“I can wait, I can wait,” she replied, “if he should come and find me gone, he would break his heart—I can wait.”
“Oh do not droop, my sweet sister; do not droop so much; all will yet be well,” said Agnes, weeping.
“I care for none but him—to me there is only one being in life—all else is a blank; but he will not come, and is it not too much, to try the patience of a heart so fond and faithful.”
“It is not likely he will come to-day,” replied Agnes; “something has prevented him; but to-morrow—”
“I will seek him elsewhere,” said Jane, rising suddenly; “but is it not singular, and indeed to what strange passes things may come? A young lady seeking her lover!—not over-modest certainly—nay, positively indelicate—fie upon me! Why should I thus expose myself? It is unworthy of my father’s daughter, and Jane Sinclair will not do it.”
She then walked a few paces homewards, but again stopped and earnestly looked in every direction, as if expecting to see the object of her love. Long indeed did she linger about a spot so dear to her; and often did she sit down again and rise to go—sometimes wringing her hands in the muteness of sorrow, and sometimes exhibiting a sense of her neglect in terms of pettish and indirect censure against Osborne for his delay. It was in one of those capricious moments that she bent her steps homewards; and as she had again to pass that part of the river where the accident occurred to the dove, Agnes and her father observed that she instinctively put her hand to her shoulder, and appeared as if disappointed. On this occasion, however, she made no observation whatever, but, much to their satisfaction, mechanically proceeded towards Springvale House, which she reached without uttering another word.
Until a short time before the arrival of Dr. M’Cormick, this silence remained unbroken. She sat nearly in the same attitude, evidently pondering on something that excited great pain, as was observable by her frequent startings, and a disposition to look wildly about her, as if with an intention of suddenly speaking. These, however, passed quickly away, and she generally relapsed into her wild and unsettled reveries.
When the doctor arrived, he sat with her in silence for a considerable time—listening to her incoherencies from an anxiety to ascertain, as far as possible, by what she might utter, whether her insanity was likely to be transient or otherwise. The cause of it he had already heard from report generally, and a more exact and circumstantial account on that day from her brother William.
“It is difficult,” he at length said, “to form anything like an exact opinion upon the first attack of insanity, arising from a disappointment of the heart. Much depends upon the firmness of the general character, and the natural force of their common sense. If I were to judge, not only by what I have heard from this most beautiful and interesting creature, as well as from the history of her heart, which her brother gave me so fully, I would say that I think this attack will not be a long one. I am of opinion that her mind is in a state of transition not from reason but to it; and that this transition will not be complete without much physical suffering. The state of her pulse assures me of this, as does the coldness of her hands. I should not be surprised if, in the course of this very night she were attacked with strong fits. These, if they take place, will either restore her to reason or confirm her insanity. Poor girl,” said the amiable man, looking on her whilst his eyes filled with tears, “he must have been a heartless wretch to abandon such a creature. My dear Jane,” he added, addressing her, for he had been, and still is, familiar with the family; “I am sorry to find you are so unwell, but you will soon be bettor. Do you not know me.”
“It was sworn,” said the unhappy mourner; “it was sworn and I felt this here—here “—and she placed her hand upon her heart; “I felt this little tenant of my poor bosom sink—sink, and my blood going from my cheeks when the words were uttered. More beautiful! more beautiful! why, and what is love if it is borne away merely by beauty? I loved him not for his beauty alone. I loved him because he—he—because he loved me—but at first I did love him for his beauty; well, he has found another more beautiful; and his own Jane Sinclair, his Fawn of Springvale, as he used to call me, is forgotten. But mark me—let none dare to blame him—he only fulfilled his destined part—the thing was foredoomed, and I knew that by my suppression of the truth to my papa, the seal of reprobation was set to my soul. Then—then it was that I felt myself a cast-away! And indeed,” she added, rising up and laying the forefinger of her right hand, on the palm of her left, “I would at any time sacrifice myself for his happiness; I would; yet alas,” she added, sitting down and hanging her head in sorrow; “why—why is it that I am so miserable, when he is happy? Why is that, Miss Jane Sinclair—why is that?” She then sighed deeply, and added in a tone of pathos almost irresistible—“Oh that I had the wings of a dove, that I might flee away and be at rest.”