Chapter VIII: Part III (4)

“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.