“I could not,” proceeded his father, “wrench my heart so suddenly out of

the strong affection it felt for the hope of my past life, as to curse

him; but, from this day forward I disown him as my son. You know not, my

friend, what I feel, and what I suffer; for he who was the pride of my

declining years has, by this act of unprincipled ambition, set his seal

to the unhappiness of his father. I am told, indeed, that the lady is

very beautiful--and amiable as she is beautiful--and that their passion

for each other amounts to idolatry;--but neither her beauty, nor her

wealth, nor her goodness could justify my son in an act of such cruel

and abandoned perfidy to a creature who seems to be more nearly related

to the angelic nature than the human.”

“You see, my children,” observed Mr. Sinclair, “that the worst, as far

as relates to Osborne, is before us. I have nothing now to add to what I

have already said on the receipt of the letter from Bath. You know

your duty, and with God’s assistance I trust you will act up to it.

At present it might be fatal to our child were she to know what has

happened; nor, indeed, are we qualified to break the matter to her,

without the advice of some medical man, eminent in cases similar to that

which afflicts her.”

These observations were scarcely concluded when Jane entered the room,

and as usual, cast a calm but searching glance around her. She saw that

they had been in tears, and that they tried in vain to force their faces

I into a hurried composure, that seemed strangely at variance with what

they felt.

After a slight pause she sat down, and putting her hand to her temple,

mused for some minutes. They observed that a sorrow more deep and

settled than usual, was expressed on her countenance. Her eyes were

filled, although tears did not come, and the muscles of her lips

quivered excessively; yet she did not speak; and such was the solemnity

of the moment to them, who knew all, that none of them could find voice

sufficiently firm to address her.

“Papa,” said she, at length, “this has been a day of busy thought with

me. I think I see, and I am sure I feel my own situation. The only

danger is, that I may feel it too much. I fear I have felt it--(she

put her hand to her forehead as she spoke)--I fear I have felt it too

deeply already. Pauses--lapses, or perhaps want of memory for a certain

space, occasioned by--by------” she hesitated. “Bear with me, papa,

and mamma; bear with me; for this is a great effort; let me recollect

myself, and do not question me or--speak to me until I------. It is, it

is woeful to see me reduced to this; but nothing is seriously wrong with

me yet--nothing. Let me see; yes, yes, papa, here it is. Let us not be

reduced to the miserable necessity of watching each other, as we have

been. Let me know the worst. You have nearly broken me down by suspense.

Let me know the purport of the letter you received to-day.”

“To-day, love!” exclaimed her mother. “Yes, mamma, to-day. I made John

show it me on his way from the post-office. The superscription was Mr.

Osborne’s hand. Let me, O let me,” she exclaimed, dropping down upon

her knees, “as you value my happiness here and hereafter, let me at

once know the worst--the very worst. Am I not the daughter of a pious

minister of the Gospel, and do you think I shall or can forget the

instructions I received from his lips? Treat me as a rational being, if

you wish me to remain rational. But O, as you love my happiness here,

and my soul’s salvation, do not, papa, do not, mamma, do not, Maria, do

not, Agnes, William,--do not one or all of you keep your unhappy sister

hanging in the agony of suspense! It will kill me!--it will kill me!”

Suppressed sobs there were, which no firmness could restrain. But in a

few moments those precepts of the Christian pastor, which we have before

mentioned, came forth among this sorrowing family, in the same elevated

spirit which dictated them. When Jane had concluded this appeal to her

father, there was a dead, silence in the room, and every eye glanced

from, him to her, full of uncertainty as to what course of conduct he

would pursue. He turned his eyes upwards for a few moments, and said:

“Can truth, my children, under any circumstances, be injurious to----”

“Oh no, no, papa,” exclaimed Jane; “I know--I feel the penalty paid for

even the indirect violation of it.”

“In the name of God, then,” exclaimed the well-meaning man, “we will

rely upon the good sense and religious principle of our dear Jane, and

tell her the whole truth.”

“Henry, dear!” said Mrs. Sinclair in a tone of expostulation.

“Oh papa,” said Agnes, “remember your own words!”

“The truth, my papa, the truth!” said Jane. “You are its accredited

messenger.”

“Jane,” said he, “is your trust strong in the support of the Almighty?”

“I have no other dependence, papa.”

“Then,” said he, “this is the truth: Charles Osborne has been false to

you. He has broken his vows;--he is married to another woman. And

now, my child, may the God of truth, and peace, and mercy, sustain and

console you!”

“And He will, too, my papa!--He will!” she exclaimed, rising up;--“He

will! He will!--I--I know--I think I know something. I violated truth,

and now truth is my punishment. I violated it to my papa, and now my

papa is the medium of that punishment. Well, then, there’s a Providence

proved. But, in the mean time, mamma, what has become of my beauty?

It is gone--it is gone--and now for humility and repentance--now for

sackcloth and ashes. I am now no longer beautiful!--so off, off go the

trappings of vanity!”

She put her hands up to her bosom, and began to tear down her dress with

a violence so powerful, that it took William and Maria’s strength to

prevent her. She became furious. “Let me go,” she exclaimed, “let me go;

I am bound to a curse; but Charles, Charles--don’t you see he will

be poisoned: he will kiss her lips and be poisoned; poisoned lips for

Charles, and I too see it!--and mine here with balm upon them, and peace

and love! My boy’s lost, and I am lost, and the world has destroyed us.”

She wrought with incredible strength, and attempted still, while

speaking, to tear her garments off; put finding herself overpowered, she

at length sat down and passed from this state of violence into a mood

so helplessly calm, that the family, now in an outcry of grief, with the

exception of her father who appeared cool, felt their very hearts shiver

at the vacant serenity of her countenance.

Her mother went over, and, seizing her husband firmly by the arms,

pulled him towards her, and with an ashy face and parched lips,

exclaimed, “There, Charles--all is now over--our child is an idiot!”

“Oh do not blame me,” said the brokenhearted father; “I did it for the

best. Had I thought--had I thought--but I will speak to her, for I think

my voice will reach her heart--you know how she loved me.”

“Jane,” said he, approaching her, “Jane, my dearest life, will you not

speak to your papa?”

She became uneasy again, and, much to their relief, broke silence.

“I am not,” said she, calmly; “it is gone; I was once though--indeed,

indeed I was; and it was said so; I was called the Fawn of--of--but it

seems beauty passes like the flower of the field.”

“Darling, speak to me, to your papa.”

“I believe I am old now; an old woman, I suppose. My hair is gray, and

I am wrinkled; that’s the reason why they scorn me; well I was once both

young and beautiful; but that is past. Charles,” said she, catching

her father’s hand and looking into it, “you are old, too, I believe.

Why--why--why, how is this? Your hair is long and white. Oh, what

a change since I knew you last. White hair! long, white, venerable,

hair--that’s old age--

“Pity old age within whose silver hairs

Honor and reverence evermore do lie.”

“Thank God, dear Henry,” said her mother, “she is not at all events an

idiot. Children,” said she, “I trust you will remember your father’s

advice, and bear this--this----.” But here the heart and strength of

the mother herself were overcome, and she was sinking down when her son

caught her ere she fell, and carried her out in his arms, accompanied by

Maria and Agnes.

It would be difficult for any pen to paint the distraction of her

father, thus placed in a state of divided apprehension between his

daughter and his wife.

“Oh, my child, my child,” he exclaimed, “Perhaps in the midst of this

misery, your mother may be dying! May the God of all consolation support

you and her! What, oh what will become of us!”

“Well, well,” his daughter went on; “life’s a fearful thing that can

work such anges; but why may we not as well pass at once from youth to

old age as from happiness to misery? Here we are both old; ay, and if we

are gray it is less with age than affliction--that’s one comfort--I am

young enough to be beautiful yet; but age, when it comes prematurely on

the youthful, as it often does--thanks to treachery and disappointment,

ay, and thanks to a thousand causes which we all know but don’t wish to

think of; age, I say, when it comes prematurely on the youthful, is

just like a new and unfinished house that is suffered to fall into

ruin--desolation, naked, and fresh, and glaring--without the reverence

and grandeur of antiquity. Yes--yes--yes; but there is another cause;

and that must be whispered only to the uttermost depths of silence--of

silence; for silence is the voice of God. That word--that word! Oh,

how I shudder to think of it! And who will pity me when I acknowledge

it--there is one--one only--who will mourn for my despair and the fate,

foreordained and predestined, of one whom he loved--that is my papa--my

papa only--my papa only; for he knows that I am a _castaway_---A

CAST-AWAY!”

These words were uttered with an energy of manner and a fluency of

utterance which medical men know to be strongly characteristic of

insanity, unless indeed where the malady is silent and moping. The

afflicted old man now discovered that his daughter’s mind had, in

addition to her disappointment, sunk under the frightful and merciless

dogma, which we trust will soon cease to darken and distort the

beneficent character of God. Indeed it might have been evident to him

before that in looking upon herself as a castaway, Jane’s sensitive

spirit was gradually lapsing into the gloomy horrors of predestination.

But this blindness of the father to such a tendency was very natural

in a man to whose eye familiarity with the doctrine had removed its

deformity. The old man looked upon her countenance with an expression

of mute affliction almost verging on despair; for a moment he forgot the

situation of his wife and everything but the consequences of a discovery

so full of terror and dismay.

