Chapter IV: Part II (2)

“I cannot, I cannot, papa, I dare not,” she exclaimed, and without uttering another word she arose, and rushed out of the room. In less than a minute, however, she returned again, and approaching him, said--“Papa, forgive me, I will, I trust, soon be a better girl than I am; bless me and bid me good-night. Mamma, bless me you too, I am your poor Jane, and I know you all love me more than you ought. Do not think that I am unhappy--don’t think it. I have not been for some time so happy as I am to-night.”

She then passed out of the room, and retired to her own apartment.

When she was gone, Agnes, who sat beside | her father, turned to him, and leaned her I head upon his breast, burst into bitter tears. “Papa,” she exclaimed, “I believe you will now admit that I have gained the victory. My sister’s peace of mind or happiness is gone for ever. Unless Osborne either now is, or becomes in time attached to her, I know not what the consequences may be.”

“It will be well for Osborne, at all events, if he has not practised upon her affections,” said William; “that is, granting that the suspicion, be just. But the truth is, I don’t think Osborne has any thing to do with her feelings. It is merely some imaginary trifle that she has got into her foolish little head, poor girl. Don’t distress yourself, father--you know she was always over-scrupulous. Even the most harmless fib that ever was told, is a crime in her eyes. I wish, for my part, she had a little wholesome wickedness about--I don’t mean that sir, in a very unfavorable light,” he said in reply to a look of severity from his father, “but I wish she had some leaning to error about her. She would, in one sense at least, be the better for it.”

“We shall see,” said his father, who evidently spoke in deep distress of mind, “we shall consider in the course of the evening what ought to be done.”

“Better to take her gently,” observed her mother, wiping away a tear, “gentleness and love will make her tell anything--and that there is something on her mind no one can doubt.”

“I won’t have her distressed, my dear,” replied her father. “It cannot be of much importance I think after all--but whatever it may be, her own candid mind will give it forth spontaneously. I know my child, and will answer for her.”

“Why then, papa, are you so much distressed, if you think it of no importance?” asked Maria.

“If her finger ached, it would distress me, child, and you know it.”

“Why, she and Osborne have had no opportunity of being together, out of the eyes of the family,” observed William.

“That’s more than you know, William,” said Agnes; “she has often walked out.”

“But she always did so,” replied her mother.

“She would never meet him privately,” said her father firmly, “of that I am certain as my life.”

“That, papa,” returned Agnes, “I am afraid, is precisely what she has done, and what now distresses her. And I am sure that whatever is wrong with her, no explanation will be had from herself. Though kind and affectionate as ever, she has been very shy with me and Maria of late--and indeed, has made it a point to keep aloof from us! Three or four times I spoke to her in a tone of confidence, as if I was about to introduce some secret of my own, but she always under some pretense or other left me. I had not thought of Osborne at the time, nor could I guess what troubled her--but something I saw did.” Her father sighed deeply, and, clasping his hands, uttered a silent ejaculation to heaven on her behalf. “That is true,” said he, “it is now the hour of evening worship; let us kneel and remember her trouble, the poor child, whatever it may be.” “Had I not better call her down, papa,” said Agnes.

“Not this evening,” he replied, “not this evening--she is too much disturbed, and will probably prefer praying alone.”

The old man then knelt down, and after the usual form of evening worship, uttered a solemn and affecting appeal upon her behalf, to Him, who can pour balm upon the wounded spirit, and say unto the weary and heavy laden, “Come unto Me, and I will give you rest.” But when he went on in words more particularly describing her state of mind, to mention, and plead for “their youngest,” and “their dearest,” and “their best beloved,” his voice became tremulous, and for a moment he paused, but the pause was filled with the sobbings of those who loved her, and especially by the voice of that affectionate sister who loved her most--for of them all, Agnes only wept aloud. At length the prayer was concluded, and rising up with wet eyes, they perceived that the beloved object of their supplications had glided into the room, and joined their worship unperceived.

“Dear Jane,” said her father, “we did not know you were with us.”

She made no immediate reply, but, after a moment’s apparent struggle, went over, and laying her head upon his bosom, sobbed out--“Papa, your love has overcome me. I will tell you all.”

