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Title: Adeline Mowbray
       or, The Mother and Daughter

Author: Amelia Alderson Opie

Release Date: November 2, 2011 [EBook #37908]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

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Produced by Delphine Lettau and the Online Distributed
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 ADELINE MOWBRAY

 OR
 THE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER

 MRS OPIE




CHAPTER I


In an old family mansion, situated on an estate in Gloucestershire known
by the name of Rosevalley, resided Mrs Mowbray, and Adeline her only
child.

Mrs Mowbray's father, Mr Woodville, a respectable country gentleman,
married, in obedience to the will of his mother, the sole surviving
daughter of an opulent merchant in London, whose large dower paid off
some considerable mortgages on the Woodville estates, and whose mild and
unoffending character soon gained that affection from her husband after
marriage, which he denied her before it.

Nor was it long before their happiness was increased, and their union
cemented, by the birth of a daughter; who continuing to be an only
child, and the probable heiress of great possessions, became the idol
of her parents, and the object of unremitted attention to those who
surrounded her. Consequently, one of the first lessons which Editha
Woodville learnt was that of egotism, and to consider it as the chief
duty of all who approached her, to study the gratification of her whims
and caprices.

But, though rendered indolent in some measure by the blind folly of her
parents, and the homage of her dependents, she had a taste above the
enjoyments which they offered her.

She had a decided passion for literature, which she had acquired from
a sister of Mr Woodville, who had been brought up amongst literary
characters of various pursuits and opinions; and this lady had imbibed
from them a love of free inquiry, which she had little difficulty in
imparting to her young and enthusiastic relation.

But, alas! that inclination for study, which, had it been directed to
proper objects, would have been the charm of Miss Woodville's life,
and the safeguard of her happiness, by giving her a constant source of
amusement within herself; proved to her, from the unfortunate direction
which it took, the abundant cause of misery and disappointment.

For her, history, biography, poetry, and discoveries in natural
philosophy, had few attractions, while she pored with still unsatisfied
delight over abstruse systems of morals and metaphysics, or new theories
in politics; and scarcely a week elapsed in which she did not receive,
from her aunt's bookseller in London, various tracts on these her
favourite subjects.

Happy would it have been for Miss Woodville, if the merits of the works
which she so much admired could have been canvassed in her presence by
rational and unprejudiced persons: but, her parents and friends being
too ignorant to discuss philosophical opinions or political controversies,
the young speculator was left to the decision of her own inexperienced
enthusiasm. To her, therefore, whatever was bold and uncommon seemed new
and wise; and every succeeding theory held her imagination captive till
its power was weakened by one of equal claims to singularity.

She soon, however, ceased to be contented with reading, and was eager
to become a writer also. But, as she was strongly imbued with the
prejudices of an ancient family, she could not think of disgracing that
family by turning professed author: she therefore confined her little
effusions to a society of admiring friends, secretly lamenting the loss
which the literary world sustained in her being born a gentlewoman.

Nor is it to be wondered at, that, as she was ambitious to be, and to be
thought, a deep thinker, she should have acquired habits of abstraction,
and absence, which imparted a look of wildness to a pair of dark eyes,
that beamed with intelligence, and gave life to features of the most
perfect regularity.

To reverie, indeed, she was from childhood inclined; and her life was
long a life of reverie. To her the present moment had scarcely ever
existence; and this propensity to lose herself in a sort of ideal world,
was considerably increased by the nature of her studies.

Fatal and unproductive studies! While, wrapt in philosophical abstraction,
she was trying to understand a metaphysical question on the mechanism
of the human mind, or what constituted the true nature of virtue, she
suffered day after day to pass in the culpable neglect of positive
duties; and while imagining systems for the good of society, and the
furtherance of general philanthropy, she allowed individual suffering in
her neighbourhood to pass unobserved and unrelieved. While professing
her unbounded love for the great family of the world, she suffered her
own family to pine under the consciousness of her neglect; and viciously
devoted those hours to the vanity of abstruse and solitary study,
which might have been better spent in amusing the declining age of her
venerable parents, whom affection had led to take up their abode with
her.

Let me observe, before I proceed further, that Mrs Mowbray scrupulously
confined herself to theory, even in her wisest speculations; and being
too timid, and too indolent, to illustrate by her conduct the various
and opposing doctrines which it was her pride to maintain by turns, her
practice was ever in opposition to her opinions.

Hence, after haranguing with all the violence of a true Whig on the
natural rights of man, or the blessings of freedom, she would 'turn
to a Tory in her elbow chair', and govern her household with despotic
authority; and after embracing at some moments the doubts of the
sceptic, she would often lie motionless in her bed, from apprehension
of ghosts, a helpless prey to the most abject superstition.

Such was the mother of ADELINE MOWBRAY! such was the woman who, having
married the heir of Rosevalley, merely to oblige her parents, saw
herself in the prime of life a rich widow, with an only child, who was
left by Mr Mowbray, a fond husband, but an ill-judging parent, entirely
dependent on her!

At the time of Mr Mowbray's death, Adeline Mowbray was ten years old,
and Mrs Mowbray thirty; and like an animal in an exhausted receiver,
she had during her short existence been tormented by the experimental
philosophy of her mother.

Now it was judged right that she should learn nothing, and now that she
should learn every thing. Now, her graceful form and well-turned limbs
were to be free from any bandage, and any clothing save what decency
required,--and now they were to be tortured by stiff stays, and fettered
by the stocks and the back-board.

All Mrs Mowbray's ambition had settled in one point, one passion,
and that was EDUCATION. For this purpose she turned over innumerable
volumes in search of rules on the subject, on which she might improve,
anticipating with great satisfaction the moment when she should be held
up as a pattern of imitation to mothers, and be prevailed upon, though
with graceful reluctance, to publish her system, without a name, for the
benefit of society.

But, however good her intentions were, the execution of them was
continually delayed by her habits of abstraction and reverie. After
having over night arranged the tasks of Adeline for the next day,--lost
in some new speculations for the good of her child, she would lie in bed
all the morning, exposing that child to the dangers of idleness.

At one time Mrs Mowbray had studied herself into great nicety with
regard to the diet of her daughter; but, as she herself was too much
used to the indulgences of the palate to be able to set her in reality
an example of temperance, she dined in appearance with Adeline at one
o'clock on pudding without butter, and potatoes without salt; but while
the child was taking her afternoon's walk, her own table was covered
with viands fitted for the appetite of opulence.

Unfortunately, however, the servants conceived that the daughter as
well as the mother had a right to regale clandestinely; and the little
Adeline used to eat for her supper, with a charge not to tell her mamma,
some of the good things set by from Mrs Mowbray's dinner.

It happened that, as Mrs Mowbray was one evening smoothing Adeline's
flowing curls, and stroking her ruddy cheek, she exclaimed triumphantly,
raising Adeline to the glass, 'See the effect of temperance and low
living! If you were accustomed to eat meat, and butter, and drink any
thing but water, you would not look so healthy, my love, as you do now.
O the excellent effects of a vegetable diet!'

The artless girl, whose conscience smote her during the whole of this
speech, hung her blushing head on her bosom:--it was the confusion of
guilt; and Mrs Mowbray perceiving it earnestly demanded what it meant,
when Adeline, half crying, gave a full explanation.

Nothing could exceed the astonishment and mortification of Mrs Mowbray;
but, though usually tenacious of her opinions, she in this case profited
by the lesson of experience. She no longer expected any advantage from
clandestine measures:--but Adeline, her appetites regulated by a proper
exertion of parental authority, was allowed to sit at the well-furnished
table of her mother, and was precluded, by a judicious and open
indulgence, from wishing for a secret and improper one; while the
judicious praises which Mrs Mowbray bestowed on Adeline's ingenuous
confession endeared to her the practice of truth, and laid the foundation
of a habit of ingenuousness which formed through life one of the
ornaments of her character--Would that Mrs Mowbray had always been
equally judicious!

Another great object of anxiety to her was the method of clothing
children; whether they should wear flannel, or no flannel; light shoes,
to give agility to the motions of the limbs; or heavy shoes, in order to
strengthen the muscles by exertion;--when one day, as she was turning
over a voluminous author on this subject, the nurserymaid hastily
entered the room, and claimed her attention, but in vain; Mrs Mowbray
went on reading aloud:--

'Some persons are of opinion that thin shoes are most beneficial to
health; others, equally worthy of respect, think thick ones of most use:
and the reasons for these different opinions we shall class under two
heads--'

'Dear me, ma'am!' cried Bridget, 'and in the meantime Miss Adeline will
go without any shoes at all.'

'Do not interrupt me, Bridget,' cried Mrs Mowbray, and proceeded to read
on. 'In the first place, it is not clear, says a learned writer, whether
children require any clothing at all for their feet.'

At this moment Adeline burst open the parlour door, and, crying bitterly,
held up her bleeding toes to her mother.

'Mamma, mamma!' cried she, 'you forget to send for a pair of new shoes
for me; and see, how the stones in the gravel have cut me!'

This sight, this appeal, decided the question in dispute. The feet of
Adeline bleeding on a new Turkey carpet proved that some clothing for
the feet was necessary; and even Mrs Mowbray for a moment began to
suspect that a little experience is better than a great deal of theory.




CHAPTER II


Meanwhile, in spite of all Mrs Mowbray's eccentricities and caprices,
Adeline, as she grew up, continued to entertain for her the most perfect
respect and affection.

Her respect was excited by the high idea which she had formed of her
abilities,--an idea founded on the veneration which all the family
seemed to feel for her on that account,--and her affection was excited
even to an enthusiastic degree by the tenderness with which Mrs Mowbray
had watched over her during an alarming illness.

For twenty-one days Adeline had been in the utmost danger; nor is it
probable that she would have been able to struggle against the force
of the disease, but for the unremitting attention of her mother. It
was then, perhaps, for the first time that Mrs Mowbray felt herself a
mother:--all her vanities, all her systems, were forgotten in the danger
of Adeline,--she did not even hazard an opinion on the medical treatment
to be observed. For once she was contented to obey instructions in
silence; for once she was never caught in a reverie; but, like the
most common-place woman of her acquaintance, she lived to the present
moment:--and she was rewarded for her cares by the recovery of her
daughter, and by that daughter's most devoted attachment.

Not even the parents of Mrs Mowbray, who, because she talked on subjects
which they could not understand, looked up to her as a superior being,
could exceed Adeline in deference to her mother's abilities; and when,
as she advanced in life, she was sometimes tempted to think her deficient
in maternal fondness, the idea of Mrs Mowbray bending with pale and
speechless anxiety over her sleepless pillow used to recur to her
remembrance, and in a moment the recent indifference was forgotten.

Nor could she entirely acquit herself of ingratitude in observing this
seeming indifference: for, whence did the abstraction and apparent
coldness of Mrs Mowbray proceed? From her mind's being wholly engrossed
in studies for the future benefit of Adeline. Why did she leave the
concerns of her family to others? why did she allow her infirm but
active mother to superintend all the household duties? and why did she
seclude herself from all society, save that of her own family, and Dr
Norberry, her physician and friend, but that she might devote every hour
to endeavours to perfect a system of education for her beloved and only
daughter, to whom the work was to be dedicated?

'And yet,' said Adeline mentally, 'I am so ungrateful sometimes as to
think she does not love me sufficiently.'

But while Mrs Mowbray was busying herself in plans for Adeline's
education, she reached the age of fifteen, and was in a manner educated;
not, however, by her,--though Mrs Mowbray would, no doubt, have been
surprised to have heard this assertion.

Mrs Mowbray, as I have before said, was the spoiled child of rich
parents; who, as geniuses were rarer in those days than they are now,
spite of their own ignorance, rejoiced to find themselves the parents of
a genius; and as their daughter always disliked the usual occupations
of her sex, the admiring father and mother contented themselves with
allowing her to please herself; say to each other, 'She must not be
managed in a common way; for you know, my dear, she is one of your
geniuses,--and they are never like other folks.'

Mrs Woodville, the mother, had been brought up with all the ideas of
economy and housewifery which at that time of day prevailed in the city,
and influenced the education of the daughters of citizens.

'My dear,' said she one day to Adeline, 'as you are no genius, you know,
like your mother, (and God forbid you should! for one is quite enough in
a family,) I shall make bold to teach you every thing that young women
in my young days used to learn, and my daughter may thank me for it some
time or other: for you know, my dear, when I and my good man die, what
in the world would come of my poor Edith, if so be she had no one to
manage for her! for, Lord love you! she knows no more of managing a
family, and such-like, than a newborn babe.'

'And can you, dear grandmother, teach me to be of use to my mother?'
said Adeline.

'To be sure, child; for as you are no genius, no doubt you can learn all
them sort of things that women commonly know:--so we will begin
directly.'

In a short time Adeline, stimulated by the ambition of being useful,
(for she had often heard her mother assert that utility was the
foundation of all virtue,) became as expert in household affairs as Mrs
Woodville herself: even the department of making pastry was now given up
to Adeline, and the servants always came to her for orders, saying, that
'as their mistress was a learned lady, and that, and so could not be
spoken with except here and there on occasion, they wished their young
mistress, who was more easy spoken, would please to order:' and as Mr
and Mrs Woodville's infirmities increased every day, Adeline soon
thought it right to assume the entire management of the family.

She also took upon herself the office of almoner to Mrs Woodville, and
performed it with an activity unknown to her; for she herself carried
the broth and wine that were to comfort the infirm cottager; she herself
saw the medicine properly administered that was to preserve his suffering
existence: the comforts the poor required she purchased herself; and in
sickness she visited, in sorrow she wept with them. And though Adeline
was almost unknown personally to the neighbouring gentry, she was
followed with blessings by the surrounding cottagers; while many a
humble peasant watched at the gate of the park to catch a glimpse of
his young benefactress, and pray to God to repay to the heiress of
Rosevalley the kindness which she had shown to him and his offspring.

Thus happy, because usefully employed, and thus beloved and respected,
because actively benevolent, passed the early years of Adeline Mowbray;
and thus was she educated, before her mother had completed her system of
education.

It was not long before Adeline took on herself a still more important
office. Mrs Mowbray's steward was detected in very dishonest practices;
but, as she was too much devoted to her studies to like to look into her
affairs with a view to dismiss him, she could not be prevailed on to
discharge him from her service. Fortunately, however, her father on his
death-bed made it his request that she would do so; and Mrs Mowbray
pledged herself to obey him.

'But what shall I do for a steward in Davison's place?' said she soon
after her father died.

'Is one absolutely necessary?' returned Adeline modestly. 'Surely
farmer Jenkins would undertake to do all that is necessary for half the
money; and, if he were properly overlooked--'

'And pray who can overlook him properly?' asked Mrs Mowbray.

'My grandmother and I,' replied Adeline timidly: 'we both like business
and--'

'Like business!--but what do you know of it?'

'Know!' cried Mrs Woodville, 'why, daughter, Lina is very clever at it,
I assure you!'

'Astonishing! She knows nothing yet of accounts.'

'Dear me! how mistaken you are, child! She knows accounts perfectly
well.'

'Impossible!' replied Mrs Mowbray: 'who should have taught her? I have
been inventing an easy method of learning arithmetic, by which I was
going to teach her in a few months.'

'Yes, child: but I, thinking it a pity that the poor girl should learn
nothing, like, till she was to learn every thing, taught her according
to the old way; and I cannot but say she took to it very kindly. Did not
you, Lina?'

'Yes, grandmother,' said Adeline; 'and as I love arithmetic very much,
I am quite anxious to keep all my mother's accounts, and overlook the
accounts of the person whom she shall employ to manage her estates in
future.'

To this Mrs Mowbray, half pleased and half mortified, at length
consented; and Adeline and farmer Jenkins entered upon their
occupations. Shortly after Mrs Woodville was seized with her last
illness; and Adeline neglected every other duty, and Mrs Mowbray
her studies, 'to watch, and weep, beside a parent's bed.'

But watch and weep was all that Mrs Mowbray did: with every possible
wish to be useful, she had so long given way to habits of abstraction,
and neglect of everyday occupations, that she was rather a hindrance
than a help in the sick room.

During Adeline's illness, excessive fear of losing her only child had
indeed awakened her to unusual exertion; and as all that she had to
do was to get down, at stated times, a certain quantity of wine and
nourishment, her task though wearisome was not difficult: but to sooth
the declining hours of an aged parent, to please the capricious appetite
of decay, to assist with ready and skilful alacrity the shaking hand of
the invalid, jealous of waiting on herself and wanting to be cheated
into being waited upon;--these trifling yet important details did not
suit the habits of Mrs Mowbray. But Adeline was versed in them all; and
her mother, conscious of her superiority in these things, was at last
contented to sit by inactive, though not unmoved.

One day, when Mrs Mowbray had been prevailed upon to lie down for an
hour or two in another apartment, and Adeline was administering to Mrs
Woodville some broth which she had made herself, the old lady pressed
her hand affectionately, and cried, 'Ah! child, in a lucky hour I made
bold to interfere, and teach you what your mother was too clever to
learn. Wise was I to think one genius enough in a family,--else, what
should I have done now? My daughter, though the best child in the world,
could never have made such nice broth as this to comfort me, so hot, and
boiled to a minute like! bless her! she'd have tried, that she would,
but ten to one but she'd have smoked it, overturned it, and scalt her
fingers into the bargain.--Ah, Lina, Lina! mayhap the time will come
when you, should you have a sick husband or a child to nurse, may bless
your poor grandmother for having taught you to be useful.'

'Dear grandmother,' said Adeline tenderly, 'the time has come: I am, you
see, useful to you; and therefore I bless you already for having taught
me to be so.'

'Good girl, good girl! just what I would have you! And forgive me, Lina,
when I own that I have often thanked God for not making you a genius!
Not but what no child can behave better than mine; for, with all her
wit and learning, she was always so respectful, and so kind to me and
my dear good man, that I am sure I could not but rejoice in such a
daughter; though, to be sure, I used to wish she was more conversible
like; for, as to the matter of a bit of chat, we never gossiped together
in our lives. And though, to be sure, the squires' ladies about are none
of the brightest, and not to compare with my Edith, yet still they would
have done for me and my dear good man to gossip a bit with. So I was
vexed when my daughter declared she wanted all her time for her studies,
and would not visit any body, no, not even Mrs Norberry, who is to be
sure a very good sort of a woman, though a little given to speak ill of
her neighbours. But then so we are all, you know: and, as I say, why, if
one spoke well of all alike, what would be the use of one person's being
better than his neighbours, except for conscience's sake? But, as I was
going to say, my daughter was pleased to compliment me, and declare she
was sure I could amuse myself without visiting women so much inferior to
me; and she advised my beginning a course of study, as she called it.'

'And did you?' asked Adeline with surprise.

'Yes. To oblige her, my good man and I began to read one Mr Locke on the
Conduct of the Human Understanding; which my daughter said would teach
us to think.'

'To think?' said Adeline.

'Yes.--Now, you must know, my poor husband did not look upon it as very
respectful like in Edith to say that, because it seemed to say that we
had lived all these years without having thought at all; which was not
true, to be sure, because we were never thoughtless like, and my husband
was so staid when a boy that he was called a little old man.'

'But I am sure,' said Adeline, half smiling, 'that my mother did not
mean to insinuate that you wanted proper thought.'

'No, I dare say not,' resumed the old lady, 'and so I told my husband,
and so we set to study this book: but, dear me! it was Hebrew Greek to
us--and so dull!'

'Then you did not get through it, I suppose?'

'Through it, bless your heart! No--not three pages! So my good man says
to Edith, says he, "You gave us this book, I think, child, to teach us
to think?" "Yes, sir," says she. "And it has taught us to think," says
he:--"it has taught us to think that it is very dull and disagreeable."
So my daughter laughed, and said her father was witty; but, poor soul!
he did not mean it.

'Well, then: as, to amuse us, we liked to look at the stars sometimes,
she told us we had better learn their names, and study astronomy; and so
we began that: but that was just as bad as Mr Locke; and we knew no more
of the stars and planets, than the man in the moon. Yet that's not right
to say, neither; for, as he is so much nearer the stars, he must know
more about them than any one whomsoever. So at last my daughter found
out that learning was not our taste; so she left us to please ourselves,
and play cribbage and draughts in an evening as usual.'

Here the old lady paused, and Adeline said affectionately, 'Dear
grandmother, I doubt you exert yourself too much: so much talking can't
be good for you.'

'O! yes, child!' replied Mrs. Woodville: 'it is no trouble at all to me,
I assure you, but quite natural and pleasant like: besides, you know I
shall not be able to talk much longer, so let me make the most of my
time now.'

This speech brought tears into the eyes of Adeline; and seeing her
mother re-enter the room, she withdrew to conceal the emotion which she
felt, lest the cheerful loquacity of the invalid, which she was fond of
indulging, should be checked by seeing her tears. But it had already
received a check from the presence of Mrs Mowbray, of whose superior
abilities Mrs Woodville was so much in awe, that, concluding her daughter
could not bear to hear her nonsense, the old lady smiled kindly on her
when with a look of tender anxiety she hastened to her bedside, and
then, holding her hand, composed herself to sleep.

In a few days more, she breathed her last on the supporting arm of
Adeline; and lamented in her dying moments, that she had nothing
valuable in money to leave, in order to show Adeline how sensible she
was of her affectionate attentions: 'but you are an only child,' she
added, 'and all your mother has will be yours.'

'No doubt,' observed Mrs Mowbray eagerly; and her mother died
contented.




CHAPTER III


At this period Adeline's ambition had led her to form new plans, which
Mrs Woodville's death left her at liberty to put in execution. Whenever
the old lady reminded her that she was no genius, Adeline had felt as
much degraded as if she had said that she was no conjuror; and though
she was too humble to suppose that she could ever equal her mother, she
was resolved to try to make herself more worthy of her, by imitating
her in those pursuits and studies on which were founded Mrs Mowbray's
pretensions to superior talents.

She therefore made it her business to inquire what those studies and
pursuits were; and finding that Mrs Mowbray's noted superiority was
built on her passion for abstruse speculations, Adeline eagerly devoted
her leisure hours to similar studies: but, unfortunately, these new
theories, and these romantic reveries, which only served to amuse
Mrs Mowbray's fancy, her more enthusiastic daughter resolved to make
conscientiously the rules of her practice. And while Mrs Mowbray
expended her eccentric philosophy in words, as Mr Shandy did his grief,
Adeline carefully treasured up hers in her heart, to be manifested only
by its fruits.

One author in particular, by a train of reasoning captivating though
sophistical, and plausible though absurd, made her a delighted convert
to his opinions, and prepared her young and impassioned heart for the
practice of vice, by filling her mind, ardent in the love of virtue,
with new and singular opinions on the subject of moral duty. On the works
of this writer Adeline had often heard her mother descant in terms of
the highest praise; but she did not feel herself so completely his
convert on her own conviction, till she had experienced the fatal
fascination of his style, and been conveyed by his bewitching pen from
the world as it is, into a world as it _ought_ to be.

This writer, whose name was Glenmurray, amongst other institutions,
attacked the institution of marriage; and after having elaborately
pointed out its folly and its wickedness, he drew so delightful a
picture of the superior purity, as well as happiness, of an union
cemented by no ties but those of love and honour, that Adeline, wrought
to the highest pitch of enthusiasm for a new order of things, entered
into a solemn compact with herself to act, when she was introduced into
society, according to the rules laid down by this writer.

Unfortunately for her, she had no opportunity of hearing these opinions
combated by the good sense and sober experience of Dr Norberry then
their sole visitant; for at this time the American war was the object
of attention to all Europe: and as Mrs Mowbray, as well as Dr Norberry,
were deeply interested in this subject, they scarcely ever talked on
any other; and even Glenmurray and his theories were driven from Mrs
Mowbray's remembrance by political tracts and the eager anxieties of
a politician. Nor had she even leisure to observe, that while she was
feeling all the generous anxiety of a citizen of the world for the sons
and daughters of American independence, her own child was imbibing,
through her means, opinions dangerous to her well-being as a member of
any civilized society, and laying, perhaps, the foundation to herself
and her mother of future misery and disgrace. Alas! the astrologer in
the fable was but too like Mrs Mowbray!

But even had Adeline had an opportunity of discussing her new opinions
with Dr Norberry, it is not at all certain that she would have had the
power.

Mrs Mowbray was, if I may be allowed the expression, a showing-off
woman, and loved the information which she acquired, less for its own
sake than for the supposed importance which it gave her amongst her
acquaintance, and the means of displaying her superiority over other
women. Before she secluded herself from society in order to study
education, she had been the terror of the ladies in the neighbourhood;
since, despising small talk, she would always insist on making the
gentlemen of her acquaintance (as much terrified sometimes as their
wives) engage with her in some literary or political conversation.
She wanted to convert every drawing-room into an arena for the mind,
and all her guests into intellectual gladiators. She was often heard
to interrupt two grave matrons in an interesting discussion of an
accouchement, by asking them if they had read a new theological tract,
or a pamphlet against the minister? If they softly expatiated on the
lady-like fatigue of body which they had endured, she discoursed in
choice terms on the energies of the mind; and she never received or paid
visits without convincing the company that she was the most wise, most
learned, and most disagreeable of companions.

But Adeline, on the contrary, studied merely from the love of study,
and not with a view to shine in conversation; nor dared she venture
to expatiate on subjects which she had often heard Mrs Woodville say
were very rarely canvassed, or even alluded to, by women. She remained
silent, therefore, on the subject nearest her heart, from choice as well
as necessity, in the presence of Dr Norberry, till at length she imbibed
the political mania herself, and soon found it impossible to conceal
the interest which she took in the success of the infant republic. She
therefore one day put into the doctor's hands some _bouts rimes_ which
she had written on some recent victory of the American arms; exclaiming
with a smile, 'I, too, am a politician!' and was rewarded by an
exclamation of 'Why girl--I protest you are as clever as your mother!'

This unexpected declaration fixed her in the path of literary ambition:
and though wisely resolved to fulfil, as usual, every feminine duty,
Adeline was convinced that she, like her mother, had a right to be an
author, a politician, and a philosopher; while Dr Norberry's praises of
her daughter convinced Mrs Mowbray, that almost unconsciously she had
educated her into a prodigy, and confirmed her in her intention of
exhibiting herself and Adeline to the admiring world during the next
season at Bath; for at Bath she expected to receive that admiration
which she had vainly sought in London.

Soon after their marriage, Mr Mowbray had carried his lively bride to
the metropolis, where she expected to receive the same homage which had
been paid to her charms at the assize-balls in her neighbourhood. What
then must have been her disappointment, when, instead of hearing as
she passed, 'That is Miss Woodville, the rich heiress--or the great
genius--or the great beauty'--or, 'That is the beautiful Mrs Mowbray,'
she walked unknown and unobserved in public and in private, and found
herself of as little importance in the wide world of the metropolis, as
the most humble of her acquaintance in a country ball-room. True, she
had beauty, but then it was unset-off by fashion; nay, more, it was
eclipsed by unfashionable and tasteless attire; and her manner, though
stately and imposing in an assembly where she was known, was wholly
unlike the manners of the world, and in a London party appeared arrogant
and offensive. Her remarks, too, wise as they appeared to her and Mr
Mowbray, excited little attention,--as the few persons to whom they were
known in the metropolis were wholly ignorant of her high pretensions,
and knew not that they were discoursing with a professed genius, and
the oracle of a provincial circle. Some persons, indeed, surprised at
hearing from the lips of eighteen, observations on morals, theology, and
politics, listened to her with wonder, and even attention, but turned
away observing--

  'Such things, 'tis true, are neither new nor rare,
   The only wonder is, how they got there:'

till at length, disappointed, mortified, and disgusted, Mrs Mowbray
impatiently returned to Rosevalley, where in beauty, in learning, and in
grandeur she was unrivalled, and where she might deal out her dogmas,
sure of exciting respectful attention, however she might fail of calling
for a more flattering tribute from her auditors. But in the narrower
field of Bath she expected to shine forth with greater eclat than in
London, and to obtain admiration more worthy of her acceptance than any
which a country circle could offer. To Bath, therefore, she prepared to
go; and the young heart of Adeline beat high with pleasure at the idea
of mixing with that busy world which her fancy had often clothed in the
most winning attractions.

But her joy, and Mrs Mowbray's was a little over-clouded at the
moment of their departure, by the sight of Dr Norberry's melancholy
countenance. What was to be, as they fondly imagined, their gain, was
his loss, and with a full heart he came to bid them adieu.

For Adeline he had conceived not only affection, but esteem amounting
almost to veneration; for she appeared to him to unite various and
opposing excellencies. Though possessed of taste and talents for
literature, she was skilled in the minutest details of housewifery and
feminine occupations: and at the same time she bore her faculties so
meekly, that she never wounded the self-love of any one, by arrogating
to herself any superiority.

Such Adeline appeared to her excellent old friend; and his affection
for her was, perhaps, increased by the necessity which he was under
of concealing it at home. The praises of Mrs Mowbray and Adeline were
odious to the ears of Mrs Norberry and her daughters,--but especially
the praises of the latter,--as the merit of Adeline was so uniform, that
even the eye of envy could not at that period discover any thing in
her vulnerable to censure: and as the sound of her name excited in
his family a number of bad passions and corresponding expressions of
countenance, the doctor wisely resolved to keep his feelings, with
regard to her, locked up in his own bosom.

But he persisted in visiting at the Park daily; and it is no wonder,
therefore, that the loss, even for a few months, of the society of its
inhabitants should by him be anticipated as a serious calamity.

'Pshaw!' cried he, as Adeline, with an exulting bound sprung after her
mother into the carriage, 'how gay and delighted you are! though my
heart feels sadly queer and heavy.'

'My dear friend,' cried Mrs Mowbray, 'I must miss your society wherever
I go.'--'I wish you were going too,' said Adeline: 'I shall often think
of you.' 'Pshaw, girl! don't lie,' replied Dr Norberry, swallowing a
sigh as he spoke: 'you will soon forget an old fellow like me.'--'Then
I conclude that you will soon forget us.'--'He! how! what! think so
at your peril.'--'I must think so, as we usually judge of others
by ourselves.'--'Go to--go, miss mal-a-pert.--Well, but, drive on,
coachman--this taking leave is plaguey disagreeable, so shake hands and
be off.'

They gave him their hands, which he pressed very affectionately, and the
carriage drove on.

'I am an old fool,' cried the doctor, wiping his eyes as the carriage
disappeared. 'Well: Heaven grant, sweet innocent, that you may return to
me as happy and spotless as you now are!'

Mrs Mowbray had been married at a very early age, and had accepted in Mr
Mowbray the first man who addressed her: consequently that passion for
personal admiration, so natural to women, had in her never been gratified,
nor even called forth. But seeing herself, at the age of thirty-eight,
possessed of almost undiminished beauty, she recollected that her charms
had never received that general homage for which nature intended them;
and she who at twenty had disregarded, even to a fault, the ornaments
of dress, was now, at the age of thirty-eight, eager to indulge in the
extremes of decoration, and to share in the delights of conquest and
admiration with her youthful and attractive daughter.

Attractive, rather than handsome, was the epithet best suited to
describe Adeline Mowbray. Her beauty was the beauty of expression of
countenance, not regularity of feature, though the uncommon fairness and
delicacy of her complexion, the lustre of her hazel eyes, her long dark
eye-lashes, and the profusion of soft light hair which curled over the
ever-mantling colour of her cheek, gave her some pretensions to what is
denominated beauty. But her own sex declared she was plain--and perhaps
they were right--though the other protested against the decision--and
probably they were right also: but women criticize in detail, men admire
in the aggregate. Women reason, and men feel, when passing judgment
on female beauty: and when a woman declares another to be plain, the
chances are that she is right in her opinion, as she cannot, from her
being a woman, feel the charm of that power to please, that 'something
than beauty dearer,' which often throws a veil over the irregularity of
features and obtains, for even a plain woman, from men at least, the
appellation of pretty.

Whether Adeline's face were plain or not, her form could defy even the
severity of female criticism. She was indeed tall, almost to a masculine
degree; but such were the roundness and proportion of her limbs, such
the symmetry of her whole person, such the lightness and gracefulness
of her movements, and so truly feminine were her look and manner, that
superior height was forgotten in the superior loveliness of her figure.

It is not to be wondered at, then, that Miss Mowbray was an object of
attention and admiration at Bath, as soon as she appeared, nor that her
mother had her share of flattery and followers. Indeed, when it was
known that Mrs Mowbray was a rich widow, and Adeline dependent upon her,
the mother became, in the eyes of some people, much more attractive than
her daughter.

It was impossible, however, that, in such a place as Bath, Mrs Mowbray
and Adeline could make, or rather retain, a general acquaintance. Their
opinions on most subjects were so very different from those of the world,
and they were so little conscious, from the retirement in which they
lived, that this difference existed, or was likely to make them enemies,
that not a day elapsed in which they did not shock the prejudices of
some, and excite the contemptuous pity of others; and they soon saw
their acquaintance coolly dropped by those who, as persons of family
and fortune, had on their first arrival sought it with eagerness.

But this was not entirely owing to the freedom of their sentiments on
politics, or on other subjects; but, because they associated with a
well-known but obnoxious author;--a man whose speculations had delighted
the inquiring but ignorant lover of novelty, terrified the timid idolater
of ancient usages, and excited the regret of the cool and rational
observer:--regret, that eloquence so overwhelming, powers of reasoning
so acute, activity of research so praise-worthy, and a love of
investigation so ardent, should be thrown away on the discussion of
moral and political subjects, incapable of teaching the world to build
up again with more beauty and propriety, a fabric, which they were
perhaps, calculated to pull down: in short, Mrs Mowbray and Adeline
associated with Glenmurray, that author over whose works they had long
delighted to meditate, and who had completely led their imagination
captive, before the fascination of his countenance and manners had come
in aid of his eloquence.




CHAPTER IV


Frederic Glenmurray was a man of family, and of a small independent
estate, which, in case he died without children, was to go to the next
male heir; and to that heir it was certain it would go, as Glenmurray on
principle was an enemy to marriage, and consequently not likely to have
a child born in wedlock.

It was unfortunate circumstance for Glenmurray, that, with the ardour of
a young and inexperienced mind, he had given his eccentric opinions to
the world as soon as they were conceived and arranged,--as he, by so
doing, prejudiced the world against him in so unconquerable a degree,
that to him almost every door and heart was shut; and he by that means
excluded from every chance of having the errors of his imagination
corrected by the arguments of the experienced and enlightened--and
corrected, no doubt, they would have been, for he had a mild and candid
spirit, and mind open to conviction.

'I consider myself,' he used to say, 'as a sceptic, not as a man really
certain of the truth of any thing which he advances. I doubt of all
things, because I look upon doubt as the road to truth; and do but
convince me what is the truth, and at what risk, whatever sacrifice, I
am ready to embrace it.'

But, alas! neither the blamelessness of his life, nor even his active
virtue, assisted by the most courteous manners, were deemed sufficient
to counteract the mischievous tendency of his works; or rather, it was
supposed impossible that his life could be blameless and his seeming
virtues sincere:--and unheard, unknown, this unfortunate young man was
excluded from those circles which his talents would have adorned, and
forced to lead a life of solitude, or associate with persons unlike to
him in most things, except in a passion for the bold in theory, and the
almost impossible in practice.

Of this description of persons he soon became the oracle--the head of a
sect, as it were; and those tenets which at first he embraced, and put
forth more for amusement than from conviction, as soon as he began to
suffer on their account, became as clear to him as the cross to the
Christian martyr: and deeming persecution a test of truth, he considered
the opposition made to him and his doctrines, not as the result of
dispassionate reason striving to correct absurdity, but as selfishness
and fear endeavouring to put out the light which showed the weakness of
the foundation on which were built their claims to exclusive respect.

When Mrs Mowbray and Adeline first arrived at Bath, the latter had
attracted the attention and admiration of Colonel Mordaunt, an Irishman
of fortune, and an officer in the guards; and Adeline had not been
insensible to the charms of the very fine person and engaging manners,
united to powers of conversation which displayed an excellent
understanding improved by education and reading. But Colonel Mordaunt
was not a _marrying man_, as it is called: therefore, as soon as he
began to feel the influence of Adeline growing too powerful for his
freedom, and to observe that his attentions were far from unpleasing to
her,--too honourable to excite an attachment in her which he resolved to
combat in himself, he resolved to fly from the danger, which he knew he
could not face and overcome; and after a formal but embarrassed adieu to
Mrs Mowbray and Adeline, he suddenly left Bath.

This unexpected departure both surprised and grieved Adeline; but, as
her feelings of delicacy were too strong to allow her to sigh for a
man who, evidently, had no thoughts of sighing for her, she dismissed
Colonel Mordaunt from her remembrance, and tried to find as much
interest still in the ball-rooms, and the promenades, as his presence
had given them: nor was it long before she found in them an attraction
and an interest stronger than any which she had yet felt.

It is naturally to be supposed that Adeline had often wished to
know personally an author whose writings delighted her as much
as Glenmurray's had done, and that her fancy had often portrayed
him: but though it had clothed him in a form at once pleasing and
respectable,--still, from an idea of his superior wisdom, she had
imagined him past the meridian of life, and not likely to excite warmer
feelings than those of esteem and veneration: and such continued to be
Adeline's idea of Glenmurray, when he arrived at Bath, having been sent
thither by his physicians for the benefit of his health.

Glenmurray, though a sense of his unpopularity had long banished him
from scenes of public resort in general, was so pleased with the
novelties of Bath, that, though he walked wholly unnoticed except by the
lovers of genius in whatsoever shape it showed itself, he frequented
daily the pump-room, and the promenades; and Adeline had long admired
the countenance and dignified person of this young and interesting
invalid, without the slightest suspicion of his being the man of all
others whom she most wished to see.

Nor had Glenmurray been slow to admire Adeline: and so strong, so
irresistible was the feeling of admiration which she had excited in
him, that, as soon as she appeared, all other objects vanished from his
sight; and as women are generally quick-sighted to the effect of their
charms, Adeline never beheld the stranger without a suffusion of
pleasurable confusion on her cheek.

One morning at the pump-room, when Glenmurray, unconscious that Adeline
was near, was reading the newspaper with great attention, and Adeline
for the first time was looking at him unobserved, she heard the name of
Glenmurray pronounced, and turned her head towards the person who spoke,
in hopes of seeing Glenmurray himself; when Mrs Mowbray, turning round
and looking at the invalid, said to a gentleman next her, 'Did you say,
Sir, that that tall, pale, dark, interesting-looking young man is Mr
Glenmurray, the celebrated author?'

'Yes, ma'am,' replied the gentleman with a sneer: 'that is Mr
Glenmurray, the celebrated author.'

'Oh! how I should like to speak to him!' cried Mrs Mowbray.

'It will be no difficult matter,' replied her informant: 'the gentleman
is always quite as much at leisure as you see him now; for _all_ persons
have not the same taste as Mrs Mowbray.'

So saying, he bowed and departed, leaving Mrs Mowbray, to whom the sight
of a great author was new, so lost in contemplating Glenmurray, that the
sarcasm with which he spoke entirely escaped her observation.

Nor was Adeline less abstracted: she too was contemplating Glenmurray,
and with mixed but delightful feelings.

'So then he is young and handsome too!' said she mentally: 'it is a pity
he looks so _ill_,' added she _sighing_: but the sigh was caused rather
by his looking so _well_--though Adeline was not conscious of it.

By this time Glenmurray had observed who were his neighbours, and the
newspaper was immediately laid down.

'Is there any news to-day?' said Mrs Mowbray to Glenmurray, resolved to
make a bold effort to become acquainted with him. Glenmurray, with a bow
and a blush of mingled surprise and pleasure, replied that there was a
great deal,--and immediately presented to her the paper which he had
relinquished, setting chairs at the same time for her and Adeline.

Mrs Mowbray, however, only slightly glanced her eye over the paper:--her
desire was to talk to Glenmurray; and in order to accomplish this point,
and prejudice him in her favour, she told him how much she rejoiced
in seeing an author whose works were the delight and instruction of
her life. 'Speak, Adeline,' cried she, turning to her blushing daughter;
'do we not almost daily read and daily admire Mr Glenmurray's
writings?'--'Yes, certainly,' replied Adeline, unable to articulate
more, awed no doubt by the presence of so superior a being; while
Glenmurray, more proud of being an author than ever, said internally,
'Is it possible that that sweet creature should have read and admired my
works?'

But in vain, encouraged by the smiles and even by the blushes of
Adeline, did he endeavour to engage her in conversation. Adeline was
unusually silent, unusually bashful. But Mrs Mowbray made ample amends
for her deficiency; and Mr Glenmurray, flattered and amused, would
have continued to converse with her and look at Adeline, had he not
observed the impertinent sneers and rude laughter to which conversing so
familiarly with him exposed Mrs Mowbray. As soon as he observed this, he
arose to depart; for Glenmurray was, according to Rochefoucault's maxim,
so exquisitely selfish, that he always considered the welfare of others
before his own; and heroically sacrificing his own gratification to save
Mrs Mowbray and Adeline from further censure, he bowed with the greatest
respect to Mrs Mowbray, sighed as he paid the same compliment to
Adeline, and, lamenting his being forced to quit them so soon, with
evident reluctance left the room.

'What an elegant bow he makes!' exclaimed Mrs Mowbray. Adeline had
observed nothing but the sigh; and on that she did not choose to make
any comment.

The next day Mrs Mowbray, having learned Glenmurray's address, sent him
a card for a party at her lodgings. Nothing but Glenmurray's delight
could exceed his astonishment at this invitation. He had observed Mrs
Mowbray and Adeline, even before Adeline had observed him; and, as he
gazed upon the fascinating Adeline, he had sighed to think that she too
would be taught to avoid the dangerous and disreputable acquaintance of
Glenmurray. To him, therefore, this mark of attention was a source both
of consolation and joy. But, being well convinced that it was owing to
her ignorance of the usual customs and opinions of those with whom she
associated, he was too generous to accept the invitation, as he knew
that his presence at a rout at Bath would cause general dismay, and
expose the mistress to disagreeable remarks at least: but he endeavoured
to make himself amends for his self-denial, by asking leave to wait on
them when they were alone.




CHAPTER V


A day or two after, as Adeline was leaning on the arm of a young lady,
Glenmurray passed them, and to his respectful bow she returned a most
cordial salutation. 'Gracious me! my dear,' said her companion, 'do you
know who that man is?'

'Certainly:--it is Mr Glenmurray.'

'And do you speak to him?'

'Yes:--why should I not?'

'Dear me! Why, I am sure! Why--don't you know what he is?'

'Yes, a celebrated writer, and a man of genius.'

'Oh, that may be, Miss Mowbray: but they say one should not notice him,
because he is--'

'He is what?' said Adeline eagerly.

'I do not exactly know what; but I believe it is a French spy, or a
Jesuit.'

'Indeed?' replied Adeline laughing. 'But I am used to have better
evidence against a person than a _they say_ before I neglect an
acknowledged acquaintance: therefore, with your leave, I shall turn back
and talk a little to poor Mr Glenmurray.'

It so happened that _poor Mr Glenmurray_ heard every word of this
conversation; for he had turned round and followed Adeline and her fair
companion, to present to the former the glove which she had dropped; and
as they were prevented from proceeding by the crowd on the parade, which
was assembled to see some unusual sight, he, being immediately behind
them, could distinguish all that passed; so that Adeline turned round
to go in search of him before the blush of grateful admiration for her
kindness had left his cheek.

'Then she seeks me because I am shunned by others!' said Glenmurray
to himself. In a moment the world to him seemed to contain only two
beings, Adeline Mowbray and Frederic Glenmurray; and that Adeline,
starting and blushing with joyful surprise at seeing him so near her,
was then coming in search of him!--of him, the neglected Glenmurray!
Scarcely could he refrain catching the lovely and ungloved hand next him
to his heart; but he contented himself with keeping the glove that he
was before so eager to restore, and in a moment it was lodged in his
bosom.

Nor could 'I can't think what I have done with my glove,' which every
now and then escaped Adeline, prevail on him to own that he had found
it. At last, indeed, it became unnecessary; for Adeline, as she glanced
her eye towards Glenmurray, discovered it in the hiding-place: but,
as delicacy forbade her to declare the discovery which she had made,
he was suffered to retain his prize; though a deep and sudden blush
which overspread his cheek, and a sudden pause which she made in her
conversation, convinced Glenmurray that she had detected his secret.
Perhaps he was not sorry--nor Adeline; but certain it is that Adeline
was for the remainder of the morning more lost in reverie than ever her
mother had been; and that from that day every one, but Adeline and
Glenmurray, saw that they were mutually enamoured.

Glenmurray was the first of the two lovers to perceive that they were
so; and he made the discovery with a mixture of pain and pleasure. For
what could be the result of such an attachment? He was firmly resolved
never to marry; and it was very unlikely that Adeline, though she had
often expressed to him her approbation of his writings and opinions,
should be willing to sacrifice everything to love, and become his
mistress. But a circumstance took place which completely removed his
doubts on this subject.

Several weeks had elapsed since the first arrival of the Mowbrays at
Bath, and in that time almost all their acquaintances had left them one
by one; but neither Mrs Mowbray nor Adeline had paid much attention to
this circumstance. Mrs Mowbray's habits of abstraction, as usual, made
her regardless of common occurrences; and to these were added the more
delightful reverie occasioned by the attentions of a very handsome and
insinuating man, and the influence of a growing passion. Mrs Mowbray,
as we have before observed, married from duty, not inclination; and to
the passion of love she had remained a total stranger, till she became
acquainted at Bath with Sir Patrick O'Carrol. Yes; Mrs Mowbray was in
love for the first time when she was approaching her fortieth year! and
a woman is never so likely to be the fool of love, as when it assails
her late in life, especially if a lover be as great a novelty to her as
the passion itself. Though not, alas! restored to a second youth, the
tender victim certainly enjoys a second childhood, and exhibits but too
openly all the little tricks and _minaudieres_ of a love-sick girl,
without the youthful appearance that in a degree excuses them. This was
the case with Mrs Mowbray; and while, regardless of her daughter's
interest and happiness, she was lost in the pleasing hopes of marrying
the agreeable baronet, no wonder the cold neglect of her Bath associates
was not seen by her.

Adeline, engrossed also by the pleasing reveries of a first love, was
as unconscious of it as herself. Indeed she thought of nothing but love
and Glenmurray; else, she could not have failed to see, that, while Sir
Patrick's attentions and flatteries were addressed to her mother, his
ardent looks and passionate sighs were all directed to herself.

Sir Patrick O'Carrol was a young Irishman, of an old family but an
encumbered estate; and it was his wish to set his estate free by
marrying a rich wife, and one as little disagreeable as possible. With
this view he came to Bath; and in Mrs Mowbray he not only beheld a woman
of large independent fortune, but possessed of great personal beauty,
and young enough to be attractive. Still, though much pleased with the
wealth and appearance of the mother, he soon became enamoured of the
daughter's person; and had he not gone so far in his addresses to Mrs
Mowbray as to make it impossible she should willingly transfer him to
Adeline, and give her a fortune at all adequate to his wants, he would
have endeavoured honourably to gain her affections, and entered the
lists against the favoured Glenmurray.

But, as he wanted the mother's wealth, he resolved to pursue his
advantage with her, and trust to some future chance for giving him
possession of the daughter. In his dealings with men, Sir Patrick was
a man of honour; in his dealings with women, completely the reverse:
he considered them as a race of subordinate beings, and that if, like
horses, they were well lodged, fed, and kept clean, they had no right to
complain.

Constantly therefore did he besiege Mrs. Mowbray with his conversation,
and Adeline with his eyes; and the very libertine gaze with which he
often beheld her, gave a pang to Glenmurray which was but too soon
painfully increased.

Sir Patrick was the only man of fashion who did not object to visit at
Mrs. Mowbray's on account of her intimacy with Glenmurray; but he had
his own private reasons for going thither, and continued to visit at Mrs
Mowbray's though Glenmurray was generally there, and sometimes he and
the latter gentleman were the whole of their company.

One evening they and two ladies were drinking tea at Mrs Mowbray's
lodgings, when Mrs Mowbray was unusually silent and Adeline unusually
talkative. Adeline scarcely ever spoke in her mother's presence, from
deference to her abilities; and whatever might be Mrs Mowbray's defects
in other respects, her conversational talents and her uncommon command
of words were indisputable. But this evening, as I before observed,
Adeline, owing to her mother's tender abstractions, was obliged to exert
herself for the entertainment of the guests.

It so happened, also, that something was said by one of the party which
led to the subject of marriage, and Adeline was resolved not to let so
good an opportunity pass of proving to Glenmurray how sincerely she
approved his doctrine on that subject. Immediately, with an unreserve
which nothing but her ignorance of the world, and the strange education
which she had received, could at all excuse, she began to declaim
against marriage, as an institution at once absurd, unjust, and immoral,
and to declare that she would never submit to so contemptible a form, or
profane the sacred ties of love by so odious and unnecessary a ceremony.

This extraordinary speech, though worded elegantly and delivered
gracefully, was not received by any of her hearers, except Sir Patrick,
with any thing like admiration. The baronet, indeed, clapped his hands,
and cried 'Bravo! a fine spirited girl, upon my word!' in a manner so
loud, and so offensive to the feelings of Adeline, that, like the orator
of old, she was tempted to exclaim, 'What foolish thing can I have said,
that has drawn forth this applause?'

But Mrs Mowbray, though she could not help admiring the eloquence which
she attributed to her example,--was shocked at hearing Adeline declare
that her practice should be consonant to her theory; while Glenmurray,
though Adeline had only expressed his sentiments, and his reason
approved what she had uttered, felt his delicacy and his feelings
wounded by so open and decided an avowal of her opinions, and intended
conduct in consequence of them; and he was still more hurt, when he
saw how much it delighted Sir Patrick, and offended the rest of the
company; who, after a silence, the result of surprise and disgust,
suddenly arose, and, coldly wishing Mrs Mowbray good night, left the
house.

By Mrs Mowbray the cause of this abrupt departure was unsuspected: but
Adeline, who had more observation, was convinced that she was the cause
of it; and sighing deeply at the prejudices of the world, she sought to
console herself by looking at Glenmurray, expecting to find in his eyes
an expression of delight and approbation. To her great disappointment,
however, his countenance was sad; while Sir Patrick, on the contrary,
had an expression of impudent triumph in his look, which made her turn
blushing from his ardent gaze, and indignantly follow her mother, who
was then leaving the room.

As she passed him, Sir Patrick caught her hand rapturously to his lips
(an action which made Glenmurray start from his chair), and exclaimed,
'Really you are the only honest little woman I ever knew! I always was
sure that what you just now said was the opinion of all your sex, though
they were so confounded coy they would not own it.'

'Own what Sir?' asked the astonished Adeline.

'That they thought marriage a cursed bore, and preferred leading the
life of honour, to be sure.'

'The life of honour! What is that?' demanded Adeline, while Glenmurray
paced the room in agitation.

'That life, my dear girl, which you mean to lead;--love and liberty with
the man of your heart.'

'Sir Patrick,' cried Glenmurray impatiently, 'this conversation is--'

'Prodigiously amusing to me,' returned the baronet, 'especially as I
never could hold it to a modest woman before.'

'Nor shall you now, Sir,' fiercely interrupted Glenmurray.

'Shall not, Sir?' vociferated Sir Patrick.

'Pray, gentlemen, be less violent,' exclaimed the terrified and
astonished Adeline. 'I can't think what could offend you, Mr Glenmurray,
in Sir Patrick's original observation: the life of honour appears to me
a very excellent name for the pure and honourable union which it is my
wish to form; and--'

'There; I told you so;' triumphantly interrupted Sir Patrick: 'and I
never was better pleased in life:--sweet creature! at once so lovely, so
wise, and so liberal!'

'Sir,' cried Glenmurray, 'this is a mistake: your life of honour and
Miss Mowbray's are as different as possible; you are talking of what
you are grossly ignorant of.'

'Ignorant! I ignorant! Look you, Mr Glenmurray, do you pretend to tell
me I know not what the life of honour is, when I have led it so many
times with so many different women?'

'How, Sir!' replied Adeline: 'many times? and with many different women?
My life of honour can be led with one only.'

'Well, my dear soul, I only led it with one at a time.'

'O Sir! you are indeed ignorant of my meaning,' she rejoined: 'It is the
individuality of an attachment that constitutes its purity; and--'

'Ba-ba-bu, my lovely girl! which has purity to do in the business?'

'Indeed, Sir Patrick,' meekly returned Adeline, 'I--'

'Miss Mowbray,' angrily interrupted Glenmurray, 'I beg, I conjure you to
drop this conversation: your innocence is no match for--'

'For what, Sir?' furiously demanded Sir Patrick.

'Your licentiousness,' replied Glenmurray.

'Sir, I wear a sword,' cried the baronet.--'And I a cane,' said
Glenmurray calmly, 'either to defend myself or chastise insolence.'

'Mr Glenmurray! Sir Patrick!' exclaimed the agitated Adeline: 'for my
sake, for pity's sake desist!'

'For the present I will, madam,' faltered out Sir Patrick;--'but I know
Mr Glenmurray's address, and he shall hear from me.'

'Hear from you! Why, you do not mean to challenge him? you can't suppose
Mr Glenmurray would do so absurd a thing as fight a duel? Sir, he has
written a volume to prove the absurdity of the custom.--No, no! you
threaten his life in vain,' she added, giving her hand to Glenmurray;
who, in the tenderness of the action and the tone of her voice, forgot
the displeasure which her inadvertency had caused, and pressing her hand
to his lips, secretly renewed his vows of unalterable attachment.

'Very well, madam,' exclaimed Sir Patrick in a tone of pique: 'then, so
as Mr Glenmurray's life is safe, you care not what becomes of mine!'

'Sir,' replied Adeline, 'the safety of a fellow-creature is always of
importance in my eyes.'

'Then you care for me as a fellow-creature only,' retorted Sir
Patrick, 'not as Sir Patrick O'Carrol?--Mighty fine, truly, you dear
ungrateful--' seizing her hand; which he relinquished, as well as the
rest of his speech, on the entrance of Mrs Mowbray.

Soon after Adeline left the room, and Glenmurray bowed and retired;
while Sir Patrick, having first repeated his vows of admiration to the
mother, returned home to muse on the charms of the daughter, and the
necessity of challenging the moral Glenmurray.

Sir Patrick was a man of courage, and had fought several duels: but as
life at this time had a great many charms for him, he resolved to defer
at least putting himself in the way of getting rid of it; and after
having slept late in the morning, to make up for the loss of sleep in
the night, occasioned by his various cogitations, he rose, resolved to
go to Mrs Mowbray's, and if he had an opportunity, indulge himself in
some practical comments on the singular declaration made the evening
before by her lovely daughter.

Glenmurray meanwhile had passed the night in equal watchfulness and
greater agitation. To fight a duel would be, as Adeline observed,
contrary to his principles; and to decline one, irritated as he was
against Sir Patrick, was repugnant to his feelings.

To no purpose did he peruse and re-peruse nearly the whole of his
own book against duelling; he had few religious restraints to make
him resolve on declining a challenge, and he felt moral ones of little
avail: but in vain did he sit at home till the morning was far advanced,
expecting a messenger from Sir Patrick;--no messenger came:--he
therefore left word with his servant, that, if wanted, he might be found
at Mrs Mowbray's, and went thither, in hopes of enjoying an hour's
conversation with Adeline; resolving to hint to her, as delicately as he
could, that the opinions which she had expressed were better confined,
in the present dark state of the public mind, to a select and
discriminating circle.




CHAPTER VI


Sir Patrick had reached Mrs Mowbray's some time before him, and had,
to his great satisfaction, found Adeline alone; nor did it escape his
penetration that her cheeks glowed, and her eyes sparkled with pleasure,
at his approach.

But he would not have rejoiced in this circumstance, had he known
that Adeline was pleased to see him merely because she considered his
appearance as a proof of Glenmurray's safety; for, in spite of his
having written against duelling, and of her confidence in his firmness
and consistency, she was not quite convinced that the reasoning
philosopher would triumph over the feeling man.

'You are welcome, Sir Patrick!' cried Adeline, as he entered, with a
most winning smile: 'I am very glad to see you: pray sit down.'

The baronet, who, audacious as his hopes and intentions were, had not
expected so kind a reception, was quite thrown off his guard by it, and
catching her suddenly in his arms, endeavoured to obtain a still kinder
welcome. Adeline as suddenly disengaged herself from him, and, with the
dignity of offended modesty, desired him to quit the room, as, after
such an insolent attempt, she could not think herself justified in
suffering him to remain with her.

But her anger was soon changed into pity, when she saw Sir Patrick lay
down his hat, seat himself, and burst into a long deliberate laugh.

'He is certainly mad!' she exclaimed; and, leaning against the
chimney-piece, she began to contemplate him with a degree of fearful
interest.

'Upon my soul! now,' cried the baronet, when his laugh was over, 'you
do not suppose, my dear creature, that you and I do not understand one
another! Telling a young fellow to leave the house on such occasions,
means, in the pretty no meaning of your sex, "Stay, and offend again,"
to be sure.'

'He is certainly mad!' said Adeline, more confirmed than before in her
idea of his insanity, and immediately endeavoured to reach the door: but
in so doing she approached Sir Patrick, who, rather roughly seizing her
trembling hand, desired her to sit down, and hear what he had to say to
her. Adeline, thinking it not right to irritate him, instantly obeyed.

'Now, then, to open my mind to you,' said the baronet, drawing his chair
close to hers: 'From the very first moment I saw you, I felt that we
were made for one another; though, being bothered by my debts, I made up
to the old duchess, and she nibbled the bait directly,--deeming my clean
inches (six feet one, without shoes) well worth her dirty acres.'

'How dreadfully incoherent he is!' thought Adeline, not suspecting for a
moment that, by the old duchess, he meant her still blooming mother.

'But, my lovely dear!' continued Sir Patrick, most ardently pressing her
hand, 'so much have your sweet person, and your frank and liberal way of
thinking, charmed me, that I here freely offer myself to you, and we will
begin the life of honour together as soon as you please.'

Still Adeline, who was unconscious how much her avowed opinions, had
exposed her to insult, continued to believe Sir Patrick insane; a belief
which the wildness of his eyes confirmed. 'I really know not,--you
surprise me, Sir Patrick,--I--'

'Surprise you, my dear soul! How could you expect anything else from
a man of my spirit, after your honest declaration last night?--All I
feared was, that Glenmurray should get the start of me.'

Adeline, though alarmed, bewildered, and confounded, had still
recollection enough to know that, whether sane or insane, the words and
looks of Sir Patrick were full of increasing insult. 'I believe, I think
I had better retire', faltered out Adeline.

'Retire!--No, indeed,' exclaimed the baronet; rudely seizing her.

This outrage restored Adeline to her usual spirit and self-possession;
and bestowing on him the epithet of 'mean-soul'd ruffian!' she had
almost freed herself from his grasp, when a quick step was heard on the
stairs, and the door was thrown open by Glenmurray. In a moment Adeline,
bursting into tears, threw herself into his arms, as if in search of
protection.