“Alas, my unhappy child,” he exclaimed, “and is this, too, to be added

to your misery and ours? Now, indeed, is the cup of our affliction full

even to overflowing. O God! who art good and full of mercy,” he added,

dropping on his knees under the bitter impulse of the moment, “and who

wiliest not the death of a sinner, oh lay not upon her or us a weight

of sorrow greater than we can bear. We do not, O Lord! for we dare not,

desire Thee to stay Thy hand; but oh, chastise us in mercy, especially

her--her--Our hearts’ dearest--she was ever the child, of our loves; but

now she is also the unhappy child of all our sorrows; the broken idol of

affections which we cannot change. Enable us, O God, to acquiesce under

this mysterious manifestation of Thy will, and to receive from Thy hand

with patience and resignation whatsoever of affliction it pleaseth Thee

to lay upon us. And touching this stricken one--if it were Thy blessed

will to--to--but no--oh no--not our will, oh Lord, but Thine be done!”

It was indeed a beautiful thing to see the sorrow-bound father bowing

down his gray locks with humility before the footstool of his God, and

forbearing even to murmur under a dispensation so fearfully calamitous

to him and his. Religion, however, at which the fool and knave may sneer

in the moments of convivial riot, is after all the only stay on which

the human heart can rest in those severe trials of life which almost

every one sooner or later is destined to undergo. The sceptic may indeed

triumph in the pride of his intellect or in the hour of his passion;

but no matter on what arguments his hollow creed is based, let but the

footstep of disease or death approach, and he himself is the first to

abandon it and take refuge in those truths which he had hitherto laughed

at or maligned. When Mr. Sinclair arose, his countenance, through all

the traces of sorrow which were upon it, beamed with a light which no

principle, merely human, could communicate to it. A dim but gentle and

holy radiance suffused his whole face, and his heart, for a moment,

received the assurance it wanted so much. He experienced a feeling for

which language has no terms, or at least none adequate to express its

character. It was “that peace of God which passeth all understanding.”

In a few minutes after he had concluded his short but earnest prayer,

Agnes returned to let him know that her mamma was better and would

presently come in to sit with Jane, whom she could not permit, she said,

to regain out of her sight. Jane had been silent for some time, but the

extreme brilliancy of her eyes and the energy of her excitement were too

obvious to permit any expectation of immediate improvement.

When her mother and Maria returned, accompanied also by William, she

took no note whatsoever of them, nor indeed did she appear to have an

eye for anything external to her own deep but unsettled misery. Time

after time they spoke to her as before, each earnestly hoping that some

favorite expression or familiar tone of voice might impinge, however

slightly, upon her reason, or touch some chord of her affections. These

tender devices of their love, however, all failed; no corresponding

emotion was awakened, and they resolved, without loss of time, to see

what course of treatment medical advice recommend them to pursue on her

behalf. Accordingly William proceeded with a heavy heart to call in the

aid of a gentleman who can bear full testimony to the accuracy of our

narrative--we allude to that able and eminent practitioner, Doctor

M’Cormick of. Belfast, whose powers, of philosophical analysis, and

patient investigation are surpassed only by the success of the masterly

skill with which he applies them. The moment he left the room for this

purpose, Jane spoke.

“It will be hard,” she said, “and I need not conceal it, for my very

thought has a voice at the footstool of the Almighty; the intelligences

of other worlds know it; all; the invisible spirits of the universe

know it; those that are evil rejoice, and the good would murmur if

the fulness of their own happiness permitted them. No--no--I need not

conceal it--hearken, therefore--hearken;” and she lowered her voice to

a whisper--“the Fawn of Springvale--Jane Sinclair--is predestined to

eternal misery. She is a _cast-away_. I may therefore speak and raise my

voice to warn; who shall dare,” she added, “who shall dare ever to part

from the truth! Those--those only who have been foredoomed--like me. Oh

misery, misery, is there no hope? nothing but despair for one so young,

and as they said, so gentle, and so beautiful, Alas! alas! Death to me

now is no consoler!”

She clasped her beautiful hands together as she spoke, and looked with

a countenance so full of unutterable woe that no heart could avoid

participating in her misery.

“Jane, oh darling of all our hearts,” said her weeping mother, “will you

not come over and sit beside your mamma--your mamma, my treasure, who

feels that she cannot long live to witness what you suffer.”

“The Fawn of Springvale,” she proceeded, “the gentle Fawn of Springvale,

for it was on the account of my gentleness I was so called, is

stricken--the arrow is here--in her poor broken heart; and what did she

do, what did the gentle creature do to suffer or to deserve all this

misery?”

“True, my sister--too true, too true,” said Maria, bursting into an

agony of bitter sorrow; “what strange mystery is in the gentle one’s

affliction? Surely, if there was ever a spotless or a sinless creature

on earth, she was and is that creature.”

“Beware of murmuring, Maria,” said her father; “the purpose, though

at present concealed, may yet become sufficiently apparent for us to

recognize in it the benignant dispensation of a merciful God. Our duty,

my dear child, is now to bear, and be resigned. The issues of this sad

calamity are with the Almighty, and with Him let us patiently leave

them.”

“Had I never disclosed my love,” proceeded Jane, “I might have stolen

quietly away from them all and laid my cheek on that hardest pillow

which giveth the soundest sleep; but would not concealment,” she added,

starting; “would not that too have been dissimulation? Oh God help

me!--it is, it is clear that in any event I was foredoomed!”

Agnes, who had watched her sister with an interest too profound to

suffer even the grief necessary on such an occasion to take place, now

went over, and taking her hand in one of hers, placed the fingers of the

other upon her sister’s cheek, thus attempting to fix Jane’s eyes upon

her own countenance--

“Do you not know who it is,” said she, “that is now speaking to

you?--Look upon me, and tell me do you forget me so soon?”

“Who can tell yet,” she proceeded, “who can tell yet--time may retrieve

all, and he may return: but the yew tree--I fear--I fear--why, it is

an emblem of death; and perhaps death may unite us--yes, and I say he

will--he will--he will. Does he not feel pity? Oh yes, in a thousand,

thousand cases he is the friend of the miserable. Death the Consoler!

Oh from how many an aching brow does he take away the pain for ever? How

many sorrows does he soothe into rest that is never broken!--from how

many hearts like mine, does he pluck the arrows that fester in them, and

bids them feel pain no more! In his house, that house appointed for all

living--what calmness and peace is there? How sweet and tranquil is the

bed which he smoothes down for the unhappy; there the wicked cease

from troubling, and the weary are at rest. Then give me Death the

Consoler?--Death the Consoler!”

A sense of relief and wild exultation beamed from her countenance,

on uttering the last words, and she rose up and walked about the room

wringing her hands, yet smiling at the idea of being relieved by Death

the Consoler! It is not indeed unusual to witness in deranged persons,

an unconscious impression of pain and misery, accompanied at the same

time by a vague sense of unreal happiness--that is, a happiness which,

whilst it balances the latent conviction of their misery does not,

however, ultimately remove it. This probably constitutes that pleasure

in madness, which, it is said, none but mad persons know.

At length she stood, and, for a long time seemed musing upon various and

apparently contrasted topics, for she sometimes smiled as a girl at play,

and sometimes relapsed into darkness of mood and pain, and incoherency.

But after passing through these rapid changes for many minutes, she

suddenly exclaimed in a low but earnest voice, “Where is he?”

“Where is who, love?” said her mother.

“Where is he?--why does he not come?--something more than usual must

prevent him, or he would not stay away so long from ‘his own Jane

Sinclair.’ But I forgot; bless me, how feeble my memory is growing!

Why this is the hour of our appointment, and I will be late unless I

hurry--for who could give so gentle and affectionate a being as Charles

pain?”

She immediately put on her bonnet, and was about to go abroad, when

her father, gently laying his hand upon her arm, said, in a kind but

admonitory voice, in which was blended a slightly perceptible degree of

parental authority--

“My daughter, surely you will not go out--you are unwell.”

She started slightly, paused, and looked as if trying to remember

something that she had forgotten. The struggle, however, was vain--her

recollection proved too weak for the task it had undertaken. After a

moment’s effort, she smiled sweetly in her father’s face, and said--

“You would not have me break my appointment, nor give poor Charles pain,

and his health, moreover, so delicate. You know he would die rather than

give me a moment’s anxiety. Die!--see that again--I know not what puts

death into my head so often.”

“Henry,” said her mother, “it is probably better to let her have her own

way for the present--at least until Dr. M’Cormick arrives. You and Agnes

can accompany her, perhaps she may be the better for it.”

“I cannot refuse her,” said the old man; “at all events, I agree with

you; there can, I think, be no possible harm in allowing her to go.

Come, Agnes, we must, alas! take care of her.”

She then went out, they walking a few paces behind her, and proceeded

down the valley which we have already described in the opening of this

story, until she came to the spot at the river, where she first met

Osborne. Here she involuntarily stood a moment, and putting her hand

to her right shoulder, seemed to miss some object, that was obviously

restored to her recollection by an association connected with the place.

She shook her head, and sighed several times, and then exclaimed--

“Ungrateful bird, does it neglect me too?”

Her father pressed Agnes’s arm with a sensation of joy, but spoke not

lest his voice might disturb her, or break the apparent continuity of

her reviving memory. She seemed to think, however, that she delayed here

too long, for without taking further notice of anything she hurried on

to the spot where the first disclosure of their loves had taken place.

On reaching it she looked anxiously and earnestly around the copse or

dell in which the yew tree, with its turf seat stood.

[Illustration: PAGE 52-- How is this?--how is this?--he is not here!]

“How is this?--how is this?”--she murmured to herself, “he is not here!”