“Soul of truth and candor,” exclaimed the old man, clasping her to his bosom, “heroic child! I knew she would do it, and I said so. Go out now, and leave us to ourselves. Darling, don’t be distressed. If you feel difficulty I will not ask to hear it. Or perhaps you would rather mention it to your mamma.”

“No--to you papa--to you--and you will not be harsh upon me, I am a weak girl, and have done very wrong.”

It was indeed a beautiful thing to see this fair and guiltless penitent leaning against her indulgent father’s bosom, in which her blushing face was hid, and disclosing the history of an attachment as pure and innocent as ever warmed the heart of youth and beauty. Oh no wonder, thou sweetest and most artless of human beings, that when the heavy blight of reason came upon thee, and thou disappearedst from his eyes, that the old man’s spirit became desolate and his heart broken, and that he said after thy dissolution to every word of comfort uttered to him--“It is vain, it is vain--I cannot stay. I hear her voice calling me--she calls me, my beautiful--my pride--my child--my child--she calls me, and I cannot stay.” Nor did he long.

To none else did her father that night reveal the purport of this singular disclosure, except to Mrs. Sinclair herself--but the next morning before breakfast, the secret had been made known to the rest. All trouble and difficulty, as to the conduct they should pursue, were removed in consequence of Osborne’s intention to ask his father to sanction their attachment, and until the consequence of that step should be known, nothing further on their part could be attempted. On this point, however, they were not permitted to remain long in suspense, for ere two o’clock that day, Mr. Osborne had, in the name of his son, proposed for the hand of our fair girl, which proposal we need scarcely say was instantly and joyfully accepted. It is true, their immediate union was not contemplated. Both were much too youthful and inexperienced to undertake the serious duties of married life, but it was arranged that Osborne, whose health, besides, was not sufficiently firm, should travel, see the world, and strengthen his constitution by the genial air of a warmer and more salubrious climate.

Alas! why is it that the sorrows of love are far sweeter than its joys? We do not mean to say that our young hero and heroine, if we may presume so to call them, were insensible to this lapse of serene delight which now opened upon them. No--the happiness they enjoyed was indeed such as few taste in such a world as this is. Their attachment was now sanctioned by all their mutual friends, and its progress was unimpeded by an scruple arising from clandestine intercourse, or a breach of duty. But, with secrecy, passed away those trembling snatches of unimaginable transport which no state of permitted love has ever yet known. The stolen glance, the passing whisper, the guarded pressure of the soft white hand timidly returned, and the fearful rapture of the hurried kiss--alas! alas!--and alas! for the memory of Eloiza!

Time passed, and the preparations necessary for Osborne’s journey were in fact nearly completed. One day, about a fortnight before his departure, he and Jane were sitting in a little ozier summer-house in Mr. Sinclair’s garden, engaged in a conversation more tender than usual, for each felt their love deeper and their hearts sink as the hour of separation approached them. Jane’s features exhibited such a singular union of placid confidence and melancholy, as gave something Madonna-like and divine to her beauty. Osborne sat, and for a long time gazed upon her with a silent intensity of rapture for which he could find no words. At length he exclaimed in a reverie--

“I will swear it--I may swear it.”

“Swear what, Charles?”

“That the moment I see a girl more beautiful, I will cease to write to you--I will cease to love you.”

The blood instantly forsook her cheeks, and she gazed at him with wonder and dismay.

“What, dear Charles, do you mean?”

“Oh, my pride and my treasure!” he exclaimed, wildly clasping her to his bosom--“there is none so fair--none on earth or in heaven itself so beautiful--that, my own ever dearest, is my meaning.”

The confidence of her timid and loving heart was instantly restored--and she said smiling, yet with a tear struggling through her eyelid, “I believe I am I think I am beautiful. I know they call me the Fawn of Springvale, because I am gentle.”

“The angels are not so gentle, nor so pure, nor so innocent as you are, my un-wedded wife.”

“I am glad I am,” she replied; “and I am glad, too, that I am beautiful--but it is all on your account, and for your sake, dear Charles.”

The fascination--the power of such innocence, and purity, and love, utterly overcame him, and he wept in transport upon her bosom.

