnes, and +as she desires it, let her join us at prayer, and may the Lord who has +afflicted us, hearken to our supplications!” + +Tenderly and with trembling hands did Agnes dress the beloved girl, +and when the fair creature, supported by her two sisters, entered the +parlor, never was a more divine picture of beauty seen to shine out of +that cloud, with which the mysterious hand of of God had enveloped her. + +At prayer she knelt as meekly, and with as much apparent devotion as she +had ever done in the days of her most rational and earnest piety. But it +was woful to see the blighted girl go through all the forms of worship, +when it was known that the very habit which actuated her resulted from +those virtues, which even insanity could not altogether repress. + +When they had arisen from their, knees, she again addressed Agnes in +a tone of cheerful sweetness, such as she had exhibited in her happier +days. + +“Agnes, now for our task; and indeed you must perform it with care. +Remember that you are about to dress the most beautiful girl in Europe. +What a fair cast-away am I, Agnes?” + +“I hope not a cast-away, Jane; but I shall dress you with care and +tenderness, notwithstanding.” + +“Every day I must dress in my best, because when Charles returns, you +know it will be necessary that I should justify his choice, by appearing +as beautiful as possible.” + +“Give the innocent her own way,” said her father; “give her, in all that +may gratify the child, her own way, where it is not directly wrong to do +so.” + +Agnes and she then went up to her room, that she might indulge in that +harmless happiness, which the fiction of hope had, under the mercy of +God, extracted, from the reality of despair. + +When the ceremony of the toilette was over, she and her sister returned +to the parlor, and they could notice a slight tinge of color added to +her pale cheek, by the proud consciousness of her beauty. The exertion, +however, she had undergone, considering her extremely weak and exhausted +state of of health was more than she could bear long. But a few minutes +had elapsed after her reappearance in the parlor, when she said-- + +“Mamma, I am unwell; I want to be undressed, and to go to bed; I am very +faint; help me to bed, mamma--and if you come and stay with me, I shall +tell you every thing about my prospects in life--yes, and in death, too; +because I have prospects in death--but ah,” she added, shuddering, “they +are dark--dark!” + +Seldom, indeed, was a family tried like this family; and never was the +endurance of domestic love, and its triumph over the chilling habit of +affliction, more signally manifested than in the undying tenderness of +their hearts and hands, in all that was necessary to her comfort, or +demanded by the childish caprices of her malady. + +On going upstairs, she kissed them all as usual, but they then +discovered, for the first time, in all its bitterness, what a dark and +melancholy enjoyment it is to kiss the lips of a maniac, who has loved +us, and whom we still must love. + +“Jane,” said William, struggling to be firm, “kiss me, too, before you +go.” + +“Come to me, William,” said she, “for I am not able to go to you. Oh, my +brother, if I did not love you, I would be very wicked.” + +The affectionate young man kissed her, and, as he did, the big tears +rolled down his cheeks. He wept aloud. + +“I never, never gave her up till now,” he exclaimed; “but”--and his face +darkened into deep indignation as he spoke, “we shall see about it +yet, Jane dear. I shall allow a month or two--she may recover; but if +I suffer this to go unav----” he paused; “I meant nothing,” he added, +“except that I will not despair of her yet.” + +About ten days restored her to something like health, but it was obvious +that her constitution had sustained a shock which it could not long +survive. Of this Dr. M’Cormick assured them. + +“In so delicate a subject as she is,” he added, “we usually find that +when reason goes, the physical powers soon follow it. But if my opinion +be correct, I think you will have the consolation of seeing her mind +clear before she dies. There comes often in such cases what the common +people properly, and indeed beautifully, term a light before death, and +I think she will have it. As you are unanimous against putting her +into a private asylum, you must only watch the sweet girl quietly, +and without any appearance of vigilance, allowing her in all that is +harmless and indifferent to have her own way. Religious feeling you +perceive constitutes a strong feature in her case, the rest is obviously +the result of the faithless conduct of Osborne. Poor girl, here she +comes, apparently quite happy.” Jane entered as he spoke, after having +been dressed as usual for the day, in her best apparel. She glanced for +a moment at the glass, and readjusted her hair which had, she thought, +got a little out of order; after which she said, smiling, + +“Why should I fear comparisons? He may come as soon as he pleases. I am +ready to receive him, but do you know I think that my papa and mamma are +not so fond of me as they ought to be. Is it not an honor to have for +their daughter a girl whose beauty is unsurpassed in Europe? I am not +proud of it for my own sake, but for his.” + +“Jane, do you know this gentleman, dear?” said her mother. + +“Oh yes; that is Dr. M’Cormick.” + +“I am glad to see that your health is so much improved, my dear,” said +the doctor. + +“Oh yes;” she replied, “I am quite well--that is so far as this world is +concerned; but for all so happy as I look, you would never guess that +I am reprobate. Now could you tell me, doctor, why it is that I look so +happy knowing as I do that I am foredoomed to misery?” + +“No,” he replied, “but you will tell us yourself.” + +“Why it is because I do know it. Knowing the worst is often a great +consolation, I assure you. I, at least, have felt it so.” + +“Oh what a noble mind is lost in that sweet girl!” exclaimed the worthy +physician. + +“But it seems, mamma,” she proceeded, “there is a report gone abroad +that I am mad. I met yesterday--was it not yesterday, Agnes?--I met a +young woman down on the river side, and she asked me if it were true +that I was crazed with love, and how do you think I replied, mamma? I +said to her, ‘If you would avoid misery--misery, mark--never violate +truth even indirectly.’ I said that solemnly, and would have said more +but that Agnes rebuked her for speaking, and then wept. Did you not +weep, Agnes?” + +“Oh no wonder I should,” replied her sister, deeply moved; “the +interview she alludes to, doctor, was one that occurred the day before +yesterday between her and another poor girl in the neighborhood who +is also unsettled, owing to a desertion of a still baser kind. It was +becoming too affecting to listen to, and I chid the poor thing off.” + +“Yes, indeed, she chid her off, and the poor thing as she told me, about +to be a bride to-morrow. She said she was in quest of William that they +might be married, and asked me if I had seen him. If you do, she added, +tell him that Fanny is waiting for him, and that as everything is ready +she expects he’ll come and marry her to-morrow as he promised. Now, +mamma, Agnes said, that although she chid her, she wept for her, but +why should you weep, Agnes, for a girl who is about to become a bride +to-morrow? Surely you did not weep because she was going to be made +happy? Did you?” + +“All who are going to become brides are not about to experience +happiness, my dear,” replied her sister. + +“Oh, I should think so certainly, Agnes,” replied Jane. “Fie, fie, dear +sister Agnes, do not lay down such doctrine. Did you not see the happy +girl we met yesterday--was it yesterday? But no matter, Agnes, we shall +not quarrel about it. Come and walk. Good-by, my mamma; doctor, I wish +you a good morning,” and with a grace that was inimitable, she made him +a distant, but most respectful curtsey. + +“Oh!” said she, turning back, “if any stranger should arrive during my +absence, mamma, send for me immediately; or stay do not--let him meet me +at the place appointed; I will be there.” + +She then took Agnes’s arm, for Agnes it was who attended her in all her +ramblings, and both proceeded on their every-day saunter through the +adjoining fields. + +A little time, indeed, proved how very accurate had been the opinion of +Dr. M’Cormick; for although Jane was affected by no particular bodily +complaint, yet it appeared by every day’s observation that she was +gradually sinking. In the meantime, three or four months elapsed without +bringing about any symptom whatsoever of improvement. Her derangement +flashed out into no extraordinary paroxysm, but on the contrary assumed +a wild and graceful character, sometimes light and unsettled as the +glancing of sunbeams on a disturbed current, and occasionally pensive +and beautiful as the beams of an autumnal moon. In all the habits of the +family she was most exact. Her devotional composure at prayer appeared +to be fraught with the humblest piety; her attendance at Meeting was +remarkably punctual, and her deportment edifying to an extreme degree. +The history, too, of her insanity and its cause had gone far and wide, +as did the sympathy which it excited. In all her innocent ramblings with +Agnes around her father’s house, and through the adjoining fields, no +rude observation or unmannered gaze ever offended the gentle creature; +but on the contrary, the delicate-minded peasant of the north would +often turn aside from an apprehension of disturbing her, as well perhaps +as out of reverence for the calamity of a creature so very young and +beautiful. + +Indeed, many affecting observations were made, which, could her friends +have heard them, would have fallen like balm upon their broken spirits. +Full of compassion they were for her sore misfortune, and of profound +sympathy for the sorrows of her family. + +“Alas the day, my bonnie lady! My Heart is sair to see sae lovely a +thing gliding about sae unhappy. Black be his gate that had the heart +to leave you, for rank and wealth, my winsome lassie. Weary on him, and +little good may his wealth and rank do him! Oh wha would a thocht that +the peerless young blossom wad hae been withered so soon, or that the +Fawn o’ Springvale wad hae ever come to the like o’ this. Alas! the +day, too, for the friends that nurst you, Ay bonnie bairn!” and then the +kind-hearted matron would wipe her eyes on seeing the far-loved Fawn of +Springvale passing by, unconscious that the fatal arrow which had first +struck her was still quivering in her side. The fourth month had +now elapsed, and Jane’s malady neither exhibited any change nor the +slightest symptom of improvement. William, who had watched her closely +all along, saw that no hope of any such consummation existed. He +remarked, too, with a bitter sense of the unprincipled injury inflicted +on the confiding girl, that every week drew her perceptibly nearer and +nearer to the grave. His blood had in fact long been boiling in +his veins with an indignation which he could scarcely stifle. He +entertained, however, a strong reverence for religion, and had Jane, +after a reasonable period, recovered, he intended to leave Osborne to be +punished only by his own remorse. There was no prospect, however, of her +being restored to reason, and now his determination was finally taken. +Nay, so deeply resolved had he been on this as an ultimate step in the +event of her not recovering, that soon after Mr. Osborne’s return from +London, he waited on that gentleman, and declared his indignation at the +treachery of his son to be so deep and implacable that he requested of +him as a personal favor, to suspend all communication with the unhappy +girl’s family, lest he might be tempted even by the sight of any person +connected with so base a man, to go and pistol him on whatever spot he +might be able to find him. This, which was rather harsh to the amiable +gentleman, excited in his breast more of sorrow than resentment. But it +happened fortunately enough for both parties that a day or two before +this angry communication, Dr. M’Cormick had waited upon the latter, and +gave it as his opinion that any intercourse between the two families +would be highly dangerous to Jane’s state of mind, by exciting +associations that might bring back to her memory the conduct of his son. +The consequence was, that they saw each other only by accident, although +Mr. Osborne often sent to inquire privately after Jane’s health. + +William having now understood that Osborne and his wife resided in +Paris, engaged a friend to accompany him thither, for the purpose of +demanding