Glenmurray required no explanation of the scene before him: the
appearance of the actors in it was explanation sufficient; and while
with one arm he fondly held Adeline to his bosom, he raised the other in
a threatening attitude against Sir Patrick, exclaiming as he did it,
'Base, unmanly villain!'

'Villain!' echoed Sir Patrick--'but it is very well--very well for the
present--Good morning to you, sir!' So saying he hastily withdrew.

As soon as he was gone, Glenmurray for the first time declared to
Adeline the ardent passion with which she had inspired him; and she,
with equal frankness, confessed that her heart was irrevocably his.

From this interesting tete-a-tete Adeline was summoned to attend a
person on business to her mother; and during her absence Glenmurray
received a challenge from the angry baronet, appointing him to meet him
that afternoon at five o'clock, about two miles from Bath. To this note,
for fear of alarming the suspicions of Adeline, Glenmurray returned only
a verbal message, saying he would answer it in two hours: but as soon as
she returned he pleaded indispensable business; and before she could
mention any fears respecting the consequences of what had passed between
him and Sir Patrick, he had left the room, having, to prevent any alarm,
requested leave to wait on her early the next day.

As soon as Glenmurray reached his lodgings, he again revolved in his
mind the propriety of accepting the challenge. 'How can I expect to
influence others by my theories to act right, if my practice sets them
a bad example?' But then again he exclaimed, 'How can I expect to have
any thing I say attended to, when, by refusing to fight, I put it in
the power of my enemies to assert I am a poltroon, and worthy only of
neglect and contempt? No, no; I must fight:--even Adeline herself,
especially as it is on her account, will despise me if I do not:'--and
then, without giving himself any more time to deliberate, he sent an
answer to Sir Patrick, promising to meet him at the time appointed.

But after he had sent it he found himself a prey to so much self-reproach,
and after he had forfeited his claims to consistency of conduct, he felt
himself so strongly aware of the value of it, that, had not the time of
the meeting been near at hand, he would certainly have deliberated upon
some means of retracting his consent to it.

Being resolved to do as little mischief as he could, he determined on
having no second in the business; and accordingly repaired to the field
accompanied only by a trusty servant, who had orders to wait his master's
pleasure at a distance.

Contrary to Glenmurray's expectations, Sir Patrick also came unattended
by a second; while his servant, who was with him, was, like the other,
desired to remain in the back ground.

'I wish, Mr Glenmurray, to do every thing honourable,' said the baronet,
after they had exchanged salutations: 'therefore, Sir, as I concluded
you would find it difficult to get a second, I am come without one, and
I _conclude_ that I _concluded_ right.--Aye, men of your principle can
have but few friends.'

'And men of your practice ought to have none, Sir Patrick,' retorted
Glenmurray: 'but, as I don't think it worth while to explain to you my
reasons for not having a second, as I fear that you are incapable of
understanding them, I must desire you to take your ground.'

'With all my heart,' replied his antagonist; and then taking aim, they
agreed to fire at the same moment.

They did so; and the servants, hearing the report of the pistols, ran to
the scene of action, and saw Sir Patrick bleeding in the sword-arm, and
Glenmurray, also wounded, leaning against a tree.

'This is cursed unlucky,' said Sir Patrick coolly: 'you have disabled my
right arm. I can't go on with this business at present; but when I am
well again command me. Your wound, I believe, is as slight as mine; but
as I can walk, and you cannot, and as I have a chaise, and you not, you
shall use it to convey you and your servant home, and I and mine will go
on foot.'

To this obliging offer Glenmurray was incapable of giving denial; for he
became insensible from loss of blood, and with the assistance of his
antagonist was carried to the chaise, and supported by his terrified
servant, conveyed back to Bath.

It is not to be supposed that an event of this nature should be long
unknown. It was soon told all over the city that Sir Patrick O'Carrol
and Mr Glenmurray had fought a duel, and that the latter was dangerously
wounded; the quarrel having originated in Mr Glenmurray's scoffing at
religion, king, and constitution, before the pious and loyal baronet.

This story soon reached the ears of Mrs Mowbray, who, in an agony of
tender sorrow, and in defiance of all decorum, went in person to call
on her admired Sir Patrick; and Adeline, who heard of the affair soon
after, as regardless of appearances as her mother, and more alarmed,
went in person to inquire concerning her wounded Glenmurray.

By the time that she had arrived at his lodgings, not only his own
surgeon but Sir Patrick's had seen him, as his antagonist thought it
necessary to ascertain the true state of his wound, that he might know
whether he ought to stay, or fly his country.

The account of both the surgeons was, however, so favourable, and
Glenmurray in all respects so well, that Sir Patrick's alarms were soon
quite at an end; and the wounded man was lying on a sofa, lost in no
very pleasant reflections, when Adeline knocked at his door. Glenmurray
at that very moment was saying to himself, 'Well;--so much for principle
and consistency! Now, my next step must be to marry, and then I shall
have made myself a complete fool, and the worst of all fools,--a man
presuming to instruct others by his precepts, when he finds them
incapable of influencing even his own actions.'

At this moment his servant came up with Miss Mowbray's compliments, and,
if he was well enough to see her, she would come up and speak to him.

In an instant all his self-reproaches were forgotten; and when Adeline
hung weeping and silent on his shoulder, he could not but rejoice in an
affair which had procured him a moment of such heartfelt delight. At
first Adeline expressed nothing but terror at the consequences of his
wound, and pity for his sufferings; but when she found that he was in
no danger, and in very little pain, the tender mistress yielded to the
severe monitress, and she began to upbraid Glenmurray for having acted
not only in defiance of her wishes and principles, but of his own; of
principles laid down by him to the world in the strongest point of view,
and in a manner convincing to every mind.

'Dearest Adeline, consider the provocation,' cried Glenmurray:--'a gross
insult offered to the woman I love!'

'But who ever fought a duel without provocation, Glenmurray? If
provocation be a justification, your book was unnecessary; and did not
you offer an insult to the understanding of the woman you love, in
supposing that she could be obliged to you for playing the fool on her
account?'

'But I should have been called a coward had I declined the challenge;
and though I can bear the world's hatred, I could not its contempt:--I
could not endure the loss of what the world calls honour.'

'Is it possible,' rejoined Adeline, 'that I hear the philosophical
Glenmurray talking thus, in the silly jargon of a man of the world?'

'Alas! I am a man, not a philosopher, Adeline!'

'At least be a sensible one;--consistent I dare not now call you. But
have you forgotten the distinction which, in your volume on the subject
of duels, you so strongly lay down between real and apparent honour?
In which of the two classes do you put the honour of which, in this
instance, you were so tenacious? What is there in common between the
glory of risking the life of a fellow-creature, and testimony of an
approving conscience?'

'An excellent observation that of yours, indeed, my sweet monitress,'
said Glenmurray.

'An observation of mine; It is your own,' replied Adeline: 'but see, I
have the book in my muff; and I will punish you for the badness of your
practice, by giving you a dose of your theory.'

'Cruel girl!' cried Glenmurray, 'I am not ordered a sleeping draught!'

Adeline was however resolved; and, opening the book, she read argument
after argument with unyielding perseverance, till Glenmurray, who,
like the eagle in the song, saw on the dart that wounded him his own
feathers, cried 'Quarter!'

'But tell me, dear Adeline,' said Glenmurray, a little piqued at her too
just reproofs, 'you, who are so severe on my want of consistency, are
you yourself capable of acting up in every respect to your precepts?'

'After your weakness,' replied Adeline, smiling, 'it becomes me to
doubt my own strength; but I assure you that I make it a scruple of
conscience, to show by my conduct my confidence in the truth of my
opinions.'

'Then, in defiance of the world's opinion, that opinion which I, you
see, had not resolution to brave, you will be mine--not according to the
ties of marriage, but with no other ties or sanction than those of love
and reason?'

'I will,' said Adeline: 'and may He whom I worship' (raising her fine
eyes and white arms to heaven) 'desert me when I desert you!'

Who that had seen her countenance and gesture at that moment, could have
imagined she was calling on heaven to witness an engagement to lead a
life of infamy? Rather would they have thought her a sublime enthusiast
breathing forth the worship of a grateful soul.

It may be supposed that Glenmurray's heart beat with exultation at this
confession from Adeline, and that he forgot, in the promised indulgence
of his passion, those bounds which strict decorum required. But
Glenmurray did her justice; he beheld her as she was--all purity of
feeling and all delicacy; and, if possible, the slight favours by which
true love is long contented to be fed, though granted by Adeline with
more conscious emotion, were received by him with more devoted respect:
besides, he again felt that mixture of pain with pleasure, on this
assurance of her love, which he had experienced before. For he knew,
though Adeline did not, the extent of the degradation into which the
step which her conscience approved would necessarily precipitate her;
and experience alone could convince him that her sensibility to shame,
when she was for the first time exposed to it, would not overcome her
supposed fortitude and boasted contempt of the world's opinion, and
change all the roses of love into the thorns of regret and remorse.

And could he who doted on her;--he, too, who admired her as much for her
consummate purity as for any other of her qualities;--could he bear to
behold this fair creature, whose open eye beamed with the consciousness
of virtue, casting her timid glances to the earth, and shrinking with
horror from the conviction of having in the world's eye forfeited all
pretensions to that virtue which alone was the end of her actions! Would
the approbation of her own mind be sufficient to support her under such
a trial, though she had with such sweet earnestness talked to him of its
efficacy! These reflections had for some time past been continually
occurring to him, and now they came across his mind blighting the
triumphs of successful passion:--nay, but from the dread of incurring
yet more ridicule, on account of the opposition of his practice to his
theory, and perhaps the indignant contempt of Adeline, he could have
thrown himself at her feet, conjuring her to submit to the degradation
of being a wife.

But, unknown to Glenmurray, perhaps, another reason prompted him to
desire this concession from Adeline. We are never more likely to be in
reality the slaves of selfishness, than when we fancy ourselves acting
with most heroic disinterestedness.--Egotism loves a becoming dress, and
is always on the watch to hide her ugliness by the robe of benevolence.
Glenmurray thought that he was willing to marry Adeline merely for _her_
sake! but I suspect it was chiefly for _his_. The true and delicate
lover is always a monopolizer, always desirous of calling the woman
of his affections his own: it is not only because he considers marriage
as a holy institution that the lover leads his mistress to the altar;
but because it gives him a right to appropriate the fair treasure to
himself,--because it sanctions and perpetuates the dearest of all
monopolies, and erects a sacred barrier to guard his rights,--around
which, all that is respectable in society, all that is most powerful and
effectual in its organization, is proud and eager to rally.

But while Glenmurray, in spite of his happiness, was sensible to an
alloy of it, and Adeline was tenderly imputing to the pain of his wound
the occasionally mournful expression of his countenance, Adeline took
occasion to declare that she would live with Glenmurray only on condition
that such a step met with her mother's approbation.

'Then are my hopes for ever at an end,' said Glenmurray:--'or,--or' (and
spite of himself his eyes sparkled as he spoke)--'or we must submit to
the absurd ceremony of marriage.'

'Marriage!' replied the astonished Adeline: 'can you think so meanly
of my mother, as to suppose her practice so totally opposite to her
principles, that she would require her daughter to submit to a ceremony
which she herself regards with contempt?--Impossible. I am sure, when I
solicit her consent to my being yours, she will be pleased to find that
her sentiments and observations have not been thrown away on me.'

Glenmurray thought otherwise: however, he bowed and was silent; and
Adeline declared that, to put an end to all doubt on the subject, she
would instantly go in search of Mrs Mowbray and propose the question to
her: and Glenmurray, feeling himself more weak and indisposed than he
chose to own to her, allowed her, though reluctantly, to depart.




CHAPTER VII


Mrs Mowbray was but just returned from her charitable visit when Adeline
entered the room. 'And pray, Miss Mowbray, where have you been?' she
exclaimed, seeing Adeline with her hat and cloak on.

'I have been visiting poor Mr Glenmurray,' she replied.

'Indeed!' cried Mrs Mowbray: 'and without my leave! and pray who went
with you?'

'Nobody, ma'am.'

'Nobody!--What! visit a man alone at his lodgings, after the education
which you have received!'

'Indeed, madam,' replied Adeline meekly, 'my education never taught me
that such conduct was improper; nor, as you did the same this afternoon,
could I have dared to think it so.'

'You are mistaken, Miss Mowbray,' replied her mother: 'I did not do the
same; for the terms which I am upon with Sir Patrick made my visiting
him no impropriety at all.'

'If you think I have acted wrong,' replied Adeline timidly, 'no doubt I
have done so; though you were quite right in visiting Sir Patrick, as
the respectability of your age and character, and Sir Patrick's youth,
warranted the propriety of the visit:--but, surely the terms which I am
upon with Mr Glenmurray--'

'The terms which you are upon with Mr Glenmurray! and my age and
character! what can you mean?' angrily exclaimed Mrs Mowbray.

'I hope, my dear mother,' said Adeline tenderly, 'that you had long
ere this guessed the attachment which subsists between Mr Glenmurray
and me;--an attachment cherished by your high opinion of him and his
writings; but which respect has till now made me hesitate to mention to
you.'

'Would to heaven!' replied Mrs Mowbray, 'that respect had made you
for ever silent on the subject! Do you suppose that I would marry my
daughter to a man of small fortune,--but more especially to one who, as
Sir Patrick informs me, is shunned for his principles and profligacy by
all the world?'

'To what Sir Patrick says of Mr Glenmurray I pay no attention,' answered
Adeline; 'nor are you, my dear mother, capable, I am sure, of being
influenced by the prejudices of the world.--But you are quite mistaken
in supposing me so lost to consistency, and so regardless of your
liberal opinions and the books which we have studied, as to think of
_marrying_ Mr Glenmurray.'

'Grant me patience!' cried Mrs Mowbray; 'why, to be sure you do not
think of living with him _without_ being married?'

'Certainly, madam; that you may have the pleasure of beholding one union
founded on rational grounds and cemented by rational ties.'

'How!' cried Mrs Mowbray, turning pale. 'I!--I have pleasure in seeing
my daughter a kept mistress!--You are mad, quite mad.--_I_ approve such
unhallowed connexions!'

'My dearest mother,' replied Adeline, 'your agitation terrifies me,--but
indeed what I say is strictly true; and see here, in Mr Glenmurray's
book, the very passage which I so often have heard you admire.' As she
said this, Adeline pointed to the passage; but in an instant Mrs Mowbray
seized the book and threw it on the fire.

Before Adeline had recovered her consternation Mrs Mowbray fell into a
violent hysteric; and long was it before she was restored to composure.
When she recovered she was so exhausted that Adeline dared not renew
the conversation; but leaving her to rest, she made up a bed on the
floor in her mother's room, and passed a night of wretchedness and
watchfulness,--the first of the kind which she had ever known.--Would
it had been the last!

In the morning Mrs Mowbray awoke, refreshed and calm; and, affected at
seeing the pale cheek and sunk eye of Adeline, indicative of a sleepless
and unhappy night, she held out her hand to her with a look of kindness;
Adeline pressed it to her lips, as she knelt by the bed-side, and
moistened it with tears of regret for the past and alarm for the future.

'Adeline, my dear child,' said Mrs Mowbray in a faint voice, 'I hope you
will no longer think of putting a design in execution so fraught with
mischief to you, and horror to me. Little did I think that you were so
romantic as to see no difference between amusing one's imagination with
new theories and new systems, and acting upon them in defiance of common
custom, and the received usages of society. I admire the convenient
trousers and graceful dress of the Turkish women; but I would not wear
them myself, lest it should expose me to derision.'

'Is there no difference,' thought Adeline, 'between the importance of a
dress and an opinion!--Is the one to be taken up, and laid down again,
with the same indifference as the other!' But she continued silent, and
Mrs Mowbray went on.

'The poetical philosophy which I have so much delighted to study, has
served me to ornament my conversation, and make persons less enlightened
than myself wonder at the superior boldness of my fancy, and the acuteness
of my reasoning powers;--but I should as soon have thought of making
this little gold chain round my neck fasten the hall-door, as act upon
the precepts laid down in those delightful books. No; though I think all
they say is true, I believe the purity they inculcate too much for this
world.'

Adeline listened in silent astonishment and consternation. Conscience,
and the conviction of what is right, she then for the first time learned,
were not to be the rule of action; and though filial tenderness made her
resolve never to be the mistress of Glenmurray, she also resolved never
to be his wife, or that of any other man; while, in spite of herself,
the great respect with which she had hitherto regarded her mother's
conduct and opinions began to diminish.

'Would to heaven, my dear mother,' said Adeline, when Mrs Mowbray had
done speaking, 'that you had said all this to me ere my mind had been
indelibly impressed with the truth of these forbidden doctrines; for now
my conscience tells me that I ought to act up to them!'

'How!' exclaimed Mrs Mowbray, starting up in her bed, and in a voice
shrill with emotion, 'are you then resolved to disobey me, and dishonour
yourself?'

'Oh! never, never!' replied Adeline, alarmed at her mother's violence,
and fearful of a relapse. 'Be but the kind affectionate parent that you
have ever been to me; and though I will never marry out of regard to
my own principles, I will also never contract any other union, out
of respect to your wishes,--but will lead with you a quiet, if not a
_happy_ life; for never, never can I forget Glenmurray.'

'There speaks the excellent child I always thought you to be!' replied
Mrs Mowbray; 'and I shall leave it to time and good counsels to convince
you, that the opinions of a girl of eighteen, as they are not founded
on long experience, may possibly be erroneous.'

Mrs Mowbray never made a truer observation; but Adeline was not in a
frame of mind to assent to it.

'Besides,' continued Mrs Mowbray, 'had I ever been disposed to accept
of Mr Glenmurray as a son-in-law, it is very unlikely that I should be
so now; as the duel took place not only, I find, from the treasonable
opinions which he put forth, but from some disrespectful language which
he held concerning me.'

'Who could dare to invent so infamous a calumny!' exclaimed Adeline.

'My authority is unquestionable, Miss Mowbray; I speak from Sir Patrick
himself.'

'Then he adds falsehood to his other villanies!' returned Adeline,
almost inarticulate with rage:--'but what could be expected from a man
who could dare to insult a young woman under the roof of her mother with
his licentious addresses?'

'What mean you?' cried Mrs Mowbray, turning pale.

'I mean that Sir Patrick yesterday morning insulted me by the grossest
familiarities, and--'

'My dear child,' replied Mrs Mowbray laughing, 'that is only the usual
freedom of his manner; a manner which your ignorance of the world led
you to mistake. He did not mean to insult you, believe me, I am sure
that, spite of his ardent passion for me, he never, even when alone with
me, hazarded any improper liberty.'

'The ardent passion which he feels for you, madam!' exclaimed Adeline,
turning pale in her turn.

'Yes, Miss Mowbray! What, I suppose you think me too old to inspire
one!--But, I assure you, there are people who think the mother handsomer
than the daughter!'

'No doubt, dear mother, every one ought to think so,--and would to
heaven Sir Patrick were one of those! But he, unfortunately--'

'Is of that opinion,' interrupted Mrs Mowbray angrily: 'and to convince
you--so tenderly does he love me, and so fondly do I return his passion,
that in a few days I shall become his wife.'

Adeline, on hearing this terrible information, fell insensible on the
ground. When she recovered she saw Mrs Mowbray anxiously watching by
her, but not with that look of alarm and tenderness with which she had
attended her during her long illness; that look which was always present
to her graceful and affectionate remembrance. No; Mrs Mowbray's eye was
cast down with a half-mournful, half-reproachful, and half-fearful
expression, when it met that of Adeline.

The emotion of anguish which her fainting had evinced was a reproach to
the proud heart of Mrs Mowbray, and Adeline felt that it was so; but
when she recollected that her mother was going to marry a man who had
so lately declared a criminal passion for herself, she was very near
relapsing into insensibility. She however struggled with her feelings,
in order to gain resolution to disclose to Mrs Mowbray all that had
passed between her and Sir Patrick. But as soon as she offered to renew
the conversation, Mrs Mowbray sternly commanded her to be silent; and
insisting on her going to bed, she left her to her own reflections, till
wearied and exhausted she fell into a sound sleep: nor, as it was late
in the evening when she awoke, did she rise again till the next morning.

Mrs Mowbray entered her room as she was dressing and inquired how she
did, with some kindness.

'I shall be better, dear mother, if you will but hear what I have to say
concerning Sir Patrick,' replied Adeline, bursting into tears.

'You can say nothing that will shake my opinion of him, Miss Mowbray,'
replied her mother coldly: 'so I advise you to reconcile yourself to a
circumstance which it is not in your power to prevent.' So saying, she
left the room: and Adeline, convinced that all she could say would be
vain, endeavoured to console herself, by thinking that, as soon as Sir
Patrick became the husband of her mother, his wicked designs on her
would undoubtedly cease; and that, therefore, in one respect, that
ill-assorted union would be beneficial to her.

Sir Patrick, meanwhile, was no less sanguine in his expectations from
his marriage. Unlike the innocent Adeline, he did not consider his union
with the mother as a necessary check to his attempts on the daughter;
but, emboldened by what to him appeared the libertine sentiments of
Adeline, and relying on the opportunities of being with her, which he
must infallibly enjoy under the same roof in the country, he looked on
her as his certain prey. Though he believed Glenmurray to be at that
moment preferred to himself, he thought it impossible that the superior
beauty of his person should not, in the end, have its due weight: as a
passion founded in esteem, and the admiration of intellectual beauty,
could not, in his opinion, subsist: besides, Adeline appeared in his
eyes not a deceived enthusiast, but a susceptible and forward girl,
endeavouring to hide her frailty under fine sentiments and high-sounding
theories. Nor was Sir Patrick's inference an unnatural one. Every man
of the world would have thought the same; and on very plausible
grounds.




CHAPTER VIII


As Sir Patrick was not 'punctual as lovers to the moment sworn', Mrs
Mowbray resolved to sit down and write immediately to Glenmurray;
flattering herself at the same time, that the letter which was designed
to confound Glenmurray would delight the tender baronet;--for Mrs
Mowbray piqued herself on her talents for letter-writing, and was not a
little pleased with an opportunity of displaying them to a celebrated
author. But never before did she find writing a letter so difficult a
task. Her eager wish of excelling deprived her of the means; and she
who, in a letter to a friend or relation, would have written in a
style at once clear and elegant, after two hours' effort produced the
following specimen of the obscure, the pedantic, and affected.--


       'SIR,

     'The light which cheers and attracts, if we follow its
     guidance, often leads us into bogs and quagmires:--Verbum
     sapienti. Your writings are the lights, and the practice to
     which you advise my deluded daughter is the bog and quagmire. I
     agree with you in all you have said against marriage;--I agree
     with the savage nations in the total uselessness of clothing;
     still I condescend to wear clothes, though neither becoming nor
     useful, because I respect public opinion; and I submit to the
     institution of marriage for reasons equally cogent. Such being
     my sentiments, Sir, I must desire you never to see my daughter
     more. Nor could you expect to be received with open arms by me,
     whom the shafts of your ridicule have pierced, though warded
     off by the shield of love and gallantry;--but for this I thank
     you! Now shall I possess, owing to your baseness, at once a
     declared lover and a tried avenger; and the chains of Hymen
     will be rendered more charming by gratitude's having blown the
     flame, while love forged the fetters.

     'But with your writings I continue to amuse my
     imagination.--Lovely is the flower of the nightshade, though
     its berry be poison. Still shall I admire and wonder at you as
     an author, though I avoid and detest you as a man.

                                                  'EDITHA MOWBRAY.'

This letter was just finished when Sir Patrick arrived, and to him it
was immediately shown.

'Heh! what have we here?' cried he laughing violently as he perused it.
'Here you talk of being pierced by shafts which were warded off. Now,
had I said that, it would have been called a bull. As to the concluding
paragraph--'

'O! that, I flatter myself,' said Mrs Mowbray, 'will tear him with
remorse.'

'He must first understand it,' cried Sir Patrick: 'I can but just
comprehend it, and am sure it will be all botheration to him.'

'I am sorry to find such is your opinion,' replied Mrs Mowbray; 'for I
think that sentence the best written of any.'

'I did not say it was not fine writing,' replied the baronet, 'I only
said it was not to be understood.--But, with your leave, you shall send
the letter, and we'll drop the subject.'

So said, so done, to the great satisfaction of Sir Patrick, who felt
that it was for his interest to suffer the part of Mrs Mowbray's letter
which alluded to Glenmurray's supposed calumnies against her to remain
obscurely worded, as he well knew that what he had asserted on this
subject was wholly void of foundation.

Glenmurray did not receive it with equal satisfaction. He was indignant
at the charge of having advised Adeline to become his mistress rather
than his wife; and as so much of the concluding passage as he could
understand seemed to imply that he had calumniated her mother, to remain
silent a moment would have been to confess himself guilty: he therefore
answered Mrs Mowbray's letter immediately. The answer was as follows:--


       'MADAM,

     'To clear myself from the charge of having advised Miss Mowbray
     to a step contrary to the common customs, however erroneous,
     of society at this period, I appeal to the testimony of Miss
     Mowbray herself; and I here repeat to you the assurance which
     I made to her, that I am willing to marry her when and where
     she chooses. I love my system and my opinions, but the
     respectability of the woman of my affections _more_. Allow me,
     therefore, to make you a little acquainted with my situation in
     life:

     'To you it is well known, madam, that wealth, honours, and
     titles have no value in my eyes; and that I reverence talents
     and virtues, though they wear the garb of poverty, and are born
     in the most obscure stations. But you, or rather those who are
     so fortunate as to influence your determinations, may consider
     my sentiments on this subject as romantic and absurd. It is
     necessary, therefore, that I should tell you, as an excuse in
     their eyes for presuming to address your daughter, that, by the
     accident of birth, I am descended from an ancient family, and
     nearly allied to a noble one; and that my paternal inheritance,
     though not large enough for splendour and luxury, is sufficient
     for all the purposes of comfort and genteel affluence. I would
     say more on this subject, but I am impatient to remove from
     your mind the prejudice which you seem to have imbibed against
     me. I do not perfectly understand the last paragraph in your
     letter. If you will be so kind as to explain it to me, you may
     depend on my being perfectly ingenuous: indeed, I have no
     difficulty in declaring, that I have neither encouraged a
     feeling, nor uttered a word, capable of giving the lie to the
     declaration which I am now going to make--That I am,

         'With respect and esteem,

            'Your obedient servant,

                       'F. GLENMURRAY.'


This letter had an effect on Mrs Mowbray's feelings so much in favour
of Glenmurray, that she was almost determined to let him marry Adeline.
She felt that she owed her some amends for contracting a marriage so
suddenly, and without either her knowledge or approbation; and she
thought that, by marrying her to the man of her heart, she should make
her peace both with Adeline and herself. But, unfortunately, this
design, as soon as it began to be formed, was communicated to Sir
Patrick.

'So then!' exclaimed he, 'you have forgotten and forgiven the
impertinent things which the puppy said! things which obliged me to wear
this little useless appendage in a sling thus (pointing to his wounded
arm).'

'O! no, my dear Sir Patrick! But though what Mr Glenmurray said might
alarm the scrupulous tenderness of a lover, perhaps it was a remark
which might only suit the sincerity of a friend. Perhaps, if Mr
Glenmurray had made it to me, I should have heard it with thanks, and
with candour have approved it.'

'My sweet soul!' replied Sir Patrick, 'you may be as candid and amiable
as ever you please, but, 'by St. Patrick!' never shall Sir Patrick
O'Carrol be father-in-law to the notorious and infamous Glenmurray--that
subverter of all religion and order, and that scourge of civilized
society!'

So saying, he stalked about the room; and Mrs Mowbray, as she gazed on
his handsome person, thought it would be absurd for her to sacrifice her
own happiness to her daughter's, and give up Sir Patrick as her husband
in order to make Glenmurray her son. She therefore wrote another letter
to Glenmurray, forbidding him any further intercourse with Adeline, on
any pretence whatever; and delayed not a moment to send him her final
decision.

'That is acting like the sensible woman I took you for,' said Sir
Patrick: 'the fellow has now gotten his quietus, I trust, and the dear
little Adeline is reserved for happier fate. Sweet soul! you do not know
how fond she will be of me! I protest that I shall be so kind to her, it
will be difficult for people to decide which I love best, the daughter
or the mother.'

'But I hope _I_ shall always know, Sir Patrick,' said Mrs Mowbray
gravely.

'You!--O yes, to be sure. But I mean that my fatherly attentions shall
be of the warmest kind. But now do me the favour of telling me what hour
tomorrow I may appoint the clergyman to bring the license?'

The conversation that followed, it were needless and tedious to describe.
Suffice, that eight o'clock the next morning was fixed for the marriage;
and Mrs Mowbray, either from shame or compassion, resolved that Adeline
should not accompany her to church, nor even know of the ceremony till
it was over.

Nor was this a difficult matter. Adeline remained in her own apartment
all the preceding day, endeavouring, but in vain, to reconcile herself
to what she justly termed the degradation of her mother. She felt, alas!
the most painful of all feelings, next to that of self-abasement, the
consciousness of the abasement of one to whom she had all her life
looked up with love and veneration. To write to Glenmurray while
oppressed by such contending emotions she knew to be impossible; she
therefore contented herself with sending a verbal message, importing
that he should hear from her the next day: and poor Glenmurray passed
the rest of that day and the night in a state little better than her
own.

The next morning Adeline, who had not closed her eyes till daylight,
woke late, and from a sound but unrefreshing sleep. The first object she
saw was her maid, smartly dressed, sitting by her bed-side; and she also
saw that she had been crying.

'Is my mother ill, Evans?' she exclaimed.

'O! no, Miss Adeline, quite well,' replied the girl, sighing.

'But why are you so much dressed?' demanded Adeline.

'I have been out,' answered the maid.

'Not on unpleasant business?'

'That's as it may be,' she cried, turning away; and Adeline, from
delicacy, forebore to press her further.

''Tis very late--is it not?' asked Adeline, 'and time for me to rise!'

'Yes, miss--I believe you had better get up.'

Adeline immediately rose.--'Give me the dark gown I wore yesterday,'
said she.

'I think, miss, you had better put on your new white one,' returned the
maid.

'My new white one!' exclaimed Adeline, astonished at an interference so
new.

'Yes, miss--I think it will be taken kinder, and look better.'

At these words Adeline's suspicions were awakened. 'I see, Evans,' she
cried, 'you have something extraordinary to tell me:--I partly guess;
I,--my mother--' Here, unable to proceed, she lay down on the bed which
she had just quitted.

'Yes, Miss Adeline--'tis very true; but pray compose yourself, I am sure
I have cried enough on your account, that I have.'

'What is true, my good Evans?' said Adeline faintly.

'Why, miss, my lady was married this morning to Sir Patrick
O'Carrol!--Mercy on me, how pale you look! I am sure I wish the villain
was at the bottom of the sea, so I do.'

'Leave me,' said Adeline faintly, struggling for utterance.

'No--that I will not,' bluntly replied Evans; 'you are not fit to be
left; and they are rejoicing below with Sir Pat's great staring servant.
But, for my part, I had rather stay here and cry with you than laugh
with them.'

Adeline hid her face in the pillow, incapable of further resistance, and
groaned aloud.

'Who should ever have thought my lady would have done so!' continued the
maid.--'Only think, miss! they say, and I doubt it is too true, that
there have been no writings, or settlements, I think they call them,
drawn up; and so Sir Pat have got all, and he is over head and ears in
debt, and my lady is to pay him out on't!

At this account, which Adeline feared was a just one, as she had seen no
preparations for a wedding going on, and had observed no signs of deeds,
or any thing of the kind, she started up in an agony of grief--'Then
has my mother given me up, indeed!' she exclaimed, clasping her hands
together, 'and the once darling child may soon be a friendless outcast!'

'You want a friend, Miss Adeline!' said the kind girl, bursting into
tears.--'Never, while I live, or any of my fellow-servants.' And
Adeline, whose heart was bursting with a sense of forlornness and
abandonment, felt consoled by the artless sympathy of her attendant;
and, giving way to a violent flood of tears, she threw her arms round
her neck, and sobbed upon her bosom.

Having thus eased her feelings, she recollected that it was incumbent on
her to exert her fortitude; and that it was a duty which she owed her
mother not to condemn her conduct openly herself, nor suffer any one else
to do it in her presence: still, at that moment, she could not find in
her heart to reprove the observations by which, in spite of her sense of
propriety, she had been soothed and gratified; but she hastened to dress
herself as became a bridal dinner, and dismissed, as soon as she could,
the affectionate Evans from her presence. She then walked up and down
her chamber, in order to summon courage to enter the drawing-room.--'But
how strange, how cruel it was,' said she, 'that my mother did not come
to inform me of this important event herself!'

In this respect, however, Mrs Mowbray had acted kindly. Reluctant, even
more than she was willing to confess to her own heart, to meet Adeline
alone, she had chosen to conclude that she was still asleep, and had
desired she might not be disturbed; but soon after her return from
church, being assured that she was in a sound slumber, she had stolen to
her bed-side and put a note under her pillow, acquainting her with what
had passed: but this note Adeline in her restlessness had, with her
pillow, pushed on the floor, and there unseen it had remained. But, as
Adeline was pacing to and fro, she luckily observed it; and, by proving
that her mother had not been so very neglectful of her, it tended to
fortify her mind against the succeeding interview. The note began:--

    'My dearest child! to spare you, in your present weak state, the
    emotion which you would necessarily feel in attending me to the
    altar, I have resolved to let the ceremony be performed unknown
    to you. But, my beloved Adeline, I trust that your affection for
    me will make you rejoice in a step, which you may, perhaps, at
    present disapprove, when convinced that it was absolutely
    necessary to my happiness, and can, in no way, be the means of
    diminishing yours.

                         'I remain

                 'Your ever affectionate mother.'

'She loves me still then!' cried Adeline, shedding tears of tenderness,
'and I accused her unjustly.--O my dear mother, if this event should
indeed increase your happiness, never shall I repine at not having been
able to prevent it.' And then, after taking two or three hasty turns
round the room, and bathing her eyes to remove in a degree the traces of
her tears, she ventured into the drawing-room.

But the sight of her mother seated by Sir Patrick, his arm encircling
her waist, in that very room which had so lately witnessed his
profligate attempts on herself, deprived her of the little resolution
which she had been able to assume, and pale and trembling she sunk
speechless with emotion on the first chair near her.

Mrs Mowbray, or, as we must at present call her, Lady O'Carrol, was
affected by Adeline's distress, and, hastening to her, received the
almost fainting girl in her arms; while even Sir Patrick, feeling
compassion for the unhappiness which he could more readily understand
than his bride, was eager to hide his confusion by calling for water,
drops, and servants.

'I want neither medicine nor assistance now,' said Adeline, gently
raising her head from her mother's shoulder: 'the shock is over, and I
shall, I trust, behave in future with proper self-command.'

'Better late than never,' muttered Lady O'Carrol, on whom the word
_shock_ had not made a pleasant impression; while Sir Patrick,
approaching Adeline, exclaimed, 'If you have not self-command, Miss
Mowbray, it is the only command which you cannot boast; for your power
of commanding others no one can dispute, who has ever had the happiness
of beholding you.'

So saying, he took her hand; and, as her mother's husband, claimed the
privilege of saluting her,--a privilege which Adeline, though she almost
shrunk with horror from his touch, had _self-command_ enough not to
deny him: immediately after he claimed the same favour from his bride;
and they resumed their position on the sofa.

But so embarrassing was the situation of all parties that no
conversation took place; and Adeline, unable any longer to endure the
restraint to which she was obliged, rose, to return to her own room, in
order to hide the sorrow which she was on the point of betraying, when
her mother in a tone of reproach exclaimed, 'It grieves me to the soul,
Miss Mowbray, to perceive that you appear to consider as a day of
mourning the day which I consider as the happiest of my life.'

'Oh! my dearest mother!' replied Adeline, returning and approaching her,
'it is the dread of your deceiving yourself, only, that makes me sad at
a time like this: if this day in its consequences prove a happy one--'

'And wherefore should you doubt that it will, Miss Mowbray?'

'Miss Mowbray, do you doubt my honour?' cried Sir Patrick hastily.

Adeline instantly fixed her fine eyes on his face with a look which he
knew how to interpret, but not how to support: and he cast his to the
ground with painful consciousness.

She saw her triumph, and it gave her courage to proceed:--'O sir!' she
cried, 'it is in your power to convert all my painful doubts into joyful
certainties; make but my mother happy, and I will love and bless you
ever.--Promise me, sir,' she continued, her enthusiasm and affection
kindling as she spoke, 'promise me to be kind and indulgent to her;--she
has never known contradiction; she has been through life the darling
object of all who surrounded her; the pride of her parents, her husband,
and her child: neglect, injury, and unkindness she would inevitably sink
under: and I conjure you (here she dropped on her knees and extended her
arms in an attitude of entreaty) by all your hopes of happiness
hereafter, to give her reason to continue to name this the happiest day
of her life.'

Here she ceased, overcome by the violence of her emotions; but continued
her look and attitude of entreaty, full of such sweet earnestness,
that the baronet could hardly conceal the variety of feelings which
assailed him; amongst which, passion for the lovely object before him
predominated. To make a jest of Adeline's seriousness he conceived to be
the best way to conceal what he felt; and while Mrs Mowbray, overcome
with Adeline's expressions of tenderness, was giving way to them by a
flood of tears, and grasping in both hers the clasped hands of Adeline,
he cried, in an ironical tone,--'You are the most extraordinary motherly
young creature that I ever saw in my life, my dear girl! Instead of your
mother giving the nuptial benediction to you, the order of nature is
reversed, and you are giving it to her. Upon my word I begin to think,
seeing you in that posture, that you are my bride begging a blessing of
mamma on our union, and that I ought to be on my knees too.'

So saying, he knelt beside Adeline at Lady O'Carrol's feet, and in a
tone of mock solemnity besought her to bless both her affectionate
children: and as he did this, he threw his arm round the weeping girl,
and pressed her to his bosom. This speech, and this action, at once
banished all self-command from the indignant Adeline, and in an instant
she sprung from his embrace; and forgetting how much her violence must
surprise, if not alarm and offend, her mother, she rushed out of the
room, and did not stop till she had reached her own chamber.

When there, she was alarmed lest her conduct should have occasioned
both pain and resentment to Lady O'Carrol; and it was with trembling
reluctance that she obeyed the summons to dinner; but her fears were
groundless. The bride had fallen into one of her reveries during Sir
Patrick's strange speech, from which she awakened only at the last words
of it, viz. 'affectionate children:' and seeing Sir Patrick at her
feet, with a very tender expression on his face, and hearing the words
'affectionate children,' she conceived that he was expressing his hopes
of their being blest with progeny, and that a selfish feeling of fear at
such a prospect had hurried Adeline out of the room. She was therefore
disposed to regard her daughter with pity, but not with resentment, when
she entered the dinner-room, and Adeline's tranquillity in a degree
returned: but when she retired for the night she could not help owning
to herself, that that day, her mother's wedding day, had been the most
painful of her existence--and she literally sobbed herself to sleep.

The next morning a new trial awaited her; she had to write a final
farewell to Glenmurray. Many letters did she begin, many did she finish,
and many did she tear; but recollecting that the longer she delayed
sending him one, the longer she kept him in a state of agitating
suspense, she resolved to send the last written, even though it appeared
to her not quite so strong a transcript of her feelings as the former
ones. Whether it was so or not, Glenmurray received it with alternate
agony and transport;--with agony because it destroyed every hope of
Adeline's being his,--and with transport, because every line breathed
the purest and yet most ardent attachment, and convinced him that,
however long their separation, the love of Adeline would experience no
change.

Many days elapsed before Glenmurray could bear any companion but the
letter of Adeline; and during that time she was on the road with the
bride and bridegroom to a beautiful seat in Berkshire, called the
Pavilion, hired by Sir Patrick, the week before his marriage, of one of
his profligate friends. As the road lay through a very fine country,
Adeline would have thought the journey a pleasant one, had not the idea
of Glenmurray ill and dejected continually haunted her. Sir Patrick
appeared to be engrossed by his bride, and she was really wholly wrapt
up in him; and at times the beauties of the scenery around had power to
engage Adeline's attention: but she immediately recollected how much
Glenmurray would have participated in her delight, and the contemplation
of the prospect ended in renewed recollections of him.




CHAPTER IX


At length they arrived at the place of their destination; and Sir
Patrick, warmly embracing his bride, bade her welcome to her new abode;
and immediately approaching Adeline, he bestowed on her an embrace no
less cordial:--or, to say the truth, so ardent seemed the welcome, even
to the innocent Adeline, that she vainly endeavoured to persuade herself
that, as her father-in-law, Sir Patrick's tenderness was excusable.

Spite of her efforts to be cheerful she was angry and suspicious, and
had an indistinct feeling of remote danger; which though she could not
define even to herself, it was new and painful to her to experience.
But as the elastic mind of eighteen soon rebounds from the pressure of
sorrow, and forgets in present enjoyment the prospect of evil, Adeline
gazed on the elegant apartment she was in with joyful surprise; while,
through folding doors on either side of it, she beheld a suite of rooms,
all furnished with a degree of tasteful simplicity such as she had never
before beheld: and through the windows, which opened on a lawn that
sloped to the banks of a rapid river, she saw an amphitheatre of wooded
hills, which proved that, how great soever had been the efforts of art
to decorate their new habitation, the hand of Nature had done still more
to embellish it; and all fear of Sir Patrick was lost in gratitude for
his having chosen such a retirement.

With eager curiosity Adeline hurried from room to room; admired in the
western apartments the fine effect of the declining sun shining through
rose-coloured window curtains; gazed with delight on the statues and
pictures that every where met the eye, and reposed with unsuspecting
gaiety on the couches of eider down which were in profusion around.
Every thing in the house spoke it to be the temple of Pleasure: but the
innocent Adeline and her unobservant mother saw nothing but elegant
convenience in an abode in which the disciples of Epicurus might have
delighted; and while AEolian harps in the windows, and perfumes of all
kinds, added to the enchantment of the scene, the bride only beheld in
the choice of the villa a proof of her husband's desire of making her
happy; and Adeline sighed for virtuous love and Glenmurray, as all that
was wanting to complete her fascination.

Sir Patrick, meanwhile, was not blind to the impressions made on Adeline
by the beauty of the spot which he had chosen, though he was far from
suspecting the companion she had pictured to herself as most fitted
to enjoy and embellish it; and pleased because she was pleased, and
delighted to be regarded by her with such unusual looks of complacency,
he gave himself up to his natural vivacity; and Adeline passed a merry,
if not a happy, evening with the bride and bridegroom.

But the next morning she arose with the painful conviction as fresh as
ever on her mind, that day would succeed to day; and yet she should not
behold Glenmurray: and that day would succeed to day, and still should
she see O'Carrol, still be exposed to his noisy mirth, to his odious
familiarities, which, though she taught herself to believe they
proceeded merely from the customs of his country, and the nearness of
their relationship, it was to her most painful to endure.

Her only resource, therefore, from unpleasant thoughts was reading;
and she eagerly opened the cases of books in the library, which were
unlocked. But, on taking down some of the books, she was disappointed to
find none of the kind to which she had been accustomed. Mrs Mowbray's
peculiar taste had led her, as we have before observed, to the perusal
of nothing but political tracts, systems of philosophy, and Scuderi's
and other romances. Scarcely had the works of our best poets found their
way to her library; and novels, plays, and works of a lighter kind she
was never in the habit of reading herself, and consequently had not put
in the hands of her daughter. Adeline had, therefore, read Rousseau's
_Contrat Social_, but not his _Julie_; Montesquieu's _Esprit des Loix_,
but not his _Lettres Persanes_; and had glowed with republican ardour
over the scenes of Voltaire's _Brutus_, but had never had her mind
polluted by the pages of his romances.

Different had been the circumstances, and consequently the practice,
of the owner of Sir Patrick's new abode. Of all Rousseau's works, he
had in his library only the _New Heloise_ and his _Confessions_; of
Montesquieu, none but the glowing letters above-mentioned; and while
Voltaire's chaste and moral tragedies were excluded, his profligate
tales attracted the eye by the peculiar elegance of their binding, while
dangerous French novels of all descriptions met the view under the downy
pillows of the inviting sofas around, calculated to inflame the fancy
and corrupt the morals.

But Adeline, unprepared by any reading of the kind to receive and
relish the poison contained in them, turned with disgust from pages so
uncongenial to her feelings; nor did her eye dwell delighted on any of
the stores which the shelves contained.

Disappointment in her hopes of finding amusement in reading, Adeline had
recourse to walking; and none of the beautiful scenes around remained
long unexplored by her. In her rambles she but too frequently saw
scenes of poverty and distress, which ill contrasted with the beauty of
the house which she inhabited; scenes, which even a small portion of
the money expended there in useless decoration would have entirely
alleviated: and they were scenes, too, which Adeline had been accustomed
to relieve. The extreme of poverty in the cottage did not disgrace, on
the Mowbray estate, the well-furnished mansion-house; but Adeline, as
we have observed before, was allowed to draw on her mother for money
sufficient to prevent industrious labour from knowing the distress of
want.

'And why should I not draw on her here for money for the same purposes?'
cried Adeline to herself, as she beheld one spectacle of peculiar
hardships.--'Surely my mother is not dependent on her husband? and even
if she were, Sir Patrick has not a hard heart, and will not refuse my
prayer': and therefore, promising the sufferers instant relief, she left
them, saying she should soon reach the Pavilion and be back again; while
the objects of her bounty were silent with surprise at hearing that
their relief was to come from the Pavilion, a place hitherto closed to
the solicitations of poverty, though ever open to the revels and the
votaries of pleasure.

Adeline found her mother alone; and with a beating heart and a flushed
cheek, she described the scene which she had witnessed, and begged to be
restored to her old office of almoner on such occasions.

'A sad scene, indeed, my dear Adeline!' replied the bride in evident
embarrassment, 'and I will speak to Sir Patrick about it.'

'Speak to Sir Patrick, madam! cannot you follow the impulse of humanity
without consulting him?'

'I can't give the relief you ask without his assistance,' replied her
mother; 'for, except a guinea or so, I have no loose cash about me for
my own uses.--Sir Patrick's benevolence has long ago emptied his purse,
and I gladly surrendered mine to him.'

'And shall you in future have no money for the purposes of charity but
that you must claim from Sir Patrick?' asked Adeline mournfully.

'O dear! yes,--I have a very handsome allowance settled on me; but then
at present he wants it himself (Adeline involuntarily clasped her hands
together in an agony, and sighed deeply.) But, however, child,' added
the bride, 'as you seem to make such a point of it, take this guinea to
the cottage you mention, _en attendant_!'

Adeline took the guinea: but it was very insufficient to pay for medical
attendance, to discharge the rent due to a clamorous landlord, and to
purchase several things necessary for the relief of the poor sufferers:
therefore she added another guinea to it, and, not liking to relate her
disappointment, sent the money to them, desiring the servant to say that
she would see them the next morning, when she resolved to apply to Sir
Patrick for the relief which her mother could not give; feeling at the
same time the mournful conviction, that she herself, as well as her
mother, would be in future dependent on his bounty.

Though disposed to give way to mournful reflections on her own account,
Adeline roused herself from the melancholy abstraction into which she
was falling, by reflecting that she had still to plead the cause of the
poor cottagers with Sir Patrick; and hearing he was in the house, she
hastened to prefer her petition.

Sir Patrick listened to her tone of voice, and gazed on her expressive
countenance with delight; but when she had concluded her narration a
solitary half-guinea was all he bestowed on her, saying, 'I am never
roused to charity by the descriptions of others; I must always see the
distress which I am solicited to relieve.'

'Then go with me to the cottage,' exclaimed Adeline; but to her great
mortification he only smiled, bowed, and disappeared: and when he
returned to supper, Adeline could scarcely prevail on herself to look at
him without displeasure, and could not endure the unfeeling vivacity of
his manner.

Mortified and unhappy, she next morning went to the cottage, reluctant
to impart to its expecting inhabitants the ill success she had
experienced. But what was her surprise when they came out joyfully to
meet her, and told her that a gentleman had been there that morning
very early, had discharged their debts, and given them a sum of money
for their future wants!

'His name, his name?' eagerly inquired Adeline: but that they said he
refused to give; and as he was in a horseman's large coat, and held a
hankerchief to his face, they were sure they should not know him again.

A pleasing suspicion immediately came across Adeline's mind that this
benevolent unknown might be Glenmurray: and the idea that he was perhaps
unseen hovering round her, gave her one of the most exquisite feelings
which she had ever known. But this agreeable delusion was soon
dissipated by one of the children's giving her a card which the kind
stranger had dropped from his pocket; and this card had on it 'Sir
Patrick O'Carrol.'

At first it was natural for her to be hurt and disappointed at finding
that her hopes concerning Glenmurray had no foundation in truth; but her
benevolence, and indeed regard for her mother's happiness as well as her
own, led her to rejoice in this unexpected proof of excellence in Sir
Patrick.--He had evidently proved that he loved to do good by stealth,
and had withdrawn himself even from her thanks.

In a moment, therefore, she banished from her mind every trace of his
unworthiness. She had done him injustice, and she sought refuge from the
remorse which this consciousness inflicted on her, by going into the
opposite extreme. From that hour, indeed, her complaisance to his
opinions, and her attentions to him, were so unremitting and evident,
that Sir Patrick's passion became stronger than ever, and his hopes of a
return to it seemed to be built on a very strong foundation.

Adeline had given all her former suspicions to the wind; daily instances
of his benevolence came to her knowledge, and threw such a charm over
all he said and did, that even the familiarity in his conduct, look, and
manner towards her, appeared to her now nothing more than the result of
the free manners of his countrymen:--and she sometimes could not help
wishing Sir Patrick to be known to, and intimate with, Glenmurray. But
the moment was now at hand that was to unveil the real character of Sir
Patrick, and determine the destiny of Adeline.

One day Sir Patrick proposed taking his bride to see a beautiful
_ferme ornee_ at about twelve miles' distance; and if it answered the
expectations which he had formed of it, they were determined to spend
two or three days in the neighbourhood to enjoy the beauty of the
grounds;--in that case he was to return in the evening to the Pavilion,
and drive Adeline over the next morning to partake in their pleasure.

To this scheme both the ladies gladly consented, as it was impossible
for them to suspect the villainous design which it was intended to aid.

The truth was, that Sir Patrick, having, as he fondly imagined, gained
Adeline's affections, resolved to defer no longer the profligate attempt
which he had long meditated; and had contrived this excursion in order
to insure his wife's absence from home, and a tete-a-tete with her
daughter.

At an early hour the curricle was at the door, and Sir Patrick, having
handed his lady in, took leave of Adeline. He told her that he should
probably return early in the evening, pressed her hand more tenderly
than usual, and, springing into the carriage, drove off with a
countenance animated with expected triumph.

Adeline immediately set out on a long walk to the adjoining villages,
visited the cottages near the Pavilion, and, having dined at an early
hour, determined to pass the rest of the day in reading, provided it was
possible for her to find any book in the house proper for her perusal.

With this intention she repaired to an apartment called the library, but
what in these times would be denominated a _boudoir_, and this, even in
Paris, would have been admired for its voluptuous elegance.--On the
table lay several costly volumes, which seemed to have been very lately
perused by Sir Patrick, as some of them were open, some turned down
at particular passages: but as soon as she glanced her eye over their
contents, Adeline indignantly threw them down again; and, while her
cheek glowed with the blush of offended modesty she threw herself on
a sofa, and fell into a long and mournful reverie on the misery which
awaited her mother, in consequence of her having madly dared to unite
herself for life to a young libertine, who could delight in no other
reading but what was offensive to good morals and to delicacy. Nor could
she dwell upon this subject without recurring to her former fears for
herself; and so lost was she in agonizing reflections, that it was some
time before she recollected herself sufficiently to remember that she
was guilty of an indecorum, in staying so long in an apartment which
contained books that she ought not even to be suspected of having had an
opportunity to peruse.

Having once entertained this consciousness, Adeline hastily arose, and
had just reached the door when Sir Patrick himself appeared at it.
She started back in terror when she beheld him, on observing in his
countenance and manner evident marks not only of determined profligacy,
but of intoxication. Her suspicions were indeed just. Bold as he was in
iniquity, he dared not in a cool and sober moment put his guilty purpose
in execution; and he shrunk with temporary horror from an attempt on the
honour of the daughter of his wife, though he believed that she would be
a willing victim. He had therefore stopped on the road to fortify his
courage with wine; and, luckily for Adeline, he had taken more than he
was aware of; for when, after a vehement declaration of the ardour of
his passion, he dared irreverently to approach her, Adeline, strong
in innocence, aware of his intention, and presuming on his situation,
disengaged herself from his grasp with ease; and pushing him with
violence from her, he fell with such force against the brass edge of one
of the sofas, that, stunned and wounded by the fall, he lay bleeding on
the ground. Adeline involuntarily was hastening to his assistance: but
recollecting how mischievous to her such an exertion of humanity might
be, she contented herself with ringing the bell violently to call the
servants to his aid. Then, in almost frantic haste, she rushed out of
the house, ran across the park, and when she recovered her emotion she
found herself, she scarcely knew how, sitting on a turf seat by the road
side.

'What will become of me!' she wildly exclaimed: 'my mother's roof is
no longer a protection to me;--I cannot absent myself from it without
alleging a reason for my conduct, which will ruin her peace of mind
for ever. Wretch that I am! whither can I go, and where can I seek for
refuge?'

At this moment, as she looked around in wild dismay, and raised her
streaming eyes to heaven, she saw a man's face peeping from between the
branches of a tree opposite to her, and observed that he was gazing on
her intently. Alarmed and fluttered, she instantly started from her
seat, and was hastening away, when the man suddenly dropped from his
hiding-place, and, running after her, called her by her name, and
conjured her to stop; while, with an emotion of surprise and delight,
she recognized in him Arthur, the servant of Glenmurray!

Instantly, scarcely knowing what she did, she pressed the astonished
Arthur's rough hand in hers; and by this action confused and confounded
the poor fellow so much, that the speech which he was going to make
faltered on his tongue.

'Oh! where is your master?' eagerly inquired Adeline.

'My master has sent you this, miss,' replied Arthur, holding out a
letter, which Adeline joyfully received; and, spite of her intended
obedience to her mother's will, Glenmurray himself could not have met
with a more favourable reception, for the moment was a most propitious
one to his love: nor, as it happened, was Glenmurray too far off to
profit by it. On his way from Bath he went a few miles out of his road,
in order, as he said, and perhaps as he thought, to pay a visit to an
old servant of his mother's, who was married to a respectable farmer;
but, fortunately, the farm commanded a view of the Pavilion, and
Glenmurray could from his window gaze on the house that contained the
woman of his affections.

But to return to Adeline, who, while hastily tearing open the letter,
asked Arthur where his master was, and heard with indescribable emotion
that he was in the neighbourhood.

'Here! so providentially!' she exclaimed, and proceeded to read the
letter; but her emotion forbade her to read it entirely. She only saw
that it contained banknotes; that Glenmurray was going abroad for his
health; and, in case he should die there, had sent her the money which
he had meant to leave her in his will,--lest she should be, in the
meanwhile, any way dependent on Sir Patrick.

Numberless conflicting emotions took possession of Adeline's heart while
the new proof of her lover's attentive tenderness met her view: and, as
she contrasted his generous and delicate attachment with the licentious
passion of her mother's libertine husband, a burst of uncontrollable
affection for Glenmurray agitated her bosom; and, rendered superstitious
by her fears, she looked on him as sent by Providence to save her from
the dangers of her home.

'This is the second time,' cried she, 'that Glenmurray, as my guardian
angel, has appeared at the moment when I was exposed to danger from the
same guilty quarter! Ah! surely there is more than accident in this! and
he is ordained to be my guide and my protector!'

When once a woman has associated with an amiable man the idea of
protection, he can never again be indifferent to her: and when the
protector happens to be the chosen object of her love, his power becomes
fixed on a basis never to be shaken.

'It is enough,' said Adeline in a faltering voice, pressing the letter
to her lips, and bursting into tears of grateful tenderness as she
spoke: 'Lead me to your master directly.'

'Bless my heart! will you see him then, miss?' cried Arthur.

'See him?' replied Adeline--'see the only friend I now can boast?--But
let us be gone this moment, lest I should be seen and pursued.'

Instantly, guided by Arthur, Adeline set off full speed for the
farm-house, nor stopped till she found herself in the presence of
Glenmurray!

'O! I am safe now!' exclaimed Adeline, throwing herself into his arms;
while he was so overcome with surprise and joy that he could not speak
the welcome which his heart gave her: and Adeline, happy to behold him
again, was as silent as her lover. At length Glenmurray exclaimed:--

'Do we then meet again, Adeline!'

'Yes,' replied she; 'and we meet to part no more.'

'Do not mock me,' cried Glenmurray starting from his seat, and seizing
her extended hand; 'my feelings must not be trifled with.'

'Nor am I a woman to trifle with them. Glenmurray, I come to you for
safety and protection;--I come to seek shelter in your arms from misery
and dishonour. You are ill, you are going into a foreign country: and
from this moment look on me as your nurse, your companion;--your home
shall be my home, your country my country!'

Glenmurray, too much agitated, too happy to speak, could only press the
agitated girl to his bosom, and fold his arms round her, as if to assure
her of the protection which she claimed.

'But there is not a moment to be lost,' cried Adeline: 'I may be missed
and pursued: let us be gone directly.'

The first word was enough for Glenmurray: eager to secure the recovered
treasure which he had thought for ever lost, his orders were given, and
executed by the faithful Arthur with the utmost dispatch; and even
before Adeline had explained to him the cause of her resolution to elope
with him they were on their road to Cornwall, meaning to embark at
Falmouth for Lisbon.

But Arthur, who was going to marry, and leave Glenmurray's service,
received orders to stay at the farm till he had learned how Sir Patrick
was: and having obtained the necessary information, he was to send it
to Glenmurray at Falmouth. The next morning he saw Sir Patrick himself
driving full speed past the farm; and having written immediately to
his master, Adeline had the satisfaction of knowing that she had not
purchased her own safety by the sufferings or danger of her persecutor,
and the consequent misery of her mother.




CHAPTER X


But Glenmurray's heart needed no explanation of the cause of Adeline's
elopement. She was with him--with him, as she said, for ever. True, she
had talked of flying from misery and dishonour; but he knew they could
not reach her in his arms,--not even dishonour according to the ideas of
society,--for he meant to make Adeline legally his as soon as they were
safe from pursuit, and his illness was forgotten in the fond transport
of the present moment.

Adeline's joy was of a much shorter duration. Recollections of a most
painful nature were continually recurring. True it was that it was no
longer possible for her to reside under the roof of her mother: but was
it necessary for her to elope with Glenmurray? the man whom she had
solemnly promised her mother to renounce! Then, on the other side,
she argued that the appearance of love for Glenmurray was an excuse
sufficient to conceal from her deluded parent the real cause of her
elopement.