The approach of her sisters, however, and the liveliness of Agnes, soon changed the character of their dialogue. For an hour they ran and chased each other, and played about, after which Charles took his leave of them for the evening. Jane, as usual, being the last he parted from, whispered to him,as he went--

“Charles, promise me, that in future you won’t repeat--the--the words you used in, the summer-house.”

“What words, love?” “You remember--about--about--what you said you might _swear_--and that, in that case, you would cease to love me.”

“Why dearest, should I promise you this?” “Because,” she said, in a low, sweet whisper, “they disturb me when I think of them--a slight thing makes my heart sink.”

“You are a foolish, sweet girl--but I promise you, I shall never again use them.”

She bestowed on him a look and smile that were more than a sufficient compensation for this; and after again bidding him farewell, she tripped lightly into the house.

From this onward, until the day of their separation, the spirits of our young lovers were more and more overcast, and the mirthful intercourse of confident love altogether gone. Their communion was now marked by despondency and by tears, for the most part shed during their confidential interviews with each other. In company they were silent and dejected, and ever as their eyes met in long and loving glances, they could scarcely repress their grief. Sometimes, indeed, Jane on being spoken to, after a considerable silence, would attempt in vain to reply, her quivering voice and tearful eyes affording unequivocal proof of the subject which engaged her heart. Their friends, of course, endeavored to console and sustain them on both sides; and frequently succeeded in soothing them into a childlike resignation to the necessity that occasioned the dreary period of absence that lay before them. These intervals of patience, however, did not last long; the spirits of our young lovers were, indeed, disquieted within them, and the heart of each drooped under the severest of all its calamities--the pain of loss for that object which is dearest to its affections.

It was arranged that, on the day previous to Charles’ departure, Osborne’s family should dine at Mr. Sinclair’s; for they knew that the affliction caused by their separation would render it necessary that Jane, on that occasion, should be under her own roof, and near the attention and aid of her friends. Mr. Osborne almost regretted the resolution to which he had come of sending his son to travel, for he feared that the effect of absence from the fair girl to whom he was so deeply attached, might possibly countervail the benefits arising from a more favorable climate; but as he had already engaged the services of an able and experienced tutor, who on two or three previous occasions had been over the Continent, he expected, reasonably enough, that novelty, his tutor’s good sense, and the natural elasticity of youth would soon efface a sorrow in general so transient, and in due time restore him to his usual spirits. He consequently adhered to his resolution--the day of departure was fixed, and arrangements made for the lovers to separate, as we have already intimated.

Jane Sinclair, from the period when Osborne’s attachment and hers was known and sanctioned by their friends, never slept a night from her beloved sister Agnes; nor had any other person living, not even Osborne himself, such an opportunity as Agnes had of registering in the record of a sisterly heart so faithful a transcript of her love.

On the night previous to their leave taking, Agnes was astonished at the coldness of her limbs, and begged her to allow additional covering to be put on the bed.

“No, dear Agnes, no; only grant me one favor--do not speak to me--leave my heart to its own sorrows--to its own misery--to its own despair; for, Agnes, I feel a presentiment that I shall never see him again.”

She pressed her lips against Agnes’ cheek when she had concluded, and Agnes almost started, for that lip hitherto so glowing and warm, felt hard and cold as marble.

Osborne, who for some time past had spent almost every day at Mr. Sinclair’s, arrived the next morning ere the family had concluded breakfast. Jane immediately left the table, for she had tasted nothing but a cup of tea, and placing herself beside him on the sofa, looked up mournfully into his face for more than a minute; she then caught his hand, and placing it between hers, gazed upon him again, and smiled. The boy saw at once that the smile was a smile of misery, and that the agony of separation was likely to be too much for her to bear. The contrast at that moment between them both was remarkable. She pale, cold, and almost abstracted from the perception of her immediate grief; he glowing in the deep carmine of youth and apparent health--his eye as well as hers sparkling with a light which the mere beauty of early life never gives. Alas, poor things! little did they, or those to whom they were so very dear, imagine that, as they then gazed upon each other, each bore in lineaments so beautiful the symptoms of the respective maladies that were to lay them low.

“I wish, Jane, you would try and get up your spirits, love, and see and be entertaining to poor Charles, as this is the last day he is to be with you.”