Both her father and Agnes observed that during the whole course of

the unhappy but faithful girl’s love, they never had witnessed such

a concentrated expression of utter woe and sorrow as now impressed

themselves upon her features.

“He has not come,” said she; “but I can wait--I can wait--it will teach

my heart to be patient.”

She then clasped her hands, and sitting down under the shade of the yew

tree, mused and murmured to herself alternately, but in such an evident

spirit of desolation and despair, as made her father fear that her heart

would literally break down under the heavy burden of her misery. When

she had sat here nearly an hour, he approached her and gently taking her

hand, which felt as cold as marble, said--

“Will you not come home, darling? Your mamma is anxious you should

return to her. Come,” and he attempted gently to draw her with him.

“I can wait, I can wait,” she replied, “if he should come and find me

gone, he would break his heart--I can wait.”

“Oh do not droop, my sweet sister; do not droop so much; all will yet be

well,” said Agnes, weeping.

“I care for none but him--to me there is only one being in life--all

else is a blank; but he will not come, and is it not too much, to try

the patience of a heart so fond and faithful.”

“It is not likely he will come to-day,” replied Agnes; “something has

prevented him; but to-morrow--”

“I will seek him elsewhere,” said Jane, rising suddenly; “but is it not

singular, and indeed to what strange passes things may come? A young

lady seeking her lover!--not over-modest certainly--nay, positively

indelicate--fie upon me! Why should I thus expose myself? It is unworthy

of my father’s daughter, and Jane Sinclair will not do it.”

She then walked a few paces homewards, but again stopped and earnestly

looked in every direction, as if expecting to see the object of her

love. Long indeed did she linger about a spot so dear to her; and often

did she sit down again and rise to go--sometimes wringing her hands in

the muteness of sorrow, and sometimes exhibiting a sense of her neglect

in terms of pettish and indirect censure against Osborne for his delay.

It was in one of those capricious moments that she bent her steps

homewards; and as she had again to pass that part of the river where the

accident occurred to the dove, Agnes and her father observed that

she instinctively put her hand to her shoulder, and appeared as if

disappointed. On this occasion, however, she made no observation

whatever, but, much to their satisfaction, mechanically proceeded

towards Springvale House, which she reached without uttering another

word.

Until a short time before the arrival of Dr. M’Cormick, this silence

remained unbroken. She sat nearly in the same attitude, evidently

pondering on something that excited great pain, as was observable by her

frequent startings, and a disposition to look wildly about her, as if

with an intention of suddenly speaking. These, however, passed quickly

away, and she generally relapsed into her wild and unsettled reveries.

When the doctor arrived, he sat with her in silence for a considerable

time--listening to her incoherencies from an anxiety to ascertain,

as far as possible, by what she might utter, whether her insanity was

likely to be transient or otherwise. The cause of it he had already

heard from report generally, and a more exact and circumstantial account

on that day from her brother William.

“It is difficult,” he at length said, “to form anything like an exact

opinion upon the first attack of insanity, arising from a disappointment

of the heart. Much depends upon the firmness of the general character,

and the natural force of their common sense. If I were to judge, not

only by what I have heard from this most beautiful and interesting

creature, as well as from the history of her heart, which her brother

gave me so fully, I would say that I think this attack will not be a

long one. I am of opinion that her mind is in a state of transition not

from reason but to it; and that this transition will not be complete

without much physical suffering. The state of her pulse assures me of

this, as does the coldness of her hands. I should not be surprised if,

in the course of this very night she were attacked with strong fits.

These, if they take place, will either restore her to reason or confirm

her insanity. Poor girl,” said the amiable man, looking on her whilst

his eyes filled with tears, “he must have been a heartless wretch to

abandon such a creature. My dear Jane,” he added, addressing her, for

he had been, and still is, familiar with the family; “I am sorry to find

you are so unwell, but you will soon be bettor. Do you not know me.”

“It was sworn,” said the unhappy mourner; “it was sworn and I felt

this here--here “--and she placed her hand upon her heart; “I felt this

little tenant of my poor bosom sink--sink, and my blood going from my

cheeks when the words were uttered. More beautiful! more beautiful! why,

and what is love if it is borne away merely by beauty? I loved him

not for his beauty alone. I loved him because he--he--because he loved

me--but at first I did love him for his beauty; well, he has found

another more beautiful; and his own Jane Sinclair, his Fawn of

Springvale, as he used to call me, is forgotten. But mark me--let none

dare to blame him--he only fulfilled his destined part--the thing was

foredoomed, and I knew that by my suppression of the truth to my papa,

the seal of reprobation was set to my soul. Then--then it was that I

felt myself a cast-away! And indeed,” she added, rising up and laying

the forefinger of her right hand, on the palm of her left, “I would at

any time sacrifice myself for his happiness; I would; yet alas,” she

added, sitting down and hanging her head in sorrow; “why--why is it

that I am so miserable, when he is happy? Why is that, Miss Jane

Sinclair--why is that?” She then sighed deeply, and added in a tone of

pathos almost irresistible--“Oh that I had the wings of a dove, that I

might flee away and be at rest.”

She had scarcely spoken, when, by a beautiful and affecting coincidence,

Ariel entered the room, and immediately flew into her bosom. She put her

hand up and patted it for some time rather unconsciously than otherwise.

“Ah, you foolish bird,” she at length said; “have you no better place

of rest, no calmer spot to repose upon, than a troubled and a broken

heart?”

This incident of the dove, together with the mournful truth of this

melancholy observation, filled every eye with tears, except those of

her father, who now exhibited a spirit of calm obedience to what he

considered an affliction that called upon him to act as one whose faith

was not the theory of a historic Christian.

“But how,” added Jane, “can I be unhappy with the Paraclete in my bosom?

The Paraclete--oh that I were not reprobate and foredoomed--then indeed,

he might be there--all, all by one suppression of truth--but surely my

papa pities his poor girl for that, there is, I know, one that loves me,

and one that pities me. My papa knows that I am foredoomed, and cannot

but pity me: but where is he, and why does he delay so long. Hush! I

will sing--

The dawning of morn, the daylight’s sinking,

The night’s long hours still find me thinking

Of thee, thee--only thee!”

She poured a spirit into these words so full of the wild sorrow of

insanity, as to produce an effect that was thrilling and fearful upon

those who were forced to listen to her. Nay, her voice seemed, in

some degree, to awaken her own emotions, or to revive her memory to a

confused perception of her situation. And in mercy it would appear that

Providence unveiled only half her memory to reason; for from the effect

which even that passing glimpse had upon her, it is not wrong to infer

that had she seen it in its full extent, she would have immediately sunk

under it.

After singing the words of Moore with all the unregulated pathos of a

maniac, she wrung her hands, and was for a considerable time silent.

During this interval she sighed deeply, and after a pause of half an

hour arose suddenly, and seizing her father by the breast of the coat,

brought him over, and placed him on the sofa beside her. She then looked

earnestly into his face, and was about to speak, but her thoughts were

too weak for the task, and after putting her hand to her forehead, as

if to assist her recollection, she let it fall passively beside her, and

hung-her head in a mood, partaking at once of childish pique and deep

dejection.

The doctor, who watched her closely, observed, that in his opinion the

consequences of the unhappy intelligence that day communicated to her,

had not yet fully developed themselves. “The storm has not yet burst,”

he added, “but it is quite evident that the elements for it are fast

gathering. She will certainly have a glimpse of reason before the

paroxysms appear, because, in point of fact, that is what will induce

them.”

“How soon, doctor,” asked her mother, “do you think she will have to

encounter this fresh and woeful trial?”

“I should be disposed to think within the lapse of twenty-four hours;

certainly within forty-eight.”

The amiable doctor’s opinion, however, was much more quickly verified

than he imagined; for Jane, whose heart yearned towards her father with

the beautiful instinct of an affection which scarcely insanity itself

could overcome, once more looked earnestly into his face, with an eye in

which meaning and madness seemed to struggle for the mastery. She gazed

at him for a long time, put her hands upon his white hair, into which

she gently twined her long white fingers; once or twice she smiled, and

said something in a voice too low to be heard: but all at once she gave

a convulsive start, clasped her hands wofully, and throwing herself on

his bosom, exclaimed:

“Oh papa, papa--your child is lost: pray for me--pray for me.”

Her sobs became too thick and violent for further utterance; she panted

and wrought strongly, until at length she lay with locked teeth and

clenched hands struggling in a fit which eventually, by leaving her,

terminated in a state of lethargic insensibility.

For upwards of three days she suffered more than any person unacquainted

with her delicacy of constitution could deem her capable of enduring.

And, indeed, were it not that the aid rendered by Dr. M’Cormick was so

prompt and so skilful, it is possible that the sorrows of the faithful

Jane Sinclair might have here closed. On the fourth day, however, she

experienced a change; but, alas, such a change as left the loving and

beloved group who had hung over her couch with anxious hopes of her

restoration to reason, now utterly hopeless and miserable. She arose

from her paroxysms a beautiful, happy, and smiling maniac, from whose

soul in mercy had been removed that susceptibility of mental pain, which

constitutes the burthen and bitterness of ordinary calamity.

The first person who discovered this was her mother, who, on the fourth

morning of her illness, had stolen to her bedside to see how her beloved

one felt. Agnes, who would permit no other person to nurse her darling

sister, lay asleep with her head reclining on the foot of the bed,

having been overcome by her grief and the fatigue of incessant watching.