satisfaction for the injuries inflicted on his sister. All +the necessary arrangements were accordingly made; the very day for +their departure was appointed, and a letter addressed to Agnes actually +written, to relieve the family from the alarm occasioned by his +disappearance, when a communication from Osborne to his father, at once +satisfied the indignant young man that his enemy was no longer an object +for human resentment. + +This requires but brief explanation. Osborne, possessing as he did, +ambition, talent, and enthusiasm in a high degree, was yet deficient in +that firmness of purpose which is essential to distinction in public or +private life. His wife was undoubtedly both beautiful and accomplished, +and it is undeniable that his marriage with her opened to him brilliant +prospects as a public man. Notwithstanding her beauty, however, their +union took place not to gratify his love, but his ambition. Jane +Sinclair, in point of fact, had never been displaced from his affection, +for as she was in his eye the most beautiful, so was she in the moments +of self-examination, the best beloved. This, however, availed the +unhappy girl but little, with a man in whose character ambition was the +predominant impulse. To find himself beloved by a young and beautiful +woman of wealth and fashion was too much for one who possessed but +little firmness and an insatiable thirst after distinction. To +jostle men of rank and property out of his path, and to jostle them +successfully, when approaching the heart of an heiress, was too much for +the vanity of an obscure young man, with only a handsome person and +good talents to recommend him. The glare of fashionable life, and the +unexpected success of his addresses made him giddy, and despite an +ineffaceable conviction of dishonor and treachery, he found himself +husband to a rich heiress, and son-in-law to a baronet. And now was he +launched in fall career upon the current of fashionable dissipation, +otherwise called high life. This he might have borne as well as the +other votaries of polished profligacy, were it not for one simple +consideration--he had neither health nor constitution, nor, to do the +early lover of Jane Sinclair justice, heart for the modes and habits +of that society, through the vortices of which he now found himself +compelled to whirl. He was not, in fact, able to keep pace with the +rapid motions of his fashionable wife, and the result in a very +short time was, that their hearts were discovered to be anything +but congenial--in fact anything but united. The absence of domestic +happiness joined to that remorse which his conduct towards the +unassuming but beautiful object of his first affection entailed upon a +heart that, notwithstanding its errors, was incapable of foregoing +its own convictions, soon broke down the remaining stamina of his +constitution, and before the expiration of three months, he found +himself hopelessly smitten by the same disease which had been so fatal +to his family. His physicians told him that if there were any chance +of his recovery, it must be in the efficacy of his native air; and his +wife, with fashionable apathy, expressed the same opinion, and hoped +that he might, after a proper sojourn at home, be enabled to join her +early in the following season at Naples. Up to this period he had heard +nothing of the mournful consequences which his perfidy had produced +upon the intellect of our unhappy Jane. His father, who in fact still +entertained hopes of her ultimate sanity, now that his son was married, +deemed it unnecessary to embitter his peace by a detail of the evils he +had occasioned her. But when, like her brother William, he despaired of +her recovery, he considered it only an act of justice towards her and +her family to lay before Charles the hideousness of his guilt together +with its woful consequences. This melancholy communication was received +by him the day after his physicians had given him over, for in fact the +prescription of his native air was only a polite method of telling him +that there was no hope. His conscience, which recent circumstances +had already awakened, was not prepared for intelligence so dreadful. +Remorse, or rather repentance seized him, and he wrote to beg that his +father would suffer a penitent son to come home to die. + +This letter, the brief contents of which we have given, his father +submitted to Mr. Sinclair, whose reply was indeed characteristic of the +exalted Christian, who can forget his own injury in the distress of his +enemy. + +“Let him come,” said the old man; “our resentments have long since +passed away, and why should not yours? He has now a higher interest to +look to than any arising from either love or ambition. His immortal soul +is at stake, and if we can reconcile him to heaven, the great object of +existence will after all be secured. God forbid that our injuries should +stand in the way of his salvation. Allow me,” he added, “to bring this +letter home, that I may read it to my family, with one exception of +course. Alas! it contains an instructive lesson.” + +This was at once acceded to by the other, and they separated. + +When William heard the particulars of Osborne’s melancholy position, +he of course gave up the hostility of his purpose, and laid before +his friend a history of the circumstances connected with his brief and +unhappy career. + +“He is now a dying man,” said William, “to whom this life, its idle +forms and unmeaning usages, are as nothing, or worse than nothing. A +higher tribunal than the guilty spirit of this world’s honor will demand +satisfaction from him for his baseness towards unhappy Jane. To that +tribunal I leave him; but whether he live or die, I will never look upon +my insane sister, without thinking of him as a villain, and detesting +his very name and memory.” + +If these sentiments be considered ungenerous, let it be remembered +that they manifested less his resentment to Osborne, than the deep and +elevated affection which he bore his sister, for whose injuries he felt +much more indignantly than he would have done for his own. + +Jane, however, from this period forth began gradually to break down, and +her derangement, though still inoffensive and harmless, assumed a more +anxious and melancholy expression. This might arise, to be sure, from +the