She looked quickly at her mother, “The I last, mamma?”

“I mean for a while, dear, until after his I return from the Continent.”

She seemed relieved by this. “Oh no, not the last, Charles,” she said--“Yet I know not how it is--I know not; but sometimes, indeed, I think it is--and if it were, if it were--”

A paleness more deadly spread over her face; and with a gaze of mute and undying-devotion she clasped her hands, and repeated--“if it should be the last--the last!”

“I did not think you were so foolish or so weak a girl, Jane,” said William, “as to be so cast down, merely because Charles is taking a skip to the Continent to get a mouthful of fresh air, and back again. Why, I know them that go to the Continent four times a year to transact business a young fellow, by the way, that has been paying his addresses to a lady for the last six or seven years. I wish you saw them part, as I did--merely a hearty shake of the hand--‘good by, Molly, take care of yourself till I see you again;’ and ‘farewell, Simon, don’t forget the shawl;’ and the whole thing’s over, and no more about it.”

There was evidently something in these words that jarred upon a spirit of such natural tenderness as Jane’s. While William was repeating them, her features expressed a feeling as if of much inward pain; and when he had concluded, she rose up, and seizing both his hands, said, in a tone of meek and earnest supplication:

“Oh! William dear, do not, do not--it is not consolation--it is distress.”

“Dear Jane,” said the good-natured brother, at once feeling his error, “pardon me, I was wrong; there is no resemblance in the cases--I only wanted to raise your spirits.”

“True, William, true; I ought to thank you, and I do thank you.”

Whilst this little incident took place, Mr. Sinclair came over and sat beside Charles.

“You see, my dear Charles,” said he, “what a heavy task your separation from that poor girl is likely to prove. Let me beg that you will be as firm as possible, and sustain her by a cheerful play of spirits, if you can command them. Do violence to your! own heart for this day for her sake.”

“I will be firm, sir,” said Osborne, “if I can: but if I fail--if I--look at her,” he proceeded, in a choking voice, “look at her, and then ask yourself why I--I should be firm?”

Whilst he spoke, Jane came over, and seating herself between her father and him, said:

“Papa, you will stay with me and Charles this day, and support us. You know, papa, that I am but a weak, weak girl; but when I do a wrong thing, I feel very penitent--I cannot rest.”

“You never did wrong, darling,” said Osborne, pressing his lips to her cheek, “you never did wrong.”

“Papa says I did not do much wrong; yet at one time I did not think so myself; but there is a thing presses upon me still. Papa,” she added, turning abruptly to him, “are there not such things in this life as judgments from heaven?”

“Yes, my dear, upon the wicked who, by deep crimes, provoke the justice of the Almighty; but the ways of God are so mysterious, and the innocent so often suffer whilst the guilty escape, that we never almost hazard an opinion upon individual cases.” “But there are cast-aways?” “Yes, darling; but here is Charles anxious to take you out to walk. With such a prospect of happiness and affection before you both, you ought surely to be in the best of spirits.”

“Well, I can see why you evade my question,” she replied; but she added abruptly, “bless us, papa, bless us.” She knelt down, and pulled Charles gently upon his knees also, and joining both hands together, bent her head as if to receive the benediction.

Oh, mournful and heart-breaking was her loveliness, as she knelt down before the streaming eyes of her family--a Magdeline in beauty, without her guilt.

The old man, deeply moved by the distress of the interesting pair then bent before him, uttered a short prayer suitable to the occasion, after which he blessed them both, and again recommended them to the care of heaven, in terms of touching and beautiful simplicity. His daughter seemed relieved by this, for, after rising, she went to her mother and said:

“We are going to walk, mamma. I must endeavor to keep my spirits up this day, for poor Charles’ sake.”

“Yes, love, do,” said her mother, “that’s a good girl. Let me see how cheerful and sprightly you’ll be; and think, dear, of the happy days that are before you and Charles yet, when you’ll live in love and affection, surrounded and cherished by both your families.”

“Yes, yes,” said she, “I often think of that--I’ll try mamma--I’ll try.”

Saying which, she took Charles’s arm, and the young persons all went out together.