As her mother stooped down to look into the sufferer’s face, her heart

bounded with delight oh seeing Jane’s eyes smiling upon her with all the

symptoms of recognition.

“Jane, my heart’s dearest,” she said, in a soothing, low inquiry, “don’t

you know me?”

“Yes, very well,” she replied; “you are my mamma, and this is Agnes

sleeping on the foot of the bed. Why does she sleep there?”

The happy mother scarcely heard her child’s question, for ere the words

were well uttered she laid her head down upon the mourner’s bosom, in

a burst of melancholy joy, and wept so loudly that her voice awakened

Agnes, who, starting up, exclaimed:

“Oh, mother, mother--what is this? Is--?” she said, “No, no--she must

not--she would not leave her Agnes. Oh mother--mother, is it so?”

“No, no, Agnes love; no--but may the mercy of God be exalted for ever,

Jane knows her mamma this morning, and she knows you too, Agnes.”

That ever faithful sister no sooner heard the words, than a smile of

indescribable happiness overspread her face, which, however, became

instantly pale, and the next moment she sunk down, and in a long swoon

forgot both the love and sorrow of her favorite sister. In little more

than a minute the family were assembled in the sickroom, and heard from

Mrs. Sinclair’s lips the history, as she thought, of their beloved one’s

recovery. Agnes was soon restored, and indeed it would be impossible

to witness a scene of such unexpected delight, as that presented by the

rejoicing group which surrounded the bed of the happy--alas, too happy,

Jane Sinclair.

“Is it possible, my dear,” said her father, “that our darling is

restored to her sense and recollection?”

“Try her, Henry,” said the proud mother.

“Jane, my love, do you not know me?” he asked.

“To be sure, papa; to be sure,” she replied smiling.

“And you know all of us, my heart’s treasure?”

“Help me up a little,” she replied; “now I will show you: you are my

papa--there is my mamma--that is William--and Maria there will kiss me.”

Maria, from whose eyes gushed tears of delight, flew to the sweet girl’s

bosom.

“But,” added Jane, “there is another--another that must come to my bosom

and stay there--Agnes!”

“I am here, my own darling,” replied Agnes, stooping and folding her

arms about the beautiful creature’s snow-white neck, whilst she kissed

her lips with a fervor of affection equal to the delight experienced at

her supposed recovery.

“There now, Agnes, you are to sleep with mo to-night: but I want my

papa. Papa, I want you.”

Her father stood forward, his mild eyes beaming with an expression of

delight and happiness.

“I am here, my sweet child.”

“You ought to be a proud man, papa; a proud man: although I say it,

that ought _not_ to say it, you are father to the most beautiful girl in

Europe. Charles Osborne has traveled Europe, and can find none at all

so beautiful as the Fawn of Springvale, and so he is coming home one of

these days to marry me, because, you know, because he could find none

else so beautiful. If he had--if he had--you know--you may be assured, I

would not be the girl of his choice. Yet I would marry him still, if it

were not for one thing; and that is--that I am foredoomed; a reprobate

and a cast-away; predestined--predestined--and so I would not wish to

drag him to hell along with me; I shall therefore act the heroic part,

and refuse him. Still it is something--oh it is much--and I am proud

of it, not only on my own account, but on his, to be the most beautiful

girl in Europe! I am proud of it, because he would not marry if I were

not.”

Oh unhappy, but affectionate mourners, what--what was all you had yet

suffered, when contrasted with the sudden and unexpected misery of this

bitter moment Your hearts had gathered in joy and happiness around the

bed of that sweet girl, the gleams of whose insanity you had mistaken

for the light of reason; and now has hope disappeared, and the darkness

of utter despair fallen upon you all for ever.

“I wish to rise,” she proceeded, “and to join the morning prayer; until

then I shall only dress in my wrapper: after that I shall dress as

becomes me. I know I have nothing to hope either in this world or the

next, consequently pride in me is not a sin: the measure of my misery

has been filled up; and the only interval, of happiness left me, is that

between this and death. Dress me, Agnes.”

The pause arising from the revulsion of feeling, occasioned by the

discovery of her settled insanity, was indeed an exemplification of that

grief which lies too deep for tears. Sone of them could weep, but

they looked upon her and each other, with a silent agony, which far

transcended the power of clamorous sorrow.

“Children,” said her father, whose fortitude, considering the nature of

this his great affliction, was worthy of better days; “let us neither

look upon our beloved one, nor upon each other. There,” said he,

pointing upwards, “let us look there. You all know how I loved--how I

love her. You all know how she loved me; but I cast--or I strive to

cast the burthen, of my affliction upon Him who has borne all for our

salvation, and you see I am tearless. Dress the dear child, Agnes, and

as she desires it, let her join us at prayer, and may the Lord who has

afflicted us, hearken to our supplications!”

Tenderly and with trembling hands did Agnes dress the beloved girl,

and when the fair creature, supported by her two sisters, entered the

parlor, never was a more divine picture of beauty seen to shine out of

that cloud, with which the mysterious hand of of God had enveloped her.

At prayer she knelt as meekly, and with as much apparent devotion as she

had ever done in the days of her most rational and earnest piety. But it

was woful to see the blighted girl go through all the forms of worship,

when it was known that the very habit which actuated her resulted from

those virtues, which even insanity could not altogether repress.

When they had arisen from their, knees, she again addressed Agnes in

a tone of cheerful sweetness, such as she had exhibited in her happier

days.

“Agnes, now for our task; and indeed you must perform it with care.

Remember that you are about to dress the most beautiful girl in Europe.

What a fair cast-away am I, Agnes?”

“I hope not a cast-away, Jane; but I shall dress you with care and

tenderness, notwithstanding.”

“Every day I must dress in my best, because when Charles returns, you

know it will be necessary that I should justify his choice, by appearing

as beautiful as possible.”

“Give the innocent her own way,” said her father; “give her, in all that

may gratify the child, her own way, where it is not directly wrong to do

so.”

Agnes and she then went up to her room, that she might indulge in that

harmless happiness, which the fiction of hope had, under the mercy of

God, extracted, from the reality of despair.

When the ceremony of the toilette was over, she and her sister returned

to the parlor, and they could notice a slight tinge of color added to

her pale cheek, by the proud consciousness of her beauty. The exertion,

however, she had undergone, considering her extremely weak and exhausted

state of of health was more than she could bear long. But a few minutes

had elapsed after her reappearance in the parlor, when she said--

“Mamma, I am unwell; I want to be undressed, and to go to bed; I am very

faint; help me to bed, mamma--and if you come and stay with me, I shall

tell you every thing about my prospects in life--yes, and in death, too;

because I have prospects in death--but ah,” she added, shuddering, “they

are dark--dark!”

Seldom, indeed, was a family tried like this family; and never was the

endurance of domestic love, and its triumph over the chilling habit of

affliction, more signally manifested than in the undying tenderness of

their hearts and hands, in all that was necessary to her comfort, or

demanded by the childish caprices of her malady.

On going upstairs, she kissed them all as usual, but they then

discovered, for the first time, in all its bitterness, what a dark and

melancholy enjoyment it is to kiss the lips of a maniac, who has loved

us, and whom we still must love.

“Jane,” said William, struggling to be firm, “kiss me, too, before you

go.”

“Come to me, William,” said she, “for I am not able to go to you. Oh, my

brother, if I did not love you, I would be very wicked.”

The affectionate young man kissed her, and, as he did, the big tears

rolled down his cheeks. He wept aloud.

“I never, never gave her up till now,” he exclaimed; “but”--and his face

darkened into deep indignation as he spoke, “we shall see about it

yet, Jane dear. I shall allow a month or two--she may recover; but if

I suffer this to go unav----” he paused; “I meant nothing,” he added,

“except that I will not despair of her yet.”

About ten days restored her to something like health, but it was obvious

that her constitution had sustained a shock which it could not long

survive. Of this Dr. M’Cormick assured them.

“In so delicate a subject as she is,” he added, “we usually find that

when reason goes, the physical powers soon follow it. But if my opinion

be correct, I think you will have the consolation of seeing her mind

clear before she dies. There comes often in such cases what the common

people properly, and indeed beautifully, term a light before death, and

I think she will have it. As you are unanimous against putting her

into a private asylum, you must only watch the sweet girl quietly,

and without any appearance of vigilance, allowing her in all that is

harmless and indifferent to have her own way. Religious feeling you

perceive constitutes a strong feature in her case, the rest is obviously

the result of the faithless conduct of Osborne. Poor girl, here she

comes, apparently quite happy.” Jane entered as he spoke, after having

been dressed as usual for the day, in her best apparel. She glanced for

a moment at the glass, and readjusted her hair which had, she thought,

got a little out of order; after which she said, smiling,

“Why should I fear comparisons? He may come as soon as he pleases. I am

ready to receive him, but do you know I think that my papa and mamma are

not so fond of me as they ought to be. Is it not an honor to have for

their daughter a girl whose beauty is unsurpassed in Europe? I am not

proud of it for my own sake, but for his.”

“Jane, do you know this gentleman, dear?” said her mother.

“Oh yes; that is Dr. M’Cormick.”

“I am glad to see that your health is so much improved, my dear,” said

the doctor.

“Oh yes;” she replied, “I am quite well--that is so far as this world is

concerned; but for all so happy as I look, you would never guess that

I am reprobate. Now could you tell me, doctor, why it is that I look so

happy knowing as I do that I am foredoomed to misery?”

“No,” he replied, “but you will tell us yourself.”

