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.