depression of spirits occasioned by a decline of health. But from +whatever cause it proceeded, one thing was evident, that an air of deep +dejection settled upon her countenance and whole deportment. She would +not, for instance, permit Agnes in their desultory rambles to walk by +her side, but besought her to attend at a distance behind her. + +“I wish to be alone, dear Agnes,” she said, “but notwithstanding that, I +do not wish to be without you. I might have been some time ago the Queen +of beauty, but now, Agnes, I am the Queen of Sorrow.” + +“You have had your share of sorrow, my poor stricken creature,” replied +Agnes, heavily. + +“But there is, Agnes, a melancholy beauty in sorrow--it is so sweet to +be sad. Did. you ever see a single star in the sky, Agnes?” + +“Yes, love, often.” + +“Well, that is like sorrow, or rather that is like me. Does it not +always seem to mourn, and to mourn alone, but the moment that another +star arises then the spell is broken, and it seems no more to mourn in +the solitude of heaven.” + +“Agnes looked at her with sad but earnest admiration, and exclaimed in a +quivering-voice as she pressed her to her bosom, + +“Oh Jane, Jane, how my heart loves you!--the day is coming, my +sister--our sweetest, our youngest, our dearest--the day is coming when +we will see you no more--when your sorrows and your joys, whether +real or imaginary--when all the unsettled evidences of goodness, +which nothing could destroy, will be gone; and you with all you’ve +suffered--with all your hopes and fears, will be no longer present for +our hearts to gather about. Oh my sister, my sister! how will the old +man live! He will not--he will not. We see already that he suffers, and +what it costs him to be silent. His gait is feeble and infirm is and +head bent since the’ hand of afiliction has come upon you. Yet, Jane, +Jane, we could bear all, provided you were permitted to remain with us! +Your voice--your voice--and is the day so soon to come when we will +not hear it? when our eyes will no more rest upon you? And”--added +the affectionate girl, now overcome by her feelings, laying her calm +sister’s head at the same time upon her bosom, “and when those locks so +brown and rich that your Agnes’s hands have so often dressed, will be +mouldering in the grave, and that face--oh, the seal of death is upon +your pale, pale cheek, my sister!--my sister!” She could say no more, +but kissed Jane’s lips, and pressing her to her heart, she wept in a +long fit of irrepressible grief. + +Jane looked up with a pensive gaze into Agnes’s face, and as she calmly +dried her sister’s tears, said:-- + +“Is it not strange, Agnes, that I who am the Queen of Sorrow cannot +weep. I resemble some generous princess, who though rich, gives away her +wealth to the needy in such abundance that she is always poor herself. I +who weep not, supply you all with tears, and cannot find one for myself +when I want it. Indeed so it seems, my sister.” + +“It is true, indeed, Jane--too true, too true, my darling.” + +“Agnes, I could tell you a secret. It is not without reason that I am +the Queen of Sorrow.” + +“Alas, it is not, my sweet innocent.” + +“I have the secret here,” said she, putting her hand to her bosom, “and +no one suspects that I have. The cause why I am the Queen of Sorrow +is indeed here--here. But come, I do not much like this arbor somehow. +There is, I think, a reason for it, but I forget it. Let us walk +elsewhere.” + +This was the arbor of osiers in which Osborne in the enthusiasm of his +passion, said that if during his travels he found a girl more beautiful, +he would cease to love Jane, and to write to her--an expression which, +as the reader knows, exercised afterwards a melancholy power upon her +intellect. + +Agnes and she proceeded as she desired, to saunter about, which they did +for the most part in silence, except when she wished to stop and make an +observation of her own free will. Her step was slow, her face pale, and +her gait, alas, quite feeble, and evidently that of a worn frame and a +broken heart. + +For some time past, she seemed to have forgotten that she was a +foredoomed creature, and a cast-away, at least her allusions to this +were less frequent than before--a circumstance which Dr. M’Cormick said +he looked upon as the most favorable symptom he had yet seen in her +case. + +Upon this day, however, she sauntered about in silence, and passed from +place to place, followed by Agnes; like the waning moon, accompanied by +her faithful and attendant star. + +After having passed a green field, she came upon the road with an +intention of crossing it, and going down by the river to the yew tree, +which during all her walks she never failed to visit. Here it was that, +for the second time, she met poor Fanny Morgan, the unsettled victim of +treachery more criminal still than that which had been practised upon +herself. + +“You are the bonnie Fawn of Springvale that’s gone mad with love,” said +the unhappy creature. + +“No, no,” replied Jane, “you are mistaken. I am the Queen of Sorrow.” + +“I am to be married to-morrow,” said the other. “Everything’s ready, +but I can’t find William. Did you see him? But maybe you may, and if you +do--oh speak a word for me, but one word, and tell him that all’s ready, +and that Fanny’s waiting, and that he must not break his promise.” + +“You are very happy to be married tomorrow.” + +“Yes,” replied the other smiling--“I am happy enough now; but when we +are married--when William makes me his wife, people won’t look down on +me any longer. I wish I could find him, for oh, my heart is sick, and +will be sick, until I see him. If he knew how I was treated, he would +not suffer it. If you see him, will you promise to tell him that all’s +ready, and that I am waiting for him?