“Why it is because I do know it. Knowing the worst is often a great

consolation, I assure you. I, at least, have felt it so.”

“Oh what a noble mind is lost in that sweet girl!” exclaimed the worthy

physician.

“But it seems, mamma,” she proceeded, “there is a report gone abroad

that I am mad. I met yesterday--was it not yesterday, Agnes?--I met a

young woman down on the river side, and she asked me if it were true

that I was crazed with love, and how do you think I replied, mamma? I

said to her, ‘If you would avoid misery--misery, mark--never violate

truth even indirectly.’ I said that solemnly, and would have said more

but that Agnes rebuked her for speaking, and then wept. Did you not

weep, Agnes?”

“Oh no wonder I should,” replied her sister, deeply moved; “the

interview she alludes to, doctor, was one that occurred the day before

yesterday between her and another poor girl in the neighborhood who

is also unsettled, owing to a desertion of a still baser kind. It was

becoming too affecting to listen to, and I chid the poor thing off.”

“Yes, indeed, she chid her off, and the poor thing as she told me, about

to be a bride to-morrow. She said she was in quest of William that they

might be married, and asked me if I had seen him. If you do, she added,

tell him that Fanny is waiting for him, and that as everything is ready

she expects he’ll come and marry her to-morrow as he promised. Now,

mamma, Agnes said, that although she chid her, she wept for her, but

why should you weep, Agnes, for a girl who is about to become a bride

to-morrow? Surely you did not weep because she was going to be made

happy? Did you?”

“All who are going to become brides are not about to experience

happiness, my dear,” replied her sister.

“Oh, I should think so certainly, Agnes,” replied Jane. “Fie, fie, dear

sister Agnes, do not lay down such doctrine. Did you not see the happy

girl we met yesterday--was it yesterday? But no matter, Agnes, we shall

not quarrel about it. Come and walk. Good-by, my mamma; doctor, I wish

you a good morning,” and with a grace that was inimitable, she made him

a distant, but most respectful curtsey.

“Oh!” said she, turning back, “if any stranger should arrive during my

absence, mamma, send for me immediately; or stay do not--let him meet me

at the place appointed; I will be there.”

She then took Agnes’s arm, for Agnes it was who attended her in all her

ramblings, and both proceeded on their every-day saunter through the

adjoining fields.

A little time, indeed, proved how very accurate had been the opinion of

Dr. M’Cormick; for although Jane was affected by no particular bodily

complaint, yet it appeared by every day’s observation that she was

gradually sinking. In the meantime, three or four months elapsed without

bringing about any symptom whatsoever of improvement. Her derangement

flashed out into no extraordinary paroxysm, but on the contrary assumed

a wild and graceful character, sometimes light and unsettled as the

glancing of sunbeams on a disturbed current, and occasionally pensive

and beautiful as the beams of an autumnal moon. In all the habits of the

family she was most exact. Her devotional composure at prayer appeared

to be fraught with the humblest piety; her attendance at Meeting was

remarkably punctual, and her deportment edifying to an extreme degree.

The history, too, of her insanity and its cause had gone far and wide,

as did the sympathy which it excited. In all her innocent ramblings with

Agnes around her father’s house, and through the adjoining fields, no

rude observation or unmannered gaze ever offended the gentle creature;

but on the contrary, the delicate-minded peasant of the north would

often turn aside from an apprehension of disturbing her, as well perhaps

as out of reverence for the calamity of a creature so very young and

beautiful.

Indeed, many affecting observations were made, which, could her friends

have heard them, would have fallen like balm upon their broken spirits.

Full of compassion they were for her sore misfortune, and of profound

sympathy for the sorrows of her family.

“Alas the day, my bonnie lady! My Heart is sair to see sae lovely a

thing gliding about sae unhappy. Black be his gate that had the heart

to leave you, for rank and wealth, my winsome lassie. Weary on him, and

little good may his wealth and rank do him! Oh wha would a thocht that

the peerless young blossom wad hae been withered so soon, or that the

Fawn o’ Springvale wad hae ever come to the like o’ this. Alas! the

day, too, for the friends that nurst you, Ay bonnie bairn!” and then the

kind-hearted matron would wipe her eyes on seeing the far-loved Fawn of

Springvale passing by, unconscious that the fatal arrow which had first

struck her was still quivering in her side. The fourth month had

now elapsed, and Jane’s malady neither exhibited any change nor the

slightest symptom of improvement. William, who had watched her closely

all along, saw that no hope of any such consummation existed. He

remarked, too, with a bitter sense of the unprincipled injury inflicted

on the confiding girl, that every week drew her perceptibly nearer and

nearer to the grave. His blood had in fact long been boiling in

his veins with an indignation which he could scarcely stifle. He

entertained, however, a strong reverence for religion, and had Jane,

after a reasonable period, recovered, he intended to leave Osborne to be

punished only by his own remorse. There was no prospect, however, of her

being restored to reason, and now his determination was finally taken.

Nay, so deeply resolved had he been on this as an ultimate step in the

event of her not recovering, that soon after Mr. Osborne’s return from

London, he waited on that gentleman, and declared his indignation at the

treachery of his son to be so deep and implacable that he requested of

him as a personal favor, to suspend all communication with the unhappy

girl’s family, lest he might be tempted even by the sight of any person

connected with so base a man, to go and pistol him on whatever spot he

might be able to find him. This, which was rather harsh to the amiable

gentleman, excited in his breast more of sorrow than resentment. But it

happened fortunately enough for both parties that a day or two before

this angry communication, Dr. M’Cormick had waited upon the latter, and

gave it as his opinion that any intercourse between the two families

would be highly dangerous to Jane’s state of mind, by exciting

associations that might bring back to her memory the conduct of his son.

The consequence was, that they saw each other only by accident, although

Mr. Osborne often sent to inquire privately after Jane’s health.

William having now understood that Osborne and his wife resided in

Paris, engaged a friend to accompany him thither, for the purpose of

demanding satisfaction for the injuries inflicted on his sister. All

the necessary arrangements were accordingly made; the very day for

their departure was appointed, and a letter addressed to Agnes actually

written, to relieve the family from the alarm occasioned by his

disappearance, when a communication from Osborne to his father, at once

satisfied the indignant young man that his enemy was no longer an object

for human resentment.

This requires but brief explanation. Osborne, possessing as he did,

ambition, talent, and enthusiasm in a high degree, was yet deficient in

that firmness of purpose which is essential to distinction in public or

private life. His wife was undoubtedly both beautiful and accomplished,

and it is undeniable that his marriage with her opened to him brilliant

prospects as a public man. Notwithstanding her beauty, however, their

union took place not to gratify his love, but his ambition. Jane

Sinclair, in point of fact, had never been displaced from his affection,

for as she was in his eye the most beautiful, so was she in the moments

of self-examination, the best beloved. This, however, availed the

unhappy girl but little, with a man in whose character ambition was the

predominant impulse. To find himself beloved by a young and beautiful

woman of wealth and fashion was too much for one who possessed but

little firmness and an insatiable thirst after distinction. To

jostle men of rank and property out of his path, and to jostle them

successfully, when approaching the heart of an heiress, was too much for

the vanity of an obscure young man, with only a handsome person and

good talents to recommend him. The glare of fashionable life, and the

unexpected success of his addresses made him giddy, and despite an

ineffaceable conviction of dishonor and treachery, he found himself

husband to a rich heiress, and son-in-law to a baronet. And now was he

launched in fall career upon the current of fashionable dissipation,

otherwise called high life. This he might have borne as well as the

other votaries of polished profligacy, were it not for one simple

consideration--he had neither health nor constitution, nor, to do the

early lover of Jane Sinclair justice, heart for the modes and habits

of that society, through the vortices of which he now found himself

compelled to whirl. He was not, in fact, able to keep pace with the

rapid motions of his fashionable wife, and the result in a very

short time was, that their hearts were discovered to be anything

but congenial--in fact anything but united. The absence of domestic

happiness joined to that remorse which his conduct towards the

unassuming but beautiful object of his first affection entailed upon a

heart that, notwithstanding its errors, was incapable of foregoing

its own convictions, soon broke down the remaining stamina of his

constitution, and before the expiration of three months, he found

himself hopelessly smitten by the same disease which had been so fatal

to his family. His physicians told him that if there were any chance

of his recovery, it must be in the efficacy of his native air; and his

wife, with fashionable apathy, expressed the same opinion, and hoped

that he might, after a proper sojourn at home, be enabled to join her

early in the following season at Naples. Up to this period he had heard

nothing of the mournful consequences which his perfidy had produced

upon the intellect of our unhappy Jane. His father, who in fact still

entertained hopes of her ultimate sanity, now that his son was married,

deemed it unnecessary to embitter his peace by a detail of the evils he

had occasioned her. But when, like her brother William, he despaired of

her recovery, he considered it only an act of justice towards her and

her family to lay before Charles the hideousness of his guilt together

with its woful consequences. This melancholy communication was received

by him the day after his physicians had given him over, for in fact the

prescription of his native air was only a polite method of telling him

that there was no hope. His conscience, which recent circumstances

had already awakened, was not prepared for intelligence so dreadful.

Remorse, or rather repentance seized him, and he wrote to beg that his

father would suffer a penitent son to come home to die.

This letter, the brief contents of which we have given, his father

submitted to Mr. Sinclair, whose reply was indeed characteristic of the

exalted Christian, who can forget his own injury in the distress of his

enemy.