'It was my sole alternative,' said she mentally:--'my mother must either
suppose me an unworthy child, or know Sir Patrick to be an unworthy
husband; and it will be easier for her to support the knowledge of the
one than the other: then, when she forgives me, as no doubt she will in
time, I shall be happy: but that I could never be, while convinced that
I had made her miserable by revealing to her the wickedness of Sir
Patrick.'

While this was passing in her mind, her countenance was full of such
anxious and mournful expression, that Glenmurray, unable to keep silence
any longer, conjured her to tell him what so evidently weighed upon her
spirits.

'The difficulty that oppressed me is past,' she replied, wiping from
her eyes the tears which the thought of having left her mother so
unexpectedly, and for the first time, produced. 'I have convinced
myself, that to leave home and commit myself to your protection was the
most proper and virtuous step that I could take: I have not obeyed the
dictates of love, but of reason.'

'I am very sorry to hear it,' said Glenmurray mournfully.

'It seems to me so very rational to love you,' returned Adeline tenderly,
shocked at the sad expression of his countenance, 'that what seems to be
the dictates of reason may be those of love only.'

To a reply like this, Glenmurray could only answer by close involvement
not intelligible expressions of fondness to the object of them, which
are so delightful to lovers themselves, and so uninteresting to other
people: nay, so entirely was Glenmurray again engrossed by the sense of
present happiness, that his curiosity was still suspended, and Adeline's
story remained untold. But Adeline's pleasure was damped by painful
recollections, and still more by her not being able to hide from herself
the mournful consciousness that the ravages of sickness were but
too visible in Glenmurray's face and figure, and that the flush of
unexpected delight could but ill conceal the hollow paleness of his
cheek, and the sunk appearance of his eyes.

Meanwhile the chaise rolled on,--post succeeded to post; and though
night was far advanced, Adeline, fearful of being pursued, would not
consent to stop, and they travelled till morning. But Glenmurray,
feeling himself exhausted, prevailed on her, for his sake, to alight at
a small inn on the road side near Marlborough.

There Adeline narrated the occurrences of the past day; but with
difficulty could she prevail on herself to own to Glenmurray that she
had been the object of such an outrage as she had experienced from Sir
Patrick.

A truly delicate woman feels degraded, not flattered, by being the
object of libertine attempts; and, situated as Adeline and Glenmurray
now were, to disclose the insult which had been offered to her was a
still more difficult task: but to conceal it was impossible. She felt
that, even to him, some justification of her precipitate and unsolicited
flight was necessary; and nothing but Sir Patrick's attempt could
justify it. She, therefore, blushing and hesitating, revealed the
disgraceful secret; but such was its effect on the weak spirits and
delicate health of Glenmurray, that the violent emotions which he
underwent brought on a return of his most alarming symptoms; and in a
few hours Adeline, bending over the sick bed of her lover, experienced
for the first time that most dreadful of feelings, fear for the life of
the object of her affections.

Two days, however, restored him to comparative safety, and they reached
a small and obscure village within a short distance from Falmouth, most
conveniently situated. There they took up their abode, and resolved to
remain till the wind should change, and enable them to sail for Lisbon.

In this retreat, situated in air as salubrious as that of the south of
France, Glenmurray was soon restored to health, especially as happy love
was now his, and brought back the health of which hopeless love had
contributed to deprive him. The woman whom he loved was his companion
and his nurse; and so dear had the quiet scene of their happiness
become to them, that, forgetful there was still a danger of their being
discovered, it was with considerable regret that they received a summons
to embark, and saw themselves on their voyage to Portugal.

But before she left England Adeline wrote to her mother.

After a pleasant and short voyage the lovers found themselves at Lisbon;
and Glenmurray, pursuant to his resolution, immediately proposed to
Adeline, to unite himself to her by the indissoluble ties of marriage.

Nothing could exceed Adeline's surprise at this proposal: at first she
could not believe Glenmurray was in earnest; but seeing that he looked
not only grave but anxious, and as if earnestly expecting an answer, she
asked him whether he had convinced himself that what he had written
against marriage was a tissue of mischievous absurdity.

Glenmurray, blushing, with the conceit of an author replied 'that he
still thought his arguments unanswerable.'

'Then, if you still are convinced your theory is good, why let your
practice be bad? It is incumbent on you to act up to the principles that
you profess, in order to give them their proper weight in society--else
you give the lie to your own declarations.'

'But it is better for me to do that, than for you to be the sacrifice to
my reputation.'

'I,' replied Adeline, 'am entirely out of the question: you are to be
governed by no other law but your desire to promote general utility, and
are not to think at all of the interest of an individual.'

'How can I do so, when that individual is dearer to me than all the
world beside?' cried Glenmurray passionately.

'And if you but once recollect that you are dearer to me than all
the world beside, you will cease to suppose that my happiness can be
affected by the opinion entertained of my conduct by others.' As Adeline
said this, she twisted both her hands in his arms so affectionately, and
looked up in his face with so satisfied and tender an expression, that
Glenmurray could not bear to go on with a subject which evidently drew a
cloud across her brow; and hours, days, weeks, and months passed rapidly
over their heads before he had resolution to renew it.

Hours, days, weeks, and months spent in a manner most dear to the heart
and most salutary to the mind of Adeline!--Her taste for books, which
had hitherto been cultivated in a partial manner, and had led her to one
range of study only, was now directed by Glenmurray to the perusal of
general literature; and the historian, the biographer, the poet, and the
novelist, obtained alternately her attention and her praises.

In her knowledge of the French and Italian languages, too, she was now
considerably improved by the instructions of her lover; and while his
occasional illnesses were alleviated by her ever watchful attentions,
their attachment was cemented by one of the strongest of all ties--the
consciousness of mutual benefit and assistance.




CHAPTER XI


One evening, as they were sitting on a bench in one of the public walks,
a gentleman approached them, whose appearance bespoke him to be an
Englishman, though his sun-burnt complexion showed that he had been for
years exposed to a more ardent climate than that of Britain.

As he came nearer, Glenmurray thought his features were familiar to him;
and the stranger, starting with joyful surprise, seized his hand, and
welcomed him as an old friend. Glenmurray returned his salutation with
great cordiality, and recognized in the stranger, a Mr Maynard, an
amiable man, who had gone to seek his fortune in India, and was returned
a nabob, but with an irreproachable character.

'So, then,' cried Mr Maynard gaily, 'this is the elegant young English
couple that my servant, and even the inn-keeper himself, was so loud in
praise of! Little did I think the happy man was my old friend,--though
no man is more deserving of being happy: but I beg you will introduce me
to your lady.'

Glenmurray, though conscious of the mistake he was under, had not
resolution enough to avow that he was not married; and Adeline, unaware
of the difficulty of Glenmurray's situation, received Mr Maynard's
salutation with the utmost ease, though the tremor of her lover's voice,
and the blush on his cheek, as he said--'Adeline, give me leave to
introduce to you Mr Maynard, an old friend of mine,'--were sufficient
indications that the rencontre disturbed him.

In a few minutes Adeline and Mr Maynard were no longer strangers. Mr
Maynard, who had not lived much in the society of well-informed women,
and not at all in that of women accustomed to original thinking, was
at once astonished and delighted at the variety of Adeline's remarks,
at the playfulness of her imagination, and the eloquence of her
expressions. But it was very evident, at length, to Mr Maynard, that in
proportion as Adeline and he became more acquainted and more satisfied
with each other, Glenmurray grew more silent and more uneasy. The
consequence was unavoidable: as most men would have done on a like
occasion, Mr Maynard thought Glenmurray was jealous of him.

But no thought so vexatious to himself, and so degrading to Adeline, had
entered the confiding and discriminating mind of Glenmurray. The truth
was, he knew that Mr Maynard, whom he had seen in the walks, though he
had not known him again, had ladies of his party; and he expected that
the more Mr Maynard admired his supposed wife, the more would he be
eager to introduce her to his companions.

Nor was Glenmurray wrong in his conjectures.

'I have two sisters with me, madam,' said Mr Maynard, 'whom I shall be
happy and proud to introduce to you. One of them is a widow, and has
lived several years in India, but returned with me in delicate health,
and was ordered hither: she is not a woman of great reading, but has an
excellent understanding, and will admire you. The other is several years
younger; and I am sure she would be happy in an opportunity of profiting
by the conversation of a lady, who, though not older than herself, seems
to have had so many more opportunities of improvement.'

Adeline bowed, and expressed her impatience to form this new acquaintance;
and looked triumphantly at Glenmurray, meaning to express--'See, spite
of the supposed prejudices of the world, here is a man who wants to
introduce me to his sisters.' Little did she know that Maynard concluded
she was a wife: his absence from England had made him ignorant of the
nature of Glenmurray's works, or even that he was an author; so that he
was not at all likely to suppose that the moral, pious youth, whom he
had always respected, was become a visionary philosopher, and, in
defiance of the laws of society, was living openly with a mistress.

'But my sister will wonder what is become of me;' suddenly cried
Maynard; 'and as Emily is so unwell as to keep her room to-day, I must
not make her anxious. But for her illness, I should have requested your
company to supper.'

'And I should have liked to accept the invitation,' replied Adeline;
'but I will hope to see the ladies soon.'

'Oh! without fail, to-morrow,' cried Maynard: 'if Emily be not well
enough to call on you, perhaps you will come to her apartments.'

'Undoubtedly: expect me at twelve o'clock.'

Maynard then shook his grave and silent friend by the hand and,
departed,--his vanity not a little flattered by the supposed jealousy of
Glenmurray.

'There now,' said Adeline, when he was out of hearing. 'I hope some
of your tender fears are done away. You see there are liberal and
unprejudiced persons in the world; and Mr Maynard, instead of shunning
me, courts my acquaintance for his sisters.'

Glenmurray shook his head, and remained silent; and Adeline was
distressed to feel by his burning hand that he was seriously uneasy.

'I shall certainly call on these ladies to-morrow,' continued
Adeline:--'I really pine for the society of amiable women.'

Glenmurray sighed deeply: he dreaded to tell her that he could not allow
her to call on them, and yet he knew that this painful task awaited him.
Besides, she wished, she said, to know some amiable women; and, eager as
he was to indulge all her wishes, he felt but too certainly that in this
wish she could never be indulged. Even had he been capable of doing so
dishonourable an action as introducing his mistress as his wife, he
was sure that Adeline would have spurned at the deception; and silent
and sad he grasped Adeline's hand as her arm rested within his, and
complaining of indisposition, slowly returned to the inn.

The next morning at breakfast, Adeline again expressed her eagerness to
form an acquaintance with the sisters of Mr Maynard; when Glenmurray,
starting from his seat, paced the room in considerable agitation.

'What is the matter!' cried Adeline, hastily rising and laying her hand
on his arm.

Glenmurray grasped her hand, and replied with assumed firmness:
'Adeline, it is impossible for you to form an acquaintance with Mr
Maynard's sisters: propriety and honour both forbid me to allow it.'

'Indeed!' exclaimed Adeline, 'are they not as amiable, then, as he
described them? are they improper acquaintances for me? Well then--I am
disappointed: but you are the best judge of what is right, and I am
contented to obey you.'

The simple, ingenuous and acquiescent sweetness with which she said
this, was a new pang to her lover:--had she repined, had she looked
ill-humoured, his task would not have been so difficult.

'But what reason can you give for declining this acquaintance?' resumed
Adeline.

'Aye! there's the difficulty,' replied Glenmurray: 'pure-minded and
amiable as I know you to be, how can I bear to tell these children of
prejudice that you are not my wife, but my mistress?'

Adeline started; and, turning pale, exclaimed, 'Are you sure, then, that
they do not know it already?'

'Quite sure--else Maynard would not have thought you a fit companion for
his sisters.'

'But surely--he must know your principles;--he must have read your
works?'

'I am certain he is ignorant of both, and does not even know that I am
an author.'

'Is it possible?' cried Adeline: 'is there any one so unfortunate to be
unacquainted with your writings?'

Glenmurray at another time would have been elated at a compliment like
this from the woman whom he idolized; but at this moment he heard it
with a feeling of pain which he would not have liked to define to
himself, and casting his eyes to the ground he said nothing.

'So then,' said Adeline mournfully, 'I am an improper companion for
them, not they for me!' and spite of herself her eyes filled with
tears.--At this moment a waiter brought in a note for Glenmurray;--it
was from Maynard, and as follows:--


       MY DEAR FRIEND,

     Emily is better to-day; and both my sisters are so impatient to
     see, and know, your charming wife, that they beg me to present
     their compliments to Mrs Glenmurray and you; and request the
     honour of your company to a late breakfast:--at eleven o'clock
     we hope to see you.

                         Ever yours,
                                                             G. M.

'We will send an answer,' said Glenmurray: but the waiter had been
gone some minutes before either Adeline or Glenmurray spoke. At length
Adeline, struggling with her feelings, observed, 'Mr Maynard seems so
amiable a man, that I should think it would not be difficult to convince
him of his errors: surely, therefore, it is your duty to call on him,
state our real situation, and our reasons for it, and endeavour to
convince him that our attachment is sanctioned both by reason and
virtue.'

'But not by the church,' replied Glenmurray, 'and Maynard is of the old
school: besides, a man of forty-eight is not likely to be convinced by
the arguments of a young man of twenty-eight, and the example of a girl
of nineteen.'

'If age be necessary to give weight to arguments,' returned Adeline, 'I
wonder that you thought proper to publish four years ago.'

'Would to God I never had published!' exclaimed Glenmurray, almost
pettishly.

'If you had not, I probably should never have been yours,' replied
Adeline, fondly leaning her head on his shoulder, and then looking up in
his face. Glenmurray clasped her to his bosom; but again the pleasure
was mixed with pain. 'All this time,' rejoined Adeline, 'your friends
are expecting an answer: you had better carry it in person.'

'I cannot,' replied Glenmurray, 'and there is only one way of getting
out of this business to my satisfaction.'

'Name it; and rest assured that I shall approve it.'

'Then I wish to order horses immediately, and set off on our road to
France.'

'So soon,--though the air agrees with you so well?'

'O yes;--for when the mind is uneasy no air can be of use to the body.'

'But why is your mind uneasy?'

'Here I should be exposed to see Maynard, and--and--he would see you
too.'

'And what then?'

'What then?--Why, I could not bear to see him look on you with an eye of
disrespect.'

'And wherefore should he?'

'O Adeline, the name of wife imposes restraint even on a libertine; but
that of mistress--'

'Is Mr Maynard a libertine?' said Adeline gravely: and Glenmurray,
afraid of wounding her feelings by entering into a further explanation,
changed the subject, and again requested her consent to leave Lisbon.

'I have often told you,' said Adeline sighing, 'that my will is yours;
and if you will give strict orders to have letters sent after us to the
towns that we shall stop at, I am ready to set off immediately.'

Glenmurray then gave his orders; wrote a letter explaining his situation
to Maynard, and in an hour they were on their journey to France.




CHAPTER XII


In the meanwhile Mr Maynard, Miss Maynard, and Mrs Wallington his
widowed sister, were impatiently expecting Glenmurray's answer, and
earnestly hoping to see him and his lovely companion,--but from
different motives. Maynard was impatient to see Adeline because he
really admired her; his sisters, because they hoped to find her unworthy
of such violent admiration.

Their vanity had been piqued, and their envy excited, by the extravagant
praises of their brother; and they had interrupted him by the first
questions which all women ask on such occasions,--'Is she pretty?'

And he answered, 'Very pretty.'

'Is she tall?'

'Very tall, taller than I am.'

'I hate tall women,' replied Miss Maynard (a little round girl of
nineteen).

'Is she fair?'

'Exquisitely fair.'

'I like brown women,' cried the widow: 'fair people always look silly.'

'But Mrs Glenmurray's eyes are hazel, and her eyelashes long and dark.'

'Hazel eyes are always bold-looking,' cried Miss Maynard.

'Not Mrs Glenmurray's; for her expression is the most pure and ingenuous
that I ever saw. Some girls, indecent in their dress, and very licentious
in their manner, passed us as we sat on the walk; and the comments
which I made on them provoked from Mrs Glenmurray some remarks on the
behaviour and dress of women; and, as she commented on the disgusting
expression of vice in women, and the charm of modest dignity both in
dress and manners, her own dress, manners, and expression, were such an
admirable comment on her words, and she shone so brightly, if I may use
the expression, in the graceful awfulness of virtue, that I gazed with
delight, and somewhat of apprehension lest this fair perfection should
suddenly take flight to her native skies, toward which her fine eyes
were occasionally turned.'

'Bless me! if our brother is not quite poetical! This prodigy has
inspired him,' replied the widow with a sneer.

'For my part, I hate prodigies,' said Miss Maynard: 'I feel myself
unworthy to associate with them.'

When one woman calls another a prodigy, and expresses herself as
unworthy to associate with her, it is very certain that she means
to insult rather than compliment her; and in this sense Mr Maynard
understood his sister's words: therefore after having listened with
tolerable patience to a few more sneers at the unconscious Adeline, he
was provoked to say that, ill-disposed as he found they were toward his
new acquaintance, he hoped that when they became acquainted with her
they would still give him reason to say, as he always had done, that he
was proud of his sisters; for, in his opinion, no woman ever looked so
lovely as when she was doing justice to the merits and extenuating the
faults of a rival.

'A rival!' exclaimed the sisters at once:--'And, pray, what rivalship
could there be in this case?'

'My remark was a general one: but since you choose to make it a
particular one, I will answer to it as such,' continued Mr Maynard. 'All
women are rivals in one sense--rivals for general esteem and admiration;
and she only shall have my suffrage in her favour, who can point out a
beauty or a merit in another woman without insinuating at the same time
a counterbalancing effect.'

'But Mrs Glenmurray, it seems, has no defects!'

'At least I have not known her long enough to find them out; but you, no
doubt, will, when you know her, very readily spare me that trouble.'

How injudiciously had Maynard prepared the minds of his sisters to
admire Adeline. It was a preparation to make them hate her; and they
were very impatient to begin the task of depreciating both her _morale_
and her _physique_, when Glenmurray's note arrived.

'It is not Glenmurray's hand,' said Maynard--(indeed, from agitation
of mind the writing was not recognizable). 'It must be hers then,'
continued he, affecting to kiss the address with rapture.

'It is the hand of a sloven,' observed Mrs Wallington, studying the
writing.

'But in dress she is as neat as a Quaker,' retorted the brother, eagerly
snatching the letter back, 'and her mind seems as pure as her dress.'

He then broke the seal, and read out what follows:--


        'DEAR MAYNARD,

     'When you receive this, Adeline and I shall be on our road to
     France, and you,--start not!--are the occasion of our abrupt
     departure.'

'So, so, jealous indeed,' said Maynard to himself, and more impressed
than ever with the charms of Adeline; for he concluded that Glenmurray
had discovered in her an answering prepossession.

'You the occasion, brother!' cried both sisters.

'Have patience.'

     'You saw Adeline; you admired her; and wished to introduce her
     to your sisters--this, honour forbad me to allow'--(the sisters
     started from their seats) 'for Adeline is not my wife, but my
     companion.'

Here Maynard made a full pause--at once surprised and confounded. His
sisters, pleased as well as astonished, looked triumphantly at each
other; and Mrs Wallington exclaimed. 'So, then, this angel of purity
turns out to be a kept lady!' At this remark Miss Maynard laughed
heartily, but Maynard, to hide his confusion, commanded silence, and
went on with the letter:

     'But spite of her situation, strange as it may seem to you,
     believe me, no wife was ever more pure than Adeline.'

At this passage the sisters could no longer contain themselves, and they
gave way to loud bursts of laughter, which Maynard could hardly help
joining in; but being angry at the same time he uttered nothing but an
oath, which I shall not repeat, and retreated to his chamber to finish
the letter alone.

During his absence the laughters redoubled;--but in the midst of it
Maynard re-entered, and desired they would allow him to read the letter
to the end. The sisters immediately begged that he would proceed, as it
was so amusing that they wished to hear more.--Glenmurray continued
thus:

     'You have no doubt yet to learn that some few years ago I
     commenced author, and published opinions contrary to the
     established usage of society: amongst other things I proved the
     absurdity of the institution of marriage; and Adeline, who at
     an early age read my works, became one of my converts.'

'The man is certainly mad,' cried Maynard, 'and how dreadful it is that
this angelic creature should have been his victim.'

'But perhaps this _fallen_ angel, brother, for such you will allow she
is, spite of her _purity_, was as wicked as he. I know people in general
only blame the seducer, but I always blame the seduced equally.'

'I do not doubt it,' said her brother sneeringly, and going on with the
letter.

     'No wonder then, that, being forced to fly from her maternal
     roof, she took refuge in my arms.'

'Lucky dog!'

     'But though Adeline was the victim neither of her own weakness
     nor of my seductions, but was merely urged by circumstances to
     act up to the principles which she openly professed, I felt so
     conscious that she would be degraded in your eyes after you
     were acquainted with her situation, though in mine she appears
     as spotless as ever, that I could not bear to expose her even
     to a glance from you less respectful than those with which you
     beheld her last night. I therefore prevailed on her to leave
     Lisbon; nor had I any difficulty in so doing, when she found
     that your wish of introducing her to your sisters was founded
     on your supposition of her being my wife, and that all chance
     of your desiring her acquaintance for them would be over, when
     you knew the nature of her connexion with me. I shall now bid
     you farewell. I write in haste and agitation, and have not time
     to say more than God bless you!

                                                           'F. G.'

'Yes, yes, I see how it is,' muttered Mr Maynard to himself when he had
finished the letter, 'he was jealous of me. I wish (raising his voice)
that he had not been in such a hurry to go away.'

'Why, brother,' replied Mrs Wallington, 'to be sure you would not have
introduced us to this piece of angelic purity a little the worse for
the wear!'

'No,' replied he; 'but I might have enjoyed her company myself.'

'And perhaps, brother, you might have rivalled the philosophic author in
time,' observed Miss Maynard.

'If I had not, it would have been from no want of good will on my part,'
returned Maynard.

'Well, then I rejoice that the creature is gone,' replied Mrs Wallington,
drawing up.

'And I too,' said Miss Maynard disdainfully: 'but I think we had better
drop this subject; I have had quite enough of it.'

'And so have I,' cried Mrs Wallington: 'but I must observe, before we
drop it entirely, that when next my brother comes home and wearies his
sisters by exaggerated praises of another woman, I hope he will take
care that his goddess, or rather his angel of purity, does not turn out
to be a kept mistress.'

So saying she left the room, and Miss Maynard, tittering, followed her;
while Maynard, too sore on this subject to bear to be laughed at, took
his hat in a pet, and, flinging the door after him with great violence,
walked out to muse on the erring but interesting companion of
Glenmurray.




CHAPTER XIII


While these conversations were passing at Lisbon, Glenmurray and Adeline
were pursuing their journey to France; and insensibly did the charm of
being together obliterate from the minds of each the rencontre which had
so much disturbed them.

But Adeline began to be uneasy on a subject of much greater importance;
she every day expected an answer from her mother, but no answer arrived;
and they had been stationary at Perpignan some days, to which place they
had desired their letters to be addressed, _poste restante_, and still
none were forwarded thither from Lisbon.

The idea that her mother had utterly renounced her now took possession
of her imagination, and love had no charm to offer her capable of
affording her consolation: the care which she had taken of her infancy,
the affectionate attentions that had preserved her life, and the
uninterrupted kindness which she had shown towards her till her
attachment to Sir Patrick took place,--all these pressed powerfully and
painfully on her memory, till her elopement seemed wholly unjustifiable
in her eyes, and she reprobated her conduct in terms of the most bitter
self-reproach.

At these moments even Glenmurray seemed to become the object of her
aversion. Her mother had forbidden her to think of him; yet, to make her
flight more agonizing to her injured parent, she had eloped with _him_.
But as soon as ever she beheld him he regained his wonted influence over
her heart, and her self-reproaches became less poignant: she became
sensible that Sir Patrick's guilt and her mother's imprudent marriage
were the causes of her own fault, and not Glenmurray; and could she but
receive a letter of pardon from England, she felt that her conscience
would again be at peace.

But soon an idea of a still more harassing nature succeeded and
overwhelmed her. Perhaps her desertion had injured her mother's health;
perhaps she was too ill to write; perhaps she was dead:--and when this
horrible supposition took possession of her mind she used to avoid even
the presence of her lover; and as her spirits commonly sunk towards
evening, when the still renewed expectations of the day had been
deceived, she used to hasten to a neighbouring church when the bell
called to vespers, and, prostrate on the steps of the altar, lift up her
soul to heaven in the silent breathings of penitence and prayer. Having
thus relieved her heart she returned to Glenmurray, pensive but
resigned.

One evening after she had unburthened her feelings in this manner,
Glenmurray prevailed on her to walk with him to a public promenade; and
being tired they sat down on a bench in a shady part of the mall. They
had not sat long before a gentleman and two ladies seated themselves
beside them.

Glenmurray instantly rose up to depart; but the gentleman also rose and
exclaimed, ''Tis he indeed! Glenmurray, have you forgotten your old
friend Willie Douglas?'

Glenmurray, pleased to see a friend whom he had once so highly valued,
returned the salutation with marked cordiality; while the ladies with
great kindness accosted Adeline, and begged she would allow them the
honour of her acquaintance.

Taught by the rencontre at Lisbon, Adeline for a moment felt
embarrassed; but there was something so truly benevolent in the
countenance of both ladies, and she was so struck by the extreme beauty
of the younger one, that she had not resolution to avoid, or even to
receive their advances coldly; and while the gentlemen were commenting
on each other's looks, and in an instant going over the occurrences of
past years, the ladies, pleased with each other, had entered into
conversation.

'But I expected to see you and your lady,' said Major Douglas; 'for
Maynard was writing to me from Lisbon when he laid by his pen and took
the walk in which he met you; and on his return he filled up the rest of
his letter with the praises of Mrs Glenmurray, and expressions of envy
at your happiness.'

Glenmurray and Adeline both blushed deeply. 'So!' said Adeline to
herself, 'here will be another letter to write when we get home;' for,
though ingenuousness was one of her most striking qualities, she had not
resolution enough to tell her new acquaintance that she was not married:
besides, she flattered herself, that, could she once interest these
charming women in her favour, they would not refuse her their society
even when they knew her real situation; for she thought them too amiable
to be prejudiced, as she called it, and was not yet aware how much the
perfection of the female character depends on respect even to what may
be called the prejudices of others.

The day began to close in; but Major Douglas, though Glenmurray was too
uneasy to answer him except by monosyllables, would not hear of going
home, and continued to talk with cheerfulness and interest of the scenes
of his and Glenmurray's early youth. He too was ignorant of his friend's
notoriety as an author: he had lived chiefly at his estates in the
Highlands; nor would he have left them, but because he was advised to
travel for his health: and the lovely creature whom he had married, as
well as his only sister, was anxious on his account to put the advice in
execution. He therefore made no allusions to Glenmurray's opinions that
could give him an opportunity of explaining his real situation; and he
saw with confusion, that every moment increased the intimacy of Adeline
and the wife and sister of his friend.

At length his feelings operated so powerfully on his weak frame, that a
sudden faintness seized him, and supported by Adeline and the major,
and followed by his two kind companions, he returned to the inn: there,
to get rid of the Douglases and avoid the inquiries of Adeline, who
suspected the cause of his illness, he immediately retired to bed.

His friends also returned home, lamenting the apparently declining
health of Glenmurray, and expatiating with delight on the winning graces
of his supposed wife; for these ladies were of a different class of
women to the sisters of Maynard.--Mrs Douglas was so confessedly a
beauty, so rich in acknowledged attractions, that she could afford to do
justice to the attractions of another: and Miss Douglas was so decidedly
devoid of all pretensions to the lovely in person, that the idea of
competition with the beautiful never entered her mind, and she was
always eager to admire what she knew that she was incapable of rivalling.
Unexposed, therefore, to feel those petty jealousies, those paltry
competitions which injure the character of women in general, Emma
Douglas's mind was the seat of benevolence and candour,--as was her
beautiful sister's from a different cause; and they were both warmer
even than the major in praise of Adeline.

But a second letter from Mr Maynard awaited Major Douglas at the inn,
which put a fatal stop to their self-congratulations at having met
Glenmurray and his companion.

Mr Maynard, full of Glenmurray's letter, and still more deeply impressed
than ever with the image of Adeline, could not forbear writing to the
major on the subject; giving as a reason, that he wished to let him know
the true state of affairs, in order that he might avoid Glenmurray.--The
letter came too late.

'And I have seen him, have welcomed him as a friend, and he has had the
impudence to introduce his harlot to my wife and sister!'

So spoke the major in the language of passion,--and passion is never
accurate.--Glenmurray had _not_ introduced Adeline: and this was gently
hinted by the kind and candid Emma Douglas; while the younger and more
inexperienced wife sat silent with consternation, at having pressed with
the utmost kindness the hand of a kept mistress.

Vain were the representations of his sister to sooth the wounded
pride of Major Douglas. Without considering the difficulty of such a
proceeding, he insisted upon it that Glenmurray should have led Adeline
away instantly, as unworthy to breathe the same air with his wife and
sister.

'You find by that letter, brother,' said Miss Douglas, 'that this
unhappy Adeline is still an object of respect in his eyes, and he could
not wound her feelings so publicly, especially as she seems to be more
ill-judging than vicious.'

She spoke in vain.--The major was a soldier, and so delicate in his
ideas of the honour of women, that he thought his wife and sister
polluted from having, though unconsciously, associated with Adeline;
being violently irritated therefore at the supposed insult offered him
by Glenmurray, he left the room, and, having dispatched a challenge to
him, told the ladies he had letters to write to England till bed-time
arrived: then, after having settled his affairs in case he should fall
in the conflict, he sat brooding alone over the insolence of his former
friend.

There was a consciousness too which aggravated his resentment. Calumny
had been busy with his reputation; and, though he deserved it not, had
once branded him with the name of coward. Besides, his elder sister had
been seduced by a man of very high rank, and was then living with him as
his mistress. Made still more susceptible therefore of affront by this
distressing consciousness, he suspected that Glenmurray, from being
acquainted with these circumstances, had presumed on them, and dared to
take a liberty with him, situated as he then was, which in former times
he would not have ventured to offer.

As Adeline and Glenmurray were both retired for the night when the
major's note arrived, it was not delivered till morning,--nor then,
luckily, till Adeline, supposing Glenmurray asleep, was gone to take her
usual walk to the post-office: Glenmurray, little aware of its contents,
opened it, and read as follows:--

       'SIR,

     'For your conduct in introducing your mistress to my wife and
     sister, I demand immediate satisfaction. As you may possibly
     not have recovered your indisposition of last night, and I wish
     to take no unfair advantages, I do not desire you to meet me
     till evening; but at six o'clock, a mile out of the north side
     of the town, I shall expect you.--I can lend you pistols if you
     have none.'

'There is only one step to be taken,' said Glenmurray mentally, starting
up and dressing himself: and in a few moments he was at Major Douglas's
lodgings.

The major had just finished dressing, when Glenmurray was announced. He
started and turned pale at seeing him; then, dismissing his servant and
taking up his hat and his pistols, he desired Glenmurray to walk out
with him.

'With all my heart,' replied Glenmurray. But recollecting himself, 'No,
no,' said he: 'I come hither now, merely to talk to you; and if, after
what has passed, the ladies should see us go out together, they would be
but too sure of what was going to happen, and might follow us.'

'Well, then sir,' cried the major, 'we had better separate till
evening.'

'I shall not leave you, Major Douglas,' replied Glenmurray solemnly,
'whatever harsh things you may say or do, till I have made you listen to
me.'

'How can I listen to you, when nothing you can say can be a justification
of your conduct?'

'I do not mean to offer any.--I am only come to tell you my story, with
that of my companion, and my resolutions in consequence of my situation;
and I conjure you, by the recollections of our early days, of our past
pleasures and fatigues, those days when fatigue itself was a pleasure,
and I was not the weak emaciated being that I am now, unable to bear
exertion, and overcome even to female weakness by agitation of mind such
as I experienced last night--'

'For God's sake sit down,' cried the major, glancing his eye over the
faded form of Glenmurray.--Glenmurray sat down.

'I say, I conjure you by these recollections,' he continued, 'to hear me
with candour and patience. Weakness will render me brief.' Here he
paused to wipe the damps from his forehead; and Douglas, in a voice of
emotion, desired him to say whatever he chose, but to say it directly.

'I will,' replied Glenmurray; 'for indeed there is one at home who will
be alarmed at my absence.'

The major frowned; and, biting his lip, said, 'Proceed, Mr Glenmurray,'
in his usual tone.

Glenmurray obeyed. He related his commencing author,--the nature of his
works,--his acquaintance with Adeline,--its consequences,--her mother's
marriage,--Sir Patrick's villany,--Adeline's elopement, her refusal to
marry him, and the grounds on which it was founded. 'And now,' cried
Glenmurray when his narration was ended, 'hear my firm resolve. Let the
consequences to my reputation be what they may, let your insults be what
they may, I will not accept your challenge; I will not expose Adeline
to the risk of being left without a protector in a foreign land, and
probably without one in her own. I fear that, in the natural course of
things, I shall not continue with her long; but while I can watch over
and contribute to her happiness, no dread of shame, no fear for what
others may think of me, no selfish consideration whatever shall induce
me to hazard a life which belongs to her, and on which at present her
happiness depends. I think, Douglas, you are incapable of treating me
with dignity; but even to that I will patiently submit, rather than
expose my life; while consoled by my motive, I will triumphantly
exclaim--'See, Adeline, what I can endure for thy sake!'

Here he paused; and the major, interested and affected, had involuntarily
put out his hand to him; but, drawing it back, he said, 'Then I may be
sure that you meant no affront to me by suffering my wife and sister to
converse with Miss Mowbray?'

Glenmurray having put an end to these suspicions entirely, by a candid
avowal of his feelings, and of his wish to have escaped directly if
possible, the major shook him affectionately by the hand, and told him
that though he firmly believed too much learning had made him mad, yet,
that he was as much his friend as ever. 'But what vexes me is,' said he,
'that you should have turned the head of that sweet girl. The opinion of
the world is every thing to a woman.'

'Aye, it is indeed,' replied Glenmurray; 'and, spite of ridicule, I
would marry Adeline directly, as I said before, to guaranty her against
reproach,--I wish you would try to persuade her to be mine legally.'

'That I will,' eagerly replied the major; 'I am sure I shall prevail
with her. I am sure I shall soon convince her that the opinions she
holds are nothing but nonsense.'

'You will find,' replied Glenmurray, blushing, 'that her arguments are
unanswerable notwithstanding.'

'What, though taken from the cursed books you mentioned?'

'You forget that I wrote these books.'

'So I did; and I wish she could forget it also: and then they would
appear to her, as they must do no doubt to all people of common sense,
and that is, abominable stuff.'

Glenmurray bit his lips,--but the author did not long absorb the lover,
and he urged the major to return with him to his lodgings.

'Aye, that I will,' cried he: 'and what is more, my sister Emma, who
writes admirably, shall write her a letter to convince her that she had
better be married directly.'

'She had better converse with her,' said Glenmurray.

The major looked grave, and observed that they would do well to go and
consult the women on the subject, and tell them the whole story. So
saying, he opened the door of a closet leading to their apartment: but
there, to their great surprise, they found Mrs Douglas and Emma, and as
well informed of everything as themselves;--for, expecting that a duel
might be the consequence of the major's impetuosity, and hearing Mr
Glenmurray announced, they resolved to listen to the conversation, and,
if it took the turn which they expected, to rush in and endeavour to
mollify the disputants.

'So, ladies; this is very pretty indeed! Eaves-droppers, I protest,'
cried Major Douglas: but he said no more; for his wife, affected by the
recital which she had heard, and delighted to find that there would be
no duel, threw her arms round his neck, and burst into tears. Emma,
almost equally affected, gave her hand to Glenmurray, and told him
nothing on her part should be omitted to prevail on Adeline to sacrifice
her opinions to her welfare.

'I said so,' cried the major. 'You will write to her.'

'No; I will see her, and argue with her.'

'And so will I,' cried the wife.

'That you shall not,' bluntly replied the major.

'Why not? I think it my duty to do all I can to save a fellow-creature
from ruin; and words spoken from the heart are always more powerful than
words written.'

'But what will the world say, if I permit you to converse with a kept
mistress?'

'The world here to us, as we associate with none and are known to none,
is Mr Glenmurray and Miss Mowbray; and of their good word we are sure.'

'Aye,' cried Emma, 'and sure of succeeding with this interesting Adeline
too; for if she likes us, as I think she does--'

'She adores you,' replied Glenmurray.

'So much the better:--then, when we shall tell her that we cannot
associate with her, much as we admire her, unless she consents to become
a wife, surely she will hear reason.'

'No doubt,' cried Mrs Douglas; 'and then we will go to church with her,
and you, Emma, shall be bride's maid.'

'I see no necessity for that,' observed the major gravely.

'But I do,' replied Emma. 'She will repeat her vows with more heartfelt
reverence, when two respectable women, deeply impressed themselves with
their importance, shall be there to witness them.'

'But there is no Protestant church here,' exclaimed Glenmurray:
'however, we can go back to Lisbon, and you are already resolved to
return thither.'

This point being settled, it was agreed that Glenmurray should prepare
Adeline for their visit; and with a lightened heart he went to execute
his commission. But when he saw Adeline he forgot his commission and
every thing but her distress; for he found her with an open letter in
her hand, and an unopened one on the floor, in a state of mind almost
bordering on phrensy.




CHAPTER XIV


As soon as Adeline beheld Glenmurray, 'See!' she exclaimed in a
hoarse and agitated tone, 'there is my letter to my mother, returned
unopened, and here is a letter from Dr Norberry which has broken my
heart:--however, we must go to England directly.'

The letter was as follows:--

     'You have made a pretty fool of me, deluded but still dear
     girl! for you have made me believe in forebodings. You may
     remember with what a full heart I bade you adieu, and I
     recollect what a devilish queer sensation I had when the
     park-gates closed on your fleet carriage. I almost swore at the
     postillions for driving so fast, as I wished to see you as long
     as I could; and now I protest that I believe I was actuated by
     a foreboding that at that house, and on that spot, I should
     never behold you again. (Here a tear had fallen on the paper,
     and the word, '_again_' was nearly blotted out.) Dear, lost
     Adeline, I prayed for you too! I prayed that you might return
     as innocent and happy as you left me. Heaven have mercy on us!
     who should have thought it?--But this is nothing to the
     purpose, and I suppose you think you have done nought but what
     is right and clever.'

He then proceeded to inform Adeline, who had written to him to implore
his mediation between her and her mother, 'that the latter had sent
express for him on finding, by the hasty scrawl which came the day after
Adeline's departure from the farm-house, that she had eloped, and who
was the companion of her flight; that he found her in violent agitation,
as Sir Patrick, stung to madness at the success of his rival, had with
an ingenuousness worthy a better cause avowed to her his ardent passion
for her daughter, his resolution to follow the fugitives, and by every
means possible separate Adeline from her lover; and that, after having
thanked Lady O'Carrol for her great generosity to him, he had taken his
pistols, mounted his horse, attended by his groom also well armed, and
vowed that he would never return unless accompanied by the woman whom he
adored.'

     'No wonder therefore,' continued the doctor, 'that I was an
     unsuccessful advocate for you,--especially as I was not
     inclined to manage the old bride's self-love; for I was so
     provoked at her folly in marrying the handsome profligate,
     that, if she had not been in distress, I never meant to see her
     again. But, poor silly you! she suffers enough for her folly,
     and so do you;--for, her affections and her self-love being
     equally wounded by Sir Patrick's confession, you are at present
     the object of her aversion. To you she attributes all the
     misery of having lost the man on whom she still dotes; and when
     she found from your last letter to me that you are not the wife
     but the mistress of Glenmurray, (by the bye, your letter to her
     from Lisbon she desires me to return unopened,) and that the
     child once her pride is become her disgrace, she declared her
     solemn resolution never to see you more, and to renounce you
     for ever--(Terrible words, Adeline, I tremble to write them.)
     But a circumstance has since occurred which gives me hopes that
     she may yet forgive, and receive you on certain conditions.
     About a fortnight after Sir Patrick's departure, a letter from
     Ireland, directed to him in a woman's hand, arrived at the
     Pavilion. Your mother opened it, and found it was from a wife
     of her amiable husband, whom he had left in the north of
     Ireland, and who, having heard of his second marriage, wrote to
     tell him that, unless he came quickly back to her, she would
     prosecute him for bigamy, as he knew very well that undoubted
     proofs of the marriage were in her possession. At first this
     new proof of her beautiful spouse's villany drove your mother
     almost to phrensy, and I was again sent for; but time,
     reflection, and perhaps my arguments, convinced her, that
     to be able to free herself from this rascal for ever, and
     consequently her fortune, losing only the ten thousand pounds
     which she had given him to pay his debts, was in reality a
     consoling circumstance. Accordingly, she wrote to the real Lady
     O'Carrol, promising to accede quietly to her claim, and wishing
     that she would spare her and herself the disgrace of a public
     trial; especially as it must end in the conviction of Sir
     Patrick. She then, on hearing from him that he had traced you
     to Falmouth, and was going to embark for Lisbon when the wind
     was favourable, enclosed him a copy of his wife's letter, and
     bade him an eternal farewell!--But be not alarmed lest this
     insane profligate should overtake and distress you. He is gone
     to his final account. In his hurry to get on board, overcome as
     he was with the great quantity of liquor which he had drunk to
     banish care, he sprung from the boat before it was near enough
     to reach the vessel; his foot slipped against the side, he fell
     into the water, and, going under the ship, never rose again. I
     leave you to imagine how the complicated distresses of the last
     three months, and this awful climax to them, have affected your
     mother's mind; even I cannot scold her, now, for the life of
     me: she is not yet, I believe, disposed in your favour; but
     were you here, and were you to meet, it is possible that,
     forlorn, lonely, and deserted as she now feels, the tie between
     you might be once more cemented; and much as I resent your
     conduct, you may depend on my exertions.--O Adeline, child of
     my affection, why must I blush to subscribe myself

                                     'Your sincere friend,
                                                         'J. N.?'

Words cannot describe the feelings of anguish which this letter
excited in Adeline: nor could she make known her sensations otherwise
than by reiterated requests to be allowed to set off for England
directly--requests to which Glenmurray, alarmed for her intellects,
immediately assented. Therefore, leaving a hasty note for the Douglases,
they soon bade farewell to Perpignan; and after a long laborious
journey, but a short passage, they landed at Brighton.

It was a fine evening; and numbers of the gay and fashionable of both
sexes were assembled on the beach, to see the passengers land. Adeline
and Glenmurray were amongst the first: and while heartsick, fatigued,
and melancholy, Adeline took the arm of her lover, and turned disgusted
from the brilliant groups before her, she saw, walking along the shore,
Dr Norberry, his wife, and his two daughters.

Instantly, unmindful of every thing but the delight of seeing old
acquaintances, and of being able to gain some immediate tiding of her
mother, she ran up to them: and just as they turned round, she met
them, extending her hand in friendship as she was wont to do.--But in
vain;--no hand was stretched out to meet hers, nor tongue nor look
proclaimed a welcome to her; Dr Norberry himself coldly touched his hat,
and passed on, while his wife and daughters looked scornfully at her,
and, without deigning to notice her, pursued their walk.

Astonished and confounded, Adeline had not power to articulate a word;
and had not Glenmurray caught her in his arms, she would have fallen to
the ground.

'Then now I am indeed an outcast! even my oldest and best friend
renounces me,' she exclaimed.

'But I am left to you,' cried Glenmurray.

Adeline sighed. She could not say, as she had formerly done, 'and you
are all to me.' The image of her mother, happy as the wife of a man she
loved, could not long rival Glenmurray; but the image of her mother,
disgraced and wretched, awoke all the habitual but dormant tenderness of
years; every feeling of filial gratitude revived in all its force; and,
even while leaning on the shoulder of her lover, she sighed to be once
more clasped to the bosom of her mother.

Glenmurray felt the change, but, though grieved, was not offended:--'I
shall die in peace,' he cried, 'if I can but see you restored to your
mother's affection, even though the surrender of my happiness is to be
the purchase.'

'You shall die in peace!' replied Adeline shuddering. The phrase was
well-timed, though perhaps undesignedly so. Adeline clung close to his
arm, her eyes filled with tears, and all the way to the inn she thought
only of Glenmurray with an apprehension which she could not conquer.

'What do you mean to do now?' said Glenmurray.

'Write to Dr Norberry. I think he will at least have humanity enough to
let me know where to find my mother.'

'No doubt; and you had better write directly.'

Adeline took up her pen. A letter was written,--and as quickly torn.
Letter succeeded to letter; but not one of them answered her wishes. The
dark hour arrived, and the letter remained unwritten.

'It is too soon to ring for candles,' said Glenmurray, putting his arm
round her waist and leading her to the window. The sun was below the
horizon, but the reflection of his beams still shone beautifully on the
surrounding objects. Adeline, reclining her cheek on Glenmurray's arm,
gazed in silence on the scene before her: when the door suddenly opened,
and a gentleman was announced. It was now so dark that all objects were
indistinctly seen, and the gentleman had advanced close to Adeline
before she knew him to be Dr Norberry: and before she could decide how
she should receive him, she felt herself clasped to his bosom with the
affection of a father.

Surprised and affected, she could not speak; and Glenmurray had ordered
candles before Adeline had recovered herself sufficiently to say these
words, 'After your conduct on the beach, I little expected this visit.'

'Pshaw!' replied the doctor: 'when a man out of regard to society has
performed a painful task, surely he may be allowed, out of regard to
himself, to follow the dictates of his heart.--I obeyed my head when I
passed you so cavalierly, and I thought I should never have gone through
my task as I did;--but then for the sake of my daughters, I gave a gulp,
and called up a fierce look. But I told madam that I meant to call on
you, and she insisted, very properly, that it should be in the dark
hour.'

'But what of my mother?'

'She is a miserable woman, as she deserved to be--an old fool.'

'Pray do not call her so; to hear she is miserable is torment sufficient
to me:--where is she?'

'Still at the Pavilion: but she is going to let Rosevalley, retire to
her estate in Cumberland, and live unknown and unseen.'

'But will she not allow me to live with her?'

'What! as Mr Glenmurray's mistress? receive under her roof the seducer
of her daughter?'

'Sir, I am no seducer.'

'No,' cried Adeline: 'I became the mistress of Mr Glenmurray from the
dictates of my reason, not my weakness or his persuasions.'

'Humph!' replied the doctor, 'I should expect to find such reason in
Moorfields: besides, had not Mr Glenmurray's books turned your head, you
would not have thought it pretty and right to become the mistress of any
man: so he is your seducer, after all.'

'So far I plead guilty,' replied Glenmurray; 'but whatever my opinions
are, I have ever been willing to sacrifice them to the welfare of Miss
Mowbray, and have, from the first moment that we were safe from pursuit,
been urgent to marry her.'

'Then why are you not married?'

'Because I would not consent,' said Adeline coldly.

'Mad, certainly mad,' exclaimed the doctor: 'but you, 'faith, you are an
honest fellow after all,' turning to Glenmurray and shaking him by the
hand; 'weak of the head, not bad in the heart; burn your vile books,
and I am your friend for ever.'

'We will discuss that point another time,' replied Glenmurray: 'at
present the most interesting subject to us is the question whether Mrs
Mowbray will forgive her daughter or not?'

'Why, man, if I may judge of Mrs Mowbray by myself, one condition of her
forgiveness will be your marrying her daughter.'

'O blest condition!' cried Glenmurray.

'I should think,' replied Adeline coldly, 'my mother must have had too
much of marriage to wish me to marry; but if she should insist on my
marrying, I will comply, and on no other account.'

'Strange infatuation! To me appears only justice and duty. But your
reasons, girl, your reasons?'

'They are few, but strong. Glenmurray, philanthropically bent on
improving the state of society, puts forth opinions counteracting its
received usages, backed by arguments which are in my opinion
incontrovertible.'

'In your opinion!--Pray, child, how old are you?'

'Nineteen.'

'And at that age you set up for a reformer? Well,--go on.'

'But though it be important to the success of his opinions, and indeed
to the respectability of his character, that he should act according to
his precepts, he, for the sake of preserving to me the notice of persons
whose narrowness of mind I despise, would conform to an institution
which both he and I think unworthy of regard from a rational being.--And
shall not I be as generous as he is? shall I scruple to give up for his
honour and fame the petty advantages which marriage would give me?
Never--his honour and fame are too dear to me; but the claims which my
mother has on me are in my eyes so sacred that, for her sake, though not
for my own, I would accept the sacrifice which Glenmurray offers. If,
then, she says that she will never see or pardon me till I am become
a wife, I will follow him to the altar directly; but till then I must
insist on remaining as I am. It is necessary that I should respect the
man I love; and I should not respect Glenmurray were he not capable of
supporting with fortitude the consequences of his opinions; and could
he, for motives less strong than those he avows, cease to act up to what
he believes to be right. For, never can I respect or believe firmly in
the truth of those doctrines, the followers of which shrink from a sort
of martyrdom in support of them.'

'O Mr Glenmurray!' cried the doctor shaking his head, 'what have you
to answer for! What a glorious champion would that creature have
been in the support of truth, when even error in her looks so like to
virtue!--And then the amiable disinterestedness of you both!--What
a powerful thing must true love be, when it can make a speculative
philosopher indifferent to the interests of his system, and ready to act
in direct opposition to it, rather than injure the respectability of the
woman he loves! Well, well, the Lord forgive you, young man, for having
taken it into your head to set up for a great author!'

Glenmurray answered by a deep-drawn sigh; and the doctor continued:
'Then there is that girl again, with a heart so fond and true that her
love comes in aid of her integrity, and makes her think no sacrifice
too great, in order to prove her confidence in the wisdom of her
lover,--urging her to disregard all personal inconveniences rather than
let him forfeit, for her sake, his pretensions to independence and
consistency of character! girl, I can't help admiring you, but no more I
could a Malabar widow, who with fond and pious enthusiasm, from an idea
of duty, throws herself on the funeral pile of her husband. But still
I should think you a great fool, notwithstanding, for professing the
opinions that led to such an exertion of duty. And now here are you,
possessed of every quality both of head and heart to bless others and to
bless yourself--owing to your foolish and pernicious opinions;--here you
are, I say blasted in reputation in the prime of your days, and doomed
perhaps to pine through existence in--Pshaw! I can't support the idea!'
added he, gulping down a sob as he spoke, and traversing the room in
great emotion.

Adeline and Glenmurray were both of them deeply and painfully affected;
and the latter was going to express what he felt, when the doctor
seizing Adeline's hand, affectionately exclaimed, 'Well, my poor child!
I will see your mother once more; I will go to London tomorrow--by this
time she is there--and you had better follow me; you will hear of me at
the Old Hummums; and here is a card of address to an hotel near it,
where I would advise you to take up your abode.'

So saying he shook Glenmurray by the hand; when, starting back, he
exclaimed 'Why, man! here is a skin like fire, and a pulse like
lightning. My dear fellow, you must take care of yourself.'

Adeline burst into tears.

'Indeed, doctor, I am only nervous.'

'Nervous!--What, I suppose you think you understand my profession better
than I do. But don't cry, my child: when your mind is easier, perhaps,
he will do very well; and, as one thing likely to give him immediate
ease, I prescribe a visit to the altar of the next parish church.'

So saying he departed; and all other considerations were again swallowed
up in Adeline's mind by the idea of Glenmurray's danger.

'Is it possible that my marrying you would have such a blessed effect on
your health?' cried Adeline after a pause.

'It certainly would make my mind easier than it now is,' replied he.

'If I thought so,' said Adeline: 'but no--regard for my supposed
interest merely makes you say so; and indeed I should not think so well
of you as I now do, if I imagined that you could be made easy by an
action by which you forfeited all pretensions to that consistency of
character so requisite to the true dignity of a philosopher.'

A deep sigh from Glenmurray, in answer, proved that he was no
philosopher.

In the morning the lovers set off for London, Dr Norberry having
preceded them by a few hours. This blunt but benevolent man had returned
the evening before slowly and pensively to his lodgings, his heart full
of pity for the errors of the well-meaning enthusiasts whom he had left,
and his head full of plans for their assistance, or rather for that of
Adeline. But he entered his own doors again reluctantly--he knew but too
well that no sympathy with his feelings awaited him there. His wife, a
woman of narrow capacity and no talents or accomplishments, had, like
all women of that sort, a great aversion to those of her sex who
united to feminine graces and gentleness, the charms of a cultivated
understanding and pretensions to accomplishments or literature.

Of Mrs Mowbray, as we have before observed, she had always been
peculiarly jealous, because Dr Norberry spoke of her knowledge
with wonder, and of her understanding with admiration; not that he
entertained one moment a feeling of preference towards her, inconsistent
with an almost idolatrous love of his wife, whose skill in all the
domestic duties, and whose very pretty face and person, were the daily
themes of his praise. But Mrs Norberry wished to engross all his
panegyrics to herself, and she never failed to expatiate on Mrs
Mowbray's foibles and flightiness as long as the doctor had expatiated
on her charms.

Sometimes, indeed, this last subject was sooner exhausted than the one
which she had chosen; but when Adeline grew up, and became as it were
the rival of her daughters in the praises of her husband, she found it
difficult as we have said before, to bring faults in array against
excellencies.

Mrs Norberry could with propriety observe, when the doctor, was
exclaiming, 'What a charming essay Mrs Mowbray has just written!'

'Aye,--but I dare say she can't write a market bill.'

When he said, 'How well she comprehends the component parts of the
animal system!'

She could with great justice reply, 'But she knows nothing of the
component parts of a plum pudding.'

But when Adeline became the object of the husband's admiration and the
wife's enmity, Mrs Norberry could not make these pertinent remarks, as
Adeline was as conversant with all branches of housewifery as herself;
and, though as learned in all systems as her mother, was equally learned
in the component parts of puddings and pies. She was therefore at a loss
what to say when Adeline was praised by the doctor; and all she could
observe on the occasion was, that the girl might be clever, but was
certainly very ugly, very affected, and very conceited.

It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that Mrs Mowbray's degrading and
unhappy marriage, and Adeline's elopement, should have been sources of
triumph to Mrs Norberry and her daughters; who, though they liked Mrs
Mowbray very well, could not bear Adeline.

'So Dr Norberry, these are your uncommon folks!'--exclaimed Mrs Norberry
on hearing of the marriage and of the subsequent elopement;--'I suppose
you are now well satisfied at not having a genius for your wife, or
geniuses for your daughters?'

'I always was, my dear,' meekly replied the mortified and afflicted
doctor, and dropped the subject as soon as possible; nor had it been
resumed for some time when Adeline accosted them on the beach at
Brighton. But her appearance called forth their dormant enmity; and the
whole way to their lodgings the good doctor heard her guilt expatiated
upon with as much violence as ever: but just as they got home he coldly
and firmly observed, 'I shall certainly call on the poor deluded girl
this evening.'

And Mrs Norberry, knowing by the tone and manner in which he spoke, that
this was a point which he would not give up, contented herself with
requiring only that he should go in the dark hour.




CHAPTER XV


It was to a wife and daughters such as these that he was returning, with
the benevolent wish of interesting them for the guilty Adeline.

'So, Dr Norberry, you are come back at last!' was his first salutation,
'and what does the creature say for herself?'

'The creature!--Your fellow-creature, my dear, says very little--grief
is not wordy.'

'Grief!--So then she is unhappy, is she?' cries Miss Norberry; 'I am
monstrous glad of it.'

The doctor started; and an oath nearly escaped his lips. He did say,
'Why, zounds, Jane!'--but then he added, in a softer tone, 'Why do you
rejoice in a poor girl's affliction?'

'Because I think it is for the good of her soul.'

'Good girl!' replied the father:--'Jane, (seizing her hand,) may your
soul never need such a medicine!'

'It never will,' said her mother proudly: 'she has been differently
brought up.'

'She has been well brought up, you might have added,' observed the
doctor, 'had modesty permitted it. Mrs Mowbray, poor woman, had good
intentions; but she was too flighty. Had Adeline, my children, had such
a mother as yours, she would have been like you.'

'But not half so handsome,' interrupted the mother in a low voice.

'But as our faults and our virtues, my dear, depend so much on the care
and instruction of others, we should look with pity, as well as aversion
on the faults of those less fortunate in instructors than we have been.'

'Certainly;--very true,' said Mrs Norberry, flattered and affected by
this compliment from her husband: 'but you know, James Norberry,' laying
her hand on his, 'I always told you you overrated Mrs Mowbray; and that
she was but a dawdle after all.'

'You always did, my good woman,' replied he, raising her hand to his
lips.

'But you men think yourselves much wiser than we are!'

'We do so,' replied the doctor.

The tone was equivocal--Mrs Norberry felt it to be so, and looked up
in his face.--The doctor understood the look: it was one of doubt and
inquiry; and, as it was his interest to sooth her in order to carry his
point, he exclaimed, 'We men are, indeed, too apt to pride ourselves in
our supposed superior wisdom: but I, you will own, my dear, have always
done your sex justice; and you in particular.'

'You have been a good husband indeed, James Norberry,' replied his wife
in a faltering voice; 'and I believe you to be, to every one, a just and
honourable man.'

'And I dare say, dame, I do no more than justice to you, when I think
you will approve and further a plan for Adeline Mowbray's good, which I
am going to propose to you.'

Mrs Norberry withdrew her hand; but returning it again:--'To be sure,
my dear,' she cried. 'Any thing you wish; that is, if I see right to--'

'I will explain myself,' continued the doctor gently.

'I have promised this poor girl to endeavour to bring about a
reconciliation between her and her mother; but though Adeline wishes
to receive her pardon on any terms, and even, if it be required, to
renounce her lover, I fear Mrs Mowbray is too much incensed against her,
to see or forgive her.'

'Hard-hearted woman!' cried Mrs Norberry.

'Cruel, indeed!' cried her daughters.

'But a mother ought to be severe, very severe, on such occasions, young
ladies,' hastily added Mrs Norberry: 'but go on, my dear.'

'Now it is but too probable,' continued the doctor, 'that Glenmurray
will not live long, and then this young creature will be left to
struggle unprotected with the difficulties of her situation; and who
knows but that she may, from poverty, and the want of a protector, be
tempted to continue in the paths of vice?'

'Well, Dr Norberry, and what then?--Who or what is to prevent it?--You
know we have three children to provide for; and I am a young woman as
yet.'

'True, Hannah,' giving her a kiss, 'and a very pretty woman too.'

'Well, my dear love, anything we can do with prudence I am ready to do;
I can say no more.'

