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!