Jane Sinclair; Or, The Fawn Of Springvale Part 18

"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 pa.s.sion, 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 circ.u.mstance 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 pa.s.sed from place to place, followed by Agnes; like the waning moon, accompanied by her faithful and attendant star.

After having pa.s.sed 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 f.a.n.n.y 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 f.a.n.n.y'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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d's countenance will s.h.i.+ne 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, pa.s.sed 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 f.a.n.n.y 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.