--Will you, my bonnie lady?” + +“I could tell you a secret,” said Jane--“they don’t know at home that +I got the letter at all--but I did, and have read it--he is coming +home--coming home to die--that’s what makes me the Queen of Sorrow. Do +you ever weep?” + +“No, but they took the baby from me, and beat me--my brother John did; +but William was not near to take my part?” + +“Who will you have at the wedding?” + +“I have no bride’s maid yet--but may be you would be that for me, +my bonnie lady. John said I disgraced them; but surely I only loved +William. I wish to-morrow was past, and that he would remove my shame--I +could then be proud, but now I cannot.” + +“And what are you ashamed of? It is no shame to love him.” + +“No, no, and all would be well enough, but that they beat me and took +away the baby--my brother John did.” + +“But did William ever swear to you, that if he mot a girl more +beautiful, he would cease to love you, and to write to you?” + +“No, he promised to marry me.” + +“And do you know why he does not?” + +“If I could, find him he would. Oh, if you see him, will you tell him +that I’m waiting, and that all’s ready?” + +“You,” said Jane, “have been guilty of a great sin.” + +“So they said, and that I brought myself to shame too. But William will +take away that if I could find him.” + +“You told an indirect falsehood to your father--you concealed the +truth--and now the hand of God is upon you. There is nothing for you now +but death.” + +“I don’t like death--it took away my baby--if they would give me back my +baby I would not care---except John--I would hide from him.” + +“William’s married to another and dying, so that you may become a queen +of sorrow too--would you like that--sorrow is a sweet thing.” + +“How could he marry another, and be promised to me?” + +“Is your heart cold?” inquired Jane. + +“No,” replied the other smiling, “indeed I am to be married to-morrow?” + +“Let me see you early in the morning,” said Jane--“if you do, perhaps +I may give you this,” showing the letter. “Your heart cannot be cold +if you keep it--I carry it here,” said she, putting her hand to her +bosom--“but I need not, for mine will be warm enough soon.” + +“Mine’s warm enough too,” said the other. + +“If William comes, you will find poison on his lips,” said Jane, “and +that will kill you--the poison of polluted lips would kill a thousand +faithful hearts--it, would--and there is nothing for treachery but +sorrow. Be sorrowful--be sorrowful--it is the only thing to ease a +deserted heart--it eases mine.” + +“But then they say you’re crazed with love.” + +“No, no--with sorrow; but listen, never violate truth--never be guilty +of falsehood; if you do, you will become unhappy; and if you do not, the +light of God’s countenance will shine upon you.” + +“Indeed it is no lie, for as sure as you stand there to-morrow is the +day.” + +“I think I love you,” said the gentle and affectionate Jane. “Will you +kiss me? my sister Agnes does when I ask her.” + +“Why shouldn’t I, my bonnie, bonnie lady? Why shouldn’t I? Oh! indeed, +but you are bonnie, and yet be crazed with love! Well, well, he will +never comb a gray head that deserted the bonnie Fawn of Spring-vale.” + +Jane, who was much the taller, stooped, and with a smile of melancholy, +but unconscious sympathy, kissed the forlorn creature’s lips, and after +beckoning Agnes to follow her, passed on. + +That embrace! Who could describe its character? Oh! man, man, and woman, +woman, think of this! + +Agnes, after Jane and she had returned home, found that a search had +been instigated during their absence for the letter which Charles had +written to his father. Mr. Sinclair, anxious to return it, had missed +it from among his papers, and felt seriously concerned at its +disappearance. + +“I only got it to read to the family,” said he, “and what am I to say, +or what can I say, when Mr. Osborne asks me, as he will, to return it? +Agnes, do you know anything of it?” + +Agnes, who, from the interview between Jane and the unsettled Fanny +Morgan, saw at once that it had got, by some means unknown to the +family, into her sister’s hands, knew not exactly in what terms to +reply. She saw too, that Jane looked upon the possession of the letter +as a secret, and in her presence she felt that considering her sister’s +view of the matter, and her state of mind, she could not, without +pressing too severely on the gentle creature’s sorrow, inform her father +of the truth. + +“Papa,” said the admirable and considerate girl, “the letter I have no +doubt will be found. I beg of you papa, I beg of you not to be uneasy +about it; it will be found.” + +This she said in a tone as significant as possible, with a hope that her +father might infer from her manner that Jane had the letter in question. + +The old man looked at Agnes, and appeared as if striving to collect the +meaning of what she said, but he was not long permitted to remain in any +doubt upon the subject. + +Jane approached him slowly, and putting her hand to her bosom, took out +the letter and placed it upon the table before him. + +“It came from him,” said she, “and that was the reason why I put it next +my heart. You know, papa, he is dying, and this letter is a message of +death. I thought that such a message was more proper from him to me than +to any one else. I have carried it next my heart, and you may take it +now, papa. The message has been delivered, and I feel that death is +here--for that is all that he and it have left me. I am the star of +sorrow--Pale and mournful in the lonely sky; yet,” she added as she did +on another occasion, “we shall not all die, but we shall be changed.” + +“My sweet child,” said Mr. Sinclair, “I am not angry with, you about the +letter; I only wish you to keep your spirits up, and not be depressed so +much as you are.” She appeared quite exhausted, and replied not for some +time; at length she said: + +“Papa, mamma, have I done anything wrong? If I have tell me. Oh, Agnes, +Agnes, but my heart is heavy.” + +“As sure as heaven is above us, Henry,” whispered her mother to Mr. +Sinclair, “she is upon the point of being restored to her senses.” + +“Alas, my dear,” he replied, “who can tell? It may happen as you say. Oh +how I shall bless God if it does! but still, what, what will it be but, +as Dr. M’Cormick said, the light before death? The child is dying, and +she will be taken from us for ever, for ever!” + +Jane, whilst they spoke, looked earnestly and with a struggling eye +into the countenances of those who were about her; but again she smiled +pensively, and said: + +“I am--I am the star of sorrow, pale and mournful in the lonely sky. +Jane Sinclair is no more--the Fawn of Springvale is no more--I am now +nothing but sorrow. I was the queen, but now I am the star of sorrow. +Oh! how I long to set in heaven!” + +She was then removed to bed, whore with her mother and