Jane Sinclair; Or, The Fawn Of Springvale Part 6

"You are too pure, too full of truth, my beloved girl, for this world.

Social life is carried on by so much dissimulation, hypocrisy, and falsehood, that you will be actually unfit to live in it."

"Then let me die in it sooner than be guilty of any one of them. No, dear Charles, I am not too full of truth. On the contrary, I cannot understand how it is that my love for you has plunged me into deceit.

Nay more, Charles," she exclaimed, rising up, and placing her hand on her heart, "I am wrong here--why is it, will you tell me, that our attachment has crossed and disturbed my devotions to G.o.d. I cannot wors.h.i.+p G.o.d as I would, and as I used to do. What if His grace be withdrawn from me? Could you love me then? Could you love a cast-a-way?

Charles, you love truth too well to cherish affection for a being, a reprobate perhaps, and full of treachery and falsehood. I am not such, but I fear sometimes that I am."

Her youthful lover gazed upon her as she stood with her sparkling eyes fixed upon vacancy. Never did she appear so beautiful, her features were kindled into an expression which was new to him--but an expression so full of high moral feeling, beaming like the very divinity of truth from her countenance, yet overshadowed by an unsettled gloom, which gave to her whole appearance the power of creating both awe and admiration in the spectator.

The boy was deeply affected, and in a voice scarcely firm, said in soothing and endearing accents, whilst he took her hand in his,

"Jane, my best beloved, and dearest--say, oh say in what manner I can compose your mind, or relieve you from the necessity of practising the deceit which troubles you so much."

"Oh," said she, bending her eye on him, "but it is sweet to be beloved by those that are dear to us. Your sympathy thrills through my whole frame with a soothing sensation inexpressibly delightful. It is sweet to me--for you, Charles, are my only confident. Dear, dear Charles, how I longed to see you, and to hear your voice."

As she made this simple but touching admission of the power of her love, she laid her head on his bosom and wept. Charles pressed her to his heart, and strove to speak, but could not--she felt his tears raining fast upon her face.

At length he said, pressing his beautiful once more to his beating bosom--"the moment, the moment that I cease to love you, may it, O G.o.d, be my last."

She rose, and quietly wiping her eyes, said--"I will go--we will meet no more--no more in secret."

"Oh, Jane," said her lover, "how shall I make myself worthy of you; but why," he added, "should our love be a secret? Surely it will be sanctioned by our friends. You shall not be distressed by the necessity of insincerity, although it would be wrong to call the simple concealment of your love for me by so harsh a name."

"But my papa," she said, "he is so good to me; they are all so affectionate, they love me too much; but my dear papa, I cannot stand with a stain on my conscience in his presence. Not that I fear him; but it would be treacherous and ungrateful: I would tell him all, but I cannot."

"My sweet girl, let not that distress you. Your father shall be made acquainted with it from other lips. I will disclose the secret to my father, and, with a proud heart, tell him of our affection."

It never once occurred to a creature so utterly unacquainted with the ways of the world as Jane was that Mr. Osburne might disapprove of their attachment, and prevent a boy so youthful from following the bent of his own inclinations.

"Dear Charles," said she, smiling, "what a load their approval will take off my heart. I can then have papa's pardon for my past duplicity towards him; and my mind will be so much soothed and composed. We can also meet each other with their sanction."

"My wife! my wife!" said Osborne, looking on her with a rapturous gaze of love and admiration--and carrying her allusion to the consent of their families up to the period when he might legitimately give her that t.i.tle--"My wife," he exclaimed, "my young, my beautiful, my pure and unspotted wife. Heavens! and is--is the day surely to come when I am to call you so!"

The beautiful girl hung her head a moment as if abashed, then gliding timidly towards him, leant upon his shoulder, and putting her lips up to his ear, with a blush as much of delight as of modesty, whispered--"My husband, my husband, why should not these words, dear Charles, be as sweet a charm to my heart, as those you've mentioned are to yours. I would, but I cannot add--no, I will not suffer it," she exclaimed, on his attempting, in the prostration of the moment, to embrace her. "You must not presume upon the sincerity of an affectionate and ingenuous heart. Farewell, dear Charles, until we can see each other without a consciousness that we are doing wrong." Saying which, she extended her hand to him, and in a moment was on her way home.

And was the day to come when he could call her his? Alas! that day was never registered in the records of time.

Oh! how deeply beloved was our heroine by her family, when her moods of mind and state of spirits fixed the tone of their domestic enjoyments and almost influenced the happiness of their lives. O gentle and pure spirit, what heart cannot love thee, when those who knew thee best gathered their affections so lovingly around thee, the star of their hearth--the idol of their inner shrine--the beautiful, the meek, the affectionate, and even then, in consequence of thy transcendant charms, the far-famed Fawn of Springvale!

In the early part of that evening, Jane's spirits, equable and calm, hushed in a great measure the little domestic debate which had been held at dinner, concerning the state of her affections. The whole family partook of her cheerfulness, and her parents in particular, cast several looks of triumphant sagacity, at Maria and Agnes, especially at the latter.

"Jane," said her father in the triumph of his heart, "you are not aware that Agnes is in love."

The good-humored tone in which this was spoken, added to the utterly unsuspicious character of the innocent being to whom the words were addressed, rendered it impossible for Jane to suppose that there was any latent meaning in his observation that could be levelled at herself.

In truth, there was not, for any satire it contained was directed especially to Agnes. There are tones of voice, the drift of which no effort, however forced, or studied, can conceal, particularly from, those who, by intimacy and observation, are acquainted with them, and with the moods of mind and shades of feeling which prompt them. Jane knew intuitively by the tone in which her father spoke--and by the expression of his countenance, that the words were not meant to apply by any direct a.n.a.logy to herself. She consequently preserved her composure and replied to the question, with the same good humor in which the words were uttered.

"Agnes in love! Well, papa, and surely that is not unnatural."

"Thank you, Jane," replied Agnes. "Papa, that's a rebuff worth something; and Jane," she proceeded, anxious still to vindicate her own sagacity with respect to her sister, "suppose I should be in love, surely I may carry on an innocent intercourse with my lover, without consulting papa."

"No, Agnes, you should not," replied her sister, vehemently; "no intercourse--no intercourse without papa's knowledge, can be innocent.

There is deceit and dissimulation in it--there is treachery in it. It is impossible to say how gloomily such an intercourse may end. Only think, my dear Agnes," she proceeded, in a low, but vehement and condensed voice--"only think, dear Agnes, what the consequences might be to you if such an attachment, and such a clandestine mode of conducting it, should in consequence of your duplicity to papa, cause the Almighty G.o.d to withdraw His grace from you, and that, you should thereby become a cast-away--a castaway! I shudder to think of it! I shudder to think of it."

"Jane, sit beside me," said Mr. Sinclair; "you are rather too hard upon poor Agnes--but, still come, and sit beside me. You are my own sweet child--my own dutiful and candid girl."

"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 pa.s.sed 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...o...b..rne 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 e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n to heaven on her behalf. "That is true," said he, "it is now the hour of evening wors.h.i.+p; 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 wors.h.i.+p, 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 wors.h.i.+p 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 blus.h.i.+ng 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.