"Very true, Maria; and I trust in heaven he may think so. But how, if he should never know or suspect her love for him?"

"I cannot answer that," said the other; "but we will talk more about it by-and-by."

Whilst this dialogue went on in a low tone, the other members of the family sat in silence and concern, each evidently anxious to develop the mystery of Jane's recent excitement at dinner. At length the old man's eye fell upon his two other daughters, and he said:

"What is this, children--what is this whispering all about? Perhaps some of you can explain the conduct of that poor child."

"But, papa," said Agnes, "you are not to know all our secrets."

"Am I not, indeed, Aggy? That's pretty evident from the cautious tone in which you and Mary speak."

"Well, but Agnes is right, Henry," said her mother: "to know the daughters' secrets is my privilege--and yours to know William's--if he has any."

"Upon my word, mother, mine are easily carried, I a.s.sure you."

"Suppose, papa," observed Agnes, good-humoredly, "that I was to fall in love, now--as is not----

"Improbable that you may--you baggage," replied her father, smiling, whilst he completed the sentence; "Well, and you would not tell me if you did?"

"No indeed, sir; I should not. Perhaps I ought,--but I could not, certainly, bring myself to do it. For instance, would it be either modest or delicate in me, to go and say to your face, 'Papa, I'm in love.' In that case the next step, I suppose, would be to make you the messenger between us. Now would you not expect as much, papa, if I told you?" said the arch and lively girl.

"Aggy, you are a presuming gipsy," replied the old man, joining in the laugh which she had caused. "Me your messenger!"

"Yes, and a steady one you would make, sir--I am sure you would not, at all events, overstep your instructions."

"That will be one quality essentially necessary to any messenger of yours, Agnes," replied her father, in the same spirit.

"Papa," said she, suddenly changing her manner, and laying aside her gayety, "what I said in jest of myself may be seriously true of another in this family. Suppose Jane----"

"Jane!" exclaimed the old man;--"impossible! She is but a girl!--but a child!" "Agnes, this is foolish of you," said her sister. "It is possible, after all, that you are doing poor Jane injustice. Papa, Agnes only speaks from suspicion. We are not certain of anything. It was I mentioned it first, but merely from suspicion."

"If Jane's affections are engaged," said her father, "I tremble to think of the consequences should she experience the slightest disappointment.

But it cannot be, Maria,--the girl has too much sense, and her principles are too well established."

"What is it you mean, girls?" inquired their mother, in a tone of surprise and alarm.

"Indeed, Agnes," said Maria, reprovingly, "it is neither fair nor friendly to poor Jane, to bring out a story founded only on a mere surmise. Agnes insists, mamma, that Jane is attached to Charles...o...b..rne."

"It certainly occurred to us only a few moments ago, I allow," replied Agnes; "but if I am mistaken in this, I will give up my judgment in everything else. And I mentioned it solely to prevent our own distress, particularly papa's, with respect to the change that is of late so visible in her conduct and manner."

Strange to say, however, that Mr. Sinclair and his wife both repudiated the idea of her attachment to Osborne, and insisted that Agnes'

suspicion was rash and groundless.

It was impossible, they said, that such an attachment could exist; Jane and Osborne had seen too little of each other, and were both of a disposition too shy and diffident to rush so precipitately into a pa.s.sion that is usually the result of far riper years than either of them had yet reached.

Mr. Sinclair admitted that Jane was a girl full of affection, and likely to be extremely susceptible, yet it was absurd, he added, to suppose for a moment, that she would suffer them to be engaged, or her peace of mind disturbed, by a foolish regard for a smooth-faced boy, and she herself not much beyond sixteen.

There is scarcely to be found, in the whole range of human life and character, any observation more true, and at the same time more difficult to be understood, than the singular infatuation of parents who have survived their own pa.s.sions,--whenever the prudence of their children happens to be called in question.

We know not whether such a fact be necessary to the economy of life, and the free breathings of youthful liberty, but this at least is clear to any one capable of noting down its ordinary occurrences, that no matter how acutely and vividly parents themselves may have felt the pa.s.sion of love when young, they appear as ignorant of the symptoms that mark its stages in the lives of their children, as if all memory of its existence had been obliterated out of their being. Perhaps this may be wisely designed, and no doubt it is, but, alas! its truth is a melancholy comment upon the fleeting character of the only pa.s.sion that charms our early life, and fills the soul with sensations too ethereal to be retained by a heart which grosser a.s.sociations have brought beneath the standard of purity necessary for their existence in it.