'You have said enough,' cried the doctor exultingly; 'then hear my plan:
Adeline shall, in the event of Glenmurray's death, which though not
certain seems likely--to be sure, I did not inquire into the nature of
his nocturnal perspirations, his expectoration, and so forth--'

'Dear papa, you are so professional!' affectedly exclaimed his youngest
daughter.

'Well, child, I have done; and to return to my subject--if Glenmurray
lives or dies, I think it advisable that Adeline should go into
retirement to lie-in. And where can she be better than in my little
cottage now empty, within a four-miles ride of our house? If she wants
protection, I can protect her; and if she wants money before her mother
forgives her, you can give it to her.'

'Indeed, papa,' cried both the girls, 'we shall not grudge it.'

The doctor started from his chair, and embraced his daughters with joy
mixed with wonder; for he knew they had always disliked Adeline.--True;
but then, she was prosperous, and their superior. Little minds love to
bestow protection; and it was easy to be generous to the fallen Adeline
Mowbray: had her happiness continued, so would their hatred.

'Then it is a settled point, is it not dame?' asked the doctor, chucking
his wife under the chin; when, to his great surprise and consternation,
she threw his hand indignantly from her, and vociferated, 'She shall
never live within a ride of our house, I can assure you, Dr Norberry.'

The doctor was petrified into silence, and the girls could only
articulate 'La! mamma?' But what could produce this sudden and violent
change? Nothing but a simple and natural operation of the human mind.
Though a very kind husband, and an indulgent father, Dr Norberry was
suspected, though unjustly, of being a very gallant man: and some of Mrs
Norberry's good-natured friends had occasionally hinted to her their
sorrow at hearing such and such reports; reports which were indeed
destitute of foundation; but which served to excite suspicions in the
mind of the tenacious Mrs Norberry. And what more likely to re-awaken
them than the young and frail Adeline Mowbray living in a cottage of her
husband's, protected, supported, and visited by him! The moment this
idea occurred, its influence was unconquerable; and with a voice and
manner of determined hostility she made known her resolves in
consequence of it.

After a pause of dismay and astonishment, the doctor cried, 'Dame, what
have you gotten in your head? What, all on a sudden, has had such an
ugly effect on you?'

'Second thoughts are best, doctor; and I now feel that it would be
highly improper for you, with daughters grown up, to receive with such
marked kindness a single young woman at a cottage of yours, who is going
to lie-in.'

'But, my dear, it is a different case, when I do it to keep her out of
the way of further harm.'

'That is more than I know, Dr Norberry,' replied the wife bridling, and
fanning herself.

'Whew!' whistled the doctor; and then addressing his daughters, 'Girls,
you had better go to bed; it grows late.'

The young ladies obeyed; but first hung round their mother's neck, as
they bade her good night, and hoped she would not be so cruel to the
poor deluded Adeline.

Mrs Norberry angrily shook them off, with a peevish--'Get along, girls.'
The doctor cordially kissed, and bade God bless them; while the door
closed and left the loving couple alone.

What passed, it were tedious to repeat: suffice that after a long
altercation, continued even after they were retired to rest, the doctor
found his wife, on this subject, incapable of listening to reason, and
that, as a finishing stroke, she exclaimed, 'It does not signify talking,
Dr Norberry, while I have my senses, and can see into a mill-stone a
little, the hussey shall never come near us.'

The doctor sighed deeply; turned himself round, not to sleep but to
think, and rose the next morning to go in search of Mrs Mowbray,
dreading the interview which he was afterwards to have with Adeline; for
he did not expect to succeed in his application to her mother, and he
could not now soften his intelligence with a 'but,' as he intended.
'True,' he meant to have said to her, 'your mother will not receive you;
but if you ever want a home or a place of retirement, I have a cottage,
and so forth.'

'Pshaw!' cried the doctor to himself, as these thoughts came across him
on the road, and made him hastily let down the front window of the
post-chaise for air.

'Did your honour speak?' cries the post-boy.

'Not I. But can't you drive faster and be hanged to you?'

The boy whipped his horses.--The doctor then found that it was up
hill--down went the glass again:--'Hold, you brute, why do you not see
it is up hill?' For find fault he must; and with his wife he could not,
or dared not, even in fancy.

'Dear me! Why, your honour bade me put it on.'

'Devilishly obedient,' muttered the doctor: 'I wish every one was like
you in that respect.'--And in a state of mind not the pleasantest
possible the doctor drove into town, and to the hotel where Mrs Mowbray
was to be found.

Dr Norberry was certainly now not in a humour to sooth any woman whom he
thought in the wrong, except his wife; and, whether from carelessness or
design, he did not, unfortunately for Adeline, manage the self-love of
her unhappy mother.

He found Mrs Mowbray with her heart shut up, not softened by sorrow.
The hands once stretched forth with kindness to welcome him, were
now stiffly laid one upon the other; and 'How are you, sir?' coldly
articulated, was followed by as cold a 'Pray sit down.'

'Why, how ill you look!' exclaimed the doctor.

'I attend more to my feelings than my looks,' with a deep sigh, answered
Mrs Mowbray.

'Your feelings are as bad as your looks, I dare say.'

'They are worse, sir,' said Mrs Mowbray piqued.

'There was no need of that,' replied the doctor: 'but I am come to
point out to you one way of getting rid of some of your unpleasant
feelings:--see, and forgive your daughter.'

Mrs Mowbray started, changed colour, and exclaimed with quickness, 'Is
she in England?' but added instantly, 'I have no daughter:--she, who was
my child, is my most inveterate foe; she has involved me in disgrace and
misery.'

'With a little of your own help she has,' replied the doctor. 'Come,
come, my old friend, you have both of you something to forget and
forgive; and the sooner you set about it the better. Now do write, and
tell Adeline, who is by this time in London, that you forgive her.'

'Never:--after having promised me not to hold converse with that villain
without my consent? Had I no other cause of complaint against her;--had
she not by her coquettish arts seduced the affections of the man I
loved:--never, never would I forgive her having violated the sacred
promise which she gave me.'

'A promise,' interrupted the doctor, 'which she would never have
violated, had not you first violated that sacred compact which you
entered into at her birth.'

'What mean you, sir?'

'I mean, that though a parent does not, at a child's birth, solemnly
make a vow to do all in his or her power to promote the happiness of
that child,--still, as he has given it birth, he has tacitly bound
himself to make it happy. This tacit agreement you broke, when at the
age of forty, you, regardless of your daughter's welfare, played the
fool and married a pennyless profligate, merely because he had a fine
person and a handsome leg.'

Mrs Mowbray was too angry and too agitated to interrupt him, and he went
on:

'Well, what was the consequence? The young fellow very naturally
preferred the daughter to the mother; and, as he could not have her by
fair, was resolved to have her by foul means; and so he--'

'I beg, Dr Norberry,' interrupted Mrs Mowbray in a faint voice, 'that
you would spare the disgusting recital.'

'Well, well, I will. Now do consider the dilemma your child was in: she
must either elope, or by her presence keep alive a criminal passion in
her father-in-law, which you sooner or later must discover; and be
besides exposed to fresh insults.--Well, Glenmurray by chance happened
to be on the spot just as she escaped from that villanous fellow's
clutches, and--'

'He is dead, Dr Norberry,' interrupted Mrs Mowbray; 'and you know the
old adage, "Do not speak ill of the dead."'

'And a very silly adage it is. I had rather speak ill of the dead than
the living, for my part: but let me go on.--Well, love taking the name
and habit of prudence and filial piety, (for she thought she consulted
your happiness, and not her own,) bade her fly to and with her lover;
and now there she is, owing to the pretty books which you let her read,
living with him as his mistress, and glorying in it, as if it was a
notable praiseworthy action.'

'And you would have me forgive her?'

'Certainly: a fault which both your precepts and conduct occasioned. Not
but what the girl has been wrong, terribly wrong:--no one ought to do
evil that good may come. You had forbidden her to have any intercourse
with Glenmurray; and she therefore knew that disobeying you would make
you unhappy--that was a certainty. That fellow's persevering in his
attempts, after the fine rebuff which she had given him, was an
uncertainty; and she ought to have run the risk of it, and not committed
a positive fault to avoid a possible evil. But then hers was a fault
which she could not have committed had not you married that--but I
forbear. And as to her not being married to Glenmurray, that is no
fault of his; and with your consent, he will marry your daughter
to-morrow morning. That ever so good, cleanly-hearted a youth should
have poked his nose into the filthy mess of eccentric philosophy!'

'Have you done, doctor?' cried Mrs Mowbray haughtily: 'have you said all
that Miss Mowbray and you have invented to insult me?'

'Your child send me to insult you!--She!--Adeline!--Why, the poor soul
came broken-hearted and post haste from France, when she heard of your
misfortunes, to offer her services to console you.'

'She console me?--she, the first occasion of them?--But for her, I might
still have indulged the charming delusion, even if it were delusion,
that love of me, not of my wealth, induced the man I doted upon to
commit a crime to gain possession of me.'

'Why!' hastily interrupted the doctor, 'everyone saw that he loved her
long before he married you.'

The storm, long gathering, now burst forth; and rising, with the tears,
high colour, and vehement voice of unbridled passion, Mrs Mowbray
exclaimed, raising her arm and clenching her fist as she spoke, 'And it
is being the object of that cruel preference, which I never, never will
forgive her!'

The doctor, after ejaculating 'Whew!' as much as to say 'The murder is
out,' instantly took his hat and departed, convinced his labour was
vain. 'There,' muttered he as he went down stairs, 'two instances in one
day! Ah, ah,--that jealousy is the devil.' He then slowly walked to the
hotel, where he expected to find Adeline and Glenmurray.

They had arrived about two hours before; and Adeline in a frame of mind
but ill fitted to bear the disappointment which awaited her. For, with
the sanguine expectations natural to her age, she had been castle-building
as usual; and their journey to London had been rendered a very short
one, by the delightful plans, for the future, which she had been forming
and imparting to Glenmurray.

'When I consider,' said she, 'the love which my mother has always shown
for me, I cannot think it possible that she can persist in renouncing
me; and however her respect for the prejudices of the world, a world
which she intended to live in at the time of her unfortunate connexion,
might make her angry at my acting in defiance of its laws,--now that she
herself, from a sense of injury and disgrace, is about to retire from
it, she will no longer have a motive to act contrary to the dictates of
reason herself, or to wish me to do so.'

'But your ideas of reason and hers may be so different--'

'No. Our practice may be different, but our theory is the same, and I
have no doubt but that my mother will now forgive and receive us; and
that, living in a romantic solitude, being the whole world to each
other, our days will glide away in uninterrupted felicity.'

'And how shall we employ ourselves?' said Glenmurray smiling.

'You shall continue to write for the instruction of your fellow-creatures;
while my mother and I shall be employed in endeavouring to improve the
situation of the poor around us, and perhaps in educating our children.'

Adeline, when animated by any prospect of happiness, was irresistible:
she was really Hope herself, as described by Collins--

  'But thou, oh Hope, with eyes so fair,
  What was thy delighted measure!'

and Glenmurray, as he listened to her, forgot his illness; forgot every
thing, but what Adeline chose to imagine. The place of their retreat was
fixed upon. It was to be a little village near Falmouth, the scene of
their first happiness. The garden was laid out; Mrs Mowbray's library
planned; and so completely were they lost in their charming prospects
for the future, that every turnpike-man had to wait a longer time than
he was accustomed to for his money; and the postillion had driven into
London in the way to the hotel, before Adeline recollected that she was,
for the first time, in a city which she had long wished most ardently to
see.

They had scarcely taken up their abode at the hotel recommended to them
by Dr Norberry, when he knocked at the door. Adeline from the window had
seen him coming; and sure as she thought herself to be of her mother's
forgiveness, she turned sick and faint when the decisive moment was at
hand; and, hurrying out of the room, she begged Glenmurray to receive
the doctor, and apologize for her absence.

Glenmurray awaited him with a beating heart. He listened to his step
on the stairs: it was slow and heavy; unlike that of a benevolent man
coming to communicate good news. Glenmurray began immediately to tremble
for the peace of Adeline; and, hastily pouring out a glass of wine, was
on the point of drinking it when Dr Norberry entered.

'Give me a glass,' cried he: 'I want one, I am sure, to recruit my
spirits.' Glenmurray in silence complied with his desire. 'Come, I'll
give you a toast,' cried the doctor: 'Here is--'

At this moment Adeline entered. She had heard the doctor's last words,
and she thought he was going to drink to the reconciliation of her
mother and herself; and hastily opening the door she came to receive
the good news which awaited her. But, at sight of her, the toast died
unfinished on her old friend's lips; he swallowed down the wine in
silence, and then taking her hand led her to the sofa.

Adeline's heart began to die within her; and before the doctor, after
having taken a pinch of snuff and blowed his nose full three times, was
prepared to speak, she was convinced that she had nothing but unwelcome
intelligence to receive; and she awaited in trembling expectation an
answer to a 'Well, sir,' from Glenmurray, spoken in a tone of fearful
emotion.

'No, it is not well, sir,' replied the doctor.

'You have seen my mother?' said Adeline, catching hold of the arm of the
sofa for support: and in an instant Glenmurray was by her side.

'I have seen Mrs Mowbray, but not your mother: for I have seen a woman
dead to every graceful impulse of maternal affection, and alive only to
a selfish sense of rivalship and hatred. My poor child! God forgive the
deluded woman! But I declare she detests you!'

'Detests me?' exclaimed Adeline.

'Yes; she swears that she can never forgive the preference which that
vile fellow gave you, and I am convinced that she will keep her word;'
and here the doctor, turning round, saw Adeline lying immoveable in
Glenmurray's arms. But she did not long remain so, and with a frantic
scream kept repeating the words 'She detests me!' till unable to contend
any longer with the acuteness of her feelings, she sunk, sobbing
convulsively, exhausted on the bed to which they carried her.

'My good friend, my only friend,' cried Glenmurray, 'what is to be done?
Will she scream again, think you, in that most dreadful and unheard-of
manner? For, if she does, I must run out of the house.'

'What, then, she never treated you in this pretty way before, heh?'

'Never, never. Her self-command has always been exemplary.'

'Indeed?--Lucky fellow! My wife and daughters often scream just as loud,
on very trifling occasions: but that scream went to my heart; for I well
know how to distinguish between the shriek of agony and that of passion.'

When Adeline recovered, she ardently conjured Dr Norberry to procure
her an interview with her mother; contending that it was absolutely
impossible to suppose, that the sight of a child so long and tenderly
loved should not renew a little of her now dormant affection.

'But you were her rival, as well as her child; remember that. However,
you look so ill, that now, if ever, she will forgive you, I think:
therefore I will go back to Mrs Mowbray; and while I am there do you
come, ask for me, and follow the servant into the room.'

'I will,' replied Adeline: and leaning on the arm of her lover, she
slowly followed the doctor to her mother's hotel.




CHAPTER XVI


'This is the most awful moment of my life,' said Adeline.

'And the most anxious one of mine,' replied Glenmurray. 'If Mrs Mowbray
forgives you, it will be probably on condition that--'

'Whatever be the conditions, I must accept them,' said Adeline.

'True,' returned Glenmurray, wiping the cold dews of weakness from his
forehead: 'but no matter--at any rate, I should not have been with you
long.'

Adeline, with a look of agony, pressed the arm she held to her bosom.

Glenmurray's heart smote him immediately--he felt he had been
ungenerous; and, while the hectic of a moment passed across his cheek,
he added, 'But I do not do myself justice in saying so. I believe my
best chance of recovery is the certainty of your being easy. Let me but
see you happy, and so disinterested is my affection, as I have often
told you, that I shall cheerfully assent to any thing that may ensure
your happiness.'

'And can you think,' answered Adeline, 'that my happiness can be
independent of yours? Do you not see that I am only trying to prepare
my mind for being called upon to surrender my inclinations to my duty?'

At this moment they found themselves at the door of the hotel. Neither
of them spoke; the moment of trial was come; and both were unable to
encounter it firmly. At last Adeline grasped her lover's hand, bade him
wait for her at the end of the street, and with some degree of firmness
she entered the vestibule, and asked for Dr Norberry.

Dr Norberry, meanwhile, with the best intentions in the world, had but
ill prepared Mrs Mowbray's mind for the intended visit. He had again
talked to her of her daughter; and urged the propriety of forgiving her;
but he had at the same time renewed his animadversions on her own
conduct.

'You know not, Dr Norberry,' observed Mrs Mowbray, 'the pains I took
with the education of that girl; and I expected to be repaid for it by
being styled the happiest as well as best of mothers.'

'And so you would, perhaps, had you not wished to be a wife as well as
mother.'

'No more on that subject, sir,' haughtily returned Mrs Mowbray.--'Yes,
--Adeline was indeed my joy, my pride.'

'Aye, and pride will have a fall; and a pretty tumble yours has had, to
be sure, my old friend; and it has broke its knees--never to be sound
again.'

At this unpropitious moment 'a lady to Dr Norberry' was announced, and
Adeline tottered into the room.

'What strange intrusion is this?' cried Mrs Mowbray: 'who is this
woman?'

Adeline threw back her veil, and falling on her knees, stretched out
her arms in an attitude of entreaty: speak she could not, but her
countenance was sufficiently expressive of her meaning; and her pale
sunk cheek spoke forcibly to the heart of her mother.--At this moment,
when a struggle which might have ended favourably for Adeline was taking
place in the mind of Mrs Mowbray, Dr Norberry injudiciously exclaimed,

'There,--there she is! Look at her, poor soul! There is little fear, I
think, of her ever rivalling you again.'

At these words Mrs Mowbray darted an angry look at the doctor, and
desired him to take away that woman; who came, no doubt instigated by
him, to insult her.

'Take her away,' she said, 'and never let me see her again.'

'O my mother, hear me, in pity hear me!' exclaimed Adeline.

'As it is for the last time, I will hear you,' replied Mrs Mowbray; 'for
never, no never will I behold you more! Hear me vow--'

'Mother, for mercy's sake, make not a vow so terrible!' cried Adeline,
gathering courage from despair, and approaching her: 'I have grievously
erred, and will cheerfully devote the rest of my life to endeavour, by
the most submissive obedience and attention, to atone for my past
guilt.'

'Atone for it! Impossible; for the misery which I owe to you, no
submission, no future conduct can make me amends. Away! I say: your
presence conjures up recollections which distract me, and I solemnly
swear--'

'Hold, hold, if you have any mercy in your nature,' cried Adeline almost
frantic: 'this is, I feel but too sensibly, the most awful and important
moment of my life: on the result of this interview depends my future
happiness or misery. Hear me, O my mother! You, who can so easily
resolve to tear the heart of a child that adores you, hear me! reflect
that, if you vow to abandon me for ever, you blast all the happiness
and prospects of my life; and at nineteen 'tis hard to be deprived of
happiness for ever. True, I may not long survive the anguish of being
renounced by my mother, a mother whom I love with even enthusiastic
fondness; but then could you ever know peace again with the conviction
of having caused my death? Oh! no, Save then yourself and me from these
miseries, by forgiving my past errors, and deigning sometimes to see and
converse with me!'

The eager and animated volubility with which Adeline spoke made it
impossible to interrupt her, even had Mrs Mowbray been inclined to do
so: but she was not; nor, when Adeline had done speaking, could she find
in her heart to break silence.

It was evident to Dr Norberry that Mrs Mowbray's countenance expressed
a degree of softness which augured well for her daughter; and, as if
conscious that it did so, she covered her face suddenly with her
handkerchief.

'Now then is the time,' thought the doctor. 'Go nearer her, my child,'
said he in a low voice to Adeline, 'embrace her knees.'

Adeline rose, and approached Mrs Mowbray; she seized her hand, she
pressed it to her lips. Mrs Mowbray's bosom heaved violently: she almost
returned the pressure of Adeline's hand.

'Victory, victory!' muttered the doctor to himself, cutting a caper
behind Mrs Mowbray's chair.

Mrs Mowbray took the handkerchief from her face.

'My mother, my dear mother! look on me, look on me with kindness only
one moment, and only say that you do not hate me!'

Mrs Mowbray turned round and fixed her eyes on Adeline with a look of
kindness, and Adeline's began to sparkle with delight; when, as she
threw back her cloak, which, hanging over her arm, embarrassed her as
she knelt to embrace her mother's knees, Mrs Mowbray's eyes glanced from
her face to her shape.

In an instant the fierceness of her look returned: 'Shame to thy race,
disgrace to thy family!' she exclaimed, spurning her kneeling child
from her: 'and canst thou, while conscious of carrying in thy bosom the
proof of thy infamy, dare to solicit and expect my pardon?--Hence! ere I
load thee with maledictions.'

Adeline wrapped her cloak round her, and sunk terrified and desponding
to the ground.

'Why, what a ridiculous caprice is this!' cried the doctor. 'Is it a
greater crime to be in a family way, than to live with a man as his
mistress?--You knew your daughter had done the last: therefore it is
nonsense to be so affected at the former.--Come, come, forget and
forgive!'

'Never: and if you do not leave the house with her this moment, I will
not stay in it. My injuries are so great that they cannot admit
forgiveness.'

'What a horrible, unforgiving spirit yours must be!' cried Dr Norberry:
'and after all, I tell you again, that Adeline has something to forgive
and forget too; and she sets you an example of Christian charity in
coming hither to console and comfort you, poor forsaken woman as you
are!'

'Forsaken!' exclaimed Mrs Mowbray: 'aye; why, and for whom, was I
forsaken? There's the pang! and yet you wonder that I cannot instantly
forgive and receive the woman who injured me where I was most
vulnerable.'

'O my mother!' cried Adeline, almost indignantly, 'and can that wretch,
though dead, still have power to influence my fate in this dreadful
manner? and can you still regret the loss of the affection of that man
whose addresses were a disgrace to you?'

At these unguarded words, and too just reproaches, Mrs Mowbray lost
all self-command; and, in a voice almost inarticulate with rage,
exclaimed:--'I loved that wretch, as you are pleased to call him. I
gloried in the addresses which you are pleased to call my disgrace. But
he loved you--he left me for you--and on your account he made me endure
the pangs of being forsaken and despised by the man whom I adored. Then
mark my words: I solemnly swear,' dropping on her knees as she spoke,
'by all my hopes of happiness hereafter, that until you shall have
experienced the anguish of having lost the man whom you adore, till
_you_ shall have been as wretched in love, and as disgraced in the eye
of the world, as I have been, I never will see you more, or pardon your
many sins against me--No--not even were you on your death-bed. Yet,
no; I am wrong there--Yes; on your death-bed,' she added, her voice
faltering as she spoke, and passion giving way in a degree to the
dictates of returning nature,--'Yes, there; there I should--I should
forgive you.'

'Then I feel that you will forgive me soon,' faintly articulated Adeline
sinking on the ground; while Mrs Mowbray was leaving the room, and Dr
Norberry was standing motionless with horror, from the rash oath which
he had just heard. But Adeline's fall aroused him from his stupor.

'For pity's sake, do not go and leave your daughter dying!' cried he:
'your vow does not forbid you to continue to see her now.' Mrs Mowbray
turned back, and started with horror at beholding the countenance of
Adeline.

'Is she really dying?' cried she eagerly, 'and have I killed her?' These
words, spoken in a faltering tone, and with a look of anxiety, seemed
to recall the fleeting spirit of Adeline. She looked up at her mother,
a sort of smile quivered on her lip; and faintly articulating 'I am
better,' she burst into a convulsive flood of tears, and laid her head
on the bosom of her compassionate friend.

'She will do now,' cried he exultingly to Mrs Mowbray: 'You need alarm
yourself no longer.'

But alarm was perhaps a feeling of enjoyment, to the sensations which
then took possession of Mrs Mowbray. The apparent danger of Adeline had
awakened her long dormant tenderness: but she had just bound herself
by an oath not to give way to it, except under circumstances the most
unwelcome and affecting, and had therefore embittered her future days
with remorse and unavailing regret.--For some minutes she stood looking
wildly and mournfully on Adeline, longing to clasp her to her bosom, and
pronounce her pardon, but not daring to violate her oath. At length, 'I
cannot bear this torment,' she exclaimed, and rushed out of the room:
and when in another apartment, she recollected, and uttered a scream of
agony as she did so, that she had seen Adeline probably for the last
time; for, voluntarily, she was now to see her no more.

The same recollections occurred to Adeline; and as the door closed on
her mother, she raised herself up, and looked eagerly to catch the last
glimpse of her gown, as the door shut it from her sight. 'Let us go away
directly now,' said she, 'for the air of this room is not good for me.'

The doctor, affected beyond measure at the expression of quiet despair
with which she spoke, went out to order a coach; and Adeline instantly
rose, and kissed with fond devotion the chair on which her mother had
sat. Suddenly she heard a deep sigh--it came from the next room--perhaps
it came from her mother; perhaps she could still see her again: and with
cautious step she knelt down and looked through the key-hole of the
door.

She did see her mother once more. Mrs Mowbray was lying on the bed,
beating the ground with her foot, and sighing as if her heart would
break.

'O that I dare go in to her!' said Adeline to herself: 'but I can at
least bid her farewell here.' She then put her mouth to the aperture,
and exclaimed, 'Mother, dearest mother! since we meet now for the last
time--' (Mrs Mowbray started from the bed) 'let me thank you for all the
affection, all the kindness which you lavished on me during eighteen
happy years. I shall never cease to love and pray for you.' (Mrs Mowbray
sobbed aloud.) 'Perhaps, you will some day or other think you have been
harsh to me, and may wish that you had not taken so cruel a vow.' (Mrs
Mowbray beat her breast in agony: the moment of repentance was already
come.) 'It may therefore be a comfort to you at such moments to know,
that I sincerely, and from the bottom of my heart, forgive this rash
action:--and now, my dearest mother, hear my parting prayers for your
happiness!'

At this moment a noise in the next room convinced Adeline that her
mother had fallen down in a fainting fit, and the doctor entered the
room.

'What have I done?' she exclaimed. 'Go to her this instant.'--He obeyed.
Raising up Mrs Mowbray in his arms, he laid her on the bed, while
Adeline bent over her in silent anguish, with all the sorrow of filial
anxiety. But when the remedies which Dr Norberry administered began to
take effect, she exclaimed, 'For the last time! Cruel, but most dear
mother!' and pressed her head to her bosom, and kissed her pale lips
with almost frantic emotion.

Mrs Mowbray opened her eyes; they met those of Adeline and instantly
closed again.

'She has looked at me for the last time,' said Adeline; 'and now this
one kiss, my mother, and farewell for ever!' So saying she rushed out of
the room, and did not stop till she reached the coach, which Glenmurray
had called, and springing into it, was received into the arms of
Glenmurray.

'You, are my all now,' said she. 'You have long been mine,' replied he:
but respecting the anguish and disappointment depicted on her countenance,
he forbore to ask for an explanation; and resting her pale cheek on his
bosom, they reached the inn in silence.

Adeline had walked up and down the room a number of times, had as
often looked out of the window, before Dr Norberry, whom she had been
anxiously expecting and looking for, made his appearance. 'Thank God,
you are come at last!' said she, seizing his hand as he entered.

'I left Mrs Mowbray,' replied he, 'much better both in mind and body.'

'A blessed hearing! replied Adeline.

'And you, my child, how are you?' asked the doctor affectionately.

'I know not yet,' answered Adeline mournfully: 'as yet I am stunned by
the blow which I have received; but pray tell me what has passed between
you and my mother since we left the hotel.'

'What has passed?' cried Dr Norberry, starting from his chair, taking
two hasty strides across the room, pulling up the cape of his coat,
and muttering an oath between his shut teeth--'Why, this passed:--The
deluded woman renounced her daughter; and her friend, her old and
faithful friend, has renounced her.'

'Oh! my poor mother!' exclaimed Adeline.

'Girl! girl! don't be foolish,' replied the doctor; 'keep your pity for
more deserving objects; and, as the wisest thing you can do, endeavour
to forget your mother.'

'Forget her! Never.'

'Well, well, you will be wiser in time; and now you shall hear all that
passed. When she recovered entirely, and found that you were gone, she
gave way to an agony of sorrow, such as I never before witnessed; for I
believe that I never beheld before the agony of remorse.'

'My poor mother!' cried Adeline, again bursting into tears.

'What! again!' exclaimed the doctor. (Adeline motioned to him to go on,
and he continued.) 'At sight of this, I was weak enough to pity her;
and, with the greatest simplicity, I told her, that I was glad to see
that she felt penitent for her conduct, since penitence paved the way to
amendment; when, to my great surprise, all the vanished fierceness and
haughtiness of her look returned, and she told me, that so far from
repenting she approved of her conduct; and that remorse had no share in
her sorrow; that she wept from consciousness of misery inflicted by the
faults of others, not her own.'

'Oh! Dr Norberry,' cried Adeline reproachfully, 'I doubt, by awakening
her pride, you destroyed the tenderness returning towards me.'

'May be so. However, so much the better; for anger is a less painful
state of mind to endure than that of remorse: and while she thinks
herself only injured and aggrieved, she will be less unhappy.'

'Then,' continued Adeline in a faltering voice, 'I care not how long she
hates me.'

Dr Norberry looked at Adeline a moment with tears in his eyes, and
evidently gulped down a rising sob, 'Good child! good child!' he at
length articulated. 'But she'll forget and forgive all in time, I do
not doubt.'

'Impossible: remember her oath.'

'And do you really suppose that she will think herself bound to keep so
silly and rash an oath; an oath made in the heat of passion?'

'Undoubtedly I do; and I know, that were she to break it, she would
never be otherwise than wretched all her life after. Therefore, unless
Glenmurray forsakes me (she added, trying to smile archly as she spoke),
and this I am not happy enough to expect, I look on our separation in
this world to be eternal.'

'You do?--Then, poor devil! how miserable she will be, when her present
resentment shall subside! Well; when that time comes I may perhaps see
her again,' added the doctor, gulping again.

'Heaven bless you for that intention!' cried Adeline. 'But how could you
ever have the heart to renounce her?'

'Girl! you are almost as provoking as your mother. Why, how could I have
the heart to do otherwise, when she whitewashed herself and blackened
you? To be sure, it did cause me a twinge or two to do it; and had she
been an iota less haughty, I should have turned back and said, "Kiss and
be friends again." But she seemed so provokingly anxious to get rid of
me, and waved me with her hand to the door in such a tragedy queen sort
of a manner, that, having told her very civilly to go to the devil her
own way, I gulped down a sort of a tender choking in my throat, and made
as rapid an exit as possible. And now another trial awaits me. I came to
town, at some inconvenience to myself, to try to do you service. I have
failed, and I have now no further business here: so we must part, and I
know not when we shall meet again. For I rarely leave home, and may not
see you again for years.'

'Indeed!' exclaimed Adeline, 'Surely,' looking at Glenmurray, 'we might
settle in Dr Norberry's neighbourhood?'

Glenmurray said nothing, but looked at the doctor; who seemed confused,
and was silent.

'Look ye, my dear girl,' said he at length: 'the idea of your settling
near me occurred to me, but--' here he took two hasty strides across the
room--'in short, that's an impossible thing; so I beg you to think no
more about it. If, indeed, you mean to marry Mr Glenmurray--'

'Which I shall not do,' replied Adeline coldly.

'There again, now!' cried the doctor pettishly: 'you, in your way, are
quite as obstinate and ridiculous as your mother. However, I hope you
will know better in time. But it grows late--'tis time I should be in my
chaise, and I hear it driving up. Mr Glenmurray,' continued he in an
altered tone of voice, 'to your care and your tenderness I leave this
poor child; and, zounds, man! if you will but burn your books before her
face, and swear they are stuff, why, 'sdeath, I say, I would come to
town on purpose to do you homage.--Adeline, my child, God bless you! I
have loved you from your infancy, and I wish, from my soul, that I left
you in a better situation. But you will write to me, heh?'

'Undoubtedly.'

'Well, one kiss:--don't be jealous, Glenmurray. Your hand, man.--Woons,
what a hand! My dear fellow, take care of yourself, for that poor
child's sake: get the advice which I recommended, and good air.' A
rising sob interrupted him--he hemmed it off, and ran into his chaise.




CHAPTER XVII


'Now then,' said Adeline, her tears dropping fast as she spoke, 'now,
then, we are alone in the world; henceforward we must be all to each
other.'

'Is the idea a painful one, Adeline?' replied Glenmurray reproachfully.

'Not so,' returned Adeline, 'Still I can't yet forget that I had a
mother, and a kind one too.'

'And may have again.'

'Impossible:--there is a vow in heaven against it. No--My plans for
future happiness must be laid unmindful and independent of her. They
must have you and your happiness for their sole object; I must live for
you alone: and you,' added she in a faltering voice, 'must live for me.'

'I will live as long as I can,' replied Glenmurray sighing, 'and as one
step towards it I shall keep early hours: so to rest, dear Adeline, and
let us forget our sorrows as soon as possible.'

The next morning Adeline's and Glenmurray's first care was to determine
on their future residence. It was desirable that it should be at a
sufficient distance from London, to deserve the name and have the
conveniences of a country abode, yet sufficiently near it for Glenmurray
to have the advice of a London physician if necessary.

'Suppose we fix at Richmond?' said Glenmurray: and Adeline, to whom the
idea of dwelling on a spot at once so classical and beautiful was most
welcome, joyfully consented; and in a few days they were settled there
in a pleasant but expensive lodging.

But here, as when abroad, Glenmurray occasionally saw old acquaintances,
many of whom were willing to renew their intercourse with him for the
sake of being introduced to Adeline; and who, from a knowledge of her
situation, presumed to pay her that sort of homage, which, though not
understood by her, gave pangs unutterable to the delicate mind of
Glenmurray. 'Were she my wife, they dared not pay her such marked
attention,' said he to himself; and again, as delicately as he could, he
urged Adeline to sacrifice her principles to the prejudices of society.

'I thought,' replied Adeline gravely, 'that, as we lived for each other,
we might act independent of society, and serve it by our example even
against its will.'

Glenmurray was silent.--He did not like to own how painful and
mischievous he found in practice the principles which he admired in
theory--and Adeline continued:

'Believe me, Glenmurray, ours is the very situation calculated to urge
us on in the pursuit of truth. We are answerable to no one for our
conduct; and we can make any experiments in morals that we choose. I am
wholly at a loss to comprehend why you persist in urging me to marry
you. Take care, my dear Glenmurray--the high respect I bear your
character was shaken a little by your fighting a duel in defiance of
your principles; and your eagerness to marry, in further defiance of
them, may weaken my esteem, if not my love.'

Adeline smiled as she said this: but Glenmurray thought she spoke more
in earnest than she was willing to allow; and, alarmed at the threat, he
only answered, 'You know it is for your sake merely that I speak,' and
dropped the subject; secretly resolving, however, that he would not walk
with Adeline in the fashionable promenades, at the hours commonly spent
there by the beau monde.

But, in spite of this precaution, they could not escape the assiduities
of some gay men of fashion, who knew Glenmurray and admired his
companion; and Adeline at length suspected that Glenmurray was jealous.
But in this she wronged him; it was not the attention paid her, but the
nature of it, that disturbed him. Nor is it to be wondered at that
Adeline herself was eager to avoid the public walks, when it is known
that one of her admirers at Richmond was the Colonel Mordaunt whom she
had become acquainted with at Bath.

Colonel Mordaunt, 'curst with every granted prayer,' was just beginning
to feel the tedium of life, when he saw Adeline unexpectedly at
Richmond; and though he felt shocked at first, at beholding her in so
different a situation from that in which he had first beheld her, still
that very situation, by holding forth to him a prospect of being
favoured by her in his turn, revived his admiration with more than its
original violence, and he resolved to be, if possible, the lover of
Adeline, after Glenmurray should have fallen a victim, as he had no
doubt but he would, to his dangerous illness.

But the opportunities which he had of seeing her suddenly ceased. She
no longer frequented the public walks; and him, though he suspected it
not, she most studiously avoided; for she could not bear to behold the
alteration in his manner when be addressed her, an alteration perhaps
unknown to himself. True, it was not insulting; but Adeline, who had
admired him too much at Bath not to have examined with minute attention
the almost timid expression of his countenance, and the respectfulness
of his manner when he addressed her, shrunk abashed from the ardent and
impassioned expression with which he now met her--an expression which
Adeline used to call 'looking like Sir Patrick;' and which indicated
even to her inexperience, that the admiration which he then felt was of
a nature less pure and flattering than the one which she excited before;
and though in her own eyes she appeared as worthy of respect as ever,
she was forced to own even to herself, that persons in general would be
of a contrary opinion.

But in vain did she resolve to walk very early in a morning only, being
fully persuaded that she should then meet with no one. Colonel Mordaunt
was as wakeful as she was; and being convinced that she walked during
some part of the day, and probably early in a morning, he resolved to
watch near the door of her lodgings, in hopes to obtain an hour's
conversation with her. The consequence was, that he saw Adeline one
morning walk pensively alone, down the shady road that leads from the
terrace to Petersham.

This opportunity was not to be overlooked; and he overtook and accosted
her with such an expression of pleasure on his countenance, as was
sufficient to alarm the now suspicious delicacy of Adeline; and, conscious
as she was that Glenmurray beheld Colonel Mordaunt's attentions with
pain, a deep blush overspread her cheek at his approach, while her eyes
were timidly cast down.

Colonel Mordaunt saw her emotion, and attributed it to a cause flattering
to his vanity; it even encouraged him to seize her hand; and, while he
openly congratulated himself on his good fortune in meeting her alone,
he presumed to press her hand to his lips. Adeline indignantly withdrew
it, and replied very coldly to his inquiries concerning her health.

'But where have you hidden yourself lately?' cried he.--'O Miss Mowbray!
loveliest and, I may add, most beloved of women, how have I longed to
see you alone, and pour out my whole soul to you!'

Adeline answered this rhapsody by a look of astonishment only--being
silent from disgust and consternation,--while involuntarily she
quickened her pace, as if wishing to avoid him.

'O hear me, and hear me patiently!' he resumed. 'You must have noticed
the effect which your charms produced on me at Bath; and may I dare to
add that my attentions then did not seem displeasing to you?'

'Sir!' interrupted Adeline, sighing deeply, 'my situation is now
changed; and--'

'It is so, I thank Fortune that it is so,' replied Colonel Mordaunt;
'and I am happy to say, it is changed by no crime of mine.' (Here
Adeline started and turned pale.) 'But I were unworthy all chance of
happiness, were I to pass by the seeming opportunity of being blest,
which the alteration to which you allude holds forth to me.'

Here he paused, as if in embarrassment, but Adeline was unable to
interrupt him.

'Miss Mowbray,' he at length continued, 'I am told that you are not on
good terms with your mother; nay, I have heard that she has renounced
you; may I presume to ask if this be true?'

'It is,' answered Adeline trembling with emotion.

'Then, as before long it is probable that you will be without--without a
protector--' (Adeline turned round and fixed her eyes wildly upon him.)
'To be sure,' continued he, avoiding her steadfast gaze, 'I could wish
to call you mine this moment; but, unhappy as you appear to be in your
present situation, I know, unlike many women circumstanced as you are,
you are too generous and noble-minded to be capable of forsaking in his
last illness the man whom in his happier moments you have honoured with
your love.' As he said this, Adeline, her lips parched with agitation,
and breathing short, caught hold of his arm; and pressing her cold hand,
he went on: 'Therefore, I will not venture even to wish to be honoured
with a kind look from you till Mr Glenmurray is removed to a happier
world. But then, dearest of women, you whom I loved without hope of
possessing you, and whom now I dote upon to madness, I conjure you to
admit my visits, and let my attentions prevail on you to accept my
protection, and allow me to devote the remainder of my days to love and
you!'

'Merciful Heaven!' exclaimed Adeline, clasping her hands together, 'to
what insults am I reserved!'

'Insults!' echoed Colonel Mordaunt.

'Yes, Sir,' replied Adeline: 'you have insulted me, grossly insulted me,
and know not the woman whom you have tortured to the very soul.'

'Hear me, hear me, Miss Mowbray!' exclaimed Colonel Mordaunt, almost
as much agitated as herself: 'by heaven I meant not to insult you! and
perhaps I--perhaps I have been misinformed--No! Yes, yes, it must be so;
your indignation proves that I have--You are, no doubt--and on my knees
I implore your pardon--you are the wife of Mr Glenmurray.'

'And suppose I am _not_ his wife,' cried Adeline, 'is it then given to
a wife only to be secure from being insulted by offers horrible to the
delicacy, and wounding to the sensibility, like those which I have heard
from you?' But before Colonel Mordaunt could reply, Adeline's thoughts
had reverted to what he had said of Glenmurray's certain danger; and,
unable to bear this confirmation of her fears, with the speed of phrensy
she ran towards home, and did not stop till she was in sight of her
lodging, and the still closed curtain of her apartment met her view.

'He is still sleeping, then,' she exclaimed, 'and I have time to recover
myself, and endeavour to hide from him the emotion of which I could not
tell the reason.' So saying, she softly entered the house, and by the
time Glenmurray rose she had regained her composure. Still there was a
look of anxiety on her fine countenance, which could not escape the
penetrating eye of love.

'Why are you so grave this morning?' said Glenmurray, as Adeline seated
herself at the breakfast table:--'I feel much better and more cheerful
to-day.'

'But are you, indeed, better?' replied Adeline, fixing her tearful eyes
on him.

'Or I much deceive myself,' said Glenmurray.

'Thank Heaven!' devoutly replied Adeline. 'I thought--I thought--' Here
tears choked her utterance, and Glenmurray drew from her a confession of
her anxious fears for him, though she prudently resolved not to agitate
him by telling him of the rencontre with Colonel Mordaunt.

But when the continued assurances of Glenmurray that he was better, and
the animation of his countenance, had in a degree removed her fears for
his life, she had leisure to revert to another source of uneasiness,
and to dwell on the insult which she had experienced from Colonel
Mordaunt's offer of protection.

'How strange and irrational,' thought Adeline, 'are the prejudices of
society! Because an idle ceremony has not been muttered over me at the
altar, I am liable to be thought a woman of vicious inclinations, and to
be exposed to the most daring insults.'

As these reflections occurred to her, she could scarcely help regretting
that her principles would not allow her delicacy and virtue to be placed
under the sacred shelter bestowed by that ceremony which she was pleased
to call idle. And she was not long without experiencing still further
hardships from the situation in which she had persisted so obstinately
to remain. Their establishment consisted of a footman and a maid servant;
but the latter had of late been so remiss in the performance of her
duties, and so impertinent when reproved for her faults, that Adeline
was obliged to give her warning.

'Warning, indeed!' replied the girl: 'a mighty hardship, truly! I can
promise you I did not mean to stay long; it is no such favour to live
with a kept miss; and if you come to that, I think I am as good as you.'

Shocked, surprised, and unable to answer, Adeline took refuge in her
room. Never before had she been accosted by her inferiors without
respectful attention; and now, owing to her situation, even a
servant-maid thought herself authorised to insult her, and to raise
herself to her level!

'But surely,' said Adeline mentally, 'I ought to reason with her, and
try to convince her that I am in reality as virtuous as if I were
Glenmurray's wife, instead of his mistress.'

Accordingly she went back into the kitchen; but her resolution failed
her when she found the footman there, listening with a broad grin on
his countenance to the relation which Mary was giving him of the 'fine
trimming' which she had given 'madam.'

Scarcely did the presence of Adeline interrupt or restrain her; but at
last she turned round and said, 'And, pray, have you got anything to say
to me?'

'Nothing more now,' meekly replied Adeline, 'unless you will follow me
to my chamber.'

'With all my heart,' cried the girl; and Adeline returned to her own
room.

'I wish, Mary, to set you right,' said Adeline, 'with respect to my
situation. You called me, I think, a kept miss, and seemed to think ill
of me.'

'Why, to be sure, ma'am,' replied Mary, a little alarmed--'every body
says you are a kept lady, and so I made no bones of saying so; but I am
sure if so be you are not so, why I ax pardon.'

'But what do you mean by the term kept lady?'

'Why, a lady who lives with a man without being married to him, I take
it; and that I take to be your case, ain't it, I pray?'

Adeline blushed and was silent:--it certainly was her case. However, she
took courage and went on.

'But mistresses, or kept ladies in general, are women of bad character,
and would live with any man; but I never loved, nor ever shall love, any
man but Mr Glenmurray. I look on myself as his wife in the sight of God;
nor will I quit him till death shall separate us.'

'Then if so be that you don't want to change, I think you might as well
be married to him.'

Adeline was again silent for a moment, but continued--

'Mr Glenmurray would marry me to-morrow, if I chose.'

'Indeed! Well, if master is inclined to make an honest woman of you, you
had better take him at his word, I think.'

'Gracious heaven!' cried Adeline, 'what an expression! Why will you
persist to confound me with those deluded women who are victims of their
own weakness?'

'As to that,' replied Mary, 'you talk too fine for me; but a fact is a
fact--are you or are you not my master's wife?'

'I am not.'

'Why then you are his mistress, and a kept lady to all intents and
purposes: so what signifies argufying the matter? I lived with a kept
madam before; and she was as good as you, for aught I know.'

Adeline, shocked and disappointed, told her she might leave the room.

'I am going,' pertly answered Mary, 'and to seek for a place; but I must
beg that you will not own you are no better than you should be, when a
lady comes to ask my character; for then perhaps I should not get any
one to take me. I shall call you Mrs Glenmurray.'

'But I shall not call _myself_ so,' replied Adeline. 'I will not say
what is not true, on any account.'

'There now, there's spite! and yet you pretend to call yourself a
gentlewoman, and to be better than other kept ladies! Why, you are not
worthy to tie the shoestrings of my last mistress--she did not mind
telling a lie rather than lose a poor servant a place; and she called
herself a married woman rather than hurt me.'

'Neither she nor you, then,' replied Adeline gravely, 'were sensible
of what great importance a strict adherence to veracity is, to the
interests of society. I am;--and for the sake of mankind I will always
tell the truth.'

'You had better tell one innocent lie for mine,' replied the girl
pertly. 'I dare to say the world will neither know nor care anything
about it: and I can tell you I shall expect you will.'

So saying she shut the door with violence, leaving Adeline mournfully
musing on the distress attending on her situation, and even disposed to
question the propriety of remaining in it.

The inquietude of her mind, as usual, showed itself in her countenance,
and involved her in another difficulty: to make Glenmurray uneasy by an
avowal of what had passed between her and Mary was impossible; yet how
could she conceal it from him? And while she was deliberating on this
point, Glenmurray entered the room, and tenderly inquired what had so
evidently disturbed her.

'Nothing of any consequence,' she faltered out, and burst into tears.

'Could "nothing of consequence" produce such emotion?' answered
Glenmurray.

'But I am ashamed to own the cause of my uneasiness.'

'Ashamed to own it to me, Adeline? To be sure, you have a great deal to
fear from my severity!' said he, faintly smiling.

Adeline for a moment resolved to tell him the whole truth; but fearful
of throwing him into a degree of agitation hurtful to his weak frame,
she, who had the moment before so nobly supported the necessity of a
strict adherence to truth, condescended to equivocate and evade; and
turning away her head, while a conscious blush overspread her cheek, she
replied, 'You know that I look forward with anxiety and uneasiness to
the time of my approaching confinement.'

Glenmurray believed her; and overcome by some painful feelings, which
fears for himself and anxiety for her occasioned him, he silently
pressed her to his bosom; and, choked with contending emotions, returned
to his own apartment.

'And I have stooped to the meanness of disguising the truth!' cried
Adeline, clasping her hands convulsively together: 'surely, surely,
there must be something radically wrong in a situation which exposes one
to such a variety of degradations!'

Mary, meanwhile, had gone in search of a place; and having found the
lady to whom she had been advised to offer herself, at home, she
returned to tell Adeline that Mrs Pemberton would call in half an hour
to inquire her character. The half-hour, an anxious one to Adeline,
having elapsed, a lady knocked at the door, and inquired, in Adeline's
hearing for Mrs Glenmurray.

'Tell the lady,' cried Adeline immediately from the top of the
staircase, 'that Miss Mowbray will wait on her directly.' The footman
obeyed, and Mrs Pemberton was ushered into the parlour: and now, for the
first time in her life, Adeline trembled to approach a stranger; for the
first time she was going to appear before a fellow-creature, conscious
she was become an object of scorn, and, though an enthusiast for virtue,
would be considered as a votary of vice. But it was a mortification
which she must submit to undergo; and hastily throwing a large shawl
over her shoulders, to hide her figure as much as possible, with a
trembling hand she opened the door, and found herself in the dreaded
presence of Mrs Pemberton.

Nor was she at all re-assured when she found that lady dressed in the
neat, modest garb of a strict Quaker--a garb which creates an immediate
idea in the mind, of more than common rigidness of principles and
sanctity of conduct in the wearer of it. Adeline curtsied in silence.

Mrs Pemberton bowed her head courteously; then, with a countenance of
great sweetness, and a voice calculated to inspire confidence, said, 'I
believe thy name is Mowbray; but I came to see Mrs Glenmurray; and as
on these occasions I always wish to confer with the principal, wouldst
thou, if it be not inconvenient, ask the mistress of Mary to let me see
her?'

'I am myself the mistress of Mary,' replied Adeline in a faint voice.

'I ask thine excuse,' answered Mrs Pemberton, re-seating herself: 'as
thou art Mrs Glenmurray, thou art the person I wanted to see.'

Here Adeline changed colour, overcome with the consciousness that she
ought to undeceive her, and the sense of the difficulty of doing so.

'But thou art very pale, and seemest uneasy,' continued the gentle
Quaker--'I hope thy husband is not worse?'

'Mr Glenmurray, but not my husband,' said Adeline, 'is better to-day.'

'Art thou not married?' asked Mrs Pemberton with quickness.

'I am not.'

'And yet thou livest with the gentleman I named, and art the person whom
Mary called Mrs Glenmurray!'

'I am,' replied Adeline, her paleness yielding to a deep crimson, and
her eyes filling with tears.

Mrs Pemberton sat for a minute in silence; then rising with an air
of cold dignity, 'I fear thy servant is not likely to suit me,' she
observed, 'and I will not detain thee any longer.'

'She can be an excellent servant,' faltered out Adeline.

'Very likely--but there are objections.' So saying she reached the door:
but as she passed Adeline she stopped, interested and affected by the
mournful expression of her countenance, and the visible effort she made
to retain her tears.

Adeline saw, and felt humbled at the compassion which her countenance
expressed: to be an object of pity was as mortifying as to be an object
of scorn, and she turned her eyes on Mrs Pemberton with a look of proud
indignation: but they met those of Mrs Pemberton fixed on her with a
look of such benevolence, that her anger was instantly subdued; and it
occurred to her that she might make the benevolent compassion visible in
Mrs Pemberton's countenance serviceable to her discarded servant.

'Stay, madam,' she cried, as Mrs Pemberton was about to leave the room,
'allow me a moment's conversation with you.'

Mrs Pemberton, with an eagerness which she suddenly endeavoured to
check, returned to her seat.

'I suspect,' said Adeline, (gathering courage from the conscious
kindness of her motive,) 'that your objection to take Mary Warner into
your service proceeds wholly from the situation of her present
mistress.'

'Thou judgest rightly,' was Mrs Pemberton's answer.

'Nor do I wonder,' continued Adeline, 'that you make this objection,
when I consider the present prejudices of society.'

'Prejudices!' softly exclaimed the benevolent Quaker.

Adeline faintly smiled, and went on--'But surely you will allow, that in
a family quiet and secluded as ours, and in daily contemplation of an
union uninterrupted, faithful, and virtuous, and possessing all the
sacredness of marriage, though without the name, it is not likely that
the young woman in question should have imbibed any vicious habits or
principles?'

'But in contemplating thy union itself, she has lived in the
contemplation of vice; and thou wilt own, that, by having given it an
air of respectability, thou hast only made it more dangerous.'

'On this point,' cried Adeline, 'I see we must disagree--I shall
therefore, without further preamble, inform you, madam, that Mary, aware
of the difficulty of procuring a service, if it were known that she had
lived with a kept mistress, as the phrase is,' (here an indignant blush
overspread the face of Adeline,) 'desired me to call myself the wife of
Glenmurray: but this, from my abhorrence of all falsehood, I
peremptorily refused.'

'And thou didst well,' exclaimed Mrs Pemberton, 'and I respect thy
resolution.'

'But my sincerity will, I fear, prevent the poor girl's obtaining other
reputable places; and I, alas! am not rich enough to make her amends for
the injury which my conscience forces me to do her. But if you, madam,
could be prevailed upon to take her into your family, even for a short
time only, to wipe away the disgrace which her living with me has
brought upon her--'

'Why can she not remain with thee?' asked Mrs Pemberton hastily.

'Because she neglected her duty, and, when reproved for it, replied in
very injurious language.'

'Presuming probably on thy way of life?'

'I must confess that she has reproached me with it.'

'And this was all her fault?'

'It was:--she can be an excellent servant.'

'Thou hast said enough; thy conscience shall not have the additional
burthen to bear, of having deprived a poor girl of her maintenance--I
will take her.'

'A thousand thanks to you,' replied Adeline: 'you have removed a weight
off my mind; but my conscience, has none to bear.'

'No?' returned Mrs Pemberton: 'dost thou deem thy conduct blameless in
the eyes of that Being whom thou hast just blessed?'

'As far as my connexion with Mr Glenmurray is concerned, I do.'

'Indeed?'

'Nay, doubt me not--believe me that I never wantonly violate the truth;
and that even an evasion, which I, for the first time in my life, was
guilty of to-day, has given me a pang to which I will not again expose
myself.'

'And yet, inconsistent beings as we are,' cried Mrs Pemberton,
'straining at a gnat, and swallowing a camel, what is the guilt of the
evasion which weighs on thy mind, compared to that of living, as thou
dost, in an illicit commerce? Surely, surely, thine heart accuses thee;
for thy face bespeaks uneasiness, and thou wilt listen to the whispers
of penitence, and leave, ere long, the man who has betrayed thee.'

'The man who has betrayed me! Mr Glenmurray is no betrayer--he is one of
the best of human beings. No, madam: if I had acceded to his wishes, I
should long ago have been his wife, but, from a conviction of the folly
of marriage, I have preferred living with him without the performance of
a ceremony which, in the eye of reason, can confer neither honour nor
happiness.'

'Poor thing!' exclaimed Mrs Pemberton, rising as she spoke, 'I
understand thee now--Thou art one of the enlightened, as they call
themselves--Thou art one of those wise in their own conceit, who,
disregarding the customs of ages, and the dictates of experience, set up
their own opinions against the hallowed institutions of men and the will
of the Most High.'

'Can you blame me,' interrupted Adeline, 'for acting according to what I
think right?'

'But hast thou well studied the subject on which thou hast decided? Yet,
alas! to thee how vain must be the voice of admonition!' (she continued,
her countenance kindling into strong expression as she spoke)--'From the
poor victim of passion and persuasion, penitence and amendment might be
rationally expected; and she, from the path of frailty, might turn again
to that of virtue: but for one like thee, glorying in thine iniquity,
and erring, not from the too tender heart, but the vain-glorious
head,--for thee there is, I fear, no blessed return to the right way;
and I, who would have tarried with thee even in the house of sin, to
have reclaimed thee, penitent, now hasten from thee, and for ever--firm
as thou art in guilt.'

As she said this she reached the door; while Adeline, affected by her
emotion, and distressed by her language, stood silent and almost abashed
before her.

But with her hand on the lock she turned round, and in a gentler voice
said, 'Yet not even against a wilful offender like thee, should one
gate that may lead to amendment be shut. Thy situation and thy fortunes
may soon be greatly changed; affliction may subdue thy pride, and the
counsel of a friend of thine own sex might then sound sweetly in thine
ears. Should that time come, I will be that friend. I am now about
to set off for Lisbon with a very dear friend, about whom I feel as
solicitous as thou about thy Glenmurray; and there I shall remain some
time. Here then is my address; and if thou shouldest want my advice or
assistance write to me, and be assured that Rachel Pemberton will try
to forget thy errors in thy distresses.'

So saying she left the room, but returned again, before Adeline had
recovered herself from the various emotions which she had experienced
during her address, to ask her Christian name. But when Adeline replied,
'My name is Adeline Mowbray,' Mrs Pemberton started, and eagerly
exclaimed, 'Art thou Adeline Mowbray of Gloucestershire--the young
heiress, as she was called, of Rosevalley?'

'I was once,' replied Adeline, sinking back into a chair, 'Adeline
Mowbray of Rosevalley.'

Mrs Pemberton for a few minutes gazed on her in mournful silence:
'And art thou,' she cried, 'Adeline Mowbray? Art thou that courteous,
blooming, blessed being, (for every tongue that I heard name thee
blessed thee,) whom I saw only three years ago bounding over thy native
hills, all grace, and joy, and innocence?'

Adeline tried to speak, but her voice failed her.

'Art thou she,' continued Mrs Pemberton, 'whom I saw also leaning from
the window of her mother's mansion, and inquiring with the countenance
of a pitying angel concerning the health of a wan labourer who limped
past the door?'

Adeline hid her face with her hands.

Mrs Pemberton went on in a lower tone of voice,--'I came with some
companions to see thy mother's grounds, and to hear the nightingales in
her groves; but' (here Mrs Pemberton's voice faltered) 'I have seen a
sight far beyond that of the proudest mansion, said I to those who asked
me of thy mother's seat; I have heard what was sweeter to my ear than
the voice of the nightingale; I have seen a blooming girl nursed in
idleness and prosperity, yet active in the discharge of every Christian
duty; and I have heard her speak in the soothing accents of kindness and
of pity, while her name was followed by blessings, and parents prayed to
have a child like her. O lost, unhappy girl! such _was_ Adeline Mowbray:
and often, very often, has thy graceful image recurred to my remembrance:
but, how art thou changed! Where is the open eye of happiness? where is
the bloom that spoke a heart at peace with itself? I repeat it, and I
repeat it with agony. Father of mercies! is this thy Adeline Mowbray?'

Here, overcome with emotion, Mrs Pemberton paused; but Adeline could
not break silence: she rose, she stretched out her hand as if going to
speak, but her utterance failed her, and again she sunk on a chair.

'It was thine,' resumed Mrs Pemberton in a faint and broken voice, 'to
diffuse happiness around thee, and to enjoy wealth unhated, because thy
hand dispensed nobly the riches which it had received bounteously: when
the ear heard thee, then it blessed thee; when the eye saw thee, it gave
witness to thee; and yet--'

Here again she paused, and raised her fine eyes to heaven for a few
minutes, as if in prayer; then, pressing Adeline's hand with an almost
convulsive grasp, she drew her bonnet over her face, as if eager to hide
the emotion which she was unable to subdue, and suddenly left the house;
while Adeline, stunned and overwhelmed by the striking contrast which
Mrs Pemberton had drawn between her past and present situation, remained
for some minutes motionless on her seat, a prey to a variety of feelings
which she dared not venture to analyse.