Jane’s place, that evening, was by Osborne’s side, as it had been with something like a faint clinging of terror during the whole day. She spoke little, and might be said rather to respond to all he uttered, than to sustain a part in the dialogue. Her distress was assuredly deep, but they knew not then, nor by any means suspected how fearful was its character in the remote and hidden depths of her soul. She sat with Osborne’s right hand between hers, and scarcely for a moment ever took her sparkling eyes off his countenance. Many times was she observed to mutter to herself, and her lips frequently moved as if she had been speaking, but no words were uttered, nor any sense of her distress expressed. Once, only, in the course of the evening, were they startled into a hush of terror and dismay, by a single short laugh, uttered so loud and wildly, that a pause followed it, and, as if with one consentaneous movement, they all assembled about her. Their appearance, however, seemed to bring her to herself, for with her left hand she wafted them away, saying, “Leave us--leave us--this is a day of sorrow to us--the day will end, but when, when, alas, will the sorrow? Papa, some of us will need your prayers now--the sunshine of Jane’s life is over--I am the Fawn of Springvale no more--my time with the holy and affectionate flock of whom I was and am an unworthy one, will be short--I may be with you a day, as it were, the next is come and Jane is gone for ever.”

“Father,” said Osborne, “I shall not go;” and as he spoke he pressed her to his bosom--“I will never leave her.”

The boy’s tears fell rapidly upon her pale cheeks, and on feeling them she looked up and smiled.

The sobbings of the family were loud, and bitter were the tears which the tender position of the young and beautiful pair wrung from the eyes that looked upon them. “Your health, my boy,” said his father, “my beautiful and only boy, render it necessary that you should go. It is but for a time, Jane dear, my daughter, my boy’s beloved, it is only for a time--let him leave you for a little, and he will return confirmed in health and knowledge, and worthy my dear, dear girl, to be yours for ever.”

“My daughter,” said Mr. Sinclair, “was once good and obedient, and she will now do whatever is her own papa’s wish.”

“Name it, papa, name it,” said she, still smiling.

“Suffer Charles to go, my darling--and do not--oh! do not take his departure so much to heart.”

“Charles, you must go,” said she. “It is the wish of your own father and of mine--but above all, it is the wish of your own--you cannot, you must not gainsay him. What we can prosper which is founded on disobedience or deceit? You know the words you once loved so well to repeat--I will repeat them now--you must, you will not surely refuse the request of _your own Jane Sinclair_.”

The boy seemed for some time irresolute but at length he clasped her in his arms, and, again, said, in a vehement burst of tenderness:

“No, father, my heart is resolved, I will never leave her. It will kill me, it will lay me in an early grave, and you will have no son to look upon.”

“But you will see the heroic example that Jane will set you,” said Mr. Sinclair, “she will shame you into firmness, for she will now take leave of you at once; and see then if you love her as you say you do, whether you will not respect her so far as to follow her example. Jane, bid Charles farewell.”

This was, perhaps, pressing her strength too far; at all events, the injunction came so unexpectedly, that a pause followed it, and they waited with painful expectation to see what she would do. For upwards of a minute she sat silent, and her lips moved as if she were communing with herself. At length she rose up, and stooping down kissed her lover’s cheek, then, taking his hand as before between hers, she said in a voice astonishingly calm.

“Charles, farewell--remember that I am your Jane Sinclair. Alas!” she added, “I am weak and feeble--help me out of the room.” Both her parents assisted her to leave it, but, on reaching the door, she drew back involuntarily, on hearing Osborne’s struggles to detain her.

“Papa,” she said, with a look inexpressibly wobegone and suppliant--“Mamma!” “Sweet child, what is it?” said both. “Let me take one last look of him--it will be the last--but not--I--I trust, the last act of my duty to you both.”

She turned round and gazed upon him for some time--her features, as she looked, dilated into an expression of delight.

“Is he not,” said she, in a low placid whisper, while her smiling eye still rested upon him--“is he not beautiful? Oh! yes, he is beautiful--he is beautiful.”

“He is, darling--he is,” said both--“come away now--be only a good firm girl and all will soon be well.”

“Very, very beautiful,” said she, in a low contented voice, as without any further wish to remain, she accompanied her parents to another room.

Such was their leaving-taking--thus did they separate. Did they ever meet!