her two sisters +beside her, she lay quiet as a child, repeating to herself--“I am the +star of sorrow, pale and mournful in the lonely sky; but now I know +that I will soon set in heaven. Jane Sinclair is no more--the Fawn of +Springvale is no more. No--I am now the star of sorrow!” The melancholy +beauty of the sentiment seemed to soothe her, for she continued to +repeat these words, sometimes aloud and sometimes in a sweet voice, +until she fell gently asleep. + +“She is asleep,” said Agnes, looking upon her still beautiful but +mournful features, now, indeed composed into an expression of rooted +sorrow. They all stood over the bed, and looked upon her for many +minutes. At length Agnes clasped her hands, and with a suffocating +voice, as if her heart would break, exclaimed, “Oh mother, mother,” and +rushed from the room that she might weep aloud without awakening the +afflicted one who slept. + +Another week made a rapid change upon her for the worse, and it was +considered necessary to send for Dr. M’Cormick, as from her feebleness +and depression they feared that her dissolution was by no means distant, +especially as she had for the last three days been confined to her bed. +The moment he saw her, his opinion confirmed their suspicions. + +“Deal gently with her now,” said he; “a fit or a paroxysm of any kind +would be fatal to her. The dear girl’s unhappy race is run--her sands +are all but numbered. This moment her thread of life is not stronger +than a gossamer.” Ere his departure on that occasion, he brought Mr. +Sinclair aside and thus addressed him: + +“Are you aware, sir, that Mr. Osborne’s son has returned.” + +“Not that he has actually returned,” replied Mr. Sinclair, “but I know +that he is daily expected.” + +“He reached his father’s house,” continued the doctor, “early yesterday; +and such a pitiable instance of remorse as he is I have never seen, and +I hope never shall. His cry is to see your daughter, that he may hear +his forgiveness from her own lips. He says he cannot die in hope or in +happiness, unless she pardons him. This, however, must not be--I mean +an interview between them--for it would most assuredly prove fatal to +himself; and should she see him only for a moment, that moment were her +last.” + +“I will visit the unhappy young man myself,” said her father; “as for an +interview it cannot be thought of--even if they could bear it, Charles +forgets that he is the husband of another woman, and that, consequently, +Jane is nothing to him--and that such a meeting would be highly--grossly +improper.” + +“Your motives, though perfectly just, are different from mine,” said the +doctor--“I speak merely as a medical man. He wants not this to hurry him +into the grave--he will be there soon enough.” + +“Let him feel repentance towards God,” said the old man +heavily--“towards my child it is now unavailing. It is my duty, as it +shall be my endeavor, to fix this principle in his heart.” + +The Doctor then departed, having promised to see Jane on the next +day but one. This gentleman’s opinion, however, with respect to his +beautiful patient, was not literally correct; still, although she +lingered longer than could naturally be anticipated from her excessive +weakness, yet he was right in saying that her thread of life resembled, +that of the gossamer. + +In the course of the same evening, she gave the first symptom of a lucid +interval; still in point of fact her mind was never wholly restored to +sanity. She had slept long and soundly, and after awaking rang the bell +for some one to come to her. This was unusual, and in a moment she was +attended by Agnes and her mother. + +“I am very weak, my dear mamma,” said she, “and although I cannot say +that I feel any particular complaint--I speak of a bodily one--yet I +feel that my strength is gone, and that you will not be troubled with +your poor Jane much longer.” + +“Do not think so, dear love, do not think so,” replied her mother; “bear +up, my darling, bear up, and all may yet be well.” + +“Agnes,” said she, “come to me. I know not--perhaps--dear Agnes----” + +She could utter no more. Agnes flew to her, and they wept in each +other’s arms for many minutes. + +“I would be glad to see my papa,” she said, “and my dear Maria and +William. Oh mamma, mamma, I suspect that I have occasioned you all much +sorrow.” + +“No, no, no--but more joy now, my heart’s own treasure, a thousand times +more joy than you ever occasioned us of sorrow. Do not think it, oh, do +not think it.” + +Her father, who had just returned from visiting Charles Osborne, now +entered her bedroom, accompanied by William and his two daughters--for +Agnes had flown to inform them of the happy turn which had taken place +in Jane’s malady. When he entered, she put her white but wasted hand +out, and raised her head to kiss him. + +“My dear papa,” said she, “it is so long, I think, since I have seen +you; and Maria, too. Oh, dear Maria, come to me--but you must not weep, +dear sister. Alas, Maria,”--for the poor girl wept bitterly--“Oh, my I +sister, but your heart is good and loving. William”--she kissed him, and +looking tenderly into his face, said, + +“Why, oh, why are you all in tears? Imitate my papa, dear William. I am +so glad to see you! Papa, I have been--I fear I have been--but, indeed, +I remember when I dreaded as much. My heart, my heart is heavy when I +think of all the grief and affliction I must have occasioned you; but +you will all forgive your poor Jane, for you know she would not do so +if she could avoid it. Papa, how pale and careworn you look! as, indeed, +you all do. Oh, God help me. I see, I see--I read on your sorrowful +faces the history of all you have suffered on my account.” + +They all cherished, and petted, and soothed the sweet creature; and, +indeed, rejoiced over her as if she had been restored to them from the +dead. + +“Papa, would you get me the Bible,” she continued. “I wish if possible +to console you and the rest; and mamma, you will think when I am gone of +that which I am about to show you; think of it all of you, for indeed an +early death is sometimes a great blessing to those who are taken away. +Alas! who can say when it is not?” + +They assisted her to sit up in the bed, and after turning over the +leaves of the Bible, she read in a voice of low impressive melody the +first verse