Jane Sinclair; Or, The Fawn Of Springvale Part 20

Whilst they lasted, nothing could surpa.s.s the n.o.ble 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 pa.s.sed 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...o...b..rne, until he had succeeded in fixing his heart upon that G.o.d "who willeth not the death of a sinner."

A far heavier trial upon the Christian's fort.i.tude, 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...o...b..rne, 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 pa.s.sions against the will of G.o.d."

"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 pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.sive 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 G.o.d! oh G.o.d!" 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sion 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...o...b..rne!

The last our readers may have antic.i.p.ated. 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.