Jane Sinclair; Or, The Fawn Of Springvale Part 14

She then went on to dress herself, but uttered not another word until she and Agnes met the family below stairs.

"I am now come, papa and mamma, and William, and my darling Maria--but, Maria, listen,--I won't have a tear, and you, Agnes,--I am come now to tell you a secret."

"And, dearest life," said her mother, "what is it?"

"What made them call me the Fawn of Springvale?"

"For your gentleness, love," said Mr. Sinclair.

"And for your beauty, darling," added her mother.

"Papa has it," she replied quickly; "for my gentleness, for my gentleness. My beauty, mamma, I am not beautiful."

While uttering these words, she approached the looking-gla.s.s, and surveyed herself with a smile of irony that seemed to disclaim her own a.s.sertion. But it was easy to perceive that the irony was directed to some one not then present, and that it was also a.s.sociated with the memory of something painful to her in an extreme degree.

Not beautiful! Never did mortal form gifted with beauty approaching nearer to our conception of the divine or angelic, stand smiling in the consciousness of its own charms before a mirror.

"Now," she proceeded, "I am going to make everything quite plain. I never told you this before, but it is time I should now. Listen--Charles...o...b..rne bound himself by a curse, that if he met, during his absence, a girl more beautiful than I am--or than I was then, I should say,--he would cease to write to me--he would cease to love me. Now, here's my secret,--he has found a girl more beautiful than I am,--than I was then, I, mean,--for he has ceased to write to me--and of course he has ceased to love me. So mamma, I am not beautiful, and the Fawn of Springvale--his own Jane Sinclair is forgotten."

She sat down and hung her head for some minutes, and the family, thinking that she either wept or was about to weep, did not think it right to address her. She rose up, however, and said:

"Agnes is my witness: Did not you, Agnes, say that I am now much handsomer than when Charles saw me last?"

"I did, darling, and I do."

"Very well, mamma--perhaps you will find me beautiful yet. Now the case is this, and I will be guided by my papa. Let me see--Charles may have seen a girl more beautiful than I was then,--but how does he know whether she is more beautiful than I am now?"

It was--it was woful to see a creature of such unparalleled grace and loveliness working out the calculations of insanity, in order to sustain a broken heart.

"But then," she added, still smiling in conscious beauty, "why does he not come to see me now? Why does he not come?" After musing again for some time, she dropped on her knees in one of those rapid transitions of feeling peculiar to persons of her unhappy cla.s.s; and joining her hands, looked up to Agnes with a countenance utterly and indescribably mournful, exclaiming as she did it, in the same words as before:--

"Oh Agnes, Agnes, but my heart is heavy!"

She then laid down her head on her sister's knees, and for a long time mused and murmured to herself, as if her mind was busily engaged on some topic full of grief and misery. This was evident by the depth of her sighs, which shook her whole frame, and heaved with convulsive quiverings through her bosom. Having remained in this posture about ten minutes, she arose, and without speaking, or noticing any of the family, went out and sauntered with slow and melancholy steps about the place where she loved to walk.

Mr. Sinclair's family at this period, and indeed, for a considerable time past were placed, with reference to their unhappy daughter in circ.u.mstances of peculiar distress. Their utter ignorance of Osborne's designs put it out of their power to adopt any particular mode of treatment in Jane's case. They could neither give her hope, nor prepare her mind for disappointment; but were forced to look pa.s.sively on, though with hearts wrung into agony, whilst her miserable malady every day gained new strength in its progress of desolation. The crisis was near at hand, however, that was to terminate their suspense. A letter from Mr. Osborne arrived, in which he informed them that Charles had left Bath, for London, in company with a family of rank, a few days before he reached it. He mentioned the name of the baronet, whose beautiful daughter, possessing an ample fortune, at her own disposal, fame reported to have been smitten with his son's singular beauty and accomplishments. It was also said, he added, that the lady had prevailed on her father to sanction young Osborne's addresses to her, and that the baronet, who was a strong political partizan, calculating upon his preeminent talents, intended to bring him into parliament, in order to strengthen his party. He added that he himself was then starting for London, to pursue his son, and rescue him from an act which would stamp his name with utter baseness and dishonor.

This communication, so terrible in its import to a family of such worth and virtue, was read to them by Mr. Sinclair, during one of those solitary rambles which Jane was in the habit of taking every day.

"Now, my children," said the white-haired father, summoning all the fort.i.tude of a Christian man to his aid,--"now must we show ourselves not ignorant of those resources which the religion of Christ opens to all who are for His wise purposes grievously and heavily afflicted. Let us act as becomes the dignity of our faith. We must suffer: let it be with patience, and a will resigned to that which laid the calamity upon us,--and princ.i.p.ally upon the beloved mourner who is dear, dear--and oh! how justly is she dear to all our hearts! Be firm, my children--and neither speak, nor look, nor act as if these heavy tidings had reached us. This is not only our duty, but our wisest course under circ.u.mstances so distressing as ours. Another letter from Mr. Osborne will decide all and until then we must suffer in silent reliance upon the mercy of G.o.d.

It may, however, be a consolation to you all to know, that if this young man's heart be detached from that of our innocent and loving child, I would rather--the disposing will of G.o.d being still allowed--see her wrapped in the cerements of death than united to one, who with so little scruple can trample upon the sanctions of religion, or tamper with the happiness of a fellow-creature. Oh, may G.o.d of His mercy sustain our child, and bear her in His own right hand through this heavy woe!"

This affecting admonition did not fall upon them in vain,--for until the receipt of Mr, Osborne's letter from London, not even Jane, with all her vigilance, was able to detect in their looks or manner any change or expression beyond what she had usually noticed. That letter at length arrived, and, as they had expected, filled up the measure of Osborne's dishonor and their affliction. The contents were brief but fearful. Mr.

Osborne stated that he arrived in London on the second day after his son's marriage, and found, to his unutterable distress, that he and his fashionable wife had departed for the continent on the very day the ceremony took place.

"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 pa.s.sion 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 G.o.d's a.s.sistance 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 G.o.d, 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...o...b..rne has been false to you. He has broken his vows;--he is married to another woman. And now, my child, may the G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.ses like the flower of the field."

"Darling, speak to me, to your papa."