of the fifty-seventh chapter of Isaiah. + +“The righteous perisheth, and no man taketh it to heart; and merciful +men are taken away, none considering that the righteous is taken away +from the evil to come. He SHALL ENTER INTO PEACE.” + +“Oh! many a death,” she continued, “is wept for and lamented by friends +and relatives, who consider not that those for whom they weep may be +taken away from the evil to come. I feel that I am unable to speak much, +but it is your Jane’s request, that the consolation to be found, not +only in this passage, but in this book, may be applied to your hearts +when I am gone.” + +This effort, slight as it was, enfeebled her much, and she lay silent +for some time; and such was their anxiety, neither to excite nor +disturb her, that although their hearts were overflowing they restrained +themselves, so far as to permit no startling symptoms of grief to be +either seen or heard. After a little time, however, she spoke again:--- + +“My poor bird,” said she, “I fear I have neglected it. Dear Agnes would +you let me see it--I long to see it.” Agnes in a few minutes returned +and placed the bird in her bosom. She caressed it for a short time, and +then looking at it earnestly said-- + +“Is it possible, that you too, my Ariel, are drooping?” + +This indeed was true. The bird had been for some time past as feeble +and delicate as if its fate were bound up with that of its unhappy +mistress--whether it was that the sight of it revived some recollection +that disturbed her, or whether this brief interval of reason was as much +as exhausted nature could afford on one occasion, it is difficult to +say; but the fact is, that after looking on it for some time, she put +her hand to her bosom and asked, “Where, where is the letter?” + +“What letter, my darling?” said her father. + +“Is not Charles unhappy and dying?” she said. + +“He is ill, my love,” said her father, “but not dying, we trust.” + +“It is not here,” she said, searching her bosom, “it is not here--but it +matters nothing now--it was a message of death, and the message has been +delivered. Sorrow--sorrow--sorrow--how beautiful is that word--there is +but one other in the language that surpasses it, and that is mourn. Oh! +how beautiful is that too--how delicately expressive. Weep is violent; +but mourn, the graduated tearless grief that wastes gently--that +disappoints death, for we die not but only cease to be. I am the star +of sorrow, pale and mournful in the lonely sky--well, that is one +consolation--when I set I shall set in heaven.” + +They knew by experience that any attempt at comfort would then produce +more evil than good. For near two hours she uttered to herself in a low +chant, “I am the star of sorrow, etc.,” after which she sank as before +into a profound slumber. + +Her intervals of reason, as death approached, were mercifully extended. +Whilst they lasted, nothing could surpass the noble standard of +Christian duty by which her feelings and moral sentiments were +regulated. For a fortnight after this, she sank with such a certain +but imperceptible approximation towards death that the eyes even of +affection could, scarcely notice the gradations of its approach. + +During this melancholy period, her father was summoned upon an occasion +which was strongly calculated to try the sincerity of his Christian +professions. Not a day passed that he did not forget his own sorrows, +and the reader knows how heavily they pressed upon him--in order to +prepare the mind of his daughter’s destroyer for the awful change +which death was about to open upon his soul. He reasoned--he prayed--he +wept--he triumphed--yes, he triumphed, nor did he ever leave the +death-bed of Charles Osborne, until he had succeeded in fixing his heart +upon that God “who willeth not the death of a sinner.” + +A far heavier trial upon the Christian’s fortitude, however, was soon to +come upon him. Jane, as the reader knows, was now at the very portals of +heaven. For hours in the day--she was perfectly rational; but again she +would wander into her chant of sorrow,--as much from weakness as from +the original cause of her malady; for upon this it is difficult if not +impossible to determine. + +On the last evening, however, that her father ever attended Charles +Osborne, he came home as usual, and was about to inquire how Jane felt, +when Maria come to him with eyes which weeping had made red, and said-- + +“Oh papa--I fear--we all fear, that--I cannot utter it--I cannot--I +cannot--Oh papa, at last the hour we fear is come.” + +“Remember, my child, that you are speaking,” said this heroic Christian, +“remember that you are speaking to a Christian father, who will not set +up his affections, nor his weaknesses, nor his passions against the will +of God.” + +“Oh! but papa--Jane, Jane”--she burst into bitter tears for more than a +minute, and then added--“Jane, papa, is dying--leaving us at last!” + +“Maria,” said he, calmly, “leave me for some minutes. You know not, dear +child, what my struggles have been. Leave me now--this is the trial I +fear--and now must I, and so must you all--but now must I----Oh, leave +me, leave me.” + +He knelt down and prayed; but in less than three, minutes, Agnes, +armed with affection--commanding and absolute it was from that loving +sister--came to him. + +She laid her hand upon his arm, and pressed it. “Papa!”-- + +“I know it,” said he, “she is going; but, Agnes, we must be Christians.” + +“We must be sisters, papa; and ah, papa, surely, surely this is a moment +in which the father may forget the Christian. Jesus wept for a stranger; +what would He not have done for a brother or a sister?” + +“Agnes, Agnes,” said he, in a tone of sorrow, inexpressibly deep, “is +this taxing me with want of affection for--for--” + +She flung herself upon his breast. “Oh, papa, forgive me, forgive me--I +am not capable of appreciating the high and holy principles from which +you act. Forgive me; and surely if you ever forgave me on any occasion, +you will on this.” + +“Dear Agnes,” said he, “you scarcely ever required my forgiveness, and +less now than! ever--even if you had. Come--I will go; and may the Lord +support and strengthen us all! Your mother--our poor mother!” + +On entering the room of the dying girl, they found her pale cheek laid +against that of her other parent, whose arms were