But, amidst the variety of her feelings, Adeline soon found that sorrow,
sorrow of the bitterest kind, was uppermost. Mrs Pemberton had said that
she was about to be visited by affliction--alluding, there was no doubt,
to the probable death of Glenmurray--And was his fate so certain that it
was the theme of conversation at Richmond? Were only _her_ eyes blind to
the certainty of his danger?

On these ideas did Adeline chiefly dwell after the departure of her
monitress; and in an agony unspeakable she entered the room where
Glenmurray was sitting, in order to look at him, and form her own
judgment on a subject of such importance. But, alas! she found him with
the brilliant deceitful appearance that attends his complaint--a bloom
resembling health on his cheek, and a brightness in his eye rivalling
that of the undimmed lustre of youth. Surprised, delighted, and overcome
by these appearances, which her inexperience rendered her incapable of
appreciating justly, Adeline threw herself on the sofa by him; and, as
she pressed her cold cheek to his glowing one, her tearful eye was
raised to heaven with an expression of devout thankfulness.

'Mrs Pemberton paid you a long visit,' said Glenmurray, 'and I thought
once, by the elevated tone of her voice, that she was preaching to you.'

'I believe she was,' cheerfully replied Adeline, 'and now I have a
confession to make; the season of reserve shall be over, and I will tell
you all the adventures of this day without _evasion_.'

'Aye, I thought you were not ingenuous with me this morning,' replied
Glenmurray: 'but better late than never.'

Adeline then told him all that had passed between her and Mary and Mrs
Pemberton, and concluded with saying, 'But the surety of your better
health, which your looks give me, has dissipated every uneasiness; and
if you are but spared to me, sorrow cannot reach me, and I despise the
censure of the ignorant and the prejudiced. The world approve! What is
the world to me?'--

  'The conscious mind is its own awful world!'

Glenmurray sighed deeply as she concluded her narration.

'I have only one request to make,' said he--'Never let that Mary come
into my presence again; and be sure to take care of Mrs Pemberton's
address.'

Adeline promised that both his requests should be attended to. Mary was
paid her wages, and dismissed immediately; and a girl being hired to
supply her place, the menage went on quietly again.

But a new mortification awaited Glenmurray and Adeline. In spite of
Glenmurray's eccentricities and opinions, he was still remembered with
interest by some of the female part of his family; and two of his
cousins, more remarkable for their beauty than their virtue, hearing
that he was at Richmond, made known to him their intention of paying him
a morning visit on their way to their country-seat in the neighbourhood.

'Most unwelcome visitors, indeed!' cried Glenmurray, throwing the letter
down; 'I will write to them and forbid them to come.'

'That's impossible,' replied Adeline, 'for by this time they must be on
the road, if you look at the date of the letter: besides, I wish you to
receive them; I should like to see any relations or friends of yours,
especially those who have liberality of sentiment enough to esteem you
as you deserve.'

'You!--you see them!' exclaimed Glenmurray, pacing the room impatiently:
'O Adeline, that is _impossible_!'

'I understand you,' replied Adeline, changing colour: 'they will not
deem me worthy,' forcing a smile, 'to be introduced to them.'

'And therefore would I forbid their coming. I cannot bear to _exclude_
you from my presence in order that I may receive them. No: when they
arrive, I will send them word that I am unable to see them.'

'While they will attribute the refusal to the influence of the
_creature_ who lives with you! No, Glenmurray, for my sake I must insist
on your not being denied to them; and, believe me, I should consider
myself as unworthy to be the choice of your heart, if I were not able
to bear with firmness a mortification like that which awaits me.'

'But you allow it to be a mortification?'

'Yes; it is mortifying to a woman who knows herself to be virtuous, and
is an idolater of virtue, to pay the penalty of vice, and be thought
unworthy to associate with the relations of the man whom she loves.'

'They shall not come, I protest,' exclaimed Glenmurray.

But Adeline was resolute; and she carried her point. Soon after this
conversation the ladies arrived, and Adeline shut herself up in her
own apartment, where she gave way to no very pleasant reflections. Nor
was she entirely satisfied with Glenmurray's conduct:--true, he had
earnestly and sincerely wished to refuse to see his unexpected and
unwelcome guests; but he had never once expressed a desire of combating
their prejudices for Adeline's sake, and an intention of requesting that
she might be introduced to them; but, as any common man would have done
under similar circumstances, he was contented to do homage to 'things as
they are,' without an effort to resist the prejudice to which he was
superior.

'Alas!' cried Adeline, 'when can we hope to see society enlightened and
improved, when even those who see and strive to amend its faults in
theory, in practice tamely submit to the trammels which it imposes?'

An hour, a tedious hour to Adeline, having elapsed, Glenmurray's
visitors departed; and by the disappointment that Adeline experienced at
hearing the door close on them, she felt that she had had a secret hope
of being summoned to be presented to them; and, with a bitter feeling of
mortification, she reflected, that she was probably to the man whom she
adored a shame and a reproach.

'Yet I should like to see them,' she said, running to the window as
the carriage drove up, and the ladies entered it. At that moment they,
whether from curiosity to see her, or accident, looked up at the window
where she was. Adeline started back indignant and confused; for,
thrusting their heads eagerly forward, they looked at her with the bold
unfeeling stare of imagined superiority; and Adeline, spite of her
reason, sunk abashed and conscious from their gaze.

'And this insult,' exclaimed she, clasping her hands and bursting into
tears, 'I experience from Glenmurray's _relations_! I think I could have
borne it better from any one else.'

She had not recovered her disorder when Glenmurray entered the room,
and, tenderly embracing her, exclaimed, 'Never, never again, my love,
will I submit to such a sacrifice as I have now made;' when seeing her
in tears, too well aware of the cause, he gave way to such a passionate
burst of tenderness and regret, that Adeline, terrified at his
agitation, though soothed by his fondness, affected the cheerfulness
which she did not feel, and promised to drive the intruders from her
remembrance.

Had Glenmurray and Adeline known the real character of the unwelcome
visitors, neither of them would have regretted that Adeline was not
presented to them. One of them was married, and to so accommodating a
husband, that his wife's known gallant was his intimate friend; and
under the sanction of his protection she was received every where, and
visited by every one, as the world did not think proper to be more
clear-sighted than the husband himself chose to be. The other lady was a
young and attractive widow, who coquetted with many men, but intrigued
with only one at a time; for which self-denial she was rewarded by being
allowed to pass unquestioned through the portals of fashionable society.
But these ladies would have scorned to associate with Adeline; and
Adeline, had she known their private history, would certainly have
returned the compliment.

The peace of Adeline was soon after disturbed in another way. Glenmurray
finding himself disposed to sleep in the middle of the day, his cough
having kept him waking all night, Adeline took her usual walk, and
returned by the church-yard. The bell was tolling; and as she passed she
saw a funeral enter the church-yard, and instantly averted her head.

In so doing her eyes fell on a decent-looking woman, who with a sort of
angry earnestness was watching the progress of the procession.

'Aye, there goes your body, you rogue!' she exclaimed indignantly, 'but
I wonder where your soul is now?--where I would not be for something.'

Adeline was shocked, and gently observed, 'What crime did the person of
whom you are speaking, that you should suppose his soul so painfully
disposed of?'

'What crime?' returned the woman: 'crime enough, I think:--why, he
ruined a poor girl here in the neighbourhood: and then, because he never
chose to make a will, there is she lying-in of a little by-blow, with
not a farthing of money to maintain her or the child, and the fellow's
money is gone to the heir-at-law, scarce of kin to him, while his own
flesh and blood is left to starve.'

Adeline shuddered:--if Glenmurray were to die, she and the child which
she bore would, she knew, be beggars.

'Well, miss, or madam, belike, by the look of you,' continued the woman
glancing her eye over Adeline's person, 'what say you? Don't you think
the fellow's soul is where we should not like to be? However, he had his
hell here too, to be sure! for, when speechless and unable to move his
fingers, he seemed by signs to ask for pen and ink, and he looked in
agonies; and there was the poor young woman crying over him, and holding
in her arms the poor destitute baby, who would as he grew up be taught,
he must think, to curse the wicked father who begot him, and the naughty
mother who bore him!'

Adeline turned very sick, and was forced to seat herself on a tombstone.
'Curse the mother who bore him!' she inwardly repeated,--'and will my
child curse me? Rather let me undergo the rites I have despised!' and
instantly starting from her seat she ran down the road to her lodgings,
resolving to propose to Glenmurray their immediate marriage.

'But is the possession of property, then,' she said to herself as
she stopped to take breath, 'so supreme a good, that the want of it,
through the means of his mother, should dispose a child to curse that
mother?--No: my child shall be taught to consider nothing valuable but
virtue, nothing disgraceful but _vice_.--Fool that I am! a bugbear
frightened me; and to my foolish fears I was about to sacrifice my own
principles, and the respectability of Glenmurray. No--Let his property
go to the heir-at-law--let me be forced to labour to support my babe,
when its father--' Here a flood of tears put an end to her soliloquy,
and slowly and pensively she returned home.

But the conversation of the woman in the church-yard haunted her while
waking, and continued to distress her in her dreams that night, and she
was resolved to do all she could to relieve the situation of the poor
destitute girl and child, in whose fate she might possibly see an
anticipation of her own: and as soon as breakfast was over, and
Glenmurray was engaged in his studies, she walked out to make the
projected inquiries.

The season of the year was uncommonly fine; and the varied scenery
visible from the terrace was, at the moment of Adeline's approach to it,
glowing with more than common beauty. Adeline stood for some minutes
gazing on it in silent delight; when her reverie was interrupted by the
sound of boyish merriment, and she saw, at one end of the terrace, some
well-dressed boys at play.

  'Alas! regardless of their doom
    The little victims play!'

immediately recurred to her: for, contemplating the probable evils of
existence, she was darkly brooding over the imagined fate of her own
offspring, should it live to see the light; and the children at their
sport, having no care of ills to come, naturally engaged her attention.

But these happy children ceased to interest her, when she saw standing
at a distance from the group, and apparently looking at it with an eye
of envy, a little boy, even better dressed than the rest; who was
sobbing violently, yet evidently trying to conceal his grief. And while
she was watching the young mourner attentively, he suddenly threw
himself on a seat; and, taking out his handkerchief, indignantly and
impatiently wiped away the tears that would no longer be restrained.

'Poor child!' thought Adeline, seating herself beside him; 'and has
affliction reached thee so soon!'

The child was beautiful: and his clustering locks seemed to have been
combed with so much care; the frill of his shirt was so fine, and had
been so very neatly plaited; and his sun-burnt neck and hands were so
very very clean, that Adeline was certain he was the darling object of
some fond mother's attention. 'And yet he is unhappy!' she inwardly
exclaimed. 'When my fate resembled his, how happy I was!' But from the
recollections like these she always hastened; and checking the rising
sigh, she resolved to enter into conversation with the little boy.

'What is the matter?' she cried.--No answer. 'Why are you not playing
with the young gentlemen yonder?'

She had touched the right string:--and bursting into tears, he sobbed
out, 'Because they won't let me.'

'No? and why will they not let you?' To this he replied not; but
sullenly hung his blushing face on his bosom.

'Perhaps you have made them angry?' gently asked Adeline. 'Oh! no, no,'
cried the boy; 'but--' 'But what?' Here he turned from her, and with his
nail began scratching the arm of the seat.

'Well; this is very strange, and seems very unkind,' cried Adeline: 'I
will speak to them.' So saying, she drew near the other children, who
had interrupted their play to watch Adeline and their rejected playmate.
'What can be the reason,' said she, 'that you will not let that little
boy play with you?' The boys looked down, and said nothing.

'Is he ill-natured?'

'No.'

'Does he not play fair?'

'Yes.'

'Don't you like him?'

'Yes.'

'Then why do you make him unhappy, by not letting him join in your
sport?'

'Tell the lady. Jack,' cries one; and Jack, the biggest boy of the
party, said: 'Because he is not a gentleman's son like us, and is only a
little bastard.'

'Yes,' cried one of the other children; 'and his mamma is so proud she
dresses him finer than we are, for all he is base-born: and our papas
and mammas don't think him fit company for us.'

They might have gone on for an hour--Adeline could not interrupt them.
The cause of the child's affliction was a dagger in her heart; and,
while she listened to the now redoubled sobs of the disgraced and
proudly afflicted boy, she was driven almost to phrensy: for 'Such,' she
exclaimed, 'may one time or other be the pangs of my child, and so to
him may the hours of childhood be embittered!' Again she seated herself
by the little mourner--and her tears accompanied his.

'My dear child, you had better go home,' said she, struggling with her
feelings; 'your mother will certainly be glad of your company.'

'No, I won't go to her; I don't love her: they say she is a bad woman,
and my papa a bad man, because they are not married.'

Again Adeline's horrors returned. 'But, my dear, they love you, no
doubt; and you ought to love them,' she replied with effort.

'There, there comes your papa,' cried one of the boys; 'go and cry to
him;--go.'

At these words Adeline looked up, and saw an elegant-looking man
approaching with a look of anxiety.

'Charles, my dear boy, what has happened?' said he, taking his hand;
which the boy sullenly withdrew. 'Come home directly,' continued his
father, 'and tell me what is the matter, as we go along.' But again
snatching his hand away, the proud and deeply wounded child resentfully
pushed the shoulder next him forward, whenever his father tried to take
his arm, and elbowed him angrily as he went.

Adeline felt the child's action to the bottom of her heart. It was a
volume of reproach to the father; and she sighed to think what the
parents, if they had hearts, must feel, when the afflicted boy told the
cause of his grief. 'But, unhappy boy, perhaps my child may live to
bless you!' she exclaimed, clasping her hands together: 'never, never
will I expose my child to the pangs which you have experienced to-day.'
So saying, she returned instantly to her lodgings; and having just
strength left to enter Glenmurray's room, she faintly exclaimed: 'For
pity's sake, make me your wife to-morrow!' and fell senseless on the
floor.

On her recovery she saw Glenmurray pale with agitation, yet with an
expression of satisfaction in his countenance, bending over her.
'Adeline! my dearest love!' he whispered as her head lay on his bosom,
'blessed be the words you have spoken, whatever be their cause!
To-morrow you shall be my wife.'

'And then our child will be legitimate, will he not?' she eagerly
replied.

'It will.'

'Thank God!' cried Adeline, and relapsed into a fainting fit. For it was
not decreed that the object of her maternal solicitude should ever be
born to reward it. Anxiety and agitation had had a fatal effect on the
health of Adeline; and the day after her encounter on the terrace she
brought forth a dead child.

As soon as Adeline, languid and disappointed, was able to leave
her room, Glenmurray, whom anxiety during her illness had rendered
considerably weaker, urged her to let the marriage ceremony be performed
immediately. But with her hopes of being a mother vanished her wishes to
become a wife, and all her former reasons against marriage recurred in
their full force.

In vain did Glenmurray entreat her to keep her lately formed resolution:
she still attributed his persuasions to generosity, and the heroic
resolve of sacrificing his principles, with the consistency of his
character, to her supposed good, and it was a point of honour with her
to be as generous in return: consequently the subject was again dropped;
nor was it likely to be soon renewed; and anxiety of a more pressing
nature disturbed their peace and engrossed their attention. They had
been three months at Richmond, and had incurred there a considerable
debt; and Glenmurray, not having sufficient money with him to discharge
it, drew upon his banker for half the half-year's rents from his estate,
which he had just deposited in his hands; when to his unspeakable
astonishment he found that the house had stopped payment, and that the
principal partner had gone off with the deposits!

Scarcely could the firm mind of Glenmurray support itself under the
stroke. He looked forward to the certainty of passing the little
remainder of his life not only in pain but in poverty, and of seeing
increase as fast as his wants the difficulty of supplying them; while
the woman of his heart bent in increased agony over his restless couch;
for he well knew that to raise money on his estate, or to anticipate the
next half-year's rents, was impossible, as he had only a life interest
in it; and, as he held the fatal letter in his hand, his frame shook
with agitation.

'I could not have believed,' cried Adeline, 'that the loss of any sum of
money could have so violently affected you.'

'Not the loss of my all! my support during the tedious scenes of
illness!'

'Your all!' faltered out Adeline; and when she heard the true state of
the case she found her agitation equalled that of Glenmurray, and in
hopeless anguish she leaned on the table beside him.

'What is to be done,' said she, 'till the next half-year's rents become
due? Where can we procure money?'

'Till the next half-year's rents become due!' replied he, looking at her
mournfully: 'I shall not be distressed for money then.'

'No?' answered Adeline (not understanding him): 'our expenses have never
yet been more than that sum can supply.'

Glenmurray looked at her, and, seeing how unconscious she was of the
certainty of the evil that awaited her, had not the courage to distress
her by explaining his meaning; and she went on to ask him what steps he
meant to take to raise money.

'My only resource,' said he, 'is dunning a near relation of mine who
owes me three hundred pounds: he is now, I believe, able to pay it. He
is in Holland, indeed, at present; but he is daily expected in England,
and will come to see me here. I have named him to you before, I believe.
His name is Berrendale.'

It was then agreed that Glenmurray should write to Mr Berrendale
immediately; and that, to prevent the necessity of incurring a further
debt for present provisions and necessaries, some of their books and
linen should be sold:--but week after week elapsed, and no letter was
received from Mr Berrendale.

Glenmurray grew rapidly worse;--and their landlord was clamorous for
his rent;--advice from London also became necessary to quiet Adeline's
mind,--though Glenmurray knew that he was past cure: and after she had
paid a small sum to quiet the demands of the landlord for a while, she
had scarcely enough left to pay a physician: however, she sent for one
recommended by Dr Norberry, and by selling a writing-desk inlaid with
silver, which she valued because it was the gift of her father, she
raised money sufficient for the occasion.

Dr. ---- arrived, but not to speak peace to the mind of Adeline.
She saw, though he did not absolutely say so, that all chance of
Glenmurray's recovery was over: and though with the sanguine feelings
of nineteen she could 'hope though hope were lost,' when she watched
Dr. ----'s countenance as he turned from the bed-side of Glenmurray, she
felt the coldness of despair thrill through her frame; and, scarcely
able to stand, she followed him into the next room, and awaited his
orders with a sort of desperate tranquillity.

After prescribing alleviations of the ill beyond his power to cure, Dr.
---- added that terrible confirmation of the fears of anxious affection.
'Let him have whatever he likes; nothing can hurt him now; and all your
endeavours must be to make the remaining hours of his existence as
comfortable as you can, by every indulgence possible: and indeed, my
dear madam,' he continued, 'you must be prepared for the trial that
awaits you.'

'Prepared! did you say?' cried Adeline in the broken voice of tearless
and almost phrensied sorrow. 'O God! if he must die, in mercy let me die
with him. If I have sinned,' (here she fell on her knees,) 'surely,
surely, the agony of this moment is atonement sufficient.'

Dr. ----, greatly affected, raised her from the ground, and conjured her
for the sake of Glenmurray, and that she might not make his last hours
miserable, to bear her trial with more fortitude.

'And can you talk of his "last hours" and yet expect me to be composed?--O
sir! say but there is one little little gleam of hope for me, and I will
be calm.'

'Well,' replied Dr. ----, 'I _may_ be mistaken; Mr Glenmurray is young,
and--and--' here his voice faltered, and he was unable to proceed; for
the expression of Adeline's countenance, changing as it instantly did
from misery to joy,--joy of which he knew the fallacy,--while her eyes
were intently fixed on him, was too much for a man of any feeling to
support; and when she pressed his hand in the convulsive emotions of
her gratitude, he was forced to turn away his head to conceal the
starting tear.

'Well, I may be mistaken--Mr Glenmurray is young,' Adeline repeated
again and again, as his carriage drove off; and she flew to Glenmurray's
bed-side to impart to him the satisfaction which he rejoiced to see her
feel, but in which he could not share.

Her recovered security did not, however, last long; the change in
Glenmurray grew every day more visible; and to increase her distress,
they were forced, to avoid disagreeable altercations, to give the
landlord a draft on Mr Berrendale for the sum due to him, and remove to
very humble lodgings in a closer part of the town.

Here their misery was a little alleviated by the unexpected receipt of
twenty pounds, sent to Glenmurray by a tenant who was in arrears to
him, which enabled Adeline to procure Glenmurray every thing that his
capricious appetite required; and at his earnest entreaty, in order that
she might sometimes venture to leave him, lest her health should suffer,
she hired a nurse to assist her in her attendance upon him.

A hasty letter too was at length received from Mr Berrendale, saying,
that he should very soon be in England, and should hasten to Richmond
immediately on his landing. The terror of wanting money, therefore,
began to subside; but day after day elapsed, and Mr Berrendale came not;
and Adeline, being obliged to deny herself almost necessary sustenance
that Glenmurray's appetite might be tempted, and his nurse, by the
indulgence of hers, kept in good humour, resolved, presuming on the
arrival of Mr Berrendale, to write to Dr Norberry and solicit the loan
of twenty pounds.

Having done so, she ceased to be alarmed, though she found herself in
possession of only three guineas to defray the probable expenses of
the ensuing week; and in somewhat less misery than usual, she, at the
earnest entreaty of Glenmurray, set out to take a walk.

Scarcely conscious what she did, she strolled through the town, and
seeing some fine grapes at the window of a fruiterer, she went in to ask
the price of them, knowing how welcome fruit was to the feverish palate
of Glenmurray. While the shopman was weighing the grapes, she saw a
pine-apple on the counter, and felt a strong wish to carry it home as a
more welcome present; but with unspeakable disappointment she heard that
the price of it was two guineas--a sum which she could not think herself
justified in expending, in the present state of their finances, even to
please Glenmurray, especially as he had not expressed a wish for such an
indulgence; besides, he liked grapes; and, as medicine, neither of them
could be effectual.

It was fortunate for Adeline's feelings that she had not overheard what
the mistress of the shop said to her maid as she left it.

'I should have asked another person only a guinea; but as those sort of
women never mind what they give, I asked two, and I dare say she will
come back for it.'

'I have brought you some grapes,' cried Adeline as she entered
Glenmurray's chamber, 'and I would have brought you a pine-apple, but
that it was too dear.'

'A pine-apple!' said Glenmurray, languidly turning over the grapes, and
with a sort of distaste putting one of them in his mouth, 'a
pine-apple!--I wish you had brought it with all my heart! I protest that
I feel as if I could eat a whole one.'

'Well,' replied Adeline, 'if you would enjoy it so much, you certainly
ought to have it.'

'But the price, my dear girl!--what was it?'

'Only two guineas,' replied Adeline, forcing a smile.

'Two guineas!' exclaimed Glenmurray: 'No,--that is too much to give--I
will not indulge my appetite at such a rate--but, take away the
grapes--I can't eat them.'

Adeline, disappointed, removed them from his sight; and, to increase
her vexation, Glenmurray was continually talking of pine-apples, and in
that way that showed how strongly his diseased appetite wished to enjoy
the gratification of eating one. At last, unable to bear to see him
struggling with an ungratified wish, she told him that she believed they
could afford to buy the pine-apple, as she had written to borrow some
money of Dr Norberry, to be paid as soon as Mr Berrendale arrived. In a
moment the dull eye of Glenmurray lighted up with expectation; and he,
who in health was remarkable for self-denial and temperance, scrupled
not, overcome by the influence of the fever which consumed him, to
gratify his palate at a rate the most extravagant.

Adeline sighed as she contemplated this change effected by illness; and,
promising to be back as soon as possible, she proceeded to a shop to
dispose of her lace veil, the only ornament which she had retained; and
that not from vanity, but because it concealed from the eye of curiosity
the sorrow marked on her countenance. But she knew a piece of muslin
would do as well; and for two guineas sold a veil worth treble that
sum; but it was to give a minute's pleasure to Glenmurray, and that was
enough for Adeline.

On her way to the fruiterer's she saw a crowd at the door of a
mean-looking house, and in the midst of it she beheld a mulatto woman,
the picture of sickness and despair, supporting a young man who seemed
ready to faint every moment, but whom a rough-featured man, regardless
of his weakness, was trying to force from the grasp of the unhappy
woman; while a mulatto boy, known in Richmond by the name of the Tawny
Boy, to whom Adeline had often given halfpence in her walks, was crying
bitterly, and hiding his face in the poor woman's apron.

Adeline immediately pressed forward to inquire into the cause of a
distress only too congenial to her feelings; and as she did so, the
tawny boy looked up, and, knowing her immediately, ran eagerly forward
to meet her, seeming, though he did not speak, to associate with her
presence an idea of certain relief.

'Oh! it is only a poor man,' replied an old woman in answer to Adeline's
inquiries, 'who can't pay his debts,--and so they are dragging him to
prison--that's all.' 'They are dragging him to his death too,' cried a
younger woman in a gentle accent; 'for he is only just recovering from a
bad fever: and if he goes to jail the bad air will certainly kill him,
poor soul!'

'Is that his wife?' said Adeline. 'Yes, and my mammy,' said the tawny
boy, looking up in her face, 'and she so ill and sorry.'

'Yes, unhappy creatures,' replied her informant, 'and they have known
great trouble; and now, just as they had got a little money together,
William fell ill, and in doctor's stuff Savanna (that's the mulatto's
name) has spent all the money she had earned, as well as her husband's;
and now she is ill herself, and I am sure William's going to jail will
kill her. And a hard-hearted, wicked wretch Mr Davis is, to arrest
him--that he is--not but what it is his due, I cannot say but it
is--but, poor souls! he'll die, and she'll die, and then what will
become of their poor little boy?'

The tawny boy all this time was standing, crying, by Adeline's side, and
had twisted his fingers in her gown, while her heart sympathized most
painfully in the anguish of the mulatto woman. 'What is the amount of
the sum for which he is taken up?' said Adeline.

'Oh! trifling: but Mr Davis owes him a grudge, and so will not wait any
longer. It is in all only ten pounds; and he says if they will pay part
he will wait for the rest; but then he knows they could as well pay all
as part.'

Adeline, shocked at the knowledge of a distress which she was not able
to remove, was turning away as the woman said this, when she felt
that the little boy pulled her gown gently, as if appealing to her
generosity; while a surly-looking man, who was the creditor himself,
forcing a passage through the crowd, said, 'Why, bring him along, and
have done with it; here is a fuss to make indeed about that idle dog,
and that ugly black toad!'

Adeline till then had not recollected that she was a mulatto; and this
speech, reflecting so brutally on her colour,--a circumstance which made
her an object of greater interest to Adeline,--urged her to step forward
to their joint relief with an almost irresistible impulse; especially
when another man reproached the fellow for his brutality, and added,
that he knew them both to be hard-working, deserving persons. But to
disappoint Glenmurray of his promised pleasure was impossible; and
having put sixpence in the tawny boy's hand, she was hastening to the
fruiterer's, when the crowd, who were following William and the mulatto
to the jail, whither the bailiffs were dragging rather than leading him,
fell back to give air to the poor man, who had fainted on Savanna's
shoulder, and seemed on the point of expiring--while she, with an
expression of fixed despair, was gazing on his wan cheek.

Adeline thought on Glenmurray's danger, and shuddered as she beheld the
scene; she felt it but a too probable anticipation of the one in which
she might soon be an actor.

At this moment a man observed, 'If he goes to prison he will not live
two days, that every one may see;' and the mulatto uttered a shriek of
agony.

Adeline felt it to her very soul; and, rushing forward, 'Sir, sir,' she
exclaimed to the unfeeling creditor, 'if I were to give you a guinea
now, and promise you two more a fortnight hence, would you release this
poor man for the present?'

'No: I must have three guineas this moment,' replied he. Adeline sighed,
and withdrew her hand from her pocket. 'But were Glenmurray here, he
would give up his indulgence, I am sure, to save the lives of, probably
two fellow-creatures,' thought Adeline: 'and he would not forgive me if
I were to sacrifice such an opportunity to the sole gratification of
his palate.'--But then again, Glenmurray eagerly expecting her with
the promised treat, so gratifying to the feverish taste of sickness,
seemed to appear before her, and she turned away; but the eyes of the
mulatto, who had heard her words, and had hung on them breathless with
expectation, followed her with a look of such sad reproach for the
disappointment which she had occasioned her, and the little boy looked
up so wistfully in her face, crying, 'Poor fader, and poor mammy!'
that Adeline could not withstand the force of the appeal; but almost
exclaiming 'Glenmurray would upbraid me if I did not act thus,' she gave
the creditor the three guineas, paid the bailiffs their demand, and then
made her way through the crowd, who respectfully drew back to give her
room to pass, saying, 'God bless you, lady! God bless you!'

But William was too ill, and Savanna felt too much to speak; and the
surly creditor said, sneeringly, 'If I had been you, I would, at least,
have thanked the lady.' This reproach restored Savanna to the use of
speech; and (but with a violent effort) she uttered in a hoarse and
broken voice, '_I_ tank her! God tank her! I never can:' and Adeline,
kindly pressing her hand, hurried away from her in silence, though
scarcely able to refrain exclaiming, 'you know not the sacrifice which
you have cost me!' The tawny boy still followed her, as loath to leave
her. 'God bless you, my dear!' said she kindly to him: 'there, go to
your mother, and be good to her.' His dark face glowed as she spoke to
him, and holding up his chin, 'Tiss me!' cried he, 'poor tawny boy love
you!' She did so; and then reluctantly, he left her, nodding his head,
and saying, 'Dood bye' till he was out of sight.

With him, and with the display of his grateful joy, vanished all that
could give Adeline resolution to bear her own reflections at the idea of
returning home, and of the trial that awaited her. In vain did she now
try to believe that Glenmurray would applaud what she had done.--He was
now the slave of disease, nor was it likely that even his self-denial
and principle benevolence could endure with patience so cruel a
disappointment--and from the woman whom he loved too!--and to whom the
indulgence of his slightest wishes ought to have been the first object.

'What shall I do?' cried she: 'what will he say?--No doubt he is
impatiently expecting me; and, in his weak state, disappointment may--'
Here, unable to hear her apprehensions, she wrung her hands in agony;
and when she arrived in sight of her lodgings she dared not look up,
lest she should see Glenmurray at the window watching for her return.
Slowly and fearfully did she open the door; and the first sound she
heard was Glenmurray's voice from the door of his room, saying, 'So, you
are come at last!--I have been so impatient!' And indeed he had risen
and dressed himself, that he might enjoy his treat more than he could do
in a sick-bed.

'How can I bear to look him in the face!' thought Adeline, lingering on
the stairs.

'Adeline, my love! why do you make me wait so long?' cried Glenmurray.
'Here are knives and plates ready; where is the treat I have been so
long expecting?'

Adeline entered the room and threw herself on the first chair, avoiding
the sight of Glenmurray, whose countenance, as she hastily glanced her
eyes over it, was animated with the expectation of a pleasure which he
was not to enjoy. 'I have not brought the pine-apple,' she faintly
articulated. 'No!' replied Glenmurray, 'how hard upon me!--the only
thing for weeks that I have wished for, or could have eaten with
pleasure! I suppose you were so long going that it was disposed of
before you got there?'

'No,' replied Adeline, struggling with her tears at this first instance
of pettishness in Glenmurray.

'Pardon me the supposition,' replied Glenmurray, recovering himself:
'more likely you met some dun on the road, and so the two guineas were
disposed of another way--If so, I can't blame you. What say you? Am I
right?'

'No.' 'Then how was it?' gravely asked Glenmurray. 'You must have had a
very powerful and a sufficient reason, to induce you to disappoint a
poor invalid of the indulgence which you had yourself excited him to
wish for.'

'This is terrible, indeed!' thought Adeline, 'and never was I so tempted
to tell a falsehood.'

'Still silent! You are very unkind, Miss Mowbray,' said Glenmurray; 'I
see that I have tired even _you_ out.'

These words, by the agony which they excited, restored to Adeline all
her resolution. She ran to Glenmurray; she clasped his burning hands in
hers; and as succinctly as possible she related what had passed. When
she had finished, Glenmurray was silent; the fretfulness of disease
prompted him to say, 'So then, to the relief of strangers you sacrificed
the gratification of the man whom you love, and deprived him of the
only pleasure he may live to enjoy!' But the habitual sweetness and
generosity of his temper struggled, and struggled effectually, with his
malady; and while Adeline, pale and trembling, awaited her sentence, he
caught her suddenly to his bosom, and held her there a few moments in
silence.

'Then you forgive me?' faltered out Adeline.

'Forgive you! I love and admire you more than ever! I know your heart,
Adeline; and I am convinced that depriving yourself of the delight of
giving me the promised treat, in order to do a benevolent action, was
an effort of virtue of the highest order; and never, I trust, have you
known, or will you know again, such bitter feelings as you this moment
experienced.'

Adeline, gratified by his generous kindness, and charmed with his
praise, could only weep her thanks. 'And now,' said Glenmurray,
laughing, 'you may bring back the grapes--I am not like Sterne's dear
Jenny; if I cannot get pine-apple, I will not insist on eating crab.'

The grapes were brought; but in vain did he try to eat them. At this
time, however, he did not send them away without highly commending their
flavour, and wishing that he dared give way to his inclinations, and
feast upon them.

'O God of mercy!' cried Adeline, bursting into an agony of grief as she
reached her own apartment, and throwing herself on her knees by the
bed-side, 'Must that benevolent being be taken from me for ever, and
must I, must I survive him!'

She continued for some minutes in this attitude, and with her heart
devoutly raised to heaven; till every feeling yielded to resignation,
and she arose calm, if not contented; when, on turning round, she saw
Glenmurray leaning against the door, and gazing on her.

'Sweet enthusiast!' cried he smiling: 'so, thus, when you are
distressed, you seek consolation.'

'I do,' she replied: 'Sceptic, wouldst thou wish to deprive me of it?'

'No, by heaven!' warmly exclaimed Glenmurray; and the evening passed
more cheerfully than usual.

The next post brought a letter, not from Dr. Norberry, but from his
wife; it was as follows, and contained three pound-notes:--

     'Mrs Norberry's compliments to Miss Mowbray, having opened her
     letter, poor Dr Norberry being dangerously ill of a fever, find
     her distress; of which shall not inform the doctor, as he feels
     so much for his friend's misfortunes, specially when brought on
     by misconduct. But, out of respect for your mother, who is a
     good sort of woman, though rather particular, as all learned
     ladies are, have sent three pound-notes; the Miss Norberrys
     giving one a-piece, not to lend, but a gift, and they join Mrs
     Norberry in hoping Miss Mowbray will soon see the error of her
     ways; and, if so be, no doubt Dr Norberry will use his interest
     to get her into the Magdalen.'

This curious epistle would have excited in Glenmurray and Adeline no
other feelings save those of contempt, but for the information it
contained of the doctor's being dangerously ill; and, in fear for the
worthy husband, they forgot the impertinence of the wife and daughters.

The next day, fortunately, Mr Berrendale arrived, and with him the three
hundred pounds. Consequently, all Glenmurray's debts were discharged,
better lodgings procured, and the three pound-notes returned in a blank
cover to Mrs Norberry. Charles Berrendale was first-cousin to
Glenmurray, and so like him in face, that they were, at first, mistaken
for brothers: but to a physiognomist they must always have been unlike;
as Glenmurray was remarkable for the character and expression of his
countenance, and Berrendale for the extreme beauty of his features and
complexion. Glenmurray was pale and thin, and his eyes and hair dark.
Berrendale's eyes were of a light blue; and though his eye-lashes were
black, his hair was of a rich auburn; Glenmurray was thin and muscular;
Berrendale, round and corpulent: still they were alike; and it was not
ill observed of them, that Berrendale was Glenmurray in good health.

But Berrendale could not be flattered by the resemblance, as his face
and person were so truly what is called handsome, that, partial as our
sex is said to be to beauty, any woman would have been excused for
falling in love with him. Whether his mind was equal to his person we
shall show hereafter.

The meeting between Berrendale and Glenmurray was affectionate on both
sides; but Berrendale could scarcely hide the pain he felt on seeing
the situation of Glenmurray, whose virtues he had always loved, whose
talents he had always respected, and to whose active friendship towards
himself he owed eternal gratitude.

But he soon learnt to think Glenmurray, in one respect, an object of
envy, when he beheld the constant, skilful, and tender attentions of
his nurse, and saw in that nurse every gift of heart, mind, and person,
which could make a woman amiable.

Berrendale had heard that his eccentric cousin was living with a girl as
odd as himself; who thought herself a genius, and pretended to universal
knowledge; great then was his astonishment to find this imagined pedant,
and pretender, not only an adept in every useful and feminine pursuit,
but modest in her demeanour, and gentle in her manners: little did he
expect to see her capable of serving the table of Glenmurray with dishes
made by herself, not only tempting to the now craving appetite of the
invalid but to the palate of an epicure,--while all his wants were
anticipated by her anxious attention, and many of the sufferings of
sickness alleviated by her inventive care.

Adeline, meanwhile, was agreeably surprised to see the good effect
produced on Glenmurray's spirits, and even his health, by the arrival of
his cousin; and her manner became even affectionate to Berrendale, from
gratitude for the change which his presence seemed to have occasioned.

Adeline had now a companion in her occasional walks;--Glenmurray
insisted on her walking, and insisted on Berrendale's accompanying
her. In these tete-a-tetes Adeline unburthened her heart, by telling
Berrendale of the agony she felt at the idea of losing Glenmurray; and
while drowned in tears she leaned on his arm, she unconsciously suffered
him to press the hand that leaned against him; nor would she have felt
it a freedom to be reproved, had she been conscious that he did so. But
these trifling indulgences were fuel to the flame that she had kindled
in the heart of Berrendale; a flame which he saw no guilt in indulging,
as he looked on Glenmurray's death as certain, and Adeline would then be
free.

But though Adeline was perfectly unconscious of his attachment,
Glenmurray had seen it even before Berrendale himself discovered it; and
he only waited a favourable opportunity to make the discovery known to
the parties. All he had as yet ventured to say was, 'Charles, my Adeline
is an excellent nurse!--You would like such as one during your fits of
the gout;' and Berrendale had blushed deeply while he assented to
Glenmurray's remarks, because he was conscious that, while enumerating
Adeline's perfections, he had figured her to himself warming his
flannels, and leaning tenderly over his gouty couch.

One day, while Adeline was reading to Glenmurray, and Berrendale was
attending not to what she read, but to the beauty of her mouth while
reading, the nurse came in, and said that 'a mulatto woman wished to
speak to Miss Mowbray.'

'Show her up,' immediately cried Glenmurray; 'and if her little boy is
with her, let him come too.'

In vain did Adeline expostulate--Glenmurray wished to enjoy the
mulatto's expressions of gratitude; and, in spite of all she could say,
the mother and child were introduced.

'So!' cried the mulatto, (whose looks were so improved that Adeline
scarcely knew her again,) 'So! me find you at last; and, please God! we
not soon part more.' As she said this, she pressed the hem of Adeline's
gown to her lips with fervent emotion.

'Not part from her again!' cried Glenmurray, 'What do you mean, my good
woman?'

'Oh! when she gave tree guinea for me, me tought she mus be rich lady,
but now dey say she be poor, and me mus work for her.'

'And who told you I was poor?'

'Dat cross man where you live once--he say you could not pay him, and
you go away--and he tell me that your love be ill; and me so sorry, yet
so glad! for my love be well aden, and he have good employ; and now
I can come and serve you, and nurse dis poor gentleman, and all for
nothing but my meat and drink; and I know dat great fat nurse have gold
wages, and eat and drink fat beside,--I knowd her well.'

All this was uttered with volubility, and in a tone between laughing and
crying.

'Well, Adeline,' said Glenmurray when she had ended, 'you did not throw
away your kindness on an unworthy and ungrateful object; so I am quite
reconciled to the loss of the pine-apple; and I will tell your honest
friend here the story,--to show her, as she has a tender heart herself,
the greatness of the sacrifice you made for her sake.'

Adeline begged him to desist; but he went on; and the mulatto could not
keep herself quiet on the chair while he related the circumstance.

'And did she do dat to save me?' she passionately exclaimed: 'Angel
woman! I should have let poor man go to prison, before disappoint my
William!'

'And did you forgive her immediately?' said Berrendale.

'Yes, certainly.'

'Well, that was heroic too,' returned he.

'And no one but Glenmurray would have been so heroic, I believe,' said
Adeline.

'But, lady, you break my heart,' cried the mulatto, 'if you not take
my service. Mr William and me, too poor to live togedder of some year
perhaps. Here, child, tawny boy, down on knees, and vow wid me to be
faithful and grateful to this our mistress, till our last day; and
never to forsake her in sickness or in sorrow! I swear dis to my great
God:--and now say dat after me.' She then clasped the little boy's
hands, bade him raise his eyes to heaven, and made him repeat what she
had said, ending it with 'I swear dis, to my great God.'

There was such an affecting solemnity in this action, and in the mulatto
such a determined enthusiasm of manner incapable of being controlled,
that Adeline, Glenmurray, and Berrendale observed what passed in
respectful silence: and when it was over, Glenmurray said, in a voice of
emotion, 'I think, Adeline, we must accept this good creature's offer;
and as nurse grows lazy and saucy, we had better part with her: and as
for your young knight there,' (the tawny boy had by this time nestled
himself close to Adeline, who, with no small emotion, was playing with
his woolly curls,) 'we must send him to school; for, my good woman, we
are not so poor as you imagine.'

'God be thanked!' cried the mulatto.

'But what is your name?'

'I was christened Savanna,' replied she.

'Then, good Savanna,' cried Adeline, 'I hope we shall both have reason
to bless the day when first we met; and to-morrow you shall come home to
us.' Savanna, on hearing this, almost screamed with joy, and as she took
her leave Berrendale slipped a guinea into her hand: the tawny boy
meanwhile slowly followed his mother, as if unwilling to leave Adeline,
even though she gave him halfpence to spend in cakes: but on being told
that she would let him come again the next day, he tripped gaily down
after Savanna.

The quiet of the chamber being then restored, Glenmurray fell into a
calm slumber. Adeline took up her work; and Berrendale, pretending
to read, continued to feed his passion by gazing on the unconscious
Adeline.

While they were thus engaged, Glenmurray, unobserved, awoke; and he soon
guessed how Berrendale's eyes were employed, as the book which he held
in his hand was upside down; and through the fingers of the hand which
he held before his face, he saw his looks fixed on Adeline.

The moment was a favourable one for Glenmurray's purpose: and just as he
raised himself from his pillow, Adeline had discovered the earnest gaze
of Berrendale; and a suspicion of the truth that instant darting across
her mind, disconcerted and blushing, she had cast her eyes on the
ground.

'That is an interesting study which you are engaged in, Charles,' cried
Glenmurray smiling.

Berrendale started; and, deeply blushing, faltered out, 'Yes.'

Adeline looked at Glenmurray, and seeing a very arch and meaning
expression on his countenance, suspected that he had made the same
discovery as herself: yet, if so, she wondered at his looking so
pleasantly on Berrendale as he spoke.

'It is a book, Charles,' continued Glenmurray, 'which the more you study
the more you will admire; and I wish to give you a clue to understand
some passages in it better than you can now do.'

This speech deceived Adeline, and made her suppose that Glenmurray
really alluded to the book which lay before Berrendale: but it convinced
_him_ that Glenmurray spoke metaphorically; and as his manner was kind,
it also made him think that he saw and did not disapprove his
attachment.

For a few minutes, each of them being engrossed in different
contemplations, there was a complete silence; but Glenmurray interrupted
it by saying, 'My dear Adeline, it is your hour for walking; but, as
I am not disposed to sleep again, will you forgive me if I keep your
walking companion to myself to-day?--I wish to converse with him alone.'

'Oh! most cheerfully,' she replied with quickness: 'you know I love a
solitary ramble of all things.'

'Not very flattering that to my cousin,' observed Glenmurray.

'I did not wish to flatter him,' said Adeline gravely; and Berrendale,
fluttered at the idea of the coming conversation with Glenmurray, and
mortified by Adeline's words and manner, turned to the window to conceal
his emotion.

Adeline, then, with more than usual tenderness, conjured Glenmurray not
to talk too much, nor do anything to destroy the hopes on which her only
chance of happiness depended, viz. the now possible chance of his
recovery, and then set out for her walk; while, with a restraint and
coldness which she could not conquer, she bade Berrendale farewell for
the present.

The walk was long, and her thoughts perturbed:--'What could Glenmurray
want to say to Mr Berrendale?'--'Why did Mr Berrendale sit with his eyes
so intently and clandestinely, as it were, fixed on me?' were thoughts
perpetually recurring to her: and half impatient, and half reluctant,
she at length returned to her lodgings.

When she entered the apartment, she saw signs of great emotion in the
countenance of both the gentlemen; and in Berrendale's eyes the traces
of recent tears. The tone of Glenmurray's voice too, when he addressed
her, was even more tender than usual, and Berrendale's attentions more
marked, yet more respectful; and Adeline observed that Glenmurray was
unusually thoughtful and absent, and that the cough and other symptoms
of his complaint were more troublesome than ever.

'I see you have exerted yourself and talked too much during my absence,'
cried Adeline, 'and I will never leave you again for so long a time.'

'You never shall,' said Glenmurray. 'I must leave _you_ for so long a
time at last, that I will be blessed with the sight of you as long as I
can.'

Adeline whose hopes had been considerably revived during the last few
days, looked mournfully and reproachfully in his face as he uttered
these words.

'It is even so, my dearest girl,' continued Glenmurray, 'and I say this
to guard you against a melancholy surprise:--I wish to prepare you for
an event which to me seems unavoidable.'

'Prepare me!' exclaimed Adeline wildly. 'Can there be any preparation to
enable one to bear such a calamity? Absurd idea! However, I shall derive
consolation from the severity of the stroke: I feel that I shall not be
able to survive it.' So saying, her head fell on Glenmurray's pillow;
and for some time, her sorrow almost suspended the consciousness of
suffering.

From this state she was aroused by Glenmurray's being attacked with a
violent paroxysm of his complaint, and all selfish distress was lost in
the consciousness of his sufferings: again he struggled through, and
seemed so relieved by the effort, that again Adeline's hopes revived;
and she could scarcely return, with temper, Berrendale's 'good night,'
when Glenmurray expressed a wish to rest, because his spirits had not
risen in any proportion to hers.

The nurse had been dismissed that afternoon; and Adeline, as Savanna
was not to come home till the next morning, was to sit up alone with
Glenmurray that night; and, contrary to his usual custom, he did not
insist that she should have a companion.

For a few hours his exhausted frame was recruited by a sleep more than
usually quiet, and but for a few hours only. He then became restless,
and so wakeful and disturbed, that he professed to Adeline an utter
inability to sleep, and therefore he wished to pass the rest of the
night in serious conversation with her.

Adeline, alarmed at this intention, conjured him not to irritate his
complaint by so dangerous an exertion.

'My mind will irritate it more,' replied he, 'if I refrain from it; for
it is burthened, my Adeline, and it longs to throw off its burthen. Now,
then, ere my senses wander, hear what I wish to communicate to you, and
interrupt me as little as possible.'

Adeline, oppressed and awed beyond measure at the unusual solemnity of
his manner, made no answer; but, leaning her cheek on his hand, awaited
his communication in silence.

'I think,' said Glenmurray, 'I shall begin with telling you Berrendale's
history; it is proper that you should know all that concerns him.'

Adeline raising her head, replied hastily,--'Not to satisfy any
curiosity of mine; for I feel none, I assure you.'

'Well, then,' returned Glenmurray, sighing, 'to please me, be
it.--Berrendale is the son of my mother's sister, by a merchant of
the neighbourhood of the 'Change, who hurt the family pride so much by
marrying a tradesman, that I am the only one of the clan who has noticed
her since. He ran away, about four years ago, with the only child of a
rich West Indian from a boarding-school. The consequence was, that her
father renounced her; but, when, three years ago, she died in giving
birth to a son, the unhappy parent repented of his displeasure, and
offered to allow Berrendale, who from the bankruptcy and sudden death
of both his parents had been left destitute, an annuity of 300_l._ for
life, provided he would send the child over to Jamaica, and allow him to
have all the care of his education. To this Berrendale consented.'

'Reluctantly, I hope,' said Adeline, 'and merely out of pity for the
feelings of the childless father.'

'I hope so too,' continued Glenmurray; 'for I do not think the chance of
inheriting all his grandfather's property a sufficient reason to lead
him to give up to another, and in a foreign land too, the society and
education of his child: but, whatever were his reasons, Berrendale
acceded to the request, and the infant was sent to Jamaica; and ever
since the 300_l._ has been regularly remitted to him: besides that, he
has recovered two thousand and odd hundred pounds from the wreck of his
father's property; and with economy, and had he a good wife to manage
his affairs for him, Berrendale might live very comfortably.'

'My dear Glenmurray,' cried Adeline impatiently, 'what is this to
me? and why do you weary yourself to tell me particulars so little
interesting to me?'

Glenmurray bade her have patience, and continued thus: 'And now,
Adeline,' (here his voice evidently faltered,) 'I must open my whole
heart to you, and confess that the idea of leaving you friendless,
unprotected, and poor, your reputation injured, and your peace of mind
destroyed, is more than I am able to bear, and will give me, in my last
moments, the torments of the damned.' Here a violent burst of tears
interrupted him; and Adeline, overcome with emotion and surprise at the
sight of the agitation which his own sufferings could never occasion in
him, hung over him in speechless woe.

'Besides,' continued Glenmurray, recovering himself a little, 'I--O
Adeline!' seizing her cold hand, 'can you forgive me for having been the
means of blasting all your fair fame and prospects in life?'

'For the sake of justice, if not of mercy,' exclaimed Adeline, 'forbear
thus cruelly to accuse yourself. You know that from my own free,
unbiassed choice I gave myself to you, and in compliance with my own
principles.'

'But who taught you those principles?--who led you to a train of
reasoning, so alluring in theory, so pernicious in practice? Had not
I, with the heedless vanity of youth, given to the world the crude
conceptions of four-and-twenty, you might at this moment have been the
idol of a respectable society; and I, equally respected, have been the
husband of your heart; while happiness would perhaps have kept the fatal
disease at bay, of which anxiety has facilitated the approach.'

He was going on: but Adeline, who had till now struggled successfully
with her feelings, wound up almost to phrensy at the possibility that
anxiety had shortened Glenmurray's life, gave way to a violent paroxysm
of sorrow, which, for a while, deprived her of consciousness; and when
she recovered she found Berrendale bending over her, while her head lay
on Glenmurray's pillow.

The sight of Berrendale in a moment roused her to exertion:--his look
was so full of anxious tenderness, and she was at that moment so ill
disposed to regard it with complacency, that she eagerly declared she
was quite recovered, and begged Mr Berrendale would return to bed; and
Glenmurray seconding her request, with a deep sigh he departed.

'Poor fellow!' said Glenmurray, 'I wish you had seen his anxiety during
your illness!'

'I am glad I did _not_,' replied Adeline: 'but how can you persist in
talking to me of any other person's anxiety, when I am tortured with
yours? Your conversation of to-night has made me even more miserable
than I was before. By what strange fatality do you blame yourself for
the conduct worthy of admiration?--for giving to the world, as soon as
produced, opinions which were calculated to enlighten it?'

'But,' replied Glenmurray, 'as those opinions militated against the
experience and custom of ages, ought I not to have paused before I
published, and kept them back till they had received the sanction of my
maturer judgment?'

'And does your maturer judgment condemn them?'

'Four years cannot have added much to the maturity of my judgment,'
replied Glenmurray: 'but I will own that some of my opinions are changed;
and that, though I believe those which are unchanged are right in
theory, I think, as the mass of society could never _at once_ adopt
them, they had better remain unacted upon, than that a few lonely
individuals should expose themselves to certain distress, by making them
the rules of their conduct. You, for instance, you, my Adeline, what
misery--!' Here his voice again faltered, and emotion impeded his
utterance.

'Live--do but live,' exclaimed Adeline passionately, 'and I can know of
misery but the name.'

'But I cannot live, I cannot live,' replied Glenmurray, 'and the sooner
I die the better;--for thus to waste your youth and health in the
dreadful solitude of a sick-room is insupportable to me.'

'O Glenmurray!' replied Adeline, fondly throwing herself on his neck,
'could you but live free from any violent pain, and were neither you nor
I ever to leave this room again, believe me, I should not have a wish
beyond it. To see you, to hear you, to prove to you how much I love you,
would, indeed it would, be happiness sufficient for me!' After this burst
of true and heartfelt tenderness, there was a pause of some moments:
Glenmurray felt too much to speak, and Adeline was sobbing on his
pillow. At length she pathetically again exclaimed, 'Live! only live!
and I am blest!'

'But I _cannot_ live, I _cannot_ live,' again replied Glenmurray; 'and
when I die, what will become of you?'

'I care not,' cried Adeline: 'if I lose you, may the same grave receive
us!'

'But it _will_ not, my dearest:--grief does not kill; and, entailed as
my estate is, I have nothing to leave you: and though richly qualified
to undertake the care of children, in order to maintain yourself, your
unfortunate connexion, and singular opinions, will be an eternal bar to
your being so employed. O Adeline! these cutting fears, these dreadful
reflections, are indeed the bitterness of death: but there is one way of
alleviating my pangs.'

'Name it,' replied Adeline with quickness.

'But you must promise then to hear me with patience.--Had I been able to
live through my illness, I should have conjured you to let me endeavour
to restore you to your place in society, and consequently to your
usefulness, by making you my wife: and young, and I may add innocent and
virtuous, as you are, I doubt not but the world would at length have
received you into its favour again.'

'But you must, you will, you shall live,' interrupted Adeline, 'and I
shall be your happy wife.'

'Not _mine_' replied Glenmurray, laying an emphasis on the last word.

Adeline started, and, fixing her eyes wildly on his, demanded what he
meant.

'I mean,' replied he, 'to prevail on you to make my last moments happy,
by promising, some time hence, to give yourself a tender, a respectable,
and a legal protector.'

'O Glenmurray!' exclaimed Adeline, 'and can you insult my tenderness for
you with such a proposal? If I can even survive you, do you think that I
can bear to give you a successor in my affection? or, how can you bear
to imagine that I shall?'

'Because my love for you is without selfishness, and I wish you to be
happy even though another makes you so. The lover, or the husband, who
wishes the woman of his affection to form no second attachment, is, in
my opinion, a selfish, contemptible being. Perhaps I do not expect that
you will ever feel, for another man, an attachment like that which has
subsisted between us--the first affection of young and impassioned
hearts; but I am sure that you may again feel love enough to make
yourself and the man of your choice perfectly happy; and I hope and
trust that you will be so.'

'And forget you, I suppose?' interrupted Adeline reproachfully.

'Not so: I would have you remember me always, but with a chastized and
even a pleasing sorrow; nay, I would wish you to imagine me a sort of
guardian spirit watching your actions and enjoying your happiness.'

'I have _listened_ to you,' cried Adeline in a tone of suppressed
anguish, 'and, I trust, with tolerable patience: there is one thing yet
for me to learn--the name of the object whom you wish me to marry, for I
suppose _he_ is found.'

'He is,' returned Glenmurray, 'Berrendale loves you; and he it is whom I
wish you to choose.'

'I thought so,' exclaimed Adeline, rising and traversing the room
hastily, and wringing her hands.

'But wherefore does his name,' said Glenmurray, 'excite such angry
emotion? Perhaps self-love makes me recommend him,' continued he,
forcing a smile, 'as he is reckoned like me, and I thought that likeness
might make him more agreeable to you.'

'Only the more odious,' impatiently interrupted Adeline. 'To look like
you, and not _be_ you, Oh! insupportable idea!' she exclaimed, throwing
herself on Glenmurray's pillow, and pressing his burning temples to her
cold cheek.

'Adeline,' said Glenmurray solemnly, 'this is, perhaps, the last moment
of confidential and uninterrupted intercourse that we shall ever have
together;' Adeline started, but spoke not; 'allow me, therefore, to
tell you it is my _dying request_, that you would endeavour to dispose
your mind in favour of Berrendale, and to become in time his wife.
Circumstanced as you are, your only chance for happiness is becoming a
wife: but it is too certain that few men worthy of you, in the most
essential points, will be likely to marry you after your connexion with
me.'

'Strange prejudice!' cried Adeline, 'to consider as my disgrace, what I
deem my glory!'

Glenmurray continued thus: 'Berrendale himself has a great deal of the
old school about him, but I have convinced him that you are not to be
classed with the frail of your sex; and that you are one of the purest
as well as loveliest of human beings.'

'And did he want to be convinced of this?' cried Adeline indignantly;
'and _yet_ you advise me to marry him?'

'My dearest love,' replied Glenmurray, 'in all cases the most we can
expect is, to choose the best _possible_ means of happiness. Berrendale
is not perfect; but I am convinced that you would commit a fatal error
in not making him your husband; and when I tell you it is my _dying
request_ that you should do so--'

'If you wish me to retain my senses,' exclaimed Adeline, 'repeat that
dreadful phrase no more.'

'I will not say any more at all now,' faintly observed Glenmurray, 'for
I am exhausted:--still, as morning begins to dawn, I should like to sit
up in my bed and gaze on it, perhaps for--' Here Adeline put her hand to
his mouth: Glenmurray kissed it, sighed, and did not finish the sentence.
She then opened the shutters to let in the rising splendour of day, and,
turning round towards Glenmurray, almost shrieked with terror at seeing
the visible alteration a night had made in his appearance; while the
yellow rays of the dawn played on his sallow cheek, and his dark curls,
once crisped and glossy, hung faint and moist on his beating temples.

'It is strange, Adeline,' said Glenmurray (but with great effort),
'that, even in my situation, the sight of morning, and the revival as it
were of nature, seems to invigorate my whole frame. I long to breathe
the freshness of its breeze also.'

Adeline, conscious for the first time that all hope was over, opened the
window, and felt even her sick soul and languid frame revived by the
chill but refreshing breeze. To Glenmurray it imparted a feeling of
physical pleasure, to which he had long been a stranger: 'I breathe
freely,' he exclaimed, 'I feel alive again!'--and, strange as it may
seem, Adeline's hopes began to revive also.--'I feel as if I could sleep
now,' said Glenmurray, 'the feverish restlessness seems abated; but,
lest my dreams be disturbed, promise me, ere I lie down again, that you
will behave kindly to Berrendale.'

'Impossible! The only tie that bound me to him is broken:--I thought
he sincerely sympathized with me in my wishes for your recovery; but
now that, as he loves me, his wishes must be in direct opposition to
mine,--I cannot, indeed I cannot, endure the sight of him.'

Glenmurray could not reply to this natural observation: he knew that, in
a similar situation, his feelings would have been like Adeline's; and,
pressing her hand with all the little strength left him, he said 'Poor
Berrendale!' and tried to compose himself to sleep; while Adeline, lost
in sad contemplation, threw herself in a chair by his bed-side, and
anxiously awaited the event of his re-awaking.

But it was not long before Adeline herself, exhausted both in body and
mind, fell into a deep sleep; and it was mid-day before she awoke: for
no careless, heavy-treading, and hired nurse now watched the slumbers of
the unhappy lovers; but the mulatto, stepping light as air, and afraid
even of breathing lest she should disturb their repose, had assumed her
station at the bed-side, and taken every precaution lest any noise
should awake them. Hers was the service of the heart; and there is none
like it.