Jane, as she bent her way to the place of appointment, felt like one gradually emerging out of darkness into light. The scene at dinner had quickened her moral sense, which, as the reader already knows, was previous to that perhaps morbidly acute. Every step, however, towards the idol of her young devotion, removed the memory of what had occurred at home, and collected around her heart all the joys and terrors that in maidenly diffidence characterize the interview she was about to give her lover. Oh how little do we know of those rapid lights and shadows which shift and tremble across the spirits of the gentle s.e.x, when approaching to hold this tender communion with those whom they love. Nothing that we remember resembles the busy working of the soul on such occasions, so much as those lucid streamers which flit in sweeps of delicate light along the northern sky, filling it at once with beauty and terror, and emitting at the same time a far and almost inaudible undertone of unbroken music.

Trembling and fluttering like a newly-caught bird, Jane approached the place of meeting and found Osborne there awaiting her. The moment he saw the graceful young creature approach him, he felt that he had never until then loved her so intensely. The first declaration of their attachment was made during an accidental interview, but there is a feeling of buoyant confidence that flashes up from the heart, when, at the first concerted meeting of love we see the object of our affection advance towards us,--for that deliberate act of a faithful heart separates the beloved one, in imagination, to ourselves, and gives a fulness to our enjoyment which melts us in an exulting tenderness indescribable by language. Those who have doubted the punctuality of some beloved girl, and afterwards seen her come, will allow that our description of that rapturous moment is not overdrawn.

"My dear, dear Jane," exclaimed Osborne, taking her hand and placing her beside him,

"I neither knew my own heart nor thee extent of its affection for you until this meeting. In what terms shall I express--but I will not attempt it--I cannot--but my soul burns with love for you, such as was ever felt by mortal."

"It is my trust and confidence in your love that brings me here," she replied; "and indeed, Charles, it is more than that--I know your health is, at the best, easily affected, and your spirits naturally p.r.o.ne to despondency; and I feared," said the artless girl, "that--that--indeed I feared you might suffer pain, and that pain might bring on ill health again."

"And I am so dear to you, Jane?"

Jane replied by a smile and looked inexpressibly tender.

"I am, I am!" he exclaimed with rapture; "and now the world--life--nothing--nothing can add to the fulness of my happiness.

And your note, my beloved--the conclusion of it--your own Jane Sinclair!

But you must be more my own yet--legally and forever mine! Mine! Shall I be able to bear it!--shall I? Jane?" said he, his enthusiastic temperament kindling as he spoke--"Oh what, my dearest, my own dearest, if this should not last, will it not consume me? Will it not destroy me?

this overwhelming excess of rapture!"

"But you must restrain it, Charles; surely the suspense arising from the doubt of our being beloved is more painful than the certainty that we are so."

"Yes; but the exulting sense, my dear Jane, to me almost oppressive,--but I rave, I rave; it is all delight--all happiness! Yes, it will prolong life,--for we know what we live for."

"We do," said Jane, in a low, sweet voice, whilst her eye fed upon his beauty. "Do I not live for you, Charles?"

His lip was near her cheek as she spoke; he then gently drew her to him, and in a voice lower, and if possible more melodious than her own, said, "Oh Jane, is there not something inexpressibly affectionate--some wild and melting charm in the word wife?"

"That is a feeling," she replied, evidently softened by the tender spirit of his words, "of which you are a better judge than I can be."

"Oh say, my dearest, let me hear you say with your own lips, that you will be my wife."

"I will," she whispered--and as she spoke, he inhaled the fragrance of her breath.

"My wife!"

"Your wife!"

Sweet, and long, and rapturous was the kiss which sealed this sacred and entrancing promise. The pathetic sentiment that pervaded their attachment kept their pa.s.sion pure, and seldom have two lovers so beautiful, sat cheek to cheek together, in an embrace guileless and innocent as theirs.

Jane, however, withdrew herself from his arms, and for a few moments felt not even conscious, so far was her heart removed from evil, that an embrace under such circ.u.mstances was questionable, much less improper.

Following so naturally from the tenderness of their dialogue, it seemed to be rather the necessary action arising from the eloquence of their feeling, than an act which might incur censure or reproof. Her fine sense of propriety, however, could be scarcely said to have slumbered, for, with a burning cheek and a sobbing voice, she exclaimed,

"Charles, these secret meetings must cease. They have involved me in a course of dissimulation and falsehood towards my family, which I cannot bear. You say you love me, and I know you do, but surely you could not esteem, nor place full confidence in a girl, who, to gratify either her own affection or yours, would deceive her parents."

"But, my dearest girl, you reason too severely. Surely almost all who love must, in the earliest stages of affection, practice, to a certain extent, a harmless deception upon their friends, until at least their love is sanctioned. Marriages founded upon mutual attachment would be otherwise impracticable."

"No deception, dear Charles, can be harmless. I cannot forget the precepts of truth, and virtue, and obedience to a higher law even than his own will, which my dear papa taught me, and I will never more violate them, even for you."