“Let him come,” said the old man; “our resentments have long since

passed away, and why should not yours? He has now a higher interest to

look to than any arising from either love or ambition. His immortal soul

is at stake, and if we can reconcile him to heaven, the great object of

existence will after all be secured. God forbid that our injuries should

stand in the way of his salvation. Allow me,” he added, “to bring this

letter home, that I may read it to my family, with one exception of

course. Alas! it contains an instructive lesson.”

This was at once acceded to by the other, and they separated.

When William heard the particulars of Osborne’s melancholy position,

he of course gave up the hostility of his purpose, and laid before

his friend a history of the circumstances connected with his brief and

unhappy career.

“He is now a dying man,” said William, “to whom this life, its idle

forms and unmeaning usages, are as nothing, or worse than nothing. A

higher tribunal than the guilty spirit of this world’s honor will demand

satisfaction from him for his baseness towards unhappy Jane. To that

tribunal I leave him; but whether he live or die, I will never look upon

my insane sister, without thinking of him as a villain, and detesting

his very name and memory.”

If these sentiments be considered ungenerous, let it be remembered

that they manifested less his resentment to Osborne, than the deep and

elevated affection which he bore his sister, for whose injuries he felt

much more indignantly than he would have done for his own.

Jane, however, from this period forth began gradually to break down, and

her derangement, though still inoffensive and harmless, assumed a more

anxious and melancholy expression. This might arise, to be sure, from

the depression of spirits occasioned by a decline of health. But from

whatever cause it proceeded, one thing was evident, that an air of deep

dejection settled upon her countenance and whole deportment. She would

not, for instance, permit Agnes in their desultory rambles to walk by

her side, but besought her to attend at a distance behind her.

“I wish to be alone, dear Agnes,” she said, “but notwithstanding that, I

do not wish to be without you. I might have been some time ago the Queen

of beauty, but now, Agnes, I am the Queen of Sorrow.”

“You have had your share of sorrow, my poor stricken creature,” replied

Agnes, heavily.

“But there is, Agnes, a melancholy beauty in sorrow--it is so sweet to

be sad. Did. you ever see a single star in the sky, Agnes?”

“Yes, love, often.”

“Well, that is like sorrow, or rather that is like me. Does it not

always seem to mourn, and to mourn alone, but the moment that another

star arises then the spell is broken, and it seems no more to mourn in

the solitude of heaven.”

“Agnes looked at her with sad but earnest admiration, and exclaimed in a

quivering-voice as she pressed her to her bosom,

“Oh Jane, Jane, how my heart loves you!--the day is coming, my

sister--our sweetest, our youngest, our dearest--the day is coming when

we will see you no more--when your sorrows and your joys, whether

real or imaginary--when all the unsettled evidences of goodness,

which nothing could destroy, will be gone; and you with all you’ve

suffered--with all your hopes and fears, will be no longer present for

our hearts to gather about. Oh my sister, my sister! how will the old

man live! He will not--he will not. We see already that he suffers, and

what it costs him to be silent. His gait is feeble and infirm is and

head bent since the’ hand of afiliction has come upon you. Yet, Jane,

Jane, we could bear all, provided you were permitted to remain with us!

Your voice--your voice--and is the day so soon to come when we will

not hear it? when our eyes will no more rest upon you? And”--added

the affectionate girl, now overcome by her feelings, laying her calm

sister’s head at the same time upon her bosom, “and when those locks so

brown and rich that your Agnes’s hands have so often dressed, will be

mouldering in the grave, and that face--oh, the seal of death is upon

your pale, pale cheek, my sister!--my sister!” She could say no more,

but kissed Jane’s lips, and pressing her to her heart, she wept in a

long fit of irrepressible grief.

Jane looked up with a pensive gaze into Agnes’s face, and as she calmly

dried her sister’s tears, said:--

“Is it not strange, Agnes, that I who am the Queen of Sorrow cannot

weep. I resemble some generous princess, who though rich, gives away her

wealth to the needy in such abundance that she is always poor herself. I

who weep not, supply you all with tears, and cannot find one for myself

when I want it. Indeed so it seems, my sister.”

“It is true, indeed, Jane--too true, too true, my darling.”

“Agnes, I could tell you a secret. It is not without reason that I am

the Queen of Sorrow.”

“Alas, it is not, my sweet innocent.”

“I have the secret here,” said she, putting her hand to her bosom, “and

no one suspects that I have. The cause why I am the Queen of Sorrow

is indeed here--here. But come, I do not much like this arbor somehow.

There is, I think, a reason for it, but I forget it. Let us walk

elsewhere.”

This was the arbor of osiers in which Osborne in the enthusiasm of his

passion, said that if during his travels he found a girl more beautiful,

he would cease to love Jane, and to write to her--an expression which,

as the reader knows, exercised afterwards a melancholy power upon her

intellect.

Agnes and she proceeded as she desired, to saunter about, which they did

for the most part in silence, except when she wished to stop and make an

observation of her own free will. Her step was slow, her face pale, and

her gait, alas, quite feeble, and evidently that of a worn frame and a

broken heart.

For some time past, she seemed to have forgotten that she was a

foredoomed creature, and a cast-away, at least her allusions to this

were less frequent than before--a circumstance which Dr. M’Cormick said

he looked upon as the most favorable symptom he had yet seen in her

case.

Upon this day, however, she sauntered about in silence, and passed from

place to place, followed by Agnes; like the waning moon, accompanied by

her faithful and attendant star.

After having passed a green field, she came upon the road with an

intention of crossing it, and going down by the river to the yew tree,

which during all her walks she never failed to visit. Here it was that,

for the second time, she met poor Fanny Morgan, the unsettled victim of

treachery more criminal still than that which had been practised upon

herself.

“You are the bonnie Fawn of Springvale that’s gone mad with love,” said

the unhappy creature.

“No, no,” replied Jane, “you are mistaken. I am the Queen of Sorrow.”

“I am to be married to-morrow,” said the other. “Everything’s ready,

but I can’t find William. Did you see him? But maybe you may, and if you

do--oh speak a word for me, but one word, and tell him that all’s ready,

and that Fanny’s waiting, and that he must not break his promise.”

“You are very happy to be married tomorrow.”

“Yes,” replied the other smiling--“I am happy enough now; but when we

are married--when William makes me his wife, people won’t look down on

me any longer. I wish I could find him, for oh, my heart is sick, and

will be sick, until I see him. If he knew how I was treated, he would

not suffer it. If you see him, will you promise to tell him that all’s

ready, and that I am waiting for him?--Will you, my bonnie lady?”

“I could tell you a secret,” said Jane--“they don’t know at home that

I got the letter at all--but I did, and have read it--he is coming

home--coming home to die--that’s what makes me the Queen of Sorrow. Do

you ever weep?”

“No, but they took the baby from me, and beat me--my brother John did;

but William was not near to take my part?”

“Who will you have at the wedding?”

“I have no bride’s maid yet--but may be you would be that for me,

my bonnie lady. John said I disgraced them; but surely I only loved

William. I wish to-morrow was past, and that he would remove my shame--I

could then be proud, but now I cannot.”

“And what are you ashamed of? It is no shame to love him.”

“No, no, and all would be well enough, but that they beat me and took

away the baby--my brother John did.”

“But did William ever swear to you, that if he mot a girl more

beautiful, he would cease to love you, and to write to you?”

“No, he promised to marry me.”

“And do you know why he does not?”

“If I could, find him he would. Oh, if you see him, will you tell him

that I’m waiting, and that all’s ready?”

“You,” said Jane, “have been guilty of a great sin.”

“So they said, and that I brought myself to shame too. But William will

take away that if I could find him.”

“You told an indirect falsehood to your father--you concealed the

truth--and now the hand of God is upon you. There is nothing for you now

but death.”

“I don’t like death--it took away my baby--if they would give me back my

baby I would not care---except John--I would hide from him.”

“William’s married to another and dying, so that you may become a queen

of sorrow too--would you like that--sorrow is a sweet thing.”

“How could he marry another, and be promised to me?”

“Is your heart cold?” inquired Jane.

“No,” replied the other smiling, “indeed I am to be married to-morrow?”

“Let me see you early in the morning,” said Jane--“if you do, perhaps

I may give you this,” showing the letter. “Your heart cannot be cold

if you keep it--I carry it here,” said she, putting her hand to her

bosom--“but I need not, for mine will be warm enough soon.”

“Mine’s warm enough too,” said the other.

“If William comes, you will find poison on his lips,” said Jane, “and

that will kill you--the poison of polluted lips would kill a thousand

faithful hearts--it, would--and there is nothing for treachery but

sorrow. Be sorrowful--be sorrowful--it is the only thing to ease a

deserted heart--it eases mine.”

“But then they say you’re crazed with love.”

“No, no--with sorrow; but listen, never violate truth--never be guilty

of falsehood; if you do, you will become unhappy; and if you do not, the

light of God’s countenance will shine upon you.”

“Indeed it is no lie, for as sure as you stand there to-morrow is the

day.”

“I think I love you,” said the gentle and affectionate Jane. “Will you

kiss me? my sister Agnes does when I ask her.”

“Why shouldn’t I, my bonnie, bonnie lady? Why shouldn’t I? Oh! indeed,

but you are bonnie, and yet be crazed with love! Well, well, he will

never comb a gray head that deserted the bonnie Fawn of Spring-vale.”

Jane, who was much the taller, stooped, and with a smile of melancholy,

but unconscious sympathy, kissed the forlorn creature’s lips, and after

beckoning Agnes to follow her, passed on.