At twelve o'clock Adeline awoke; and her first glance met the dark eyes
of Savanna kindly fixed upon her. Adeline started, not immediately
recollecting who it could be; but in a moment the idea of the mulatto,
and of the service which she had rendered her, recurred to her mind, and
diffused a sensation of pleasure through her frame. 'There is a being
whom I have served,' said Adeline to herself, and, extending her hand to
Savanna, she started from her seat, invigorated by the thought: but she
felt depressed again by the consciousness that she, who had been able to
impart so much joy and help to another, was herself a wretch for ever;
and in a moment her eyes filled with tears, while the mulatto gazed on
her with a look of inquiring solicitude.

'Poor Savanna!' cried Adeline in a low and plaintive tone.

There are moments when the sound of one's own voice has a mournful
effect on one's feelings--this was one of those moments to Adeline;
the pathos of her own tone overcame her, and she burst into tears: but
Glenmurray slept on; and Adeline hoped nothing would suddenly disturb
his rest, when Berrendale opened the door with what appeared unnecessary
noise, and Glenmurray hastily awoke.

Adeline immediately started from her seat, and, looking at him with
great indignation, demanded why he came in in such a manner, when he
knew Mr Glenmurray was asleep.

Berrendale, shocked and alarmed at Adeline's words and expression, so
unlike her usual manner, stammered out an excuse. 'Another time, Sir',
replied Adeline coldly, 'I hope you will be more _careful_.'

'What is the matter?' said Glenmurray, raising himself in the bed. 'Are
you scolding, Adeline? If so, let me hear you: I like novelty.'

Here Adeline and Berrendale both hastened to him, and Adeline almost
looked with complacency on Berrendale; when Glenmurray, declaring
himself wonderfully refreshed by his long sleep, expressed a great
desire for his breakfast, and said he had a most voracious appetite.

But to all Berrendale's attentions she returned the most forbidding
reserve; nor could she for a moment lose the painful idea, that the
death of Glenmurray would be to him a source of joy, not of anguish.
Berrendale was not slow to observe this change in her conduct; and he
conceived that, as he knew Glenmurray had mentioned his pretensions
to her, his absence would be of more service to his wishes than his
presence; and he resolved to leave Richmond that afternoon,--especially
as he had a dinner engagement at a tavern in London, which, in spite of
love and friendship, he was desirous of keeping.

He was not mistaken in his ideas: the countenance of Adeline assumed
less severity when he mentioned his intention of going away, nor could
she express regret at his resolution, even though Glenmurray with
anxious earnestness requested him to stay. But Glenmurray entreated in
vain: used to consider his own interest and pleasure in preference to
that of others, Berrendale resolved to go; and resisted the prayers of a
man who had often obliged him with the greatest difficulty to himself.

'Well, then,' said Glenmurray mournfully, 'if you must go, God bless
you! I wish you, Charles, all possible earthly happiness; nay, I have
done all I can to ensure it you: but you have disappointed me. I hoped
to have joined your hand, in my last moments, to that of this dear girl,
and to have bequeathed her in the most solemn manner to your care and
tenderness; but no matter, farewell! we shall probably meet no more.'

Here Berrendale's heart failed him, and he almost resolved to stay: but
a look of angry repugnance which he saw on Adeline's countenance, even
amidst her sorrow, got the better of his kind emotions, by wounding his
self-love; and grasping Glenmurray's hand, and saying 'I shall be back
in a day or two,' he rushed out of the room.

'I am sorry Mr Berrendale is forced to go,' said Adeline involuntarily
when the street door closed after him.

'Had you condescended to tell him so, he would undoubtedly have staid,'
replied Glenmurray rather peevishly. Adeline instantly felt, and
regretted, the selfishness of her conduct. To avoid the sight of a
disagreeable object, she had given pain to Glenmurray; or, rather, she
had not done her utmost to prevent his being exposed to it.

'Forgive me,' said Adeline, bursting into tears: 'I own I thought only
of myself, when I forbore to urge his stay. Alas! with you, and you
alone, I believe, is the gratification of self always a secondary
consideration.'

'You forget that I am a philanthropist,' replied Glenmurray, 'and cannot
bear to be praised, even by you, at the expense of my fellow-creatures.
But come, hasten dinner; my breakfast agreed with me so well, that I am
impatient for another meal.'

'You certainly are better to-day,' exclaimed Adeline with unwonted
cheerfulness.

'My feelings are more tolerable, at least,' replied Glenmurray: and
Adeline and the mulatto began to prepare the dinner immediately. How
often during her attendance on Glenmurray had she recollected the words
of her grandmother, and blessed her for having taught her to be
_useful_!

As soon as dinner was over, Glenmurray complained of being drowsy: still
he declared he would not go to bed till he had seen the sun set, as he
had that day, for the second time since his illness, seen it rise; and
therefore, when it was setting, Adeline and Savanna led him into a room
adjoining, which had a western aspect. Glenmurray fixed his eyes on
the crimson horizon with a peculiar expression; and his lips seemed to
murmur, 'For the last time! Let me breathe the evening air, too, once
more,' said he.

'It is too chill, dear Glenmurray.'

'It will not hurt me,' replied Glenmurray; and Adeline complied with his
request.

'The breeze of evening is not refreshing like that of morning,' he
observed; 'but the beauty of the setting is, perhaps, superior to that
of the rising sun:--they are both glorious sights, and I have enjoyed
them both to-day, nor have I for years experienced so strong a feeling
of devotion.'

'Thank God!' cried Adeline. 'O Glenmurray! there has been one thing only
wanting to the completion of our union; and that was, that we should
worship together.'

'Perhaps, had I remained longer here,' replied Glenmurray, 'we might
have done so; for, believe me, Adeline, though my feelings have
continually hurried me into adoration of the Supreme Being, I have often
wished my homage to be as regular and as founded on immutable conviction
as it once was: but it is too late now for amendment, though, alas! not
for _regret_, _deep_ regret: yet He who reads the heart knows that my
intentions were pure, and that I was not fixed in the stubbornness of
error.'

'Let us change this discourse,' cried Adeline, seeing on Glenmurray's
countenance an expression of uncommon sadness, which he, from a regard
to her feelings, struggled to cover. He did indeed feel sadness--a
sadness of the most painful nature; and while Adeline hung over him with
all the anxious and soothing attention of unbounded love, he seemed to
shrink from her embrace with horror, and, turning away his head, feebly
murmured. 'O Adeline! this faithful kindness wounds me to the very soul.
Alas! alas! how little have I deserved it!'

If Glenmurray, who had been the means of injuring the woman he loved,
merely by following the dictates of his conscience, and a love of what
he imagined to be truth, without any view of his own benefit or the
gratification of his personal wishes, felt thus acutely the anguish of
self-upbraiding,--what ought to be, and what must be, sooner or later,
the agony and remorse of that man, who, merely for the gratification of
his own illicit desires, has seduced the woman whom he loved from the
path of virtue, and ruined for ever her reputation and her peace of
mind!

'It is too late now for you to sit at an open window, indeed it is,'
cried Adeline, after having replied to Glenmurray's self-reproaches by
the touching language of tears, and incoherent expressions of confiding
and unchanged attachment; 'and as you are evidently better to-day, do
not, by breathing too much cold air, run the risk of making yourself
worse again.'

'Would I were really better! would I could live!' passionately exclaimed
Glenmurray: 'but indeed I do feel stronger to-night than I have felt for
many months.' In a moment the fine eyes of Adeline were raised to heaven
with an expression of devout thankfulness; and, eager to make the most
of a change so favourable, she hurried Glenmurray back to his chamber,
and, with a feeling of renewed hope, sat by to watch his slumbers.
She had not sat long before the door opened, and the little tawny boy
entered. He had watched all day to see the good lady, as he called
Adeline; but, as she had not left Glenmurray's chamber except to prepare
dinner, he had been disappointed: so he was resolved to seek her in her
own apartment. He had bought some cakes with the penny which Adeline had
given him, and he was eager to give her a piece of them.

'Hush!' cried Adeline, as she held out her hand to him; and he in a
whisper crying 'Bite,' held his purchase to her lips. Adeline tasted
it, said it was very good, and, giving him a halfpenny, the tawny boy
disappeared again: the noise he made as he bounded down the stairs woke
Glenmurray. Adeline was sitting on the side of the bed; and as he turned
round to sleep again he grasped her hand in his, and its feverish touch
damped her hopes, and re-awakened her fears. For a short time she
mournfully gazed on his flushed cheek, and then, gently sliding off the
bed, and dropping on one knee, she addressed the Deity in the language
of humble supplication.

Insensibly she ceased to pray in thought only, and the lowly-murmured
prayer became audible. Again Glenmurray awoke, and Adeline reproached
herself as the cause.

'My rest was uneasy,' cried he, 'and I rejoice that you woke me:
besides, I like to hear you--Go on, my dearest girl; there is a
something in the breathings of your pious fondness that soothes me,'
added he, pressing the hand he held to his parched lips.

Adeline obeyed: and as she continued, she felt ever and anon, by the
pressure of Glenmurray's hand, how much he was affected by what she
uttered.

'But must he be taken from me!' she exclaimed in one part of her prayer.
'Father, if it be possible, permit this cup to pass by me untasted.'
Here she felt the hand of Glenmurray grasp hers most vehemently; and,
delighted to think that he had pleasure in hearing her, she went on to
breathe forth all the wishes of a trembling yet confiding spirit, till
overcome with her own emotions she ceased and arose, and leaning over
Glenmurray's pillow was going to take his hand:--but the hand which she
pressed returned not her pressure; the eyes were fixed whose approving
glance she sought; and the horrid truth rushed at once on her mind, that
the last convulsive grasp had been an eternal farewell, and that he had
in that grasp expired.

Alas! what preparation however long, what anticipation however sure, can
enable the mind to bear a shock like this! It came on Adeline like a
thunder-stroke: she screamed not; she moved not; but, fixing a dim and
glassy eye on the pale countenance of her lover, she seemed as insensible
as poor Glenmurray himself; and hours might have elapsed--hours
immediately fatal both to her senses and existence--ere any one had
entered the room, since she had given orders to be disturbed by no one,
had not the tawny boy, encouraged by his past success, stolen in again,
unperceived, to give her a piece of the apple which he had bought with
her last bounty.

The delighted boy tripped gaily to the bed-side, holding up his
treasure; but he started back, and screamed in all the agony of terror,
at the sight which he beheld--the face of Glenmurray ghastly, and the
mouth distorted as if in the last agony, and Adeline in the stupor of
despair.

The affectionate boy's repeated screams soon summoned the whole family
into the room, while he, vainly hanging on Adeline's arm, begged her
to speak to him. But nothing could at first rouse Adeline, not even
Savanna's loud and extravagant grief. When, however, they tried to force
her from the body, she recovered her recollection and her strength; and
it was with great difficulty she could be carried out of the room, and
kept out when they had accomplished their purpose.

But Savanna was sure that looking at such a sad sight would kill her
mistress; for she should die herself if she saw William dead, she
declared; and the people of the house agreed with her. They knew not
that grief is the best medicine for itself; and that the overcharged
heart is often relieved by the sight which standers-by conceive likely
to snap the very threads of existence.

As Adeline and Glenmurray had both of them excited some interest in
Richmond, the news of the death of the latter was immediately abroad;
and it was told to Mrs Pemberton, with a pathetic account of Adeline's
distress, just as the carriage was preparing to convey her and her sick
friend on their way to Lisbon. It was a relation to call forth all the
humanity of Mrs Pemberton's nature. She forgot Adeline's crime in her
distress; and knowing she had no female friend with her, she hastened on
the errand of pity to the abode of vice. Alas! Mrs Pemberton had learnt
but too well to sympathize in grief like that of Adeline. She had seen
a beloved husband expire in her arms, and had afterwards followed two
children to the grave. But she had taken refuge from sorrow in the
active duties of her religion, and was enabled to become a teacher of
those truths to others, by which she had so much benefited herself.

Mrs Pemberton entered the room just as Adeline, on her knees, was
conjuring the persons with her to allow her to see Glenmurray once more.

Adeline did not at all observe the entrance of Mrs Pemberton, who, in
spite of the self-command which her principles and habits gave her, was
visibly affected when she beheld the mourner's tearless affliction: and
the hands which, on her entrance, were quietly crossed on each other,
confining the modest folds of her simple cloak, were suddenly and
involuntarily separated by the irresistible impulse of pity; while,
catching hold of the wall for support, she leaned against it, covering
her face with her hands. 'Let me see him! only let me see him once
more!' cried Adeline, gazing on Mrs Pemberton, but unconscious who she
was.

'Thou shalt see him,' replied Mrs Pemberton with considerable effort;
'give me thy hand, and I will go with thee to the chamber of death.'
Adeline gave a scream of mournful joy at this permission, and suffered
herself to be led into Glenmurray's apartment. As soon as she entered it
she sprang to the bed, and, throwing herself beside the corpse, began to
contemplate it with an earnestness and firmness which surprised every
one. Mrs Pemberton also fixedly gazed on the wan face of Glenmurray:
'And art thou fallen!' she exclaimed, 'thou, wise in thine own conceit,
who presumedst, perhaps, sometimes to question even the existence of the
Most High, and to set up thy vain chimeras of yesterday against the
wisdom and experience of centuries? Child of the dust! child of error!
what art thou now, and whither is thy guilty spirit fled? But balmy is
the hand of affliction; and she, thy mourning victim, may learn to bless
the hand that chastizes her, nor add to the offences which will weigh
down thy soul, a dread responsibility for hers!'

Here she was interrupted by the voice of Adeline; who, in a deep and
hollow tone, was addressing the unconscious corpse. 'For God's sake,
speak! for this silence is dreadful--it looks so like death.'

'Poor thing!' said Mrs Pemberton, kneeling beside her, 'and is it even
thus with thee? Would thou couldst shed tears, afflicted one!'

'It is very strange,' continued Adeline: 'he loved me so tenderly, and
he used to speak and look so tenderly, and now, see how he neglects me!
Glenmurray, my love! for mercy's sake, speak to me!' As she said this,
she laid her lips to his: but, feeling on them the icy coldness of
death, she started back, screaming in all the violence of phrensy; and,
recovered to the full consciousness of her misfortune, she was carried
back to her room in violent convulsions.

'Would I could stay and watch over thee!' said Mrs Pemberton, as she
gazed on Adeline's distorted countenance; 'for thou, young as thou art,
wert well known in the chambers of sorrow and of sickness; and I should
rejoice to pay back to thee part of the debt of those whom thy presence
so often soothed: but I must leave thee to the care of others.'

'You leave her to my care,' cried Savanna reproachfully,--who felt even
her violent sorrow suspended while Mrs Pemberton spoke in accents at
once sad yet soothing,--'you leave her to my care, and who watch, who
love her more than me?'

'Good Savanna!' replied Mrs Pemberton, pressing the mulatto's hand as
she returned to her station beside Adeline, who was fallen into a calm
slumber, 'to thy care, with confidence, I commit her. But perhaps there
may be an immediate necessity for money, and I had better leave this
with thee,' she added, taking out her purse: but Savanna assured her
that Mr Berrendale was sent for, and to him all those concerns were to
be left. Mrs Pemberton stood for a few moments looking at Adeline in
silence, then slowly left the house.

When Adeline awoke, she seemed so calm and resigned, that her earnest
request of being allowed to pass the night alone was granted, especially
as Mrs Pemberton had desired that her wish, even to see Glenmurray
again, should be complied with: but the faithful mulatto watched till
morning at the door. No bed that night received the weary limbs of
Adeline. She threw herself on the ground, and in alternate prayer and
phrensy passed the first night of her woe: towards morning, however, she
fell into a perturbed sleep. But when the light of day darting into the
room awakened her to consciousness; and when she recollected that he
to whom it usually summoned her existed no longer; that the eyes which
but the preceding morning had opened with enthusiastic ardour to hail
its beams, were now for ever closed; and that the voice which used
to welcome her so tenderly, she should never, never hear again; the
forlornness of her situation, the hopelessness of her sorrow burst upon
her with a violence too powerful for her reason: and when Berrendale
arrived, he found Glenmurray in his shroud, and Adeline in a state
of insanity. For six months her phrensy resisted all the efforts of
medicine, and the united care which Berrendale's love and Savanna's
grateful attachment could bestow; while with Adeline's want of their
care seemed to increase their desire of bestowing it, and their
affection gathered new strength from the duration of her helpless
malady. So true is it, that we become attached more from the aid which
we give than that which we receive; and that the love of the obliger
is more apt to increase than that of the obliged by the obligation
conferred. At length, however, Adeline's reason slowly yet surely
returned; and she, by degrees, learnt to contemplate with firmness,
and even calmness, the loss which she had sustained. She even looked
on Berrendale and his attentions not with anger, but gratitude and
complacency; she had even pleasure in observing the likeness he bore
Glenmurray; she felt that it endeared him to her. In the first paroxysms
of her phrensy, the sight of him threw her into fits of ravings; but
as she grew better she had pleasure in seeing him: and when, on her
recovery, she heard how much she was indebted to his persevering
tenderness, she felt for him a decided regard, which Berrendale tried
to flatter himself might be ripened into love.

But he was mistaken; the heart of Adeline was formed to feel violent
and lasting attachments only. She had always loved her mother with a
tenderness of a most uncommon nature; she had felt for Glenmurray the
fondest enthusiasm of passion: she was now separated from them both.
But her mother still lived: and though almost hopeless of ever being
restored to her society, all her love for her returned; and she pined
for that consoling fondness, those soothing attentions, which, in a time
of such affliction, a mother on a widowed daughter can alone bestow.

'Yet, surely,' cried she in the solitude of her own room, 'her oath
cannot now forbid her to forgive me; for, am I not as WRETCHED IN LOVE,
nay more, far more so, than _she_ has been? Yes--yes; I will write to
her: besides HE wished me to do so' (meaning Glenmurray, whom she never
named); and she did write to her, according to the address which Dr
Norberry sent soon after he returned to his own house. Still week after
week elapsed, and month after month, but no answer came.

Again she wrote, and again she was disappointed; though her loss, her
illness in consequence of it, her pecuniary distress, and the large debt
which she had incurred to Berrendale, were all detailed in a manner
calculated to move the most obdurate heart. What then could Adeline
suppose? Perhaps her mother was ill; perhaps she was dead: and her
reason was again on the point of yielding to this horrible supposition,
when she received her two letters in a cover, directed in her mother's
hand-writing.

At first she was overwhelmed by this dreadful proof of the continuance
of Mrs Mowbray's deep resentment; but, ever sanguine, the circumstance
of Mrs Mowbray's having written the address herself appeared to Adeline
a favourable symptom; and with renewed hope she wrote to Dr Norberry
to become her mediator once more: but to this letter no answer was
returned; and Adeline concluded her only friend had died of the fever
which Mrs Norberry had mentioned in her letter.

'Then I have lost my only friend!' cried Adeline, wringing her hands
in agony, as this idea recurred to her. 'Your only friend?' repeated
Berrendale, who happened to be present, 'O Adeline!'

Her heart smote her as he said this. 'My oldest friend I should have
said,' she replied, holding out her hand to him; and Berrendale thought
himself happy.

But Adeline was far from meaning to give the encouragement which this
action seemed to bestow: wholly occupied by her affliction, her mind
had lost its energy, and she would not have made an effort to dissipate
her grief by employment and exertion, had not that virtuous pride and
delicacy, which in happier hours had been the ornament of her character,
rebelled against the consciousness of owing pecuniary obligations to the
lover whose suit she was determined to reject, and urged her to make
some vigorous attempt to maintain herself.

Many were the schemes which occurred to her; but none seemed so
practicable as that of keeping a day-school in some village near the
metropolis.--True, Glenmurray had said, that her having been his
mistress would prevent her obtaining scholars; but his fears, perhaps,
were stronger than his justice in this case. These fears, however, she
found existed in Berrendale's mind also, though he ventured only to hint
them with great caution.

'You think, then, no prudent parents, if my story should be known to
them, would send their children to me?' said Adeline to Berrendale.

'I fear--I--that is to say, I am sure they would not.'

'Under such circumstances,' said Adeline, 'you yourself would not send a
child to my school?'

'Why--really--I--as the world goes,' replied Berrendale.

'I am answered,' said Adeline with a look and tone of displeasure; and
retired to her chamber, intending not to return till Berrendale was
gone to his own lodging. But her heart soon reproached her with unjust
resentment; and, coming back, she apologized to Berrendale for being
angry at his laudable resolution of acting according to those principles
which he thought most virtuous, especially as she claimed for herself a
similar right.

Berrendale, gratified by her apology, replied, 'that he saw no objection
to her plan, if she chose to deny him the happiness of sharing his
income with her, provided she would settle in a village where she was
not likely to be known, and change her name.'

'Change my name! Never. Concealment of any kind almost always implies
the consciousness of guilt; and while my heart does not condemn me, my
conduct shall not seem to accuse me. I will go to whatever place you
shall recommend; but I beg your other request may be mentioned no
more.'

Berrendale, glad to be forgiven on any terms, promised to comply with
her wishes; and he having recommended to her to settle at a village some
few miles north of London, Adeline hired there a small but commodious
lodging, and issued immediately cards of advertisement, stating what she
meant to teach, and on what terms; while Berrendale took lodgings within
a mile of her, and the faithful mulatto attended her as a servant of
all-work.

Fortunately, at this time, a lady at Richmond, who had a son the age
of the tawny boy, became so attached to him, that she was desirous of
bringing him up to be the play-fellow and future attendant on her son;
and the mulatto, pleased to have him so well disposed of, resisted the
poor little boy's tears and reluctance at the idea of being separated
from her and Adeline: and before she left Richmond she had the
satisfaction of seeing him comfortably settled in the house of his
patroness.

Adeline succeeded in her undertaking even beyond her utmost wishes.
Though unknown and unrecommended, there was in her countenance and
manner a something so engaging, so strongly inviting confidence, and
so decisively bespeaking the gentlewoman, that she soon excited in the
village general respect and attention: and no sooner were scholars
entrusted to her care, than she became the idol of her pupils; and their
improvement was rapid in proportion to the love which they bore her.

This fortunate circumstance proved a balm to the wounded mind
of Adeline. She felt that she had recovered her usefulness--that
desideratum in morals; and life, spite of her misfortunes, acquired a
charm in her eyes. True it was, that she was restored to her capability
of being useful, by being where she was unknown; and because the
mulatto, unknown to her, had described her as reduced to earn her
living, on account of the death of the man to whom she was about to be
married: but she did not revert to the reasons of her being so generally
esteemed; she contented herself with the consciousness of being so; and
for some months she was tranquil, though not happy. But her tranquillity
was destined to be of short duration.




CHAPTER XVIII


The village in which Adeline resided happened to be the native place
of Mary Warner, the servant whom she had been forced to dismiss at
Richmond; and who having gone from Mrs Pemberton to another situation,
which she had also quitted, came to visit her friends.

The wish of saying lessening things of those of whom one hears extravagant
commendations, is, I fear, common to almost every one, even where the
object praised comes in no competition with oneself:--and when Mary
Warner heard from every quarter of the grace and elegance, affability
and active benevolence of the new comer, it was no doubt infinitely
gratifying to her to be able to exclaim,--'Mowbray! did you say her name
is? La! I dares to say it is my old mistress, who was kept by one Mr
Glenmurray!' But so greatly were her auditors prepossessed in favour of
Adeline, that very few of them could be prevailed upon to believe Mary's
supposition was just; and so much was she piqued at the disbelief which
she met with, that she declared she would go to church the next Sunday
to shame the hussey, and go up and speak to her in the church-yard
before all the people.

'Ah! do so, if you ever saw our Miss Mowbray before,' was the answer:
and Mary eagerly looked forward to the approaching Sunday. Meanwhile,
as we are all of us but too apt to repeat stories to the prejudice of
others, even though we do not believe them, this strange assertion of
Mary was circulated through the village even by Adeline's admirers; and
the next Sunday was expected by the unconscious Adeline alone with no
unusual eagerness.

Sunday came; and Adeline, as she was wont to do, attended the service:
but from the situation of her pew, she could neither see Mary nor be
seen by her till church was over. Adeline then, as usual, was walking
down the broad walk of the church-yard, surrounded by the parents of the
children who came to her school, and receiving from them the customary
marks of respect, when Mary, bustling through the crowd, accosted her
with:--'So!--your sarvant, Miss Mowbray, I am glad to see you here in
such a respectable situation.'

Adeline, though in the gaily-dressed lady who accosted her she had some
difficulty in recognizing her quondam servant, recollected the pert
shrill voice and insolent manner of Mary immediately; and involuntarily
starting when she addressed her, from painful associations and fear of
impending evil, she replied, 'How are you, Mary?' in a faltering tone.

'Then it is Mary's Miss Mowbray,' whispered Mary's auditors of the
day before to each other; while Mary, proud of her success, looked
triumphantly at them, and was resolved to pursue the advantage which
she had gained.

'So you have lost Mr Glenmurray, I find!' continued Mary.

Adeline spoke not, but walked hastily on:--but Mary kept pace with her,
speaking as loud as she could.

'And did the little one live, pray?'

Still Adeline spoke not.

'What sort of a getting-up had you, Miss Mowbray?'

At this mischievously-intended question Adeline's other sensations were
lost in strong indignation; and resuming all the modest but collected
dignity of her manner, she turned round, and fixing her eyes steadily on
the insulting girl, exclaimed aloud, 'Woman, I never injured you either
in thought, word, or deed:--Whence comes it, then, that you endeavour to
make the finger of scorn point at me, and make me shrink with shame and
confusion from the eye of observation?'

'Woman! indeed!' replied Mary--but she was not allowed to proceed; for a
gentleman hastily stepped forward, crying, 'It is impossible for us to
suffer such insults to be offered to Miss Mowbray:--I desire, therefore,
that you will take your daughter away (turning to Mary's father); and,
if possible, teach her better manners.' Having said this, he overtook
the agitated Adeline; and offering her his arm, saw her home to her
lodgings: while those who had heard with surprise and suspicion the
strange and impertinent questions and insolent tone of Mary, resumed
in a degree their confidence in Adeline, and turned a disgusted and
deaf ear to the hysterical vehemence with which the half-sobbing
Mary defended herself, and vilified Adeline, as her father and
brother-in-law, almost by force, led her out of the church-yard.

The gentleman who had so kindly stepped forward to the assistance of
Adeline was Mr Beauclerc, the surgeon of the village, a man of
considerable abilities and liberal principles; and when he bade Adeline
farewell, he said, 'My wife will do herself the pleasure of calling on
you this evening:' then, kindly pressing her hand, he with a respectful
bow took his leave.

Luckily for Adeline, Berrendale was detained in town that day; and she
was spared the mortification of showing herself to him, writhing as
she was under the agonies of public shame, for such it seemed to her.
Convinced as she was of the light in which she must have appeared
to the persons around her from the malicious interrogatories of
Mary;--convinced too, as she was more than beginning to be, of the
fallacy of the reasoning which had led her to deserve, and even to
glory in, the situation which she now blushed to hear disclosed;--and
conscious as she was, that to remain in the village, and expect to
retain her school, was now impossible--she gave herself up to a burst of
sorrow and despondence; during which her only consolation was, that it
was not witnessed by Berrendale.

It never for a moment entered into the ingenuous mind of Adeline, that
her declaration would have more weight than that of Mary Warner; and
that she might, with almost a certainty of being believed, deny her
charge entirely: on the contrary, she had no doubt but that Mrs
Beauclerc was coming to inquire into the grounds for Mary's gross
address; and she was resolved to confess to her all the circumstances
of her story.

After church in the afternoon Mrs Beauclerc arrived, and Adeline
observed, with pleasure, that her manner was even kinder than usual; it
was such as to ensure the innocent of the most strenuous support, and to
invite the guilty to confidence and penitence.

'Never, my dear Miss Mowbray,' said Mrs Beauclerc, 'did I call on you
with more readiness than now; as I come assured that you will give me
not only the most ample authority to contradict, but the fullest means
to confute, the vile calumnies which that malicious girl, Mary Warner,
has, ever since she entered the village, been propagating against you:
but, indeed, she is so little respected in her rank of life, and you so
highly in yours, that your mere denial of the truth of her statement
will, to every candid mind, be sufficient to clear your character.'

Adeline never before was so strongly tempted to violate the truth;
and there was a friendly earnestness in Mrs Beauclerc's manner, which
proved that it would be almost cruel to destroy the opinion which she
entertained of her virtue. For a moment Adeline felt disposed to yield
to the temptation, but it was only for a moment,--and in a hurried and
broken voice she replied, 'Mary Warner has asserted of me nothing but--'
Here her voice faltered.

'Nothing but falsehoods, no doubt, interrupted Mrs Beauclerc
triumphantly,--'I thought so.'

'Nothing but the TRUTH!' resumed Adeline.

'Impossible!' cried Mrs Beauclerc, dropping the cold hand which she
held: and Adeline, covering her face, and throwing herself back in the
chair, sobbed aloud.

Mrs Beauclerc was herself for some time unable to speak; but at length
she faintly said--'So sensible, so pious, so well-informed, and so
pure-minded as you seem!--to what strange arts, what wicked seductions,
did you fall a victim?'

'To no arts--to no seductions'--replied Adeline, recovering all her
energy at this insinuation against Glenmurray. 'My fall from virtue as
you would call it, was, I may say, from love of what I thought virtue;
and if there be any blame, it attaches merely to my confidence in my
lover's wisdom and my own too obstinate self-conceit. But you, dear
madam, deserve to hear my whole story; and, if you can favour me with an
hour's attention, I hope, at least, to convince you that I was worthy of
a better fate than to be publicly disgraced by a malicious and ignorant
girl.'

Mrs Beauclerc promised the most patient attention; and Adeline related
the eventful history of her life, slightly dwelling on those parts of it
which in any degree reflected on her mother, and extolling most highly
her sense, her accomplishments, and her maternal tenderness. When she
came to the period of Glenmurray's illness and death, she broke abruptly
off and rushed into her own chamber; and it was some minutes before she
could return to Mrs Beauclerc, or before her visitor could wish her to
return, as she was herself agitated and affected by the relation which
she had heard:--and when Adeline came in she threw her arms round her
neck, and pressed her to her heart with a feeling of affection that
spoke consolation to the wounded spirit of the mourner.

She then resumed her narration;--and, having concluded it, Mrs
Beauclerc, seizing her hand, exclaimed, 'For God's sake, marry Mr
Berrendale immediately; and adjure for ever, at the foot of the altar,
those errors in opinion to which all your misery has been owing!'

'Would I could atone for them some other way!' she replied.

'Impossible! and if you have any regard for me you will become the wife
of your generous lover; for then, and not till then, can I venture to
associate with you.'

'I thought so,' cried Adeline; 'I thought all idea of remaining here,
with any chance of keeping my scholars, was now impossible.'

'It would not be so,' replied Mrs Beauclerc, 'if every one thought like
me: I should consider your example as a warning to all young people; and
to preserve my children from evil I should only wish them to hear your
story, as it inculcates most powerfully how vain are personal graces,
talents, sweetness of temper, and even active benevolence, to ensure
respectability and confer happiness, without a strict regard to the
long-established rules for conduct, and a continuance in those paths of
virtue and decorum which the wisdom of ages has pointed out to the steps
of every one.--But others will, no doubt, consider, that continuing to
patronize you, would be patronizing vice; and my rank in life is not
high enough to enable me to countenance you with any chance of leading
others to follow my example; while I should not be able to serve you,
but should infallibly lose myself. But some time hence, as the wife of
Mr Berrendale, I might receive you as your merits deserve: till then--'
Here Mrs Beauclerc paused, and she hesitated to add, 'we meet no more.'

Indeed it was long before the parting took place. Mrs Beauclerc had
justly appreciated the merits of Adeline, and thought she had found in
her a friend and companion for years to come: besides, her children were
most fondly attached to her; and Mrs Beauclerc, while she contemplated
their daily improvement under her care, felt grateful to Adeline for the
unfolding excellencies of her daughters. Still, to part with her was
unavoidable; but the pang of separation was in a degree soothed to
Adeline by the certainty which Mrs Beauclerc's sorrow gave her, that,
spite of her errors, she had inspired a real friendship in the bosom of
a truly virtuous and respectable woman; and this idea gave a sensation
of joy to her heart to which it had long been a stranger.

The next morning some of the parents, whom Mary's tale had not yet
reached, sent their children as usual. But Adeline refused to enter upon
any school duties, bidding them affectionately farewell, and telling
them that she was going to write to their parents, as she was obliged
to leave her present situation, and, declining keeping school, meant to
reside, she believed in London.

The children on hearing this looked at each other with almost tearful
consternation; and Adeline observed, with pleasure, the interest which
she had made to herself in their young hearts. After they were gone she
sent a circular letter to her friends in the village, importing that
she was under the necessity of leaving her present residence; but that,
whatever her future situation might be, she should always remember, with
gratitude, the favours which she had received at ----.

The necessity that drove her away was, by this time, very well
understood by every one; but Mrs Beauclerc took care to tell those who
mentioned the subject to her, the heads of Adeline's story; and to add
always, 'and I have reason to believe that, as soon as she is settled in
town, she will be extremely well married.'

To the mulatto the change in Adeline's plans was particularly pleasing,
as it would bring her nearer her son, and nearer William, from whom
nothing but a sense of grateful duty to Adeline would so long have
divided her. But Savanna imagined that Adeline's removal was owing to
her having at last determined to marry Mr Berrendale; an event which
she, for Adeline's sake, earnestly wished to take place, though for her
own she was undecided whether to desire it or not, as Mr Berrendale
might not, perhaps, be as contented with her services as Adeline was.

While these thoughts were passing in Savanna's mind, and her warm and
varying feelings were expressed by alternate smiles and tears, Mr
Berrendale arrived from town: and as Savanna opened the door to him,
she, half whimpering, half smiling, dropped him a very respectful
curtsey, and looked at him with eyes full of unusual significance.

'Well, Savanna, what has happened?--Anything new or extraordinary since
my absence?' said Berrendale.

'Me tink not of wat hav appen, but what will happen,' replied Savanna.

'And what is going to happen?' returned Berrendale, seating himself in
the parlour, 'and where is your mistress?'

'She dress herself, that dear misses,' replied Savanna, lingering with
the door in her hand, 'and I,--ope to have a dear massa too.'

'What!' cried Berrendale, starting wildly from his seat, 'what did you
say?'

'Why me ope my misses be married soon.'

'Married! to whom?' cried Berrendale, seizing her hand, and almost
breathless with alarm.

'Why, to you, sure,' exclaimed Savanna, 'and den me hope you will not
turn away poor Savanna?'

'What reason you have, my dear Savanna, for talking thus, I cannot tell;
nor dare I give way to the sweet hopes which you excite: but, if it be
true that I may hope, depend on it you shall cook my wedding dinner, and
then I am sure it will be a good one.'

'Can full joy eat?' asked the mulatto thoughtfully.

'A good dinner is a good thing, Savanna,' replied Berrendale, 'and ought
never to be slighted.'

'Me good dinner day I marry, but I not eat it.--O sir, pity people look
best in dere wedding clothes, but my William look well all day and every
day, and perhaps you will too, sir; and den I ope to cook your wedding
dinner, next day dinner, and all your dinners.'

'And so you shall, Savanna,' cried Berrendale, grasping her hand, 'and
I--' Here the door opened, and Adeline appeared; who, surprised at
Berrendale's familiarity with her servant, looked gravely, and stopped
at the door with a look of cold surprise. Berrendale, awed into
immediate respect--for what is so timid and respectful as a man truly
in love?--bowed low, and lost in an instant all the hopes which had
elevated his spirits to such an unusual degree.

Adeline with an air of pique observed, that she feared she interrupted
them unpleasantly, as something unusually agreeable and enlivening
seemed to occupy them as she came in, over which her entrance seemed to
have cast a cloud.

The mulatto had by this time retreated to the door, and was on the point
of closing it when Berrendale stammered out, as well as he could,
'Savanna was, indeed, raising my hopes to such an unexpected height,
that I felt almost bewildered with joy; but the coldness of your manner,
Miss Mowbray, has sobered me again.'

'And what did Savanna say to you?' cried Adeline.

'I--I say,' cried Savanna returning, 'dat is, he say, I should be let
cook de wedding dinner.'

Adeline, returning even paler than she was before, desired her coldly to
leave the room; and, seating herself at the greatest possible distance
from Berrendale, leaned for some time in silence on her hand--he not
daring to interrupt her meditations. But at last she said, 'What could
give rise to this singular conversation between you and Savanna I am
wholly at a loss to imagine: still I--I must own that it is not so
ill-timed as it would have been some weeks ago. I will own, that since
yesterday I have been considering your generous proposals with the
serious attention which they deserve.'

On hearing this, which Adeline uttered with considerable effort,
Berrendale in a moment was at her side, and almost at her feet.

'I--I wish you to return to your seat,' said Adeline coldly: but hope
had emboldened him, and he chose to stay where he was.

'But, before I require you to renew your promises, or make any on my
side, it is proper that I should tell you what passed yesterday; and if
the additional load of obloquy which I have acquired does not frighten
you from continuing your addresses--' Here Adeline paused:--and
Berrendale, rather drawing back, then pushing his chair nearer her as
he spoke, gravely answered, that his affection was proof against all
trials.

Adeline then briefly related the scene in the church-yard, and her
conversation with Mrs Beauclerc, and concluded thus:--'In consequence of
this, and of the recollections of HIS advice, and HIS decided opinion,
that by becoming the wife of a respectable man I could alone expect to
recover my rank in society, and consequently my usefulness, I offer you
my hand; and promise, in the course of a few months, to become yours in
the sight of God and man.'

'And from no other reason?--from no preference, no regard for me?'
demanded Berrendale reproachfully.

'Oh! pardon me; from decided preference; there is not another being in
the creation whom I could bear to call husband.'

Berrendale, gratified and surprised, attempted to take her hand; but,
withdrawing it, she continued thus;--'Still I almost scruple to let
you, unblasted as your prospects are, take a wife a beggar, blasted in
reputation, broken in spirits, with a heart whose best affections lie
buried in the grave, and which can offer you in return for your faithful
tenderness nothing but cold respect and esteem; one too who is not only
despicable to others, but also self-condemned.'

While Adeline said this, Berrendale, almost shuddering at the picture
which she drew, paced the room in great agitation; and even the
gratification of his passion, used as he was to the indulgence of every
wish, seemed, for a moment, a motive not sufficiently powerful to enable
him to unite his fate to that of a woman so degraded as Adeline appeared
to be; and he would, perhaps, have hesitated to accept the hand she
offered, had she not added, as a contrast to the picture which she had
drawn--'But if, in spite of all these unwelcome considerations, you
persist in your resolution of making me yours, and I have resolution
enough to conquer the repugnance that I feel to make a second connexion,
you may depend on possessing in me one who will study your happiness
and wishes in the minutest particulars;--one who will cherish you in
sickness and in sorrow;--' (here a twinge of the gout assisted Adeline's
appeal very powerfully;) 'and who, conscious of the generosity of your
attachment, and her own unworthiness, will strive, by every possible
effort, not to remain your debtor even in affection.'

Saying this, she put out her hand to Berrendale; and that hand, and
the arm belonging to it, were so beautiful, and he had so often envied
Glenmurray while he saw them tenderly supporting his head, that while a
vision of approaching gout, and Adeline bending over his restless couch,
floated before him, all his prudent considerations vanished; and,
eagerly pressing the proffered hand to his lips, he thanked her most
ardently for her kind promise; and, putting his arm round her waist,
would have pressed her to his bosom.

But the familiarity was ill-timed;--Adeline was already surprised, and
even shocked, at the lengths to which she had gone; and starting almost
with loathing from his embrace, she told him it grew late, and it was
time for him to go to his lodgings. She then retired to her own room,
and spent half the night at least in weeping over the remembrance of
Glenmurray, and in loudly apostrophizing his departed spirit.

The next day Adeline, out of the money which she had earned, discharged
her lodgings; and having written a farewell note to Mrs Beauclerc,
begging to hear of her now and then, she and the mulatto proceeded to
town, with Berrendale, in search of apartments; and having procured
them, Adeline began to consider by what means, till she could resolve to
marry Berrendale, she should help to maintain herself, and also contrive
to increase their income if she became his wife.

The success which she had met with in instructing children, led her
to believe that she might succeed in writing little hymns and tales
for their benefit; a method of getting money which she looked upon to
be more rapid and more lucrative than working plain or fancy works:
and, in a short time, a little volume was ready to be offered to a
bookseller:--nor was it offered in vain. Glenmurray's bookseller
accepted it; and the sum which he gave, though trifling, imparted a
balsam to the wounded mind of Adeline: it seemed to open to her the path
of independence; and to give her, in spite of her past errors, the means
of serving her fellow-creatures.

But month after month elapsed, and Glenmurray had been dead two years,
yet still Adeline could not prevail on herself to fix a time for her
marriage.

But next to the aversion she felt to marrying at all, was that which
she experienced at the idea of having no fortune to bestow on the
disinterested Berrendale; and so desirous was she of his acquiring
some little property by his union with her, that she resolved to ask
counsel's opinion on the possibility of her claiming a sum of money
which Glenmurray had bequeathed to her, but without, as Berrendale had
assured her, the customary formalities.

The money was near L300; but Berrendale had allowed it to go to
Glenmurray's legal heir, because he was sure that the writing which
bequeathed it would not hold good in law. Still Adeline was so unwilling
to be under so many pecuniary obligations to a man whom she did not
love, that she resolved to take advice on the subject, much against the
will of Berrendale, who thought the money for fees might as well be
saved; but as a chance for saving the fee he resolved to let Adeline go
to the lawyer's chambers alone, thinking it likely that no fee would be
accepted from so fine a woman. Accordingly, more alive to economy than
to delicacy or decorum, Berrendale, when Adeline, desiring a coach to be
called, summoned him to accompany her to the Temple, pleaded terror of
an impending fit of the gout, and begged her to excuse his attendance;
and Adeline, unsuspicious of the real cause of his refusal, kindly
expressing her sorrow for the one he feigned, took the counsellor's
address, and got into the coach, Berrendale taking care to tell her, as
she got in, that the fare was but a shilling.

The gentleman, Mr Langley, to whom Adeline was going, was celebrated for
his abilities as a chamber counsellor, and no less remarkable for his
gallantries: but Berrendale was not acquainted with this part of his
history: else he would not, even to save a lawyer's fee, have exposed
his intended wife to a situation of such extreme impropriety; and
Adeline was too much a stranger to the rules of general society, to feel
any great repugnance to go alone on an errand so interesting to her
feelings.

The coach having stopped near the entrance of the court to which she was
directed, Adeline, resolving to walk home, discharged the coach, and
knocked at the door of Mr Langley's chambers. A very smart servant out
of livery answered the knock; and Mr Langley being at home, Adeline was
introduced into his apartment.

Mr Langley, though surprised at seeing a lady of a deportment so
correct and of so dignified an appearance enter his room unattended, was
inspired with so much respect at the sight of Adeline, whose mourning
habit added to the interest which her countenance never failed to
excite, that he received her with bows down to the ground, and, leading
her to a chair, begged she would do him the honour to be seated, and
impart her commands.

Adeline, embarrassed, she scarcely knew why, at the novelty of her
situation, drew the paper from her pocket, and presented it to him.

'Mr Berrendale recommended me to you, sir,' said Adeline faintly.

'Berrendale, Berrendale, O, aye,--I remember--the cousin of Mr
Glenmurray: you know Mr Glenmurray too, ma'am, I presume; pray how
is he?'--Adeline, unprepared for this question, could not speak; and
the voluble counsellor went on--'Oh!--I ask your pardon, madam, I
see;--pray, might I presume so far, how long has that extraordinary
clever man been lost to the world?'

'More than two years, sir,' replied Adeline faintly.

'You are,--may I presume so far,--you are his widow?'--Adeline bowed.
There was a something in Mr Langley's manner and look so like Sir
Patrick's, that she could not bear to let him know she was only
Glenmurray's companion.

'Gone more than two years, and you still in deep mourning!--Amiable
susceptibility!--How unlike the wives of the present day! But I beg
pardon.--Now to business.' So saying, he perused the paper which Adeline
had given him, in which Glenmurray simply stated, that he bequeathed to
Adeline Mowbray the sum of L260 in the 5 per cents, but it was signed by
only one witness.

'What do you wish to know, Madam?' asked the counsellor.

'Whether this will be valid, as it is not signed by two witnesses, sir?'

'Why,--really not,' replied Langley; 'though the heir-at-law, if we have
either equity or gallantry, could certainly not refuse to fulfil what
evidently was the intention of the testator:--but then, it is very
surprising to me that Mr Glenmurray should have wished to leave any
thing from the lady whom I have the honour to behold. Pray, madam,--if
I may presume to ask,--Who is Adeline Mowbray?'

'I--I am Adeline Mowbray,' replied Adeline in great confusion.

'You, madam! Bless me, I presumed;--and pray, madam,--if I may make so
bold,--what was your relationship to that wonderfully clever man?--his
niece,--his cousin,--or,--?'

'I was no relation of his,' said Adeline still more confused; and this
confusion confirmed the suspicions which Langley entertained, and also
brought to his recollection something which he had heard of Glenmurray's
having a very elegant and accomplished mistress.

'Pardon me, dear madam,' said Mr Langley, 'I perceive now my mistake;
and I now perceive why Mr Glenmurray was so much the envy of those who
had the honour of visiting at his house. 'Pon my soul,' taking her hand,
which Adeline indignantly, withdrew, 'I am grieved beyond words at being
unable to give you a more favourable opinion.'

'But you said, sir,' said Adeline, 'that the heir-at-law, if he had
any equity, would certainly be guided by the evident intention of the
testator.'

'I did, madam,' replied the lawyer, evidently piqued by the proud and
cold air which Adeline assumed;--'but then,--excuse me,--the applicant
would not stand much chance of being attended to, who is neither the
_widow_ nor _relation_ of Mr Glenmurray.'

'I understand you, sir,' replied Adeline, 'and need trouble you no
longer.'

'Trouble! my sweet girl!' returned Mr Langley, 'call it not trouble;
I--' Here his gallant effusions were interrupted by the sudden entrance
of a very showy woman, highly rouged, and dressed in the extremity of
the fashion; and who in no very pleasant tone of voice exclaimed,--'I
fear I interrupt you.'

'Oh! not in the least,' replied Langley, blushing even more than
Adeline, 'my fair client was just going. Allow me, madam, to see you
to the door,' continued he, attempting to take Adeline's hand, and
accompanying her to the bottom of the first flight of stairs.

'Charming fine woman upon my soul!' cried he, speaking through his shut
teeth, and forcibly squeezing her fingers as he spoke; 'and if you ever
want advice I should be proud to see you here, (with a significant
smile).' Here Adeline, too angry to speak, put the fee in his hand,
which he insisted on returning, and, in the struggle, he forcibly kissed
the ungloved hand which was held out, praising its beauty at the same
time, and endeavouring to close her fingers on the money: but Adeline
indignantly threw it on the ground, and rushed down the remaining
staircase; over-hearing the lady, as she did so, exclaim, 'Langley! is
not that black mawkin gone yet! Come up this moment, you devil!' while
Langley obsequiously replied, 'Coming this moment, my angel!'

Adeline felt so disappointed, so ashamed, and so degraded, that she
walked on some way without knowing whither she was going; and when she
recollected herself, she found that she was wandering from court to
court, and unable to find the avenue to the street down which the coach
had come: while her very tall figure, heightened colour, and graceful
carriage, made her an object of attention to every one whom she met.

At last she saw herself followed by two young men; and as she walked
very fast to avoid them, she by accident turned into the very lane which
she had been seeking: but her pursuers kept pace with her; and she
overheard one of them say to the other, 'A devilish fine girl! moves
well too,--I cannot help thinking that I have seen her before.'

'And I think so too!--by her height, it must be that sweet creature who
lived at Richmond with that crazy fellow, Glenmurray.'

Here Adeline relaxed in her pace: the name of Glenmurray--that
name which no one since his death had ventured to pronounce in her
presence,--had, during the last half hour, been pronounced several
times; and, unable to support herself from a variety of emotions, she
stopped, and leaned for support against the wall.

'How do you do, my fleet and swift girl?' said one of the gentlemen:--and
Adeline, roused at the insult, looked at him proudly and angrily, and
walked on. 'What! angry! If I may be so bold,' (with a sneering smile),
'fair creature, may I ask where you live now?'

'No, sir,' replied Adeline; 'you are wholly unknown to me.'

'But were you to tell me where you live, we might cease to be strangers;
pray who is your friend now?'

Here, as his companion gave way to a loud fit of laughter, Adeline
clearly understood what he meant by the term 'friend;' and summoning
up all her spirit, she called a coach which luckily was passing; and
turning round to her tormentor, with great dignity said,--'Though the
situation, sir, in which I once was, may in the eyes of the world, and
in yours, authorize and excuse your present insulting address, yet, when
I tell you that I am on the eve of marriage with a most respectable man,
I trust that you will feel the impropriety of your conduct, and be
convinced of the fruitlessness and impertinence of the questions which
you have put to me.'

'If this be the case, madam,' cried the gentleman, 'I beg your pardon,
and shall take my leave, wishing you all possible happiness, and begging
you to attribute my impertinence wholly to my ignorance.' So saying, he
bowed and left her, and Adeline was driven to her lodgings.

'Now,' said Adeline, 'the die is cast;--I have used the sacred name of
wife to shield me from insult; and I am therefore pledged to assume it
directly. Yes, HE was right--I find I must have a legal protector.'

She found Berrendale rather alarmed at her long absence; and, with a
beating heart, she related her adventures to him: but when she said that
Langley was not willing to take the fee, he exclaimed, 'Very genteel in
him, indeed! I suppose you took him at his word?'

'Good Heavens!' replied Adeline, 'Do you think I would deign to owe
such a man a pecuniary obligation?--No, indeed; I threw it with proud
indignation on the floor.'

'What madness!' returned Berrendale: 'you had much better have put it in
your pocket.'

'Mr Berrendale,' cried Adeline gravely, and with a look bordering on
contempt, 'I trust that you are not in earnest: for if these are your
sentiments,--if this is your delicacy, sir--'

'Say no more, dearest of women,' replied Berrendale pretending to laugh,
alarmed at the seriousness with which she spoke: 'how could you for one
moment suppose me in earnest? Insolent coxcomb!--I wish I had been
there.'

'I wish you had,' said Adeline, 'for then no one would have dared to
insult me:' and Berrendale, delighted at this observation, listened to
the rest of her story with a spirit of indignant knight-errantry which
he never experienced before; and at the end of her narration he felt
supremely happy; for Adeline assured him that the next week she would
make him her protector for life:--and this assurance opened his heart so
much, that he vowed he would not condescend to claim of the heir-at-law
the pitiful sum which he might think proper to withhold.

To be brief.--Adeline kept her word: and resolutely struggling with her
feelings, she became the next week the wife of Berrendale.

For the first six months the union promised well. Adeline was so
assiduous to anticipate her husband's wishes, and contrived so many
dainties for his table, which she cooked with her own hands, that
Berrendale, declaring himself completely happy for the first time in
his life, had not a thought or a wish beyond his own fireside; while
Adeline, happy because she conferred happiness, and proud of the name of
wife, which she had before despised, began to hope that her days would
glide on in humble tranquillity.

It was natural enough that Adeline should be desirous of imparting this
change in her situation to Mrs Pemberton, whose esteem she was eager to
recover, and whose kind intentions towards her, at a moment when she
was incapable of appreciating them, Savanna had, with great feeling,
expatiated upon. She therefore wrote to her according to the address
which Mrs Pemberton had left for her, and received a most friendly
letter in return. In a short time Adeline had again an expectation of
being a mother; and though she could not yet entertain for her husband
more than cold esteem, she felt that as the father of her child he would
insensibly become more dear to her.

But Berrendale awoke from his dream of bliss, on finding to what a large
sum the bills for the half-year's housekeeping amounted. Nor was he
surprised without reason. Adeline, more eager to gratify Berrendale's
palate than considerate as to the means, had forgotten that she was no
longer at the head of a liberal establishment like her mother's, and had
bought for the supply of the table many expensive articles.

In consequence of this terrible discovery Berrendale remonstrated very
seriously with Adeline; who meekly answered, 'My dear friend, good
dinners cannot be had without good ingredients, and good ingredients
cannot be had without money.'

'But, madam,' cried Berrendale, knitting his brows, but not elevating
his voice, for he was one of those soft-speaking beings who in the
sweetest tones possible can say the most heart-wounding things, and give
a mortal stab to your self-love in the same gentle manner in which they
flatter it:--'there must have been great waste, great mismanagement
here, or these expenses could not have been incurred.'

'There may have been both,' returned Adeline, 'for I have not been used
to economize, but I will try to learn;--but I doubt, my dear Berrendale,
you must endeavour to be contented with plainer food; for not all the
economy in the world can make rich gravies and high sauces cheap
things.'

'Oh! care and skill can do much,' said Berrendale;--'and I find a
certain person deceived me very much when he said you were a good
manager.'

'He only said,' replied Adeline sighing deeply, 'that I was a good
cook, and you yourself allow that; but I hope in time to please your
appetite at less expense: as to myself, a little suffices me, and I care
not how plain that food is.'

'Still, I think I have seen you eat with a most excellent appetite,'
said Berrendale, with a very significant expression.

Adeline shocked at the manner more than the words, replied in a
faltering voice, 'As a proof of my being in health, no doubt you
rejoiced in the sight.'

'Certainly; but less robust health would suit our finances better.'

Adeline looked up, wishing, though not expecting, to see by his face
that he was joking: but such serious displeasure appeared on it, that
the sordid selfishness of his character was at once unveiled to her
view; and clasping her hands in agony, she exclaimed, 'Oh Glenmurray!'
and ran into her own room.

It was the first time that she had pronounced his name since the hour
of his death, and now it was wrung from her by a sensation of acute
anguish; no wonder, then, that the feelings which followed completely
overcame her, and that Berrendale had undisputed and solitary possession
of his supper.

But he, on his side, was deeply irritated. The 'Oh, Glenmurray!' was
capable of being interpreted two ways:--either it showed how much she
regretted Glenmurray, and preferred him to his successor in spite of
the superior beauty of his person, of which he was very vain; or it
reproached Glenmurray for having recommended her to marry him. In either
case it was an unpardonable fault; and this unhappy conversation laid
the foundation of future discontent.

Adeline arose the next day dejected, pensive, and resolved that her
appetite should never again, if possible, force a reproach from the lips
of her husband. She therefore took care that whatever she provided for
the table, besides the simplest fare, should be for Berrendale alone;
and she flattered herself that he would be shamed into repentance of
what he had observed, by seeing her scrupulous self-denial:--she even
resolved, if he pressed her to partake of his dainties, that she would,
to show that she forgave him, accept what he offered.

But Berrendale gave her no such opportunity of showing her
generosity;--busy in the gratification of his own appetite, he never
observed whether any other persons ate or not, except when by eating
they curtailed his share of good things:--besides, to have an exclusive
dish to himself seemed to him quite natural and proper; he had been a
pampered child; and, being no advocate for the equality of the sexes, he
thought it only a matter of course that he should fare better than his
wife.

Adeline, though more surprised and more shocked than ever, could not
help laughing internally, at her not being able to put her projected
generosity in practice; but her laughter and indignation soon yielding
to contempt, she ate her simple meal in silence: and while her pampered
husband sought to lose the fumes of indigestion in sleep, she blessed
God that temperance, industry and health went hand-in-hand, and,
retiring to her own room, sat down to write, in order to increase, if
possible, her means of living, and consequently her power of being
generous to others.

But though Adeline resolved to forget, if possible, the petty conduct
of Berrendale, the mulatto, who, from the door's being open, had heard
every word of the conversation which had so disturbed Adeline, neither
could nor would forget it; and though she did not vow eternal hatred to
her master, she felt herself very capable of indulging it, and from that
moment it was her resolution to thwart him.

Whenever he was present, she was always urging Adeline to eat some
refreshments between meals, and drink wine or lemonade, and tempting
her weak appetite with some pleasant but expensive sweetmeats. In vain
did Adeline refuse them; sometimes they were bought, sometimes only
threatened to be bought; and once when Adeline had accepted some, rather
than mortify Savanna by a refusal, and Berrendale, by his accent and
expression, showed how much he grudged the supposed expense,--the
mulatto, snapping her fingers in his face, and looking at him with an
expression of indignant contempt, exclaimed, 'I buy dem, and pay for dem
wid mine nown money; and my angel lady sall no be oblige to you!'

This was a declaration of war against Berrendale, which Adeline heard
with anger and sorrow, and her husband with rage. In vain did Adeline
promise that she would seriously reprove Savanna (who had disappeared)
for her impertinence; Berrendale insisted on her being discharged
immediately; and nothing but Adeline's assurances that she, for slender
wages, did more work than two other servants would do for enormous ones,
could pacify his displeasure: but at length he was appeased. And as
Berrendale, from a principle of economy, resumed his old habit of dining
out amongst his friends, getting good dinners by that means without
paying for them, family expenses ceased to disturb the quiet of their
marriage; and after she had been ten months a wife Adeline gave birth to
a daughter.

That moment, the moment when she heard her infant's first cry, seem
to repay her for all she had suffered; every feeling was lost in the
maternal one; and she almost fancied that she loved, fondly loved, the
father of her child: but this idea vanished when she saw the languid
pleasure, if pleasure it could be called, with which Berrendale
congratulated her on her pain and danger being passed, and received his
child in his arms.

The mulatto was wild with joy: she almost stifled the babe with her
kisses, and talked even the next day of sending for the tawny boy to
come and see his new mistress, and vow to her, as he had done to her
mother, eternal fealty and allegiance.

But Adeline saw on Berrendale's countenance a mixed expression,--and he
had mixed feelings. True, he rejoiced in Adeline's safety; but he said
within himself, 'Children are expensive things, and we may have a large
family;' and, leaving the bedside as soon as he could, he retired, to
endeavour to lose in an afternoon's nap his unpleasant reflections.

'How different,' thought Adeline, 'would have been HIS feelings and HIS
expressions of them at such a time! Oh!--' but the name of Glenmurray
died away on her lips; and hastily turning to gaze on her sleeping babe,
she tried to forget the disappointed emotions of the wife in the
gratified feelings of the mother.

Still Adeline, who had been used to attentions, could not but feel the
neglect of Berrendale. Even while she kept her room he passed only a few
hours in her society, and dined out; and when she was well enough to
have accompanied him on his visits, she found that he never even wished
her to go with him, though the friends whom he visited were married;
and he met, from his own confessions, other ladies at their tables. She
therefore began to suspect that Berrendale did not mean to introduce her
as his wife; nay, she doubted whether he avowed her to be such; and at
last she brought him to own that, ashamed of having married what the
world must consider as a kept mistress, he resolved to keep her still in
the retirement to which she was habituated.