about her, as if +she would hold them in love and tenderness for ever. When she saw them +approach, she raised her head feebly, and said--“Is that my papa? my +beloved papa?” The old man raised his eyes once more to heaven for +support--but for upwards of half a minute the muscles of his face worked +with power that evinced the full force of what he suffered-- + +“I am here, I am here,” he at length said, with difficulty. + +“And that is Agnes?” she inquired. “Agnes, come near me; and do not be +angry, dear Agnes that I die on mamma’s bosom and not on yours.” + +Agnes could only seize her pale hand and bathe it in tears. “Angry with +you--you living angel--oh, who ever was, or could be, my sister!” + +“You all love me too much,” she said. “Maria, it grieves me to see your +grief so excessive--William, oh why, why will you weep so? Is it because +I am about to leave the pains and sorrows of this unhappy life, and; to +enter into peace, that you all grieve thus bitterly. Believe me--and I +know this will relieve my papa’s heart--and all your hearts--will it not +yours, my mamma?--it is this--your Jane, your own Jane is not afraid to +die. Her hopes are fixed on the Rock of Ages--the Rock of her salvation. +I know, indeed, that my brief existence has been marked at its close +with care and sorrow; but these cares and sorrows have brought me the +sooner to that place where all tears shall be wiped from my eyes. Let my +fate, too, be a warning to young creatures like myself, never to suffer +their affection for any object to overmaster their sense and their +reason. I cherished the passion of my heart too much, when I ought to +have checked and restrained it--and now, what is the consequence? Why, +that I go down in the very flower of my youth to an early grave.” + +Agnes caught the dear girl’s hands when she had concluded, and looking +with a breaking heart into her face, said-- + +“And oh, my sister, my sister, are you leaving us--are you leaving +us for ever, my sister? Life will be nothing to me, my Jane, without +you--how, how will your Agnes live?” + +“I doubt we are only disturbing--our cherished one,” said her father. +“Let our child’s last moments be calm--and her soul--oh let it not be +drawn back from its hopes, to this earth and its affections.” + +“Papa, pray for me, and they will join with you--pray for your poor Jane +while it is yet time--the prayer of the righteous availeth much.” + +Earnest, indeed, and melancholy, was that last prayer offered up on +behalf of the departing girl. When it was concluded there was a short +silence, as if they wished not to break in upon what they considered the +aspirations of the dying sufferer. At length the mother thought she +felt her child’s cheek press against her own with a passive weight that +alarmed her. + +“Jane, my love,” said she, “do you not feel your soul refreshed by your +father’s prayer?” + +No answer was returned to this, and on looking more closely at her +countenance of sorrow, they found that her gentle spirit had risen on +the incense of her father’s prayer to heaven. The mother clasped her +hands, whilst the head of her departed daughter still lay upon her +bosom. + +“Oh God! oh God!” said she, “our idol is gone--is gone!” + +“Gone!” exclaimed the old man; “now, oh Lord, surely--surely the +father’s grief may be allowed,” and he burst, as he spoke, into a +paroxysm of uncontrollable sorrow. + +“And what am I to do--who am--oh woe--woe--who was her mother?” + +To the scene that ensued, what pen could do justice--we cannot, +and consequently leave it to the imagination of our readers, whose +indulgence we crave for our many failures and errors in the conduct of +this melancholy story. + +Thus passed the latter days of the unhappy Jane Sinclair, of whose +life nothing more appropriate need be said, than that which she herself +uttered immediately before her death: + +“Let my fate be a warning to young creatures like myself, never to +suffer their affection for any object to overmaster their sense and +their reason. I cherished the passion of my heart too much, when I ought +to have checked and restrained it--and now, what is the consequence? +Why, that I go down in the very flower of my youth to an early grave.” + +On the day after her dissolution, an incident occurred, which threw the +whole family into renewed sorrow:--Early that morning, Ariel, her dove, +was found dead upon her bosom, as she lay out in the composure of death. + +“Remove it not,” said her father; “it shall be buried with her;” and it +was accordingly placed upon her bosom in the coffin. + +Seldom was a larger funeral train seen, than that which attended her +remains to the grave-yard; and rarely was sorrow so deeply felt for any +being so young and so unhappy, as that which moved all hearts for the +fate of the beautiful but unfortunate Jane Sinclair--the far-famed Fawn +of Springvale. + +One other fact we have to record: Jane’s funeral had arrived but a +few minutes at the grave, when another funeral train appeared slowly +approaching the place of death. It was that of Charles Osborne! + +The last our readers may have anticipated. From the day of Jane’s death +the heart of the old man gradually declined. He looked about him in vain +for his beloved one. Night and day her name was never out of his mouth. +It is true he prayed, he read, he availed himself of all that the pious +exercises of a Christian man could contribute to the alleviation of his +sorrow. But it was in vain. In vain did his wife, son, and daughters +strive to soothe and console him. The old man’s heart was broken. His +beloved one was gone, and he felt that he could not remain behind her. +A gradual decay of bodily strength, and an utter breaking down of his +spirits, brought about the consummation which they all dreaded. At the +expiration of four months and a half, the old man was laid in the same +grave that contained his beloved one--and he was happy. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Jane Sinclair; Or, The Fawn Of +Springvale, by William Carleton + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JANE SINCLAIR *** + +***** This file should be named 16005-0.txt or 16005-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/0/0/16005/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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