That embrace! Who could describe its character? Oh! man, man, and woman,

woman, think of this!

Agnes, after Jane and she had returned home, found that a search had

been instigated during their absence for the letter which Charles had

written to his father. Mr. Sinclair, anxious to return it, had missed

it from among his papers, and felt seriously concerned at its

disappearance.

“I only got it to read to the family,” said he, “and what am I to say,

or what can I say, when Mr. Osborne asks me, as he will, to return it?

Agnes, do you know anything of it?”

Agnes, who, from the interview between Jane and the unsettled Fanny

Morgan, saw at once that it had got, by some means unknown to the

family, into her sister’s hands, knew not exactly in what terms to

reply. She saw too, that Jane looked upon the possession of the letter

as a secret, and in her presence she felt that considering her sister’s

view of the matter, and her state of mind, she could not, without

pressing too severely on the gentle creature’s sorrow, inform her father

of the truth.

“Papa,” said the admirable and considerate girl, “the letter I have no

doubt will be found. I beg of you papa, I beg of you not to be uneasy

about it; it will be found.”

This she said in a tone as significant as possible, with a hope that her

father might infer from her manner that Jane had the letter in question.

The old man looked at Agnes, and appeared as if striving to collect the

meaning of what she said, but he was not long permitted to remain in any

doubt upon the subject.

Jane approached him slowly, and putting her hand to her bosom, took out

the letter and placed it upon the table before him.

“It came from him,” said she, “and that was the reason why I put it next

my heart. You know, papa, he is dying, and this letter is a message of

death. I thought that such a message was more proper from him to me than

to any one else. I have carried it next my heart, and you may take it

now, papa. The message has been delivered, and I feel that death is

here--for that is all that he and it have left me. I am the star of

sorrow--Pale and mournful in the lonely sky; yet,” she added as she did

on another occasion, “we shall not all die, but we shall be changed.”

“My sweet child,” said Mr. Sinclair, “I am not angry with, you about the

letter; I only wish you to keep your spirits up, and not be depressed so

much as you are.” She appeared quite exhausted, and replied not for some

time; at length she said:

“Papa, mamma, have I done anything wrong? If I have tell me. Oh, Agnes,

Agnes, but my heart is heavy.”

“As sure as heaven is above us, Henry,” whispered her mother to Mr.

Sinclair, “she is upon the point of being restored to her senses.”

“Alas, my dear,” he replied, “who can tell? It may happen as you say. Oh

how I shall bless God if it does! but still, what, what will it be but,

as Dr. M’Cormick said, the light before death? The child is dying, and

she will be taken from us for ever, for ever!”

Jane, whilst they spoke, looked earnestly and with a struggling eye

into the countenances of those who were about her; but again she smiled

pensively, and said:

“I am--I am the star of sorrow, pale and mournful in the lonely sky.

Jane Sinclair is no more--the Fawn of Springvale is no more--I am now

nothing but sorrow. I was the queen, but now I am the star of sorrow.

Oh! how I long to set in heaven!”

She was then removed to bed, whore with her mother and her two sisters

beside her, she lay quiet as a child, repeating to herself--“I am the

star of sorrow, pale and mournful in the lonely sky; but now I know

that I will soon set in heaven. Jane Sinclair is no more--the Fawn of

Springvale is no more. No--I am now the star of sorrow!” The melancholy

beauty of the sentiment seemed to soothe her, for she continued to

repeat these words, sometimes aloud and sometimes in a sweet voice,

until she fell gently asleep.

“She is asleep,” said Agnes, looking upon her still beautiful but

mournful features, now, indeed composed into an expression of rooted

sorrow. They all stood over the bed, and looked upon her for many

minutes. At length Agnes clasped her hands, and with a suffocating

voice, as if her heart would break, exclaimed, “Oh mother, mother,” and

rushed from the room that she might weep aloud without awakening the

afflicted one who slept.

Another week made a rapid change upon her for the worse, and it was

considered necessary to send for Dr. M’Cormick, as from her feebleness

and depression they feared that her dissolution was by no means distant,

especially as she had for the last three days been confined to her bed.

The moment he saw her, his opinion confirmed their suspicions.

“Deal gently with her now,” said he; “a fit or a paroxysm of any kind

would be fatal to her. The dear girl’s unhappy race is run--her sands

are all but numbered. This moment her thread of life is not stronger

than a gossamer.” Ere his departure on that occasion, he brought Mr.

Sinclair aside and thus addressed him:

“Are you aware, sir, that Mr. Osborne’s son has returned.”

“Not that he has actually returned,” replied Mr. Sinclair, “but I know

that he is daily expected.”

“He reached his father’s house,” continued the doctor, “early yesterday;

and such a pitiable instance of remorse as he is I have never seen, and

I hope never shall. His cry is to see your daughter, that he may hear

his forgiveness from her own lips. He says he cannot die in hope or in

happiness, unless she pardons him. This, however, must not be--I mean

an interview between them--for it would most assuredly prove fatal to

himself; and should she see him only for a moment, that moment were her

last.”

“I will visit the unhappy young man myself,” said her father; “as for an

interview it cannot be thought of--even if they could bear it, Charles

forgets that he is the husband of another woman, and that, consequently,

Jane is nothing to him--and that such a meeting would be highly--grossly

improper.”

“Your motives, though perfectly just, are different from mine,” said the

doctor--“I speak merely as a medical man. He wants not this to hurry him

into the grave--he will be there soon enough.”

“Let him feel repentance towards God,” said the old man

heavily--“towards my child it is now unavailing. It is my duty, as it

shall be my endeavor, to fix this principle in his heart.”

The Doctor then departed, having promised to see Jane on the next

day but one. This gentleman’s opinion, however, with respect to his

beautiful patient, was not literally correct; still, although she

lingered longer than could naturally be anticipated from her excessive

weakness, yet he was right in saying that her thread of life resembled,

that of the gossamer.

In the course of the same evening, she gave the first symptom of a lucid

interval; still in point of fact her mind was never wholly restored to

sanity. She had slept long and soundly, and after awaking rang the bell

for some one to come to her. This was unusual, and in a moment she was

attended by Agnes and her mother.

“I am very weak, my dear mamma,” said she, “and although I cannot say

that I feel any particular complaint--I speak of a bodily one--yet I

feel that my strength is gone, and that you will not be troubled with

your poor Jane much longer.”

“Do not think so, dear love, do not think so,” replied her mother; “bear

up, my darling, bear up, and all may yet be well.”

“Agnes,” said she, “come to me. I know not--perhaps--dear Agnes----”

She could utter no more. Agnes flew to her, and they wept in each

other’s arms for many minutes.

“I would be glad to see my papa,” she said, “and my dear Maria and

William. Oh mamma, mamma, I suspect that I have occasioned you all much

sorrow.”

“No, no, no--but more joy now, my heart’s own treasure, a thousand times

more joy than you ever occasioned us of sorrow. Do not think it, oh, do

not think it.”

Her father, who had just returned from visiting Charles Osborne, now

entered her bedroom, accompanied by William and his two daughters--for

Agnes had flown to inform them of the happy turn which had taken place

in Jane’s malady. When he entered, she put her white but wasted hand

out, and raised her head to kiss him.

“My dear papa,” said she, “it is so long, I think, since I have seen

you; and Maria, too. Oh, dear Maria, come to me--but you must not weep,

dear sister. Alas, Maria,”--for the poor girl wept bitterly--“Oh, my I

sister, but your heart is good and loving. William”--she kissed him, and

looking tenderly into his face, said,

“Why, oh, why are you all in tears? Imitate my papa, dear William. I am

so glad to see you! Papa, I have been--I fear I have been--but, indeed,

I remember when I dreaded as much. My heart, my heart is heavy when I

think of all the grief and affliction I must have occasioned you; but

you will all forgive your poor Jane, for you know she would not do so

if she could avoid it. Papa, how pale and careworn you look! as, indeed,

you all do. Oh, God help me. I see, I see--I read on your sorrowful

faces the history of all you have suffered on my account.”

They all cherished, and petted, and soothed the sweet creature; and,

indeed, rejoiced over her as if she had been restored to them from the

dead.

“Papa, would you get me the Bible,” she continued. “I wish if possible

to console you and the rest; and mamma, you will think when I am gone of

that which I am about to show you; think of it all of you, for indeed an

early death is sometimes a great blessing to those who are taken away.

Alas! who can say when it is not?”

They assisted her to sit up in the bed, and after turning over the

leaves of the Bible, she read in a voice of low impressive melody the

first verse of the fifty-seventh chapter of Isaiah.

“The righteous perisheth, and no man taketh it to heart; and merciful

men are taken away, none considering that the righteous is taken away

from the evil to come. He SHALL ENTER INTO PEACE.”

“Oh! many a death,” she continued, “is wept for and lamented by friends

and relatives, who consider not that those for whom they weep may be

taken away from the evil to come. I feel that I am unable to speak much,

but it is your Jane’s request, that the consolation to be found, not

only in this passage, but in this book, may be applied to your hearts

when I am gone.”

This effort, slight as it was, enfeebled her much, and she lay silent

for some time; and such was their anxiety, neither to excite nor

disturb her, that although their hearts were overflowing they restrained

themselves, so far as to permit no startling symptoms of grief to be

either seen or heard. After a little time, however, she spoke again:---

“My poor bird,” said she, “I fear I have neglected it. Dear Agnes would

you let me see it--I long to see it.” Agnes in a few minutes returned

and placed the bird in her bosom. She caressed it for a short time, and

then looking at it earnestly said--

“Is it possible, that you too, my Ariel, are drooping?”

This indeed was true. The bird had been for some time past as feeble

and delicate as if its fate were bound up with that of its unhappy

mistress--whether it was that the sight of it revived some recollection

that disturbed her, or whether this brief interval of reason was as much

as exhausted nature could afford on one occasion, it is difficult to

say; but the fact is, that after looking on it for some time, she put

her hand to her bosom and asked, “Where, where is the letter?”

“What letter, my darling?” said her father.

“Is not Charles unhappy and dying?” she said.

“He is ill, my love,” said her father, “but not dying, we trust.”

“It is not here,” she said, searching her bosom, “it is not here--but it

matters nothing now--it was a message of death, and the message has been

delivered. Sorrow--sorrow--sorrow--how beautiful is that word--there is

but one other in the language that surpasses it, and that is mourn. Oh!

how beautiful is that too--how delicately expressive. Weep is violent;

but mourn, the graduated tearless grief that wastes gently--that

disappoints death, for we die not but only cease to be. I am the star

of sorrow, pale and mournful in the lonely sky--well, that is one

consolation--when I set I shall set in heaven.”

They knew by experience that any attempt at comfort would then produce

more evil than good. For near two hours she uttered to herself in a low

chant, “I am the star of sorrow, etc.,” after which she sank as before

into a profound slumber.

Her intervals of reason, as death approached, were mercifully extended.

Whilst they lasted, nothing could surpass the noble standard of

Christian duty by which her feelings and moral sentiments were

regulated. For a fortnight after this, she sank with such a certain

but imperceptible approximation towards death that the eyes even of

affection could, scarcely notice the gradations of its approach.

During this melancholy period, her father was summoned upon an occasion

which was strongly calculated to try the sincerity of his Christian

professions. Not a day passed that he did not forget his own sorrows,

and the reader knows how heavily they pressed upon him--in order to

prepare the mind of his daughter’s destroyer for the awful change

which death was about to open upon his soul. He reasoned--he prayed--he

wept--he triumphed--yes, he triumphed, nor did he ever leave the

death-bed of Charles Osborne, until he had succeeded in fixing his heart

upon that God “who willeth not the death of a sinner.”

A far heavier trial upon the Christian’s fortitude, however, was soon to

come upon him. Jane, as the reader knows, was now at the very portals of

heaven. For hours in the day--she was perfectly rational; but again she

would wander into her chant of sorrow,--as much from weakness as from

the original cause of her malady; for upon this it is difficult if not

impossible to determine.

On the last evening, however, that her father ever attended Charles

Osborne, he came home as usual, and was about to inquire how Jane felt,

when Maria come to him with eyes which weeping had made red, and said--

“Oh papa--I fear--we all fear, that--I cannot utter it--I cannot--I

cannot--Oh papa, at last the hour we fear is come.”

“Remember, my child, that you are speaking,” said this heroic Christian,

“remember that you are speaking to a Christian father, who will not set

up his affections, nor his weaknesses, nor his passions against the will

of God.”

“Oh! but papa--Jane, Jane”--she burst into bitter tears for more than a

minute, and then added--“Jane, papa, is dying--leaving us at last!”

“Maria,” said he, calmly, “leave me for some minutes. You know not, dear

child, what my struggles have been. Leave me now--this is the trial I

fear--and now must I, and so must you all--but now must I----Oh, leave

me, leave me.”

He knelt down and prayed; but in less than three, minutes, Agnes,

armed with affection--commanding and absolute it was from that loving

sister--came to him.

She laid her hand upon his arm, and pressed it. “Papa!”--

“I know it,” said he, “she is going; but, Agnes, we must be Christians.”

“We must be sisters, papa; and ah, papa, surely, surely this is a moment

in which the father may forget the Christian. Jesus wept for a stranger;

what would He not have done for a brother or a sister?”

“Agnes, Agnes,” said he, in a tone of sorrow, inexpressibly deep, “is

this taxing me with want of affection for--for--”

She flung herself upon his breast. “Oh, papa, forgive me, forgive me--I

am not capable of appreciating the high and holy principles from which

you act. Forgive me; and surely if you ever forgave me on any occasion,

you will on this.”

“Dear Agnes,” said he, “you scarcely ever required my forgiveness, and

less now than! ever--even if you had. Come--I will go; and may the Lord

support and strengthen us all! Your mother--our poor mother!”

On entering the room of the dying girl, they found her pale cheek laid

against that of her other parent, whose arms were about her, as if

she would hold them in love and tenderness for ever. When she saw them

approach, she raised her head feebly, and said--“Is that my papa? my

beloved papa?” The old man raised his eyes once more to heaven for

support--but for upwards of half a minute the muscles of his face worked

with power that evinced the full force of what he suffered--

“I am here, I am here,” he at length said, with difficulty.

“And that is Agnes?” she inquired. “Agnes, come near me; and do not be

angry, dear Agnes that I die on mamma’s bosom and not on yours.”

Agnes could only seize her pale hand and bathe it in tears. “Angry with

you--you living angel--oh, who ever was, or could be, my sister!”

“You all love me too much,” she said. “Maria, it grieves me to see your

grief so excessive--William, oh why, why will you weep so? Is it because

I am about to leave the pains and sorrows of this unhappy life, and; to

enter into peace, that you all grieve thus bitterly. Believe me--and I

know this will relieve my papa’s heart--and all your hearts--will it not

yours, my mamma?--it is this--your Jane, your own Jane is not afraid to

die. Her hopes are fixed on the Rock of Ages--the Rock of her salvation.

I know, indeed, that my brief existence has been marked at its close

with care and sorrow; but these cares and sorrows have brought me the

sooner to that place where all tears shall be wiped from my eyes. Let my

fate, too, be a warning to young creatures like myself, never to suffer

their affection for any object to overmaster their sense and their

reason. I cherished the passion of my heart too much, when I ought to

have checked and restrained it--and now, what is the consequence? Why,

that I go down in the very flower of my youth to an early grave.”

Agnes caught the dear girl’s hands when she had concluded, and looking

with a breaking heart into her face, said--

“And oh, my sister, my sister, are you leaving us--are you leaving

us for ever, my sister? Life will be nothing to me, my Jane, without

you--how, how will your Agnes live?”

“I doubt we are only disturbing--our cherished one,” said her father.

“Let our child’s last moments be calm--and her soul--oh let it not be

drawn back from its hopes, to this earth and its affections.”

“Papa, pray for me, and they will join with you--pray for your poor Jane

while it is yet time--the prayer of the righteous availeth much.”

Earnest, indeed, and melancholy, was that last prayer offered up on

behalf of the departing girl. When it was concluded there was a short

silence, as if they wished not to break in upon what they considered the

aspirations of the dying sufferer. At length the mother thought she

felt her child’s cheek press against her own with a passive weight that

alarmed her.

“Jane, my love,” said she, “do you not feel your soul refreshed by your

father’s prayer?”

No answer was returned to this, and on looking more closely at her

countenance of sorrow, they found that her gentle spirit had risen on

the incense of her father’s prayer to heaven. The mother clasped her

hands, whilst the head of her departed daughter still lay upon her

bosom.

“Oh God! oh God!” said she, “our idol is gone--is gone!”

“Gone!” exclaimed the old man; “now, oh Lord, surely--surely the

father’s grief may be allowed,” and he burst, as he spoke, into a

paroxysm of uncontrollable sorrow.

“And what am I to do--who am--oh woe--woe--who was her mother?”

To the scene that ensued, what pen could do justice--we cannot,

and consequently leave it to the imagination of our readers, whose

indulgence we crave for our many failures and errors in the conduct of

this melancholy story.

Thus passed the latter days of the unhappy Jane Sinclair, of whose

life nothing more appropriate need be said, than that which she herself

uttered immediately before her death:

“Let my fate be a warning to young creatures like myself, never to

suffer their affection for any object to overmaster their sense and

their reason. I cherished the passion of my heart too much, when I ought

to have checked and restrained it--and now, what is the consequence?

Why, that I go down in the very flower of my youth to an early grave.”

On the day after her dissolution, an incident occurred, which threw the

whole family into renewed sorrow:--Early that morning, Ariel, her dove,

was found dead upon her bosom, as she lay out in the composure of death.

“Remove it not,” said her father; “it shall be buried with her;” and it

was accordingly placed upon her bosom in the coffin.

Seldom was a larger funeral train seen, than that which attended her

remains to the grave-yard; and rarely was sorrow so deeply felt for any

being so young and so unhappy, as that which moved all hearts for the

fate of the beautiful but unfortunate Jane Sinclair--the far-famed Fawn

of Springvale.

One other fact we have to record: Jane’s funeral had arrived but a

few minutes at the grave, when another funeral train appeared slowly

approaching the place of death. It was that of Charles Osborne!

The last our readers may have anticipated. From the day of Jane’s death

the heart of the old man gradually declined. He looked about him in vain

for his beloved one. Night and day her name was never out of his mouth.

It is true he prayed, he read, he availed himself of all that the pious

exercises of a Christian man could contribute to the alleviation of his

sorrow. But it was in vain. In vain did his wife, son, and daughters

strive to soothe and console him. The old man’s heart was broken. His

beloved one was gone, and he felt that he could not remain behind her.

A gradual decay of bodily strength, and an utter breaking down of his

spirits, brought about the consummation which they all dreaded. At the

expiration of four months and a half, the old man was laid in the same

grave that contained his beloved one--and he was happy.