This was a severe disappointment indeed to Adeline: she longed for the
society of the amiable and accomplished of her own sex; and hoped that,
as Mr Berrendale's wife, that intercourse with her own sex might be
restored to her which she had forfeited as the mistress of Glenmurray.
Nor could she help reproaching Berrendale for the selfish ease and
indifference with which he saw her deprived of those social enjoyments
which he daily enjoyed himself, convinced as she was that he might, if
he chose, have introduced her at least to his intimate friends.

But she pleaded and reasoned in vain. Contented with the access which he
had to the tables of his friends, it was of little importance to him
that his wife ate her humble meal alone. His habits of enjoyment had
ever been solitary: the school-boy, who had at school eaten his tart and
cake by stealth in a corner, that he might not be asked to share them
with another, had grown up with the same dispositions to manhood: and as
his parents, thought opulent, were vulgar in their manners and low in
their origin, he had never been taught those graceful self-denials
inculcated into the children of polished life, which, though taught from
factitious and not real benevolence, have certainly a tendency, by long
habit, to make that benevolence real which at first was only artificial.

Adeline had both sorts of kindness and affection, those untaught of
the heart, and those of education;--she was polite from the situation
into which the accident of birth had thrown her, and also from the
generous impulse of her nature. To her, therefore, the uncultivated and
unblushing _personnalite_, as the French call it, of Berrendale, was a
source of constant wonder and distress: and often, very often did she
feel the utmost surprise at Berrendale's having appeared to Glenmurray
a man likely to make her happy. Often did she wonder how the defects of
Berrendale's character could have escaped his penetrating eyes.

Adeline forgot that the faults of her husband were such as could be
known only by an intimate connexion, and which cohabitation could alone
call forth;--faults, the existence of which such a man as Glenmurray,
who never considered himself in any transaction whatever, could not
suppose possible; and which, though they inflicted the most bitter pangs
on Adeline, and gradually untwisted the slender thread which had began
to unite her heart with Berrendale's, were of so slight a fabric as
almost to elude the touch, and of a nature to appear almost too trivial
to be mentioned in the narration of a biographer.

But though it has been long said that trifles make the sum of human
things, inattention to trifles continues to be the vice of every one;
and many a conjugal union which has never been assailed by the battery
of crime, has fallen a victim to the slowly undermining power of petty
quarrels, trivial unkindnesses and thoughtless neglect;--like the
gallant officer, who, after escaping unhurt all the rage of battle by
land and water, tempest on sea and earthquake on shore, returns perhaps
to his native country, and perishes by the power of a slow fever.

But Adeline, who, amidst all the chimaeras of her fancy and singularities
of her opinions, had happily held fast her religion, began at this
moment to entertain a belief that soothed in some measure the sorrows
which it could not cure. She fancied that all the sufferings she
underwent were trials which she was doomed to undergo, as punishments
for the crime she had committed in leaving her mother and living with
Glenmurray. She therefore welcomed her afflictions, and lifted up her
meek eyes to her God and Saviour, in every hour of her trials, with the
look of tearful but grateful resignation.

Meanwhile her child, whom, after her mother, she called Editha, was
nursed at her own bosom, and thrived even beyond her expectations. Even
Berrendale beheld its growing beauty with delight, and the mulatto was
wild in praise of it; while Adeline, wholly taken up all day in nursing
and in working for it, and every evening in writing stories and hymns to
publish, which would, she hoped, one day be useful to her own child as
well as to the children of others, soon ceased to regret her seclusion
from society; and by the time Editha was a year old she had learnt to
bear with patience the disappointment she had experienced in Berrendale.

Soon after she became a mother she again wrote to Mrs Pemberton, as she
longed to impart to her sympathizing bosom those feelings of parental
delight which Berrendale could not understand, and the expression of
which he witnessed with contemptuous and chilling gravity. To this
letter she anticipated a most gratifying return; but month after month
passed away, and no letter from Lisbon arrived. 'No doubt my letter
miscarried,' said Adeline to Savanna, 'and I will write again:' but
she never had resolution to do so; for she felt that her prospects of
conjugal happiness were obscured, and she shrunk equally from the task
of expressing the comfort which she did not feel, or unveiling to
another the errors of her husband. The little regard, meanwhile, which
she had endeavoured to return for Berrendale soon vanished, being unable
to withstand a new violence offered to it.

Editha was seized with the hooping-cough; and as Adeline had sold her
last little volume to advantage, Berrendale allowed her to take a
lodging at a short distance from town, as change of air was good for the
complaint. She did so, and remained there two months. At her return she
had the mortification to find that her husband, during her absence, had
intrigued with the servant of the house:--a circumstance of which she
would probably have remained ignorant, but for the indiscreet affection
of Savanna, who, in the first transports of her indignation on
discovering the connexion, had been unable to conceal from her mistress
what drove her almost frantic with indignation.

But Adeline, though she felt disgust and aversion swallowing up the few
remaining sparks of regard for Berrendale which she felt, had one great
consolation under this new calamity.--Berrendale had not been the choice
of her heart: 'But, thank Heaven! I never loved this man,' escaped her
lips as she ran into her own room; and pressing her child to her bosom,
she shed on its unconscious cheeks the tears which resentment and a deep
sense of injury wrung from her.--'Oh! had I loved him,' she exclaimed,
'this blow would have been mortal!'

She, however, found herself in one respect the better for Berrendale's
guilt. Conscious that the mulatto was aware of what had passed, and
afraid lest she should have mentioned her discovery to Adeline,
Berrendale endeavoured to make amends for his infidelity by attention
such as he had never shown her since the first weeks of his marriage;
and had she not been aware of the motive, the change in his behaviour
would have re-awakened her tenderness. However, it claimed at least
complaisance and gentleness from her while it lasted: which was not
long; for Berrendale, fancying from the apparent tranquillity of Adeline
(the result of indifference, not ignorance,) that she was not informed
of his fault, and that the mulatto was too prudent to betray him, began
to relapse into his old habits; and one day, forgetting his assumed
liberality, he ventured, when alone with Savanna, who was airing one of
Editha's caps, to expatiate on the needless extravagance of his wife in
trimming her child's caps with lace.

This was enough to rouse the quick feelings of the mulatto, and she
poured forth all her long concealed wrath in a torrent of broken
English, but plain enough to be well understood.--'You man!' she cried
at last, 'you will kill her; she pine at your no kindness;--and if she
die, mind me, man! never you marry aden.--You marry, forsoot! you marry
a lady! true bred lady like mine! No, man!--You best get a cheap miss
from de street and be content--'

As she said this, and in an accent so provoking that Berrendale was pale
and speechless with rage, Adeline entered the room; and Savanna,
self-condemned already from what she had uttered, was terrified when
Adeline, in a tone of voice unusually severe, said, 'Leave the room; you
have offended me past forgiveness.'

These words, in a great measure, softened the angry feelings of
Berrendale, as they proved that Adeline resented the insult offered to
him as deeply as he could wish; and with some calmness he exclaimed,
'Then I conclude, Mrs Berrendale, that you will have no objection to
discharge your mulatto directly?'

This conclusion, though a very natural one, was both a shock and a
surprise to Adeline; nor could she at first reply.

'You are _silent_, madam,' said Berrendale; 'what is your answer? Yes,
or No?'

'Yes,--yes,--certainly,' faltered out Adeline; 'she--she ought to go--I
mean that she has used very improper language to you.'

'And, therefore, a wife who resents as she ought to do, injuries offered
to her husband cannot hesitate for a moment to discharge her.'

'True, very true in some measure,' replied Adeline; 'but--'

'But what?' demanded Berrendale. 'O Berrendale!' cried Adeline, bursting
into an agony of frantic sorrow, 'if she leaves me, what will become of
me! I shall lose the only person now in the world, perhaps, who loves me
with sincere and faithful affection!'

Berrendale was wholly unprepared for an appeal like this; and,
speechless from surprise not unmixed with confusion, staggered into the
next chair. He was conscious, indeed, that his fidelity to his wife had
not been proof against a few weeks' absence; but then, being, like most
men, not over delicate in his idea on such subjects, as soon as Adeline
returned he had given up the connexion which he had formed, and
therefore he thought she had not much reason to complain. In all other
respects he was sure that he was an exemplary husband, and she had no
just grounds for doubting his affection. He was sure that she had no
reason to accuse him of unkindness; and, unless she wished him to be
always tied to her apron-string, he was certain he had never omitted to
pay her all proper attention.

Alas! he felt not the many wounds he had inflicted by

  'The word whose meaning kills; yet, told,
  The speaker wonders that you thought it cold.'

and he had yet to learn, that in order to excite or testify affection,
it is necessary to seem to derive exclusive enjoyment from the society
of the object avowed to be beloved, and to seek its gratification in
preference to one's own, even in the most trivial things. He knew
not that opportunities of conferring large benefits, like bank-bills
for L1,000, rarely come into use; but little attentions, friendly
participations and kindnesses, are wanted daily, and like small change,
are necessary to carry on the business of life and happiness.

A minute more perhaps, elapsed, before Berrendale recovered himself
sufficiently to speak: and the silence was made still more awful to
Adeline, by her hearing from the adjoining room the sobs of the mulatto.
At length, 'I cannot find words to express my surprise at what you have
just uttered,' exclaimed Berrendale. 'My conscience does not reproach me
with deserving the reproof it contained.'

'Indeed!' replied Adeline, fixing her penetrating eyes on his, which
shrunk downcast and abashed from her gaze. Adeline saw her advantage,
and pursued it.

'Mr Berrendale,' continued she, 'it is indeed true, that the mulatto has
offended both of us; for in offending _you_ she has offended _me_; but,
have you committed no fault, nothing for _me_ to forgive? I know that
you are too great a lover of truth, too honourable a man, to declare
that you have not deserved the just anger of your wife: but you know
that I have never reproached you, nor should you ever have been aware
that I was privy to the distressing circumstance to which I allude, but
for what has just passed: and, now, do but forgive the poor mulatto, who
sinned only from regard for me, and from supposed slight offered to her
mistress, and I will not only assure you of my forgiveness, but, from
this moment, will strenuously endeavour to blot from my remembrance
every trace of what has passed.'

Berrendale, conscious and self-condemned, scarcely knew what to answer;
but, thinking that it was better to accept Adeline's offer even on her
own conditions, he said, that if Savanna would make a proper apology,
and Adeline would convince her that she was seriously displeased with
her, he would allow her to stay; and Adeline having promised every thing
which he asked, peace was again restored.

'But what can you mean, Adeline,' said Berrendale, 'by doubting my
affection? I think I gave a sufficient proof of that, when, disregarding
the opinion of the world, I married you, though you had been the
mistress of another: and I really think that, by accusing me of
unkindness, you make me a very ungrateful return.' To this indelicate
and unfeeling remark Adeline vainly endeavoured to reply; but, starting
from her chair, she paced the room in violent agitation. 'Answer me,'
continued Berrendale, 'name one instance in which I have been unkind to
you.' Adeline suddenly stopped, and, looking steadfastly at him, smiled
with a sort of contemptuous pity, and was on the point of saying, 'Is
not what you have now said an instance of unkindness?' But she saw that
the same want of delicacy, and of that fine moral _tact_ which led him
to commit this and similar assaults on her feelings, made him
unconscious of the violence which he offered.

Finding, therefore, that he could not understand her causes of
complaint, even if it were possible for her to define them, she replied,
'Well, perhaps I was too hasty, and in a degree unjust: so let us drop
the subject; and, indeed, my dear Berrendale, you must bear with my
weakness: remember, I have always been a spoiled child.'

Here the image of Glenmurray and that of _home_, the home which she once
knew, the home of her childhood, and of her _earliest_ youth, pressed
on her recollection. She thought of her mother, of the indulgencies
which she had once known, of the advantages, of opulence, the value of
which she had never felt till deprived of them; and, struck with the
comparative forlornness of her situation--united for life to a being
whose sluggish sensibilities could not understand, and consequently not
soothe, the quick feelings and jealous susceptibility of her nature--she
could hardly forbear falling at the feet of her husband, and conjuring
him to behave, at least, with forbearance to her, and to speak and look
at her with kindness.

She did stretch out her hand to him with a look of mournful entreaty,
which, though not understood by Berrendale, was not lost upon him
entirely. He thought it was a confession of her weakness and his
superiority; and, flattered by the thought into unusual softness, he
caught her fondly to his bosom, and gave up an engagement to sup at an
oyster club, in order to spend the evening tete-a-tete with his wife.
Nay, he allowed the little Editha to remain in the room for a whole
hour, though she cried when he attempted to take her in his arms, and,
observing that it was a cold evening, allowed Adeline her due share of
the fire-side.

These circumstances, trivial as they were, had more than their due
effect on Adeline, whose heart was more alive to kindness than
unkindness; and those paltry attentions of which happy wives would not
have been conscious, were to her a source of unfeigned pleasure.--As
sailors are grateful, after a voyage unexpectedly long, for the muddy
water which at their first embarking they would have turned from with
disgust.

That very night Adeline remonstrated with the mulatto on the impropriety
of her conduct; and, having convinced her that in insulting her husband
she failed in respect to her, Savanna was prevailed upon the next
morning to ask pardon of Berrendale; and, out of love for her mistress,
she took care in future to do nothing that required forgiveness.

As Adeline's way of life admitted of but little variety, Berrendale
having persisted in not introducing her to his friends, on the plea of
not being rich enough to receive company in return, I shall pass over in
silence what occurred to her till Editha was two years old; premising
that a series of little injuries on the part of Berrendale, and a quick
resentment of them on the part of Adeline, which not even her habitual
good humour could prevent, had, during that time, nearly eradicated
every trace of love for each other from their hearts.

One evening Adeline as usual, in the absence of her husband, undressed
Editha by the parlour fire, and, playing with the laughing child, was
enjoying the rapturous praises which Savanna put forth of its growing
beauty; while the tawny boy, who had spent the day with them, built
houses with cards on the table, which Editha threw down as soon as they
were built, and he with good-humoured perseverance raised up again.

Adeline, alive only to the maternal feeling, at this moment had
forgotten all her cares; she saw nothing but the happy group around her,
and her countenance wore the expression of recovered serenity.

At this moment a loud knock was heard at the door, and Adeline, starting
up, exclaimed, 'It is my husband's knock!'

'O! no:--he never come so soon,' replied the mulatto running to the
door; but she was mistaken--it was Berrendale: and Adeline, hearing his
voice, began instantly to snatch up Editha's clothes, and to knock down
the tawny boy's newly-raised edifice: but order was not restored when
Berrendale entered; and, with a look and tone of impatience, he said,
'So! fine confusion indeed! Here's a fire-side to come to! Pretty
amusement too, for a literary lady--building houses of cards! Shame on
your extravagance, Mrs Berrendale, to let that brat spoil cards in that
way!'

The sunshine of Adeline's countenance on hearing this vanished: to be
sure, she was accustomed to such speeches; but the moment before she had
felt happy, for the first time, for years. She, however, replied not;
but hurrying Editha to bed, ordering the reluctant tawny boy into the
kitchen, and setting Berrendale's chair, as usual, in the warmest place,
she ventured in a faint voice to ask, what had brought him home so
early.

'More early than welcome,' replied Berrendale, 'if I may judge from the
bustle I have occasioned.'

'It is very true,' replied Adeline, 'that, had I expected you, I should
have been better prepared for your reception; and then you, perhaps,
would have spoken more kindly to me.'

'There--there you go again.--If I say but a word to you, then I am
called unkind, though I never speak without just provocation: and, I
declare, I came home in the best humour possible, to tell you what
may turn out of great profit to us both:--but when a man has an
uncomfortable home to come to, it is enough to put him out of humour.'

The mulatto, who was staying to gather up the cards which had fallen,
turned herself round on hearing this, and exclaimed, 'Home was very
comfortable till you come;' and then with a look of the most angry
contempt she left the room, and threw the door to with great violence.

'But what is this good news, my dear?' said Adeline, eager to turn
Berrendale's attention from Savanna's insolent reply.

'I have received a letter,' he replied, 'which, by the by, I ought to
have had some weeks ago, from my father-in-law in Jamaica, authorizing
me to draw on his banker for L900, and inviting me to come over to him;
as he feels himself declining, and wishes to give me the care of his
estate, and of my son, to whom all his fortune will descend: and of
whose interest, he properly thinks, no one can be so likely to take good
care as his own father.'

'And do you mean that I and Editha should go with you?' said Adeline
turning pale.

'No, to be sure not,' eagerly replied Berrendale; 'I must first see how
the land lies. But if I go--as the old man no doubt will make a handsome
settlement on me--I shall be able to remit to you a very respectable
annuity.'

Adeline's heart, spite of herself, bounded with joy at this discovery;
but she had resolution to add,--and if duplicity can ever be pardonable,
this was,--'So then the good news which you had to impart to me was,
that we were going to be separated!' But as she said this, the
consciousness that she was artfully trying to impress Berrendale with
an idea of her feeling a sorrow which was foreign to her heart, overcame
her; and affected also at being under the necessity of rejoicing at the
departure of that being who ought to be the source of her comfort, she
vainly struggled to regain composure, and burst into an agony of tears.

But her consternation cannot be expressed, when she found that
Berrendale imputed her tears to tender anguish at the idea of parting
with him: and when, his vanity being delighted by this homage to his
attractions, he felt all his fondness for her revive, and, overwhelming
her with caresses, he declared that he would reject the offer entirely
if by accepting it he should give her a moment's uneasiness; Adeline,
shocked at his error, yet not daring to set him right, could only weep
on his shoulder in silence: but, in order to make real the distress
which he only fancied so, she enumerated to herself all the diseases
incident to the climate, and the danger of the voyage. Still the idea of
Berrendale's departure was so full of comfort to her, that, though her
tears continued to flow, they flowed not for his approaching absence. At
length, ashamed of fortifying him in so gross an error, she made an
effort to regain her calmness, and found words to assure him, that she
would no longer give way to such unpardonable weakness, as she could
assure him that she wished his acceptance of his father-in-law's offer,
and had no desire to oppose a scheme so just and so profitable.

But Berrendale, to whose vanity she had never before offered such a
tribute as her tears seemed to be, imputed these assurances to
disinterested love and female delicacy, afraid to own the fondness which
it felt; and the rest of the evening was spent in professions of love on
his part, which, on Adeline's, called forth at least some grateful and
kind expressions in return.

Still, however, she persisted in urging Berrendale to go to Jamaica:
but, at the same time, she earnestly begged him to remember, that
temperance could alone preserve his health in such a climate:--'or the
use of pepper in great quantities,' replied he, 'to counteract the
effects of good living?'--and Adeline, though convinced temperance was
the _best_ preservation, was forced to give up the point, especially as
Berrendale began to enumerate the number of delicious things for the
table which Jamaica afforded.

To be brief: Berrendale, after taking a most affectionate leave of his
wife and child, a leave which almost made the mulatto his friend, and
promising to allow them L200, a-year till he should be able to send
over for them, set sail for Jamaica; while Adeline, the night of his
departure, endeavoured, by conjuring up all the horrors of a tempest at
sea on his passage, and of a hurricane and an earthquake on shore when
he arrived, to force herself to feel such sorrow as the tenderness which
he had expressed at the moment of parting seemed to make it her duty to
feel.

But morning came, and with it a feeling of liberty and independence so
delightful, that she no longer tried to grieve on speculation as it
were; but giving up her whole soul to the joys of maternal fondness, she
looked forward with pious gratitude to days of tranquil repose, save
when she thought with bitter regret of the obdurate anger of her mother,
and with tender regret of the lost and ever lamented Glenmurray.

Berrendale had been arrived at Jamaica some months, when Adeline
observed a most alarming change in Savanna. She became thin, her
appetite entirely failed, and she looked the image of despondence. In
vain did Adeline ask the reason of a change so apparent: the only answer
she could obtain was, 'Me better soon;' and, continuing every day to
give this answer, she in a short time became so languid as to be obliged
to lie down half the day.

Adeline then found that it was necessary to be more serious in her
interrogatories; but the mulatto at first only answered, 'No, me die,
but me never break my duty vow to you: no, me die, but never leave you.'

These words implying a wish to leave her, with a resolution not to
do so how much soever it might cost her, alarmed in a moment the ever
disinterested sensibility of Adeline; and she at length wrung from her a
confession that her dear William, who was gone to Jamaica as a servant
to a gentleman, was, she was credibly informed, very ill and like to
die.

'You therefore wish to go and nurse him, I suppose, Savanna?'

'Oh! me no wish; me only tink dat me like to go to Jamaica, see if be
true dat he be so bad; and if he die, I den return and die wid you.'

'Live with me, you mean, Savanna; for, indeed, I cannot spare you.
Remember, you have given me a right to claim your life as mine; nor can
I allow you to throw away my property in fruitless lamentations, and the
indolent indulgence of regret. You shall go to Jamaica, Savanna: Heaven
forbid that I should keep a wife from her duty! You shall see and try
to recover William if he be really ill,' (Savanna here threw herself
on Adeline's neck,) 'and then you shall return to me, who will either
warmly share in your satisfaction or fondly sooth your distress.'

'Den you do love poor Savanna?'

'Love you! Indeed I do, next to my child, and,--and my mother,' replied
Adeline, her voice faltering.

'Name not dat woman,' cried Savanna hastily; 'me will never see, never
speak to her even in heaven.'

'Savanna, remember, she is my mother.'

'Yes, and Mr Berrendale be your husban; and yet, who dat love you can
love dem?'

'Savanna,' replied Adeline, 'these proofs of your regard, though
reprehensible, are not likely to reconcile me to your departure; and I
already feel that in losing you--' Here she paused, unable to proceed.

'Den me no go--me no go:--yet, dearest lady, you have love yourself.'

'Aye, Savanna, and can feel for you: so say no more. The only difficulty
will be to raise money enough to pay for your passage, and expenses
while there.'

'Oh! me once nurse the captain's wife who now going to Jamaica, and
she love me very much; and he tell me yesterday that he let me go
for nothing, because I am good nurse to his wife, if me wish to see
William.'

'Enough,' replied Adeline: 'then all I have to do is to provide you with
money for your maintenance when you arrive; and I have no doubt but that
what I cannot supply the tawny boy's generous patroness will.'

Adeline was not mistaken. Savanna obtained from her son's benefactress
a sum equal to her wants; and almost instantly restored to her wonted
health, by her mind's being lightened of the load which oppressed it,
she took her passage on board her friend's vessel, and set sail for
Jamaica, carrying with her letters from Adeline to Berrendale; while
Adeline felt the want of Savanna in various ways, so forcibly, that not
even Editha could, for a time at least, console her for her loss. It had
been so grateful to her feelings to meet every day the eyes of one being
fixed with never-varying affection on hers, that, when she beheld those
eyes no longer, she felt alone in the universe,--nor had she a single
female friend to whom she could turn for relief or consolation.

Mrs Beauclerc, to whose society she had expected to be restored by
her marriage, had been forced to give up all intercourse with her, in
compliance with the peremptory wishes of a rich old maid, from whom her
children had great expectations, and who threatened to leave her fortune
away from them, if Mrs Beauclerc persisted in corresponding with a woman
so bad in principle, and so wicked in practice, as Adeline appeared to
her to be.

But, at length, from a mother's employments, from writing, and, above
all, from the idea that by suffering she was making some atonement for
her past sins, she derived consolation, and became resigned to every
evil that had befallen, and to every evil that might still befall her.

Perhaps she did not consider as an evil what now took place: increasing
coldness in the letters of Berrendale, till he said openly at last, that
as they were, he was forced to confess, far from happy together, and
as the air of Jamaica agreed with him, and as he was resolved to stay
there, he thought she had better remain in England, and he would remit
her as much money occasionally as his circumstances would admit of.

But she thought this a greater evil than it at first appeared; when
an agent of Berrendale's father-in-law in England, and a friend of
Berrendale himself, called on her, pretending that he came to inquire
concerning her health, and raised in her mind suspicions of a very
painful nature.

After the usual compliments:--'I find, madam,' said Mr Drury, 'that our
friend is very much admired by the ladies in Jamaica.'

'I am glad to hear it, sir,' coolly answered Adeline.

'Well, that's kind and generous now,' replied Drury, 'and very
disinterested.'

'I see no virtue, sir, in my rejoicing of what must make Mr Berrendale's
abode in Jamaica pleasant to him.'

'May be so; but most women, I believe, would be apt to be jealous on the
occasion.'

'But it has been the study of my life, sir, to endeavour to consider my
own interest, when it comes in competition with another's, as little as
possible;--I doubt I have not always succeeded in my endeavours: but on
this occasion I am certain that I have expressed no sentiment which I do
not feel.'

'Then, madam, if my friend should have an opportunity, as indeed I
believe he has, of forming a most agreeable and advantageous marriage,
you would not try to prevent it?'

'Good heavens! sir,' replied Adeline; 'What can you mean? Mr Berrendale
form an advantageous marriage when he is already married to me?'

'Married to you, ma'am!' answered Mr Drury with a look of incredulity.
'Excuse me, but I know that such marriages as yours may be easily
dissolved.'

At first Adeline was startled at this assertion; but recollecting that
it was impossible any form or ceremony should have been wanting at the
marriage, she recovered herself, and demanded, with an air of severity,
what Mr Drury meant by so alarming and ill-founded a speech.

'My meaning, ma'am,' replied he, 'must be pretty evident to you: I mean
that I do not look upon you, though you bear Mr Berrendale's name, to be
his lawful wife; but that you live with him on the same terms on which
you lived with Mr Glenmurray.'

'And on what, sir, could you build such an erroneous supposition?'

'On Mr Berrendale's own words, madam; who always spoke of his connexion
with you, as of a connexion which he had formed in compliance with love
and in defiance of prudence.'

'And is it possible that he could be such a villain?' exclaimed
Adeline. 'Oh my child! and does thy father brand thee with the stain of
illegitimacy?--But, sir, whatever appellation Mr Berrendale might choose
to give his union with me to his friends in England, I am sure he will
not dare to incur the penalty attendant on a man's marrying one wife
while he has another living; for, that I am his wife, I can bring pretty
sufficient evidence to prove.'

'Indeed, madam! You can produce a witness of the ceremony, then, I
presume?'

'No, sir; the woman who attended me to the altar, and the clergyman who
married us, are dead; and the only witness is a child now only ten years
old.'

'That is unfortunate!' (with a look of incredulity) 'but, no doubt, when
you hear that Mr Berrendale is married to a West Indian heiress, you
will come forward with incontrovertible proofs of your prior claims; and
if you do that, madam, you may command my good offices:--but, till then,
I humbly take my leave.'--Saying this, with a very visible sneer on his
countenance he departed, leaving Adeline in a state of distress--the
more painful to endure from her having none to participate in it,--no
one to whom she could impart the cause of it.

That Mr Drury did not speak of the possible marriage of Berrendale from
mere conjecture, was very apparent; and Adeline resolved not to delay
writing to her husband immediately, to inform him of what had passed,
and put before his eyes, in the strongest possible manner, the guilt of
what he was about to do; and also the utter impossibility of its being
successful guilt, as she was resolved to assert her claims for the sake
of her child, if not for her own. This letter she concluded, and with
truth too, with protestations of believing all Mr Drury said to be
false: for, indeed, the more she considered Berrendale's character,
the more she was convinced that, however selfish and defective his
disposition might be, it was more likely Mr Drury should be mistaken,
than Berrendale be a villain.

But, where a man's conduct is not founded on virtuous motives and
immutable principles, he may not err while temptation is absent; but
once expose him to her presence, and he is capable of falling into the
very vices the most abhorrent to his nature: and though Adeline knew it
not, such a man was Berrendale.

Adeline, having relieved her mind by this appeal to her husband, and
being assured that Berrendale could not be married before her letter
could reach him, as it was impossible that he should dare to marry while
the mulatto was in the very town near which he resided, felt herself
capable of attending to her usual employments again, and had recovered
her tranquillity, when an answer to her letter arrived; and Adeline,
being certain that the letter itself would be a proof of the marriage,
had resolved to show it, in justification of her claims, to Mr Drury.

What then must have been her surprise, to find it exactly such a letter
as would be evidence against a marriage between her and Berrendale
having ever taken place! He thanked her for the expressions of fond
regret which her letter contained, and for the many happy hours which he
owed to her society; but hoped that, as Fate had now separated their
destinies, she could be as happy without him as she had been with him;
and assuring her that he should, according to his promise, regularly
remit her L150 a-year if possible, but that he could at present only
inclose a draft for L50.

Adeline was absolutely stupified with horror at reading this apparent
confirmation of the villany of her husband and the father of her child;
but roused to indignant exertion by the sense of Berrendale's baseness,
and of what she owed her daughter, she resolved to take counsel's
opinion in what manner she should proceed to prove her marriage, as soon
as she was assured that Berrendale's (which she had no doubt was fixed
upon) should have taken place; and this intelligence she received
a short time after the mulatto herself, who, worn out with sorrow,
sickness, and hardship, one day tottered into the house, seeming as if
she indeed only returned to die with her mistress.

At first the joy of seeing Savanna restored to her swallowed up every
other feeling; but tender apprehension for the poor creature's health
soon took possession of her mind, and Adeline drew from her a narrative,
which exhibited Berrendale to her eyes as capable of most atrocious
actions.




CHAPTER XIX


It is very certain that when Berrendale left England, though he meant to
conceal his marriage entirely, he had not even the slightest wish to
contract another; and had any one told him that he was capable of such
wicked conduct, he would have answered, like Hazael, 'Is thy servant
a dog that he should do this thing?' But he was then unassailed by
temptations:--and habituated as he was to selfish indulgence, it was
impossible that to strong temptation he should not fall an immediate
victim.

This strong temptation assailed him soon after his arrival, in the
person of a very lovely and rich widow, a relation of his first wife,
who, having no children of her own, had long been very fond of his
child, then a very fine boy, and with great readiness transferred to the
father the affection which she bore the son. For some time conscience
and Adeline stood their ground against this new mistress and her immense
property; but at length, being pressed by his father-in-law, who wished
the match, to assign a sufficient reason for his coldness to so fine
a woman, and not daring to give the true one, he returned the lady's
fondness: and though he had not yet courage enough to name the marriage
day, it was known that it would some time or other take place.

But all his scruples soon yielded to the dominion which the attractions
of the lady, who was well versed in the arts of seduction, obtained over
his senses, and to the strong power which the sight of the splendour in
which she lived, acquired over his avarice; when, just as every thing
was on the point of being concluded, the poor mulatto, who had found her
husband dead, arrived almost broken-hearted at the place of Berrendale's
abode, and delivered to him letters from Adeline.

Terrified and confounded at her presence, he received her with
such evident marks of guilty confusion in his face, that Savanna's
apprehensive and suspicious attachment to her mistress took the alarm;
and, as she had seen a very fine woman leave the room as she entered,
she, on pretence of leaving Berrendale alone to read his letters,
repaired to the servants' apartments, where she learnt the intended
marriage. Immediately forgetting her own distresses in those of Adeline,
she returned to Berrendale, not with the languid, mournful pace with
which she had first entered, but with the firm, impetuous and intrepid
step of conscious integrity going to confound vice in the moment of its
triumph.

Berrendale read his doom, the moment he beheld her, in her dark and
fiery eye, and awaited in trembling silence the torrent of reproaches
that trembled on her lip. But I shall not repeat what passed. Suffice
that Berrendale pretended to be moved by what she said, and promised
to break off the marriage,--only exacting from Savanna, in return, a
promise of not imparting to the servants, or to any one, that he had a
wife in England.

In the meanwhile he commended her most affectionately to the care of the
steward; and confessing to his intended bride that he had a mistress in
England, who had sent the mulatto over to prevent the match if possible,
by persuading her he was already married, he conjured her to consent to
a private marriage; and to prevent some dreadful scene, occasioned by
the revenge of disappointed passion, should his mistress, as she had
threatened, come over in person, he entreated her to let every splendid
preparation for their nuptials be laid aside, in order to deceive
Savanna, and induce her to return quietly to England.

The credulous woman, too much in love to believe what she did not wish,
consented to all he proposed: but Berrendale, still fearful of the
watchful jealousy of Savanna, contrived to find out the master to whom
she belonged before she had escaped, early in life, with her first
husband to England; and as she had never been made free, as soon as he
arrived, he, on a summons from Berrendale, seized her as his property;
and poor Savanna, in spite of her cries and struggles, was conveyed some
miles up the country.

At length, however, she found means to escape to the coast; and, having
discovered an old acquaintance in an English sailor on board a vessel
then ready to sail, and who had great influence with the captain, she
was by him concealed on board, with the approbation of the commander,
and was on her way to England before Berrendale was informed of her
escape.

I will not endeavour to describe Adeline's feelings on hearing this
narration, and on finding also that Savanna before she left the island
had been assured that Berrendale was really married, though privately,
but that the marriage could not long be attempted to be concealed, as
the lady even before it took place was likely to become a mother; and,
that as a large estate depended on her giving birth to a son, the event
of her confinement was looked for with great anxiety.

Still, in the midst of her distress, a sudden thought struck Adeline,
which converted her anger into joy, and her sorrow into exultation.
'Yes, my mother may now forgive me without violating any part of her
oath,' she exclaimed.--'I am now forsaken, despised and disgraced!'--and
instantly she wrote to Mrs Mowbray a letter calculated to call forth
all her sympathy and affection. Then, with a mind relieved beyond
expression, she sat down to deliberate in what manner she should act to
do herself justice as a wife and a mother, cruelly aggrieved in both
these intimate relations. Nor could she persuade herself that she should
act properly by her child, if she did not proceed vigorously to prove
herself Berrendale's wife, and substantiate Editha's claim to his
property; and as Mr Langley was, she knew, a very great lawyer, she
resolved, in spite of his improper conduct to her, to apply to him
again.

Indeed she could not divest herself of a wish to let him know that she
was become a wife, and no longer liable to be treated with that freedom
with which, as a mistress, he had thought himself at liberty to address
her. However, she wished that she had not been obliged to go to him
alone; but, as the mulatto was in too weak a state of health to allow of
her going out, and she could not speak of business like hers before any
one else, she was forced to proceed unaccompanied to the Temple; and on
the evening of the day after Savanna's return, she with a beating heart,
repaired once more to Mr Langley's chambers.

Luckily, however, she met the tawny boy on her way, and took him for
her escort. 'Tell your master,' said she to the servant, 'that Mrs
Berrendale wishes to speak to him:' and in a few minutes she was
introduced.

'Mrs Berrendale!' cried Langley with a sarcastic smile; 'pray be seated,
madam! I hope Mr Berrendale is well.'

'He is in Jamaica, sir,' replied Adeline.

'Indeed!' returned Langley. 'May I presume so far as to ask,--hem,
hem,--whether your visit to me be merely of a professional nature?'

'Certainly, sir,' replied Adeline: 'of what other nature should it be?'

Langley replied to this only by a significant smile. At this moment the
tawny boy asked leave to walk in the temple gardens; and Adeline, though
reluctantly, granted his request.

'Oh! a propos, John,' cried Langley to the servant, 'let Mrs Montgomery
know that her friend Miss Mowbray, Mrs Berrendale I mean, is here--she
is walking in the garden.'

'My friend Mrs Montgomery, sir! I have no friend of that name.'

'No, my sweet soul? You may not know her by that name; but names change,
you know. You, for instance, are Mrs Berrendale now, but when I see you
again you may be Mrs Somebody else.'

'Never, sir,' cried Adeline indignantly; 'but, though I do not exactly
understand your meaning, I feel as if you meant to insult me, and
therefore--'

'Oh no--sit down again, my angel; you are mistaken, and so apt to fly
off in a tangent! But--so--that wonderfully handsome man, Berrendale, is
off--heh? Your friend and mine, heh! pretty one!'

'If, sir, Mr Berrendale ever considered you as his friend, it is very
strange that you should presume to insult his wife.'

'Madam,' replied Langley with a most provoking sneer, 'Mr Berrendale's
wife shall always be treated by me with proper respect.'

'Gracious Heaven!' cried Adeline, clasping her hands and looking upwards
with tearful eyes, 'when shall my persecutions cease! and how much
greater must my offences be than even my remorse paints them, when their
consequences still torment me so long after the crime which occasioned
them has ceased to exist! But it is Thy will, and I will submit even to
indignity with patience.'

There was a touching solemnity in this appeal to Heaven, an expression
of truth, which it was so impossible for art to imitate, that Langley
felt in a moment the injustice of which he had been guilty, and an
apology was on his lips, when the door opened, and a lady rouged like a
French countess of the ancien regime, her hair covered with a profusion
of brown powder, and dressed in the height of fashion, ambled into the
room; and saying, 'How d'ye do, Miss Mowbray?' threw herself carelessly
on the sofa, to the astonishment of Adeline, who did not recollect her,
and to the confusion of Langley, who now, impressed with involuntary
respect for Adeline, repented of having exposed her to the scene that
awaited her: but to prevent it was impossible; he was formed to be a
slave of woman, and had not courage to protect another from the
insolence to which he tamely yielded himself.

Adeline at first did not answer this soi-disant acquaintance of hers;
but, in looking at her more attentively, she exclaimed, 'What do I see?
Is it possible that this can be Mary Warner!'

'Yes, it is, my dear, indeed,' replied she with a loud laugh, 'Mary
Warner, alias Mrs Montgomery; as you, you know, are Miss Mowbray, alias
Mrs Berrendale.'

Adeline, incapable of speaking, only gazed at her in silence, but with
'a countenance more in sorrow than in anger.'

'But, come sit down, my dear,' cried Mary; 'no ceremony, you know, among
friends and equals, you know; and you and I have been mighty familiar,
you know, before now. The last time we met you called me _woman_, you
know--yes, "woman!" says you--and I have not forgotten it, I assure
you,' she added with a sort of loud hysterical laugh, and a look of the
most determined malice.

'Come, come, my dear Montgomery,' said Langley, 'you must forget and
forgive;--I dare say Miss Mowbray, that is to say Mrs Berrendale, did
not mean--'

'What should you know about the matter, Lang.?' replied Mary; 'I wish
you would mind your own business, and let me talk to my dumb friend
here.--Well, I suppose you are quite surprised to see how smart I
am!--seeing as how I once overheard you say to Glenthingymy, "How very
plain Mary is!" though, to be sure, it was never a barrel the better
herring, and 'twas the kettle in my mind calling the pot--Heh, Lang.?'

Here was the clue to the inveterate dislike which this unhappy girl had
conceived against Adeline. So true is it that little wounds inflicted
on the self-love are never forgotten or forgiven, and that it is safer
to censure the morals of acquaintances than to ridicule them on their
dress, or laugh at a defect in their person. Adeline, indeed, did
not mean that her observation should be overheard by the object of
it,--still she was hated: but many persons make mortifying remarks
purposely, and yet wonder that they have enemies!

Motionless and almost lifeless Adeline continued to stand and to listen,
and Mary went on--

'Well, but I thank you for one thing. You taught me that marriage was
all nonsense, you know; and so, thought I, Miss Mowbray is a learned
lady, she must know best, and so I followed your example--that's all,
you know.'

This dreadful information roused the feelings of Adeline even to
phrensy, and with a shriek of anguish she seized her hand, and conjured
her by all her hopes of mercy to retract what she had said, and not to
let her depart with the horrible consciousness of having been the means
of plunging a fellow-being into vice and infamy.

A loud unfeeling laugh, and an exclamation of 'The woman is mad,' was
all the answer to this.

'This then is the completion of my sufferings,' cried Adeline,--'this
only was wanted to complete the misery of my remorse.'

'This is too much,' exclaimed Langley. 'Mary, you know very well that--'

'Hold your tongue, Lang.; you know nothing about the matter: it is all
nothing, but that Miss Mowbray, like a lawyer, can change sides, you
see, and attack one day what she defended the day before, you know;
and she has made you believe that she thinks now being kept a shameful
thing.'

'I do believe so,' hastily replied Adeline; 'and if it be true that my
sentiments and my example led you to adopt your present guilty mode
of life,--oh! save me from the pangs of remorse which I now feel, by
letting my present example recall you from the paths of error to those
of virtue.'

'Well pleaded,' cried the cold-hearted Mary--'Lang., you could not have
done't so well--not up to that.'

'Mrs Montgomery,' said Langley with great severity, 'if you cannot treat
Mrs Berrendale with more propriety and respect, I must beg you to leave
the room; she is come to speak to me on business, and--'

'I sha'nt stir, for all that: and mark me, Lang., if you turn me out of
the room, you know, hang me if ever I enter it again!'

'But your little boy may want you; you have left him now some time.'

'Aye, that may be true, to be sure, poor little dear! Have you any
family, Miss Mowbray?'--when, without waiting for an answer, she added,
'My little boy have got the small-pox very bad, and has been likely to
die from convulsion fits, you know. Poor dear! I had been nursing it so
long that I could not bear the stench of the room, and so I was glad,
you know, to come and get a little fresh air in the gardens.'

At this speech Adeline's fortitude entirely gave way. _Her_ child had
not had the small-pox, and she had been for some minutes in reach of the
infection; and with a look of horror, forgetting her business, and every
thing but Editha, she was on the point of leaving the room, when a
servant hastily entered, and told Mary that her little boy was dead.

At hearing this, even her cold heart was moved, and throwing herself
back on the sofa she fell into a strong hysteric; while Adeline, losing
all remembrance of her insolence in her distress, flew to her assistance;
and, in pity for a mother weeping the loss of her infant, forgot for a
moment that she was endangering the life of her own child.

Mr Langley, mean time, though grieved for the death of the infant, was
alive to the generous forgiving disposition which Adeline evinced; and
could not help exclaiming. 'Oh, Mrs Berrendale! forgive us! we deserved
not such kindness at your hands:' and Adeline, wanting to loosen the
tight stays of Mary, and not choosing to undress her before such a
witness, coldly begged him to withdraw, advising him at the same time to
go and see whether the child was really dead, as it might possibly only
appear so.

Revived by this possibility, Mr Langley left Mary to the care of
Adeline, and left the room. But whether it was that Mary had a mind
to impress her lover and the father of her child with an idea of her
sensibility, or whether she had overheard Adeline's supposition, certain
it is, that as soon as Langley went away, and Adeline began to unlace
her stays, she hastily recovered, and declared her stays should remain
as they were: but still exclaiming about her poor dear Benny, she kept
her arms closely clasped round Adeline's waist, and reposed her head on
her bosom.

Adeline's fears and pity for her being thus allayed, she began to have
leisure to feel and fear for herself; and the idea, that, by being in
such close contact with Mary, she was imbibing so much of the disease
as must inevitably communicate it to Editha, recurred so forcibly to
her mind, that, begging for mercy's sake she would loose her hold, she
endeavoured to break from the arms of her tormentor.

But in vain.--As soon as Mary saw that Adeline wished to leave her,
she was the more eager to hold her fast; and protesting she should die
if she had the barbarity to leave her alone, she only hugged her the
closer. 'Well, then, I'll try to stay till Mr Langley returns,' cried
Adeline: but some minutes elapsed, and Mr Langley did not return; and
then Adeline, recollecting that when he did return he would come fresh
fraught with the pestilence from the dead body of his infant, could no
longer master her feelings, but screaming wildly,--'I shall be the death
of my child; let me go,'--she struggled with the determined Mary. 'You
will drive me mad if you detain me,' cried Adeline.

'You will drive me mad if you go,' replied Mary, giving way to a violent
hysterical scream, while with successful strength she parried all
Adeline's endeavours to break from her. But what can resist the strength
of phrensy and despair? Adeline, at length worked up to madness by the
fatal control exercised over her, by one great effort threw the sobbing
Mary from her, and, darting down stairs with the rapidity of phrensy,
nearly knocked down Mr Langley in her passage, who was coming to
announce the restoration of the little boy.

She soon reached Fleet-street, and was on her road home before Langley
and Mary had recovered their consternation: but she suddenly recollected
that homewards she must not proceed; that she carried death about her;
and wholly bewildered by this insupportable idea, she ran along the
Strand, muttering the incoherencies of phrensy as she went, till she
was intercepted in her passage by some young men of _ton_, who had been
dining together, and, being half intoxicated, were on their way to the
theatre.

Two of these gentlemen, with extended arms, prevented her further
progress.

'Where are you going, my pretty girl,' cried one, 'in this hurry? shall
I see you home? heh!'

'Home!' replied Adeline; 'name it not. My child! my child! thy mother
has destroyed thee.'

'So!' cried another, 'actress, by all that's tragical!'

'Unhand me!' exclaimed Adeline wildly. 'Do not you know, poor babe, that
I carry death and infection about with me!'

'The devil you do!' returned the gentleman; 'then the sooner you take
yourself off the better.'

'I believe the poor soul is mad,' said a third, making way for Adeline
to pass.

'But,' cried the first who spoke, catching hold of her, 'if so, there is
method and meaning in her madness; for she called Jaby here a poor babe,
and we all know he is little better.'

By this time Adeline was in a state of complete phrensy, and was again
darting down the street in spite of the gentleman's efforts to hold her,
when another gentleman, whom curiosity had induced to stop and listen
to what passed, suddenly seized hold of her arm, and exclaimed, 'Good
Heavens! what can this mean? It is--it can be no other than Miss
Mowbray.'

At the sound of her own name Adeline started: but in a moment her senses
were quite lost again; and the gentleman, who was no other than Colonel
Mordaunt, being fully aware of her situation, after reproving the
young men for sporting with distress so apparent, called a coach which
happened to be passing, and desired to know whither he should have the
honour of conducting her.

But she was too lost to be able to answer the question: he therefore,
lifting her into the coach, desired the man to drive towards
Dover-street; and when there, he ordered him to drive to Margaret-street,
Oxford-street; when, not being able to obtain one coherent word
from Adeline, and nothing but expressions of agony, terror, and
self-condemnation, he desired him to stop at such a house, and,
conducting Adeline up stairs, desired the first assistance to be
procured immediately.

It was not to his own lodgings that Colonel Mordaunt had conducted
Adeline, but to the house of a convenient friend of his, who, though not
generally known as such, and bearing a tolerably good character in the
world, was very kind to the tender distresses of her friends, and had no
objection to assist the meetings of two fond lovers.

It is to be supposed, then, that she was surprised at seeing Colonel
Mordaunt with a companion, who was an object of pity and horror rather
than of love: but she did not want humanity; and when the colonel
recommended Adeline to her tenderest care, she with great readiness
ordered a bed to be prepared, and assisted in prevailing on Adeline
to lie down on it. In a short time a physician and a surgeon arrived;
and Adeline, having been bled and made to swallow strong opiates, was
undressed by her attentive landlady; and though still in a state of
unconsciousness, she fell into a sound sleep which lasted till morning.

But Colonel Mordaunt passed a sleepless night. The sight of Adeline,
even frantic and wretched as she appeared, had revived the passion which
he had conceived for her; and if on her awaking the next morning she
should appear perfectly rational, and her phrensy merely the result
of some great fright which she had received, he resolved to renew his
addresses, and take advantage of the opportunity now offered him, while
she was as it were in his power.

But to return to the Temple.--Soon after Mr Langley had entered his own
room, and while Mary and he were commenting on the frantic behaviour of
Adeline, the tawny boy came back from his walk, and heard with marks of
emotion, apparently beyond his age, (for though near twelve he did not
look above eight years old,) of the sudden and frantic disappearance of
Adeline.

'Oh! my dear friend,' cried he, 'if, you are not gone home you will
break my poor mother's heart!'

'And who is your mother?'

'Her name is Savanna; and she lives with Mrs Berrendale.'

'Mrs Berrendale!' cried Mary, 'Miss Mowbray you mean.'

'No, I do not; her name was Mowbray, but is now Berrendale.'

'What! is she really married?' asked Langley.

'Yes to be sure.'

'But how do you know that she is?'

'Oh! because I went to church with them, and my mother cooked the
wedding-dinner, and I ate plum-pudding and drank punch, and we were very
merry,--only my mother cried, because my father could not come.'

'Very circumstantial evidence indeed!' cried Langley, 'and I am very
sorry that I did not know so much before. So you and your mother love
this extraordinary fine woman, Mrs Berrendale, heh?'

'Love her! To be sure--we should be very wicked if we did not. Did you
never hear the story of the pineapple?' said the tawny boy.

'Not I. What was it?' and the tawny boy, delighted to tell the story,
with sparkling eyes sat down to relate it.

'You must know, Mr Glenmurray longed for a pineapple.'

'Mrs Glenmurray you mean,' said Mary laughing immoderately.

'I know what I say,' replied the tawny boy angrily; 'and so Miss
Adeline, as she was then called, went out to buy one;--well, and so she
met my poor father going to prison, and I was crying after her, and
so--' Here he paused, and bursting into tears exclaimed, 'And perhaps
she is crying herself now, and I must go and see for her directly.'

'Do so, my fine fellow,' cried Langley: 'you had better go home, tell
your mother what has passed, and to-morrow' (accompanying him down
stairs, and speaking in a low voice) 'I will either write a note of
apology or call on Mrs Berrendale myself.'

The tawny boy instantly set off, running as fast as he could, telling
Langley first, that if any harm had happened to his friend, both he and
his mother should lie down and die. And this further proof of Adeline's
merit did not tend to calm Langley's remorse for having exposed her to
the various distresses which she had undergone at his chambers.




CHAPTER XX


Adeline awoke early the next morning perfectly sane, though weakened by
the exertions which she had experienced the night before, and saw with
surprise and alarm that she was not in her own lodging.

But she had scarcely convinced herself that she was awake, when Mrs
Selby, the mistress of the house, appeared at her bed-side, and, seeing
what was passing in her mind by her countenance, explained to her as
delicately as she could the situation in which she had been brought
there.

'And who brought me hither?' replied Adeline, dreadfully agitated, as
the remembrance of what had passed by degrees burst upon her.

'Colonel Mordaunt of the guards,' was the answer; and Adeline was
shocked to find that he was the person to whom she was under so
essential an obligation. She then hastily arose, being eager to return
home; and in a short time she was ready to enter the drawing-room, and
to express her thanks to Colonel Mordaunt.

But in vain did she insist on going home directly, to ease the fears of
her family. The physician, who arrived at the moment, forbade her going
out without having first taken both medicine and refreshment; and by
the time that, after the most earnest entreaties, she obtained leave to
depart, she recollected that, as her clothes were the same, she might
still impart disease to her child, and therefore must on no account
think of returning to Editha.

'Whither, whither then can I go?' cried she, forgetting she was not
alone.

'Why not stay here?' said the colonel, who had been purposely left
alone with her. 'O dearest of women! that you would but accept the
protection of a man who adores you; who has long loved you; who has
been so fortunate as to rescue you from a situation of misery and
danger, and the study of whose life it shall be to make you happy.'

He uttered this with such volubility, that Adeline could not find an
opportunity to interrupt him; but when he concluded, she calmly replied,
'I am willing to believe, Colonel Mordaunt, from a conversation which I
once had with you, that you are not aware of the extent of the insult
which you are now offering to me. You probably do not know that I have
been for years a married woman?'

Colonel Mordaunt started and turned pale at this intelligence; and in a
faltering voice replied, that he was indeed a stranger to her present
situation;--for that, libertine as he confessed himself to be, he had
never yet allowed himself to address the wife of another.

This speech restored him immediately to the confidence of Adeline. 'Then
I hope,' cried she, holding out her hand to him, which in spite of his
virtue he passionately kissed, 'that, as a friend, you will have the
kindness to procure me a coach to take me to a lodging a few miles out
of town, where I once was before; and that you will be so good as to
drive directly to my lodgings, and let my poor maid know what is become
of me. I dread to think,' added she bursting into tears, 'of the agony
that my unaccountable absence must have occasioned her.'

The colonel, too seriously attached to Adeline to know yet what he
wished, or what he hoped on this discovery of her situation, promised to
obey her, provided she would allow him to call on her now and then; and
Adeline was too full of gratitude to him for the service which he had
rendered her, to have resolution enough to deny his request. He then
called a coach for himself, and for Adeline, as she insisted on his
going immediately to her lodgings; and also begged that he would tell
the mulatto to send for advice, and prepare her little girl for
inoculation directly.

Adeline drove directly to her old lodgings in the country, where she was
most gladly received; and the colonel went to deliver his commission to
the mulatto.

He found her in strong hysterics; the tawny boy crying over her, and
the woman of the house holding her down on the bed by force, while the
little Editha had been conveyed to a neighbour's house, that she might
not hear the screams which had surprised and terrified her.

Colonel Mordaunt had opened the door, and was witnessing this
distressing scene, before any one was conscious of his presence; but
the tawny boy soon discovered him, and crying out--

'Oh! sir, do you bring us news of our friend?' sprang to him, and hung
almost breathless on his arm.

Savanna, who was conscious enough to know what passed, though too much
weakened from her own sufferings and anxieties to be able to struggle
with this new affliction, started up on hearing these words, and
screamed out 'Does she live? Blessed man! but say so, dat's all,' in
a tone so affecting, and with an expression of agonized curiosity so
overwhelming to the feelings, that Colonel Mordaunt, whose spirits were
not very high, was so choked that he could not immediately answer her;
and when at last he faltered out, 'She lives, and is quite well,' the
frantic joy of the mulatto overcame him still more. She jumped about his
neck, she hugged the tawny boy; and her delight was as extravagant as
her grief had been; till exhausted and silent she sunk upon the bed, and
was unable for some minutes to listen quietly to the story which Colonel
Mordaunt came to relate.

When she was composed enough to listen to it, she did not long remain
so; for as soon as she heard that Colonel Mordaunt had met Adeline in
her phrensy, and conveyed her to a place of safety, she fell at his
feet, embraced his knees, and, making the tawny boy kneel down by her,
invoked the blessing of God on him so fervently and so eloquently that
Colonel Mordaunt wept like a child, and, exclaiming, 'Upon my soul, my
good woman, I cannot bear this,' was forced to run out of the house to
recover his emotion.

When he returned, Savanna said 'Well--now, blessed sir, take me to my
dear lady.'

'Indeed,' replied he, 'I must not; you are forbidden to see her.'

'Forbidden!' replied she, her eyes flashing fire; 'and who dare to keep
Savanna from her own mistress?--I will see her.'

'Not if she forbids it, Savanna; and if her child's life should be
endangered by it?'

'O, no, to be sure not,' cried the tawny boy, who doted upon Editha,
and, having fetched her back from the next house, was lulling her to
sleep in his arms.

Colonel Mordaunt started at sight of the child, and, stooping down to
kiss its rosy cheek, sighed deeply as he turned away again.

'Well,' cried Savanna, 'you talk very strange--me no understand.'

'But you shall, my excellent creature,' replied the colonel,
'immediately.' He then entered on a full explanation to Savanna; who
had no sooner heard that her mistress feared that she had been so much
exposed to the infection of the small-pox, as to make her certain of
giving it to her child, than she exclaimed, 'Oh, my good God! save and
protect her own self! She never have it, and she may get it and die!'

'Surely you must be mistaken,' replied the colonel, 'Mrs Berrendale must
have recollected and mentioned her own danger if this be the case.'

'She!' hastily interrupted the mulatto, 'she tink of herself! Never--she
only mind others' good. Do you tink, if she be one selfish beast like
her husban, Savanna love her so dear? No, Mr Colonel, me know her, and
me know though we may save the child we may lose the mother.' Here she
began to weep bitterly; while the colonel, more in love than ever with
Adeline from these proofs of her goodness, resolved to lose no time in
urging her to undergo herself the operation which she desired for
Editha.

Then, begging the mulatto to send for a surgeon directly, in spite
of the tears of the tawny boy, who thought it cruel to run the risk
of spoiling Miss Editha's pretty face, he took his leave, saying
to himself, 'What a heart has this Adeline! how capable of feeling
affection! for no one can inspire it who is not able to feel it: and
this creature is thrown away on a man undeserving her, it seems!'

On this intelligence he continued to muse till he arrived at Adeline's
lodgings, to whom he communicated all that had passed; and from whom
he learned, with great anxiety, that it was but too true that she had
never had the small-pox; and that, therefore, she should probably show
symptoms of the disease in a few days: consequently, as she considered
it too late for her to be inoculated, she should do all that now
remained to be done for her security, by low living and good air.

That same evening Colonel Mordaunt returned to Savanna, in hopes of
learning from her some further particulars respecting Adeline's husband;
as he felt that his conscience would not be much hurt by inducing
Adeline to leave the protection of a man who was unworthy of possessing
her. Fortunately for his wishes, he could not wish to hear more than
Savanna wished to tell every thing relating to her adored lady: and
Colonel Mordaunt heard with generous indignation of the perfidious
conduct of Berrendale; vowing, at the same time, that his time, his
interest, and his fortune, should all be devoted to bring such a villain
to justice, and to secure to the injured Editha her rightful
inheritance.

The mulatto was in raptures:--she told Colonel Mordaunt that he was a
charming man, and infinitely handsomer than Berrendale, though she must
own he was very good to look at; and she wished with all her soul that
Colonel Mordaunt was married to her lady; for then she believed she
would have never known sorrow, but been as happy as the day was long.

Colonel Mordaunt could not hear this without a secret pang. 'Had I
followed,' said he mentally, 'the dictates of my heart when I saw
Adeline at Bath, I might now, perhaps, instead of being a forlorn
unattached being, have been a happy husband and father; and Adeline,
instead of having been the mistress of one man, the disowned wife of
another, might have been happy and beloved, and as respectable in the
eyes of the world as she is in those of her grateful mulatto.'

However, there was some hope left for him yet.--Adeline, he thought, was
not a woman likely to be over-scrupulous in her ideas; and might very
naturally think herself at liberty to accept the protection of a lover,
when, from no fault of hers, she had lost that of her husband.

It is natural to suppose that, while elevated with these hopes, he did
not fail to be very constant in his visits to Adeline; and that at
length, more led by passion than policy, he abruptly, at the end of ten
days, informed Adeline that he knew her situation, and that he trusted
that she would allow him to hope that in due time his love, which had
been proof against time, absence, and disdain, would meet with reward;
and that, on his settling a handsome income on her and her child for
their joint lives, she would allow him to endeavour to make her as happy
as she, and she only, could make him.

To this proposal, which was in form of a letter, Colonel Mordaunt did
not receive an immediate answer; nor was it at first likely that he
should ever receive an answer to it at all, as Adeline was at the moment
of its arrival confined to her bed, according to her expectations, with
the disease which she had been but too fearful of imbibing: while the
half-distracted mulatto was forced to give up to others the care of the
sickening Editha, to watch over the delirious and unconscious Adeline.

But the tawny boy's generous benefactress gave him leave to remain at
Adeline's lodgings, in order to calm his fears for Editha, and assist
in amusing and keeping her quiet; and if attention had any share in
preserving the life and beauty of Editha, it was to the affectionate
tawny boy that she owed them; and he was soon rewarded for all his care
and anxiety by seeing his little charge able to play about as usual.

Colonel Mordaunt and the mulatto meanwhile did not obtain so speedy a
termination to their anxieties: Adeline's recovery was for a long time
a matter of doubt; and her weakness so great after the crisis of the
disorder was past, that none ventured to pronounce her, even then, out
of danger.

But at length she was in a great measure restored to health, and able to
determine what line of conduct it was necessary for her to pursue.--To
return an answer to Colonel Mordaunt's proposals was certainly her first
business; but as she felt that the situation in which he had once
known her made his offer less affronting than it would have been under
other circumstances, she resolved to speak to him on the subject with
gentleness, not severity; especially as during her illness, to amuse the
anxiety that had preyed upon him, he had taken every possible step to
procure evidence of the marriage, and gave into Savanna's hands, the
first day that he was permitted to see her, an attested certificate of
it.




CHAPTER XXI


The first question which Adeline asked on her recovery was, Whether any
letter had come by the general-post during her illness; and Savanna gave
one to her immediately.

It was the letter so ardently desired; for the direction was in her
mother's hand-writing! and she opened it full of eager expectation,
while her whole existence seemed to depend on the nature of its contents.
What then must have been her agony on finding that the _enveloppe_
contained nothing but her own letter returned! For some time she spoke
not, she breathed not; while Savanna mixed with expressions of terror,
at sight of her mistress's distress, poured execrations on the unnatural
parent who had so cruelly occasioned it.

After a few days' incessant struggle to overcome the violence of her
sorrow, Adeline recovered the shock, in appearance at least: yet to
Savanna's self-congratulations she could not help answering (laying her
hand on her heart) 'The blow is here, Savanna, and the wound incurable.'

Soon after she thought herself well enough to see Colonel Mordaunt,
and to thank him for the recent proof of his attention to her and her
interest. But no obligation, however great, could shut the now vigilant
eyes of Adeline to the impropriety of receiving further visits from him,
or to the guilt of welcoming to her house a man who made open
professions to her of illicit love.

She however thought it her duty to see him once more, in order to try
to reconcile him to the necessity of the rule of conduct which she was
going to lay down for herself; nor was she without hope that the yet
recent traces of the disease, to which she had so nearly fallen a
victim, would make her appearance so unpleasing to the eyes of her
lover, that he would be very willing to absent himself from the house,
for some time at least, and probably give up all thoughts of her.

But she did neither herself nor Colonel Mordaunt justice.--She was
formed to inspire a real and lasting passion--a passion that no external
change could destroy--since it was founded on the unchanging qualities
of the heart and mind: and Colonel Mordaunt felt for her such an
attachment in all its force. He had always admired the attractive person
and winning graces of Adeline, and felt for her what he denominated
love; but that rational though enthusiastic preference, which is
deserving of the name of true love, he never felt till he had had an
opportunity to appreciate justly the real character of Adeline: still
there were times when he felt almost gratified to reflect that she could
not legally be his; for, whatever might have been the cause and excuse
of her errors, she had erred, and the delicacy of his mind revolted at
the idea of marrying the mistress of another.

But when he saw and heard Adeline, this repugnance vanished; and he knew
that, could he at those moments lead her to the altar, he should not
have hesitated to bind himself to her for ever by the sacred ties which
the early errors of her judgment had made her even in his opinion almost
unworthy to form.

At length a day was fixed for his interview with Adeline, and with a
beating heart he entered the apartment; nor was his emotion diminished
when he beheld not only the usual vestiges of her complaint, but
symptoms of debility, and a death-like meagreness of aspect, which
made him fear that though one malady was conquered, another, even more
dangerous, remained. The idea overcame him; and he was forced to turn
to the window to hide his emotion: and his manner was so indicative of
ardent yet respectful attachment, that Adeline began to feel in spite of
herself that her projected task was difficult of execution.

For some minutes neither of them spoke: Mordaunt held the hand which she
gave him to his heart, kissed it as she withdrew it, and again turned
away his head to conceal a starting tear: while Adeline was not sorry to
have a few moments in which to recover herself, before she addressed him
on the subject at that time nearest to the heart of both. At length she
summoned resolution enough to say:--

'Much as I have been mortified and degraded, Colonel Mordaunt, by
the letter which I have received from you, still I rejoice that I did
receive it:--in the first place, I rejoice, because I look on all the
sufferings and mortifications which I meet with as merciful chastisements,
as expiations inflicted on me in mercy by the Being whom I adore, for
the sins of which I have been guilty; and, in the second place, because
it gives me an opportunity of proving, incontrovertibly, my full
conviction of the fallacy of my past opinions, and that I became a wife,
after my idle declamations against marriage, from change of principle,
on assurance of error, and not from interest, or necessity.'

Here she paused, overcome with the effort which she had made; and
Colonel Mordaunt would have interrupted her, but, earnestly conjuring
him to give her a patient hearing, she proceeded thus:--

'Had the change in my practice been the result of any thing but rational
conviction, I should now, unfortunate as I have been in the choice of a
husband, regret that ever I formed so foolish a tie, and perhaps be
induced to enter into a less sacred connexion, from an idea that that
state which forced me to drag out existence in hopeless misery was
contrary to reason, justice, and the benefit of society; and that, the
sooner its ties were dissolved, the better it would be for individual
happiness and for the world at large.'

'And do you not think so?' cried Colonel Mordaunt; 'cannot your own
individual experience convince you of it?'

'Far from it,' replied Adeline: 'and I bless God that it does not: for
thence, and thence only, do I begin to be reconciled to myself. I have
no doubt that there is a great deal of individual suffering in the
marriage state, from a contrariety of temper and other causes; but I
believe that the mass of happiness and virtue is certainly increased by
it. Individual suffering, therefore, is no argument for the abolition
of marriage, than the accidental bursting of a musket would be for the
total abolition of fire-arms.'

'But, surely, dear Mrs Berrendale, you would wish divorce to be made
easier than it is?'

'By no means.' interrupted Adeline, understanding what he was going to
say: 'to BEAR and FORBEAR I believe to be the grand secret of happiness,
and that it ought to be the great study of life: therefore, whatever
would enable married persons to separate on the slightest quarrel or
disgust, would make it so much the less necessary for us to learn this
important lesson; a lesson so needful in order to perfect the human
character, that I believe the difficulty of divorce to be one of the
greatest blessings of society.'

'What can have so completely changed your opinions on this subject?'
replied Colonel Mordaunt.

'Not my own experience,' returned Adeline; 'for the painful situations
in which I have been placed, I might attribute, not to the fallacy of
the system on which I have acted, but to those existing prejudices in
society which I wish to see destroyed.'

'Then, to what else is the change in your sentiments to be attributed?'

'To a more serious, unimpassioned, and unprejudiced view of the subject
than I had before taken: at present I am not equal to expatiate on
matters so important: however, some time or other, perhaps, I may make
known to you my sentiments on them in a more ample manner: but I have, I
trust, said enough to lead you to conclude, that though Mr Berrendale's
conduct to me has been atrocious, and that you are in many respects
entitled to my gratitude and thanks, you and I must henceforward be
strangers to each other.'

Colonel Mordaunt, little expecting such a total overthrow to his hopes,
was, on receiving it, choked with contending emotions; and his broken
sentences and pale cheek were sufficiently expressive of the distress
which he endured. But I shall not enter into a detail of all he urged
in favour of his passion; nor the calm, dignified, manner in which
Adeline replied. Suffice that, at last, from a sort of intuitive
knowledge of the human heart, as it were, which persons of quick talent
and sensibilities possess however defective their experience, Adeline
resolved to try to soothe the self-love which she had wounded, knowing
that self-love is scarcely to be distinguished in its effects from love
itself; and that the agony of disappointed passion is always greater
when it is inflicted by the coldness or falsehood of the beloved object,
than when it proceeds from parental prohibition, or the cruel separation
enjoined by conscious poverty. She therefore told Colonel Mordaunt that
he was once very near being the first choice of her heart: when she
first saw him, she said, his person, and manners, and attentions, had so
strongly prepossessed her in his favour, that he himself, by ceasing to
see and converse with her, could alone have saved her from the pain of a
hopeless attachment.

'In pity, spare me,' cried Mordaunt, 'the contemplation of the happiness
I might have enjoyed!'

'But you know you were not a marrying-man, as it is called; and forgive
me if I say, that men who can on system suppress the best feelings of
their nature, and prefer a course of libertine indulgence to a virtuous
connexion, at that time of life when they might become happy husbands
and fathers, with the reasonable expectation of living to see their
children grown up to manhood, and superintending their education
themselves--such men, Colonel Mordaunt, deserve, in the decline of life,
to feel that regret and that self-condemnation which you this moment
anticipate.'

'True--too true!' replied the colonel; 'but, for mercy's sake, torture
me no more.'

'I would not probe where I did not intend to make a cure,' replied
Adeline.

'A cure!--what mean you!'

'I mean to induce you, ere it be yet too late, to endeavour to form a
virtuous attachment, and to unite yourself for life with some amiable
young woman who will make you as happy as I would have endeavoured to
make you, had it been my fortunate lot to be yours: for, believe me,
Colonel Mordaunt,' and her voice faltered as she said it, 'had _he_,
whom I still continue to love with unabated tenderness, though years
have elapsed since he was taken from me,--had he bequeathed me to you on
his death-bed, the reluctance with which I went to the altar would have
been more easily overcome.'

Saying this, she suddenly left the room, leaving Colonel Mordaunt
surprised, gratified, and his mind struggling between hopes and fears;
for Adeline was not conscious that she imparted hope as well as
consolation by the method which she pursued; and though she sent Savanna
to tell the colonel she could see him no more that evening, he departed
in firm expectation that Adeline would not have resolution to forbid him
to see her again.

In this, however, he was mistaken; Adeline had learnt the best of all
lessons, distrust of her own strength:--and she resolved to put it out
of her power to receive visits which a regard to propriety forbade, and
which might injure her reputation, if not her peace of mind. Therefore,
as soon as Colonel Mordaunt was gone, she summoned Savanna, and desired
her to proceed to business.

'What!' cried the delighted mulatto, 'are we going to prosecu massa?'

'No,' replied Adeline, 'we are going into the country: I am come to
a determination to take no legal steps in this affair, but leave Mr
Berrendale to the reproaches of his own conscience.'

'A fiddle's end!' replied Savanna, 'he have no conscience, or he no
leave you: better get him hang, if you can; den you marry de colonel.'

'I had better hang the father of my child, had I, Savanna?'

'Oh! no, no, no, no,--me forget dat.'

'But I do not, nor can I even bear to disgrace the father of Editha:
therefore, trusting that I can dispose of her, and secure her interest
better than by forcing her father to do her justice, and bastardize the
poor innocent whom his wife will soon bring into the world, I am going
to bury myself in retirement, and live the short remainder of my days
unknowing and unknown.'




CHAPTER XXII


Savanna was going to remonstrate, but the words 'short remainder of my
days' distressed her so much, that tears choked her words; and she
obeyed in silence her mistress's orders to pack up, except when she
indulged in a few exclamations against her lady's cruelty in going away
without taking leave of Colonel Mordaunt, who, sweet gentleman, would
break his heart at her departure, especially as he was not to know
whither she was going. A postchaise was at the door the next morning at
six o'clock; and as Adeline had not much luggage, having left the chief
part of her furniture to be divided between the mistresses of her two
lodgings, in return for their kind attention to her and her child, she
took an affectionate leave of her landlady, and desired the post-boy
to drive a mile on the road before him: and when he had done so, she
ordered him to go on to Barnet; while the disappointed mulatto thanked
God that the tawny boy was gone to Scotland with his protectress, as it
prevented her having the mortification of leaving him behind her, as
well as the colonel.--'O had I such a lover,' cried she, (her eyes
filling with tears,) 'me never leave him, nor he me!' and for the first
time she thought her angel-lady hard-hearted.

For some miles they proceeded in silence, for Adeline was too much
engrossed to speak; and the little Editha, being fast asleep in the
mulatto's arms, did not draw her mother out of the reverie into which she
had fallen.

'And where now?' said the mulatto, when the chaise stopped.

'To the next stage on the high north road.' And on they went again; nor
did they stop, except for refreshments, till they had travelled thirty
miles; when Adeline, worn out with fatigue, staid all night at the
inn where the chaise stopped, and the next morning they resumed their
journey, but not their silence. The mulatto could no longer restrain her
curiosity; and she begged to know whither they were going, and why they
were to be buried in the country?

Adeline, sighing deeply, answered, that they were going to live in
Cumberland; and then sunk into silence again, as she could not give the
mulatto her true reasons for the plan that she was pursuing without
wounding her affectionate heart in a manner wholly incurable. The truth
was, that Adeline supposed herself to be declining: she thought that
she experienced those dreadful languors, those sensations of internal
weakness, which, however veiled to the eye of the observer, speak in
forcible language to the heart of the conscious sufferer. Indeed,
Adeline had long struggled, but in vain, against feelings of a most
overwhelming nature; amongst which, remorse and horror, for having led
by her example and precepts an innocent girl into a life of infamy, were
the most painfully predominant: for, believing Mary Warner's assertion
when she saw her at Mr Langley's chambers, she looked upon that unhappy
girl's guilt as the consequence of her own; and mourned, incessantly
mourned, over the fatal errors of her early judgment, which had made
her, though an idolater of virtue, a practical assistant to the cause
of vice. When Adeline imagined the term of her existence to be drawing
nigh, her mother, her obdurate but still dear mother, regained her
wonted ascendancy over her affections; and to her, the approach of
death seemed fraught with satisfaction. For that parent, so long, so
repeatedly deaf to her prayers, and to the detail of those sufferings
which she had made one of the conditions of her forgiveness, had
promised to see and to forgive her on her _death-bed_; and her heart
yearned, fondly yearned, for the moment when she should be pressed to
the bosom of a relenting parent.

To Cumberland, therefore, she was resolved to hasten, and into the very
neighbourhood of Mrs Mowbray; while, as the chaise wheeled them along to
the place of their destination, even the prattle of her child could not
always withdraw her from the abstraction into which she was plunged, as
the scenes of her early years thronged upon her memory, and with them
the recollection of those proofs of a mother's fondness, for a renewal
of which, even in the society of Glenmurray, she had constantly and
despondingly sighed.

As they approached Penrith, her emotion redoubled, and she involuntarily
exclaimed--'Cruel, but still dear, mother, you little think your child
is so near!'

'Heaven save me!' cried Savanna; 'are we to go and be near dat woman?'

'Yes,' replied Adeline. 'Did she not say she would forgive me on my
death-bed?'

'But you not there yet, dear missess,' sobbed Savanna; 'you not there of
long years!'

'Savanna,' returned Adeline, 'I should die contented to purchase my
mother's blessing and forgiveness.'

Savanna, speechless with contending emotions, could not express by words
the feeling of mixed sorrow and indignation which overwhelmed her; but
she replied by putting Editha in Adeline's arms; then articulating with
effort, 'Look there!' she sobbed aloud.

'I understand you,' said Adeline, kissing away the tears gathering in
Editha's eyes, at sight of Savanna's distress: 'but perhaps I think my
death would be of more service to my child than my life.'

'And to me too, I suppose,' replied Savanna reproachfully. 'Well,--me go
to Scotland; for no one love me but the tawny boy.'

'You will stay and close my eyes first, I hope!' observed Adeline
mournfully.

In a moment Savanna's resentment vanished. 'Me will live and die vid
you,' she replied, her tears redoubling, while Adeline again sunk into
thoughtful silence.

As soon as they reached Penrith, Adeline inquired for lodgings out
of the town, on that side nearest to her mother's abode; and was so
fortunate, as she esteemed herself, to procure two apartments at a small
house within two miles of Mrs Mowbray's.

'Then I breathe once more the same air with my mother!' exclaimed
Adeline as she took possession of her lodging. 'Savanna, methinks I
breathe freer already!'

'Me more choked,' replied the mulatto, and turned sullenly away.

'Nay, I--I feel so much better, that to-morrow I will--I will take a
walk,' said Adeline hesitatingly.

'And where?' asked Savanna eagerly.

'Oh, to-night I shall only walk to bed,' replied Adeline smiling; and
with unusual cheerfulness she retired to rest.

The next morning she arose early; and being informed that a stile near a
peasant's cottage commanded a view of Mrs Mowbray's house, she hired a
man and cart to convey her to the bottom of the hill, and with Editha by
her side she set out to indulge her feelings by gazing on the house
which contained her mother.

When they alighted, Editha gaily endeavoured to climb the hill, and
urged her mother to follow her; but Adeline, rendered weak by illness
and breathless by emotion, felt the ascent so difficult, that no motive
less powerful than the one which actuated her could have enabled her to
reach the summit.

At length, however, she did reach it:--and the lawn before Mrs Mowbray's
white house, her hay-fields, and the running stream at the bottom of
it, burst in all their beauty on her view.--'And this is my mother's
dwelling!' exclaimed Adeline: 'and there was I born: and near here--'
shall I die, she would have added, but her voice failed her.

'Oh! what a pretty house and garden!' cried Editha in the unformed
accents of childhood;--'how I should like to live there!'

This artless remark awakened a thousand mixed and overpowering feelings
in the bosom of Adeline; and, after a pause of strong emotion, she
exclaimed, catching the little prattler to her heart--'you _shall_ live
there, my child!--yes, yes, you _shall_ live there!'

'But when?' resumed Editha.

'When I am in my grave,' answered Adeline.

'And when shall you be there?' replied the unconscious child, fondly
caressing her: 'pray, mamma--pray be there soon!'

Adeline turned away, unable to answer her.

'Look--look, mamma!'--resumed Editha: 'there are ladies.--Oh! do let us
go there now!--why can't we?'

'Would to God we could!' replied Adeline; as in one of the ladies she
recognized Mrs Mowbray, and stood gazing on her till her eyes ached
again: but what she felt on seeing her she will herself describe in the
succeeding pages: and I shall only add, that, as soon as Mrs Mowbray
returned into the house, Adeline, wrapped in a long and mournful
reverie, returned, full of a new plan, to her lodgings.

There is no love so disinterested as parental love; and Adeline had all
the keen sensibilities of a parent. To make, therefore, 'assurance
doubly sure' that Mrs Mowbray should receive and should love her orphan
when she was no more, she resolved to give up the gratification to which
she had looked forward, the hope, before she died, of obtaining her
forgiveness--that she might not weaken, by directing any part of them to
herself, those feelings of remorse, fruitless tenderness, and useless
regret in her mother's bosom, which she wished should be concentrated on
her child.

'No,' said Adeline to herself, 'I am sure that she will not refuse to
receive my orphan to her love and protection when I am no more, and am
become alike insensible of reproaches and of blessings; and I think that
she will love my child the more tenderly, because to me she will be
unable to express the compunction which, sooner or later, she will feel
from the recollection of her conduct towards me: therefore, I will make
no demands on her love for myself; but, in a letter to be given her
after my decease, bequeath my orphan to her care;'--and with this
determination she returned from her ride.

'Have you see her?' said Savanna, running out to meet her.

'Yes--but not spoken to her; nor shall I see her again.'

'What--I suppose she see you, and not speak?'

'Oh, no; she did not see me, nor shall I urge her to see me: my plans
are altered,' replied Adeline.

'And we go back to town and Colonel Mordaunt?'

'No,' resumed Adeline, sighing deeply, and preparing to write to Mrs
Mowbray.

But it is necessary that we should for a short time go back to
Berrendale, and relate that, while Adeline and Editha were confined with
the small-pox, Mr Drury received a summons from his employer in Jamaica
to go over thither, to be intrusted with some particular business: in
consequence of this he resolved to call again on Adeline, and inquire
whether she still persisted in styling herself Mrs Berrendale; as he
concluded that Berrendale would be very glad of all the information
relative to her and her child which he could possibly procure, whether
his curiosity on the subject proceeded from fear or love.

It so happened, that as soon as Editha, as well as her mother, was in
the height of the disorder, Mr Drury called; and finding that they were
both very bad, he thought that his friend Berrendale was likely to get
rid of both his encumbrances at once; and being eager to communicate
good news to a man whose influence in the island might be a benefit to
him, he every day called to inquire concerning their health.

The second floor in the house where Adeline lodged was then occupied by
a young woman in indigent circumstances, who, as well as her child, had
sickened with the distemper the very day that Editha was inoculated: and
when Drury, just as he was setting off for Portsmouth, ran to gain the
latest intelligence of the invalids, a charwoman, who attended to the
door, not being acquainted with the name of the poor young woman and her
little girl, concluding that Mr Drury, by Mrs Berrendale and miss who
were ill with the small-pox, meant them, replied to his inquiries,--'Ah,
poor things! it is all over with them, they died last night.'

On which, not staying for any further intelligence, Drury set off for
Portsmouth, and arrived at Jamaica just as Berrendale was going to remit
to Adeline a draft for a hundred pounds. For Adeline and the injury
which he had done her, had been for some days constantly present to
his thoughts. He had been ill; and as indigestion, the cause of his
complaints, is apt to occasion disturbed dreams, he had in his dreams
been haunted by the image of Glenmurray, who, with a threatening aspect,
had reproached him with cruelty and base ingratitude to him, in
deserting in such a manner the wife whom he had bequeathed to him.

The constant recurrence of these dreams had depressed his spirits and
excited his remorse so much, that he could calm his feelings in no other
way than by writing a kind letter to Adeline, and enclosing her a draft
on his banker. This letter was on the point of being sent when Drury
arrived, and, with very little ceremony, informed him that Adeline was
dead.

'Dead!' exclaimed Berrendale, falling almost sensless on his couch:
'Dead!--Oh! for God's sake, tell me of what she died!--Surely, surely,
she--' Here his voice failed him.

Drury coolly replied, that she and her child both died of the small-pox.

'But _when_? my dear fellow!--when? Say that they died nine months ago'
(that was previous to his marriage) 'and you make me your friend for
life!'

Drury, so _bribed_, would have said _any thing_; and, with all the
coolness possible, he replied, 'Then be my friend for life:--they died
rather better than nine months ago.'

Berrendale, being then convinced that bigamy was not likely to be proved
against him, soon forgot, in the joy which this thought occasioned him,
remorse for his conduct to Adeline, and regret for her early fate:
besides, he concluded that he saved L100 by the means; for he knew not
that the delicate mind of Adeline would have scorned to owe pecuniary
obligations to the husband who had basely and unwarrantably deserted
her.

But he was soon undeceived on this subject, by a letter which Colonel
Mordaunt wrote in confidence to a friend in Jamaica, begging him to
inquire concerning Mr Berrendale's second marriage; and to inform him
privately that his injured wife had zealous and powerful friends in
England, who were continually urging her to prosecute him for bigamy.

This intelligence had a fatal effect on the health of Berrendale; for
though the violent temper and overbearing disposition of his second
wife had often made him regret the gentle and compliant Adeline, and a
separation from her, consequently, would be a blessing, still he feared
to encounter the disgrace of a prosecution, and still more the anger of
his West Indian wife; who, it was not improbable, might even attack his
life in the first moment of ungoverned passion.

And to these fears he soon fell a sacrifice; for a frame debilitated by
intemperance could not support the assaults made on it by the continued
apprehensions which Colonel Mordaunt's friend had excited in him; and he
died in that gentleman's presence, whom in his last moments he had
summoned to his apartment to witness a will, by which he owned Adeline
Mowbray to be his lawful wife, and left Editha, his acknowledged and
only heir, a very considerable fortune.

But this circumstance, an account of which, with the will, was
transmitted to Colonel Mordaunt, did not take place till long after
Adeline took up her abode in Cumberland.




CHAPTER XXIII


But to return to Colonel Mordaunt. Though Adeline had said that he
must discontinue his visits, he resolved to disobey her; and the next
morning, as soon as he thought she had breakfasted, he repaired to her
lodgings; where he heard, with mixed sorrow and indignation, that she
had set off in a post-chaise at six o'clock, and was gone no one knew
whither.

'But, surely she has left some note or message for me!' exclaimed
Colonel Mordaunt.

'Neither the one nor the other,' was the answer; and he returned home in
no very enviable state of mind.

Various, indeed, and contradictory were his feelings: yet still
affection was uppermost; and he could not but respect in Adeline the
conduct which drove him to despair. Nor was self-love backward to
suggest to him, that had not Adeline felt his presence and attentions to
be dangerous, she would not so suddenly have withdrawn from them; and
this idea was the only one on which he could at all bear to dwell: for,
when he reflected that day after day might pass without his either
seeing or hearing from her, existence seemed to become suddenly a
burthen, and he wandered from place to place with joyless and unceasing
restlessness.

At one time he resolved to pursue her; but the next, piqued at not
having received from her even a note of farewell, he determined to
endeavour to forget her: and this was certainly the wiser plan of the
two: but the succeeding moment he determined to let a week pass, in
hopes of receiving a letter from her, and, in case he did not, to set
off in search of her, being assured of succeeding in his search of her,
because the singularity of Savanna's appearance, and the traces of the
small-pox visible in the face of Adeline, made them liable to be
observed, and easy for him to describe.

But before the week elapsed, from agitation of mind, and from having
exposed himself unnecessarily to cold, by lying on damp grass at
midnight, after having heated himself by immoderate walking, Colonel
Mordaunt became ill of a fever; and when, after a confinement of several
weeks, he was restored to health, he despaired of being able to learn
tidings of the fugitives; and disappointed and dejected, he sought
in the gayest scenes of the metropolis and its environs to drown the
remembrances, from which in solitude he had vainly endeavoured to fly.
At this time a faded but attractive woman of quality, with whom he had
formerly been intimate, returned from abroad, and, meeting Colonel
Mordaunt at the house of a mutual friend, endeavoured to revive in him
his former attachment: but it was a difficult task for a woman, who had
never been able to touch the heart, to excite an attachment in a man
already sentimentally devoted to another.

Her advances, however, flattered Colonel Mordaunt, and her society
amused him, till, at length, their intimacy was renewed on its former
footing: but soon tired of his mistress, and displeased with himself, he
took an abrupt leave of her, and throwing himself into his post-chaise,
retired to the seat of a relation in Herefordshire.

Near this gentleman's house lived Mr Maynard and his two sisters,
who had taken up their abode there immediately on their return from
Portugal. Major Douglas, his wife, and Emma Douglas, were then on a
visit to them. Mordaunt had known Major Douglas in early life; and as
soon as he found that he was in the neighbourhood, he rode over to renew
his acquaintance with him; and received so cordial a welcome, not only
from the major, but the master of the house and his sisters, that he was
strongly induced to repeat his visits, and not a day passed in which he
was not, during some part of it, a guest at Mr Maynard's.

Mrs Wallington and Miss Maynard, indeed, received him with such pointed
marks of distinction and preference, as to make it visible to every
observer that it was not as a friend only they were desirous of
considering Colonel Mordaunt; while, by spiteful looks and acrimonious
remarks directed to each other, the sisters expressed the jealousy which
rankled in their hearts, whenever he seemed by design or inadvertency to
make one of them the particular object of his attention.

Of Emma Douglas's chance for his favour, they were not at all
fearful:--they thought her too plain, and too unattractive, to be
capable of rivalling them; especially in the favour of an officer, a man
of fashion; and therefore they beheld without emotion the attention
which Colonel Mordaunt paid to her whenever she spoke, and the deference
which he evidently felt for her opinion, as her remarks on whatever
subject she conversed were formed always to interest, and often to
instruct.

One evening, while Major Douglas was amusing himself in looking over
some magazines which had lately been bound up together, and had not yet
been deposited in Mr Maynard's library, he suddenly started, laid down
the book, and turning to the window, with an exclamation of--'Poor
fellow!'--passed his hand across his eyes, as if meaning to disperse an
involuntary tear.

'What makes you exclaim "Poor fellow?"' asked his lovely wife: 'have you
met with an affecting story in those magazines?'

'No, Louisa,' replied he, 'but I met in the obituary with a confirmation
of the death of an old friend, which I suspected must have happened by
this time, though I never knew it before; I see by this magazine that
poor Glenmurray died a very few months after we saw him at Perpignan.'

'Poor fellow!' exclaimed Mrs Douglas.

'I wish I knew what is become of his interesting companion, Miss
Mowbray,' said Emma Douglas.

'I wish I did too,' secretly sighed Colonel Mordaunt: but his heart
palpitated so violently at this unexpected mention of the woman for whom
he still pined in secret, that he had not resolution to say that he knew
her.

'Become of her!' cried Miss Maynard sneeringly: 'you need not wonder,
I think, what her fate is: no doubt Mr Glenmurray's _interesting
companion_ has not lost her companionable qualities, and is a companion
still.'

'Yes,' observed Mrs Wallington; 'or, rather, I dare say that angel of
purity is gone upon the town.'

It was the dark hour, else Colonel Mordaunt's agitation, on hearing
these gross and unjust remarks, must have betrayed his secret to every
eye; while indignation now impeded his utterance as much as confusion
had done before.

'Surely, surely,' cried the kind and candid Emma Douglas, 'I must
grossly have mistaken Miss Mowbray's character, if she was capable of
the conduct which you attribute to her!'

'My dear creature!' replied Mrs Wallington, 'how should you know
any thing of her character, when it was gone long before you knew
her?--_Character_, indeed! you remind me of my brother--Mr Davenport,'
continued she to a gentleman present, 'did you ever hear the story of
my brother and an angel of purity whom he met with abroad?'

'No--never.'

'Be quiet,' said Maynard; 'I will not be laughed at.'

However, Mrs Wallington and Miss Maynard, who had not yet forgiven
the deep impression which Adeline's graces had made on their brother,
insisted on telling the story; to which Colonel Mordaunt listened with
eager and anxious curiosity. It received all the embellishments which
female malice could give it; and if it amused any one, certainly that
person was neither Mordaunt, nor Emma Douglas, nor her gentle sister.

'But how fortunate it was,' added Miss Maynard, 'that we were not with
my brother! as we should unavoidably have walked and talked with this
angel.'

Mordaunt longed to say, 'I think the good fortune was all on Miss
Mowbray's side.'

But Adeline and her cause were in good hands: Emma Douglas stood forth
as her champion.--'We feel very differently on that subject,' she
replied. 'I shall ever regret, not that I saw and conversed with Miss
Mowbray, but that I did not see and converse with her again and again.'

At this moment Emma was standing by Colonel Mordaunt, who involuntarily
caught her hand and pressed it eagerly; but tried to disguise his
motives by suddenly seating her in a chair behind her, saying, 'You had
better sit down; I am sure you must be tired with standing so long.'

'No; really, Emma,' cried Major Douglas, 'you go too far there; though
to be sure, if by seeing and conversing with Miss Mowbray you could have
convinced her of her errors, I should not have objected to your seeing
her once more or so.'

'Surely,' said Mrs Douglas timidly, 'we ought, my love, to have repeated
our visits till we had made a convert of her.'

'A _convert_ of her!' exclaimed Mr Maynard's sisters, 'a convert of a
kept mistress!' bursting into a violent laugh, which had a most painful
effect on the irritable nerves of Colonel Mordaunt, whose tongue,
parched with emotion, cleaved to the roof of his mouth whenever he
attempted to speak.

'Pray, to what other circumstance, yet untold, do you allude?' said Mr
Davenport.

'Oh, we too had a rencontre with the philosopher and his charming
friend,' said Major Douglas, 'and--but, Emma, do you tell the
story.--'Sdeath!--Poor fellow!--Well, but we parted good friends,' added
the kind-hearted Caledonian, dispersing a tear; while Emma, in simple
but impressive language, related all that passed at Perpignan between
themselves, Adeline, and Glenmurray; and concluded with saying, that,
'from the almost idolatrous respect with which Glenmurray spoke and
apparently thought of Adeline, and from the account of her conduct and
its motives, which he so fully detailed, she was convinced that, so
far from being influenced by depravity in connecting herself with
Glenmurray, Adeline was the victim of a romantic, absurd, and false
conception of virtue; and she should have thought it her duty to have
endeavoured, assisted by her sister, to have prevailed on her to
renounce her opinions, and, by becoming the wife of Glenmurray, to
restore to the society of her own sex, a woman formed to be its ornament
and its example. 'Poor thing!' she added in a faltering voice, 'would
that I knew her fate!'

'I can guess it, I tell you,' said Mrs Wallington.

'We had better drop the subject, madam,' replied Emma Douglas
indignantly, 'as it is one that we shall never agree upon. If I supposed
Miss Mowbray happy, I should feel for her, and feel interest sufficient
in her fate to make me combat your prejudices concerning her; but now
that she is perhaps afflicted, poor, friendless, and scorned, though
unjustly, by every "virtuous she that knows her story," I cannot command
my feelings when she is named with sarcastic respect, nor can I bear to
hear an unhappy woman supposed to be plunged in the lowest depths of
vice, whom I, on the contrary, believe to be at this moment atoning for
the error of her judgment by a life of lonely penitence, or sunk perhaps
already in the grave, the victim of a broken heart.'

Colonel Mordaunt, affected and delighted, hung on Emma Douglas's words
with breathless attention, resolving when she had ended her narration to
begin his, and clear Adeline from the calumnies of Mrs Wallington and
Miss Maynard: but after articulating with some difficulty--'Ladies,--I
--Miss Douglas,--I--' he found that his feelings would not allow him to
proceed: therefore, suddenly raising Emma's hand to his lips, imprinted
on it a kiss, at once fervent and respectful, and, making a hasty bow,
ran out of the house.

Every one was astonished; but none so much as Emma Douglas.

'Why, Emma!' cried the major, 'who should have thought it? I verily
believe you have turned Mordaunt's head;--I protest that he kissed your
hand:--I suppose he will be here to-morrow, making proposals in form.'

'I wish he may!' exclaimed Mrs Douglas.

'It is not very likely, I think,' cried Miss Maynard.

Mrs Wallington said nothing; but she fanned herself violently.

'How do you know that?' said Maynard. 'He kissed your hand very
tenderly--did he not, Miss Douglas? and took advantage of the dark hour:
that looks very lover-like.'

Emma Douglas, who, in spite of her reason, was both embarrassed and
flattered by Colonel Mordaunt's unexpected mode of taking leave, said
not a word; but Mrs Wallington, in a voice hoarse with angry emotion,
cried:

'It was very free in him, I think, and very unlike Colonel Mordaunt; for
he was not a sort of man to take liberties but where he met with
encouragement.'

'Then I am sure he would be free with you, sister, sometimes,'
sarcastically observed Miss Maynard.

'Nay, with both of you, I think,' replied Maynard, who had not forgiven
the laugh at his expense which they had tried to excite; on which an
angry dialogue took place between the brother and sisters: and the
Douglases, disgusted and provoked, retired to their apartment.

'There was something very strange and uncommon,' said Mrs Douglas,
detaining Emma in her dressing-room, 'in Colonel Mordaunt's behaviour--Do
you not think so, Emma?--If it should have any meaning!'

'Meaning!' cried the major: 'what meaning should it have? Why, my dear,
do you think Mordaunt never kissed a woman's hand before?'

'But it was so _particular_.--Well, Emma, if it should lead to
consequences!'

'Consequences!' cried the major: 'my dear girl, what can you mean?'

'Why, if he should _really love_ our Emma?'

'Why then I hope our Emma will love him.--What say you, Emma?'

'I say?--I--' she replied: 'really I never thought it possible that
Colonel Mordaunt should have any thoughts of me, nor do I now;--but it
is very strange that he should kiss my hand!'

The major could not help laughing at the _naivete_ of this reply, and in
a mutual whisper they agreed how much they wished to see their sister
so happily disposed of; while Emma paced up and down her own apartment
some time before she undressed herself; and after seeming to convince
herself, by recollecting all Colonel Mordaunt's conduct towards her,
that he could not possibly _mean_ any thing by his unusual adieu, she
went to sleep, exclaiming, 'But it is very strange that he should kiss
my hand!'




CHAPTER XXIV


The next morning explained the mystery: for breakfast was scarcely over,
when Colonel Mordaunt appeared; and his presence occasioned a blush,
from different causes, on the cheeks of all the ladies, and a smile on
the countenances of both the gentlemen.

'You left us very abruptly last night,' said Major Douglas.

'I did so,' replied Mordaunt with a sort of grave smile.

'Were you taken ill?' asked Maynard.

'I--I was not quite easy,' answered he: 'but, Miss Douglas, may I
request the honour of seeing you alone for a few minutes?'

Again the ladies blushed, and the gentlemen smiled. But Emma's weakness
had been temporary: she had convinced herself that Colonel Mordaunt's
action had been nothing more than a tribute to what he fancied her
generous defence of an unfortunate woman: and with an air of embarrassed
dignity she gave him her hand to lead her into an adjoining apartment.

'This is very good of you,' cried Colonel Mordaunt: 'but you are all
goodness!--My dear Miss Douglas, had I not gone away as I did last
night, I believe I should have fallen down and worshipped you, or
committed some other extravagance.'

'Indeed!--What could I say to excite such enthusiasm!' replied Emma
deeply blushing.

'What!--Oh, Miss Douglas!'--Then after a few more ohs, and other
exclamations, he related to her the whole progress of his acquaintance
with an attachment to Adeline, adding as he concluded, 'Now then judge
what feelings you must have excited in my bosom:--yes, Miss Douglas, I
reverenced you before for your own sake, I now adore you for that of my
lost Adeline.'

'So!' thought Emma, 'the kiss of the hand is explained,'--and she
sighed as she thought it; nor did she much like the word _reverenced_:
but she had ample amends for her mortification by what followed.

'Really,' cried Colonel Mordaunt, gazing very earnestly at her, 'I do
not mean to flatter you, but there is something in your countenance that
reminds me very strongly of Adeline.'

'Is it possible?' said Emma, her cheeks glowing and her eyes sparkling
as she spoke: 'you may not mean to flatter me, but I assure you I am
flattered; for I never saw any woman whom in appearance I so much wished
to resemble.'

'You do resemble her indeed,' cried Colonel Mordaunt, 'and the likeness
grows stronger and stronger.'

Emma blushed deeper and deeper.

'But come,' exclaimed he, 'let us go; and I will--no, _you_ shall--relate
to the party in the next room what I have been telling you, for I long
to shame those d--'

'Fye!' said Emma smiling, and holding up her hand as if to stop the
coming word. And she did stop it; for Colonel Mordaunt conveyed the
reproving hand to his lips; and Emma said to herself, as she half
frowning withdrew it, 'I am glad my brother was not present.'

Their return to the breakfast-room was welcome to every one, from
different causes, as Colonel Mordaunt's motives for requesting a
tete-a-tete had given rise to various conjectures. But all conjecture
was soon lost in certainty: for Emma Douglas, with more than usual
animation of voice and countenance, related what Colonel Mordaunt had
authorized her to relate; and the envious sisters heard, with increased
resentment, that Adeline, were she unmarried, would be the choice of the
man whose affections they were eagerly endeavouring to captivate.

'You can't think,' said Colonel Mordaunt, when Emma had concluded,
leaving him charmed with the manner in which she had told his story, and
with the generous triumph which sparkled in her eyes at being able to
exhibit Adeline's character in so favourable a point of view, 'you can't
think how much Miss Douglas reminds me of Mrs Berrendale!'

'Lord!' said Miss Maynard with a toss of the head, 'my brother told us
that she was handsome!'

'And so she is,' replied the colonel, provoked at this brutal speech:
'she has one of the finest countenances that I ever saw,--a countenance
never distorted by those feelings of envy, and expressions of spite,
which so often disfigure some women,--converting even a beauty into a
fiend; and in this respect no one will doubt that Miss Douglas resembles
her:

  'What's female beauty--but an air divine,
  Thro' which the mind's all gentle graces shine?'

says one of our first poets: therefore, in Dr Young's opinion, madam,'
continued Mordaunt, turning to Emma, 'you would have been a perfect
beauty.'

This speech, so truly gratifying to the amiable girl to whom it was
addressed, was a dagger in the heart of both the sisters. Nor was Emma's
pleasure unalloyed by pain; for she feared that Mordaunt's attentions
might become dangerous to her peace of mind, as she could not disguise
to herself, that his visits at Mr Maynard's had been the chief cause of
her reluctance to return to Scotland whenever their journey home was
mentioned. For, always humble in her ideas of her own charms, Emma
Douglas could not believe that Mordaunt would ever entertain any feeling
for her at all resembling love, except when he fancied that she looked
like Adeline.

But however unlikely it seemed that Mordaunt should become attached to
her, and however resolved she was to avoid his society, certain it is
that he soon found he could be happy in the society of no other woman,
since to no other could he talk on the subject nearest his heart; and
Emma, though blaming herself daily for her temerity, could not refuse to
receive Mordaunt's visits: and her patient attention to his conversation,
of which Adeline was commonly the theme, seemed to have a salutary
effect on his wounded feelings.

But the time for their departure arrived, much to the joy of Mrs
Wallington and her sister, who hoped when Emma was gone to have a chance
of being noticed by Mordaunt.

What then must have been their confusion and disappointment, when
Colonel Mordaunt begged to be allowed to attend the Douglases on their
journey home, as he had never seen the Highlands, and wished to see them
in such good company! Major Douglas and his charming wife gave a glad
consent to this proposal: but Emma Douglas heard it with more alarm than
pleasure; for, though her heart rejoiced at it, her reason condemned it.

A few days, however, convinced her apprehensive delicacy, that, if she
loved Colonel Mordaunt, it was not without hope of a return.

Colonel Mordaunt declared that every day seemed to increase her
resemblance to Adeline in expression and manner; and in conduct his
reason told him that she was her superior; nor could he for a moment
hesitate to prefer as a wife, Emma Douglas who had never erred, to
Adeline who had.

Colonel Mordaunt felt, to borrow the words of a celebrated female
writer,[1] that 'though it is possible to love and esteem a woman who
has expiated the faults of her youth by a sincere repentance; and though
before God and man her errors may be obliterated; still there exists one
being in whose eyes she can never hope to efface them, and that is her
lover or her husband.' He felt that no man of acute sensibility can
be happy with a woman whose recollections are not pure: she must
necessarily be jealous of the opinion which he entertains of her; and he
must be often afraid of speaking, lest he utter a sentiment that may
wound and mortify her. Besides, he was, on just grounds, more desirous
of marrying a woman whom he 'admired, than one whom he forgave;' and
therefore, while he addressed Emma, he no longer regretted Adeline.

    1: Madame de Stael, _Recueil de Morceaux detaches_, page 208.

In short, he at length ceased to talk of Emma's resemblance to Adeline,
but seemed to admire her wholly for her own sake; and having avowed his
attachment, and been assured of Emma's in return, by Major Douglas, he
came back to England in the ensuing autumn, the happy husband of one of
the best of women.




CHAPTER XXV


We left Adeline preparing to address Mrs Mowbray and recommend her child
to her protection:--but being deeply impressed with the importance of
the task which she was about to undertake, she timidly put it off
from day to day; and having convinced herself that it was her duty to
endeavour to excite her husband to repentance, and make him acknowledge
Editha as his legitimate child, she determined to write to him before
she addressed her mother, and also to bid a last farewell to Colonel
Mordaunt, whose respectful attachment had soothed some of the pangs
which consciousness of her past follies had inflicted, and whose active
friendship deserved her warmest acknowledgment. Little did she think the
fatal effect which one instance of his friendly zeal in her cause had
had on Berrendale; unconscious was she that the husband, whose neglect
she believed to be intentional, great as were his crimes against her,
was not guilty of the additional crime of suffering her to pine in
poverty without making a single inquiry concerning her, but was
convinced that both she and her child were no longer in existence.

In her letter to him, she conjured him by the love which he _always_
bore Glenmurray, by the love he _once_ bore her, and by the remorse
which he would sooner or later feel for his conduct towards her and her
child, to acknowledge Editha to be his lawful heir, but to suffer her to
remain under that protection to which she meant to bequeath her; and on
these conditions she left him her blessing and her pardon.

The letter to Colonel Mordaunt was long, and perhaps diffuse: but
Adeline was jealous of his esteem, though regardless of his love; and as
he had known her while acting under the influence of a fatal error of
opinion, she wished to show him that on conviction she had abandoned
her former way of thinking, and was candid enough to own that she had
been wrong.

'You, no doubt,' she said, 'are well acquainted with the arguments urged
by different writers in favour of marriage. I shall therefore only
mention the argument which carried at length full conviction to _my_
mind, and conquered even my deep and heartfelt reverence for the
opinions of one who long was, and ever will be, the dearest object of my
love and regret. But _he_, had he lived, would I am sure have altered
his sentiments; and had he been a parent, the argument I allude to, as
it is founded on a consideration of the interest of children, would have
found its way to his reason, through his affections.

'It is evident that on the education given to children must depend the
welfare of the community; and, consequently, that whatever is likely
to induce parents to neglect the education of their children must be
_hurtful_ to the welfare of the community. It is also certain, that
though the agency of the _passions_ be necessary to the existence of all
society, it is on the cultivation and influence of the _affections_ that
the happiness and improvement of social life depend.

'Hence it follows that marriage must be more beneficial to society
in its consequences, than connexions capable of being dissolved at
pleasure; because it has a tendency to call forth and exercise the
affections, and control the passions. It has been said, that, were we
free to dissolve at will a connexion formed by love, we should not wish
to do it, as constancy is natural to us, and there is in all of us a
tendency to form an exclusive attachment. But though I believe, from my
own experience, that the few are capable of unforced constancy, and
could love for life one dear and honoured object, still I believe that
the many are given to the love of change;--that, in men especially, a
new object can excite new passion; and, judging from the increasing
depravity of both sexes, in spite of existing laws, and in defiance of
shame,--I am convinced, that if the ties of marriage were dissolved, or
it were no longer to be judged infamous to act in contempt of them,
unbridled licentiousness would soon be in general practice. What, then,
in such a state of society, would be the fate of the children born in
it?--What would their education be? Parents continually engrossed in
the enervating but delightful egotism of a new and happy love, lost in
selfish indulgence, the passions awake, but the affections slumbering,
and the sacred ties of parental feeling not having time nor opportunity
to fasten on the heart,--their offspring would either die the victims
of neglect, and the very existence of the human race be threatened; or,
without morals or instruction, they would grow up to scourge the world
by their vices, till the whole fabric of civilized society was gradually
destroyed.

'On this ground, therefore, this strong ground, I venture to build
my present opinion, that marriage is a wise and ought to be a sacred
institution; and I bitterly regret the hour when, with the hasty and
immature judgment of eighteen, and with a degree of presumption scarcely
pardonable at any time of life, I dared to think and act contrary to
this opinion and the reverend experience of ages, and became in the eyes
of the world an example of vice, when I believed myself the champion of
virtue.'

She then went on to express the following sentiments. 'You will think,
perhaps, that I ought to struggle against the weakness which is hurrying
me to the grave, and live for the sake of my child.--Alas! it is for her
sake that I most wish to die.

'There are two ways in which a mother can be of use to her daughter: the
one is by instilling into her mind virtuous principles, and by setting
her a virtuous example: the other is, by being to her in her own person
an awful warning, a melancholy proof of the dangers which attend a
deviation from the path of virtue. But, oh! how jealous must a mother be
of her child's esteem and veneration! and how could she bear to humble
herself in the eyes of the beloved object, by avowing that she had
committed crimes against society, however atoned for by penitence and
sorrow! I can never, now, be a correct example for my Editha, nor could
I endure to live to be a warning to her.--Nay, if I lived, I should
be most probably a dangerous example to her; for I should be (on my
death-bed I think I may be allowed the boast) respected and esteemed;
while the society around me would forget my past errors, in the
sincerity of my repentance.

'If then a strong temptation should assail my child, might she not yield
to it from an idea that "one false step may be retrieved," and cite her
mother as an example of this truth? while, unconscious of the many
secret heart-aches of that repentant mother, unconscious of the sorrows
and degradations she had experienced, she regarded nothing but the
present respectability of her mother's life, and contented herself with
hoping one day to resemble her.

'Believe me, that were it possible for me to choose between life and
death, for my child's sake, the choice would be the latter. Now, when
she shall see in my mournful and eventful history, written as it has
been by me in moments of melancholy leisure, that all my sorrows were
consequent on one presumptuous error of judgment in early youth, and
shall see a long and minute detail of the secret agonies which I have
endured, those agonies wearing away my existence, and ultimately
hurrying me to an untimely grave; she will learn that the woman who
feels justly, yet has been led even into the practice of vice, however
she may be forgiven by others, can never forgive herself; and though she
may dare to lift an eye of hope to that Being who promises pardon on
repentance, she will still recollect with anguish the fair and glorious
course which she might have run: and that, instead of humbly imploring
forbearance and forgiveness, she might have demanded universal respect
and esteem.

'True it is, that I did not act in defiance of the world's opinion, from
any depraved feeling, or vicious inclinations: but the world could not
be expected to believe this, since motives are known only to our own
hearts, and the great Searcher of hearts: therefore, as far as example
goes, I was as great a stumbling-block to others as if the life I led
had been owing to the influence of lawless desires; and society was
right in making, and in seeing, no distinction between me and any other
woman living in an unsanctioned connexion.

'But methinks I hear you say, that Editha might never be informed of
my past errors. Alas! wretched must that woman be whose happiness and
respectability depend on the secrecy of others! Besides, did I not think
the concealment of crime in itself a crime, how could I know an hour
of peace while I reflected that a moment's malice, or inadvertency, in
one of Editha's companions might cause her to blush at her mother's
disgrace?--that, while her young cheek was flushed perhaps with the
artless triumphs of beauty, talent, and virtue, the parent who envied
me, or the daughter who envied her might suddenly convert her joy into
anguish and mortification, by artfully informing her, with feigned pity
for my sorrows and admiration of my penitence, that I had once been a
_disgrace_ to that family of which I was now the pride?--No--even if I
were not for ever separated in this world from the only man whom I ever
loved with passionate and well-founded affection, united for life to
the object of my just aversion, and were I not conscious (horrible and
overwhelming thought!) of having by my example led another into the path
of sin,--still, I repeat it, for my child's sake I should wish to die,
and should consider, not early death, but lengthened existence, as a
curse.'

So Adeline reasoned and felt in her moments of reflection: but the heart
had sometimes dominion over her; and as she gazed on Editha, and thought
that Mrs Mowbray might be induced to receive her again to her favour,
she wished even on any terms to have her life prolonged.




CHAPTER XXVI


Having finished her letter to Colonel Mordaunt and Berrendale, she again
prepared to write to her mother; a few transient fears overcoming every
now and then those hopes of success in her application, which, till she
took up her pen, she had so warmly encouraged.

Alas! little did she know how erroneously for years she had judged of
Mrs Mowbray. Little did she suspect that her mother had long forgiven
her; had pined after her; had sought, though in vain, to procure
intelligence of her; and was then wearing away her existence in solitary
woe, a prey to self-reproach, and to the corroding fear that her
daughter, made desperate by her renunciation of her, had, on the death
of Glenmurray, plunged into a life of shame, or sunk, broken-hearted,
into the grave! for not one of Adeline's letters had ever reached Mrs
Mowbray; and the mother and daughter had both been the victims of female
treachery and jealousy.

Mrs Mowbray, as soon as she had parted with Adeline for the last time,
had dismissed all her old servants, the witnesses of her sorrows and
disgrace, and retired to her estate in Cumberland,--an estate where
Adeline had first seen the light, and where Mrs Mowbray had first
experienced the transport of a mother. This spot was therefore ill
calculated to banish Adeline from her mother's thoughts, and to continue
her seclusion from her affections.

On the contrary, her image haunted Mrs Mowbray:--whithersoever she went,
she still saw her in an attitude of supplication; she still heard the
plaintive accents of her voice;--and often did she exclaim, 'My child,
my child! wretch that I am! must I never see thee more!'

These ideas increased to so painful a degree, that, finding her solitude
insupportable, she invited an orphan relation in narrow circumstances
to take up her abode with her.

This young woman, whose ruling passion was avarice, and whose greatest
talent was cunning, resolved to spare no pains to keep the situation
which she had gained, even to the exclusion of Adeline, should Mrs
Mowbray be weak enough to receive her again. She therefore intercepted
all the letters which were in or like Adeline's hand-writing; and having
learnt to imitate Mrs Mowbray's, she enclosed them in a blank cover to
Adeline, who, thinking the direction was written in her mother's hand,
desisted, as the artful girl expected she would do, from what appeared
to her a hopeless application.

And she exulted in her contrivance;--when Mrs Mowbray, on seeing in a
magazine that Glenmurray was dead, (full a year after his decease,)
bursting into a passion of tears, protested that she would instantly
invite Adeline to her house.

'Yes,' cried she, 'I can do so without infringement of my oath.--She is
disgraced in the eye of the world by her connexion with Glenmurray, and
she is wretched in love; nay, more so, perhaps, than I have been; and I
can, I will invite her to lose the remembrance of her misfortunes in my
love!'

Thus did her ardent wish to be re-united to Adeline deceive her
conscience; for by the phrase 'wretched in love,' she meant, forsaken by
the object of her attachment,--and that Adeline had not been: therefore
her oath remained in full force against her. But where could she seek
Adeline? Dr Norberry could, perhaps, give her this information; and to
him she resolved to write--though he had cast her from his acquaintance:
'but her pride,' as she said, 'fell with her fortunes;' and she scrupled
not to humble herself before the zealous friend of her daughter. But
this letter would never have reached him, had not her treacherous
relation been ill at the time when it was written.

Dr Norberry had recovered the illness of which Adeline supposed him to
have died: but as her letter to him, to which she received no answer,
alluded to the money transaction between her and Mrs Norberry; and as
she commented on the insulting expressions in Mrs Norberry's note, that
lady thought proper to suppress the second letter as well as the first;
and when the doctor, on his recovery, earnestly demanded to know whether
any intelligence had been received of Miss Mowbray, Mrs Norberry, with
pretended reluctance, told him that she had written to him in great
distress, while he was delirious, to borrow money; that she had sent
her ten pounds, which Adeline had returned, reproaching her for her
parsimony, and saying that she had found a friend who would not suffer
her to want.

'But did you tell her that you thought me in great danger?'

'I did.'

'Why, what, woman! did she not, after that, write to know how I was?'

'Never.'

'I could not have thought it of her!' answered the doctor--who could not
but believe this story for the sake of his own peace, as it was less
destructive to his happiness to think Adeline in fault, than his wife or
children guilty of profligate falsehood: he therefore, with a deep sigh,
begged Adeline's name might never be mentioned to him again; and though
he secretly wished to hear of her welfare, he no longer made her the
subject of conversation.

But Mrs Mowbray's letter recalled her powerfully both to his memory and
affections, while, with many a deep-drawn sigh, he regretted that he had
no possible means of discovering where she was;--and with a heavy heart
he wrote the following letter, which Miss Woodville, Mrs Mowbray's
relation, having first contrived to open and read it, ventured to give
into her hands, as it contained no satisfactory information concerning
Adeline.

     'I look on the separation of my mother and me in this world to
     be eternal,' said the poor dear lost Adeline to me, the last
     time we met. 'You do!' replied I: 'then, poor devil! how
     miserable will your mother be when her resentment
     subsides!--Well, when that time comes, I may, perhaps see her
     again,' added I, with a queer something rising in my throat
     as I said it, and your poor girl blessed me for the kind
     intention.--(Pshaw! I have blotted the paper: at my years it is
     a shame to be so watery-eyed.) Well,--the time above-mentioned
     is come--you are miserable, you are repentant--and you ask me
     to forget and forgive.--I do forget, I do forgive: some time or
     other, too, I will tell you so in person; and were the lost
     Adeline to know that I did so, she would bless me for the act,
     as she did before for the intention. But, alas! where she is,
     what she is, I know not, and have not any means of knowing. To
     say the truth, her conduct to me and mine has been odd, not to
     say wrong. But, poor thing! she is either dead or miserable,
     and I forgive her:--so I do you, as I said before, and the Lord
     give you all the consolation which you so greatly need!

                                     Yours once more,
                                       In true kindness of spirit,
                                                    JAMES NORBERRY.'

This letter made Mrs Mowbray's wounds bleed afresh, at the same time
that it destroyed all her expectations of finding Adeline; and the only
hope that remained to cheer her was, that she might perhaps, if yet
alive, write sooner or later, to implore forgiveness, but month after
month elapsed, and no tidings of Adeline reached her despairing mother.

She then put an advertisement in the paper, so worded that Adeline, had
she seen it, must have known to whom it alluded; but it never met her
eyes, and Mrs Mowbray gave herself up to almost absolute despair; when
accident introduced her to a new acquaintance, whose example taught her
patience, and whose soothing benevolence bade her hope for happier days.

One day as Mrs Mowbray, regardless of a heavy shower, and lost in
melancholy reflections, was walking with irregular steps on the road to
Penrith, with an unopened umbrella in her hand, she suddenly raised her
eyes from the ground, and beheld a Quaker lady pursued by an over-driven
bullock, and unable any longer to make an effort to escape its fury. At
this critical moment Mrs Mowbray, from a sort of irresistible impulse,
as fortunate in its effects as presence of mind, yet scarcely perhaps to
be denominated such, suddenly opened her umbrella; and, approaching
the animal, brandished it before his eyes. Alarmed at this unusual
appearance, he turned hastily and ran towards the town, where she saw
that he was immediately met and secured.

'Thou hast doubtless saved my life,' said the Quaker, grasping Mrs
Mowbray's hand with an emotion which she vainly tried to suppress; 'and
I pray that thine may be blest!'

Mrs Mowbray returned the pressure of her hand, and burst into tears;
overcome with joy for having saved a fellow-creature's life; with
terror, which she was now at leisure to feel for the danger to which
she had herself been exposed; and with mournful emotion from the
consciousness how much she needed the blessing which the grateful Quaker
invoked on her head.

'Thou tremblest even more than I do,' observed the lady, smiling, but
seeming ready to faint; 'I believe we had better, both of us, sit down
on the bank; but it is so wet that perhaps we may as well endeavour to
reach my house, which is only at the end of yon field.' Mrs Mowbray
bowed her assent; and, supporting each other, they at length arrived at
a neat white house, to which the Quaker cordially bade her welcome.

'It was but this morning,' said Mrs Mowbray, struggling for utterance,
'that I called upon Death to relieve me from an existence at once
wretched and useless.' Here she paused:--and her new acquaintance,
cordially pressing her hand, waited for the conclusion of her
speech;--'but now,' continued Mrs Mowbray, 'I revoke, and repent my idle
and vicious impatience of life. I have probably saved your life, and
something like enjoyment now seems to enliven mine.'

'I suspect,' replied the lady, 'that thou hast known deep affliction;
and I rejoice that at this moment, and in so providential a manner, I
have been introduced to thy acquaintance:--for I too have known sorrow,
and the mourner knows how to speak comfort to the heart of the mourner.
My name is Rachel Pemberton; and I hope that when I know thy name, and
thy story, thou wilt allow me to devote to thy comfort some hours of
the existence which thou hast preserved.' She then hastily withdrew, to
pour forth in solitude the breathings of devout gratitude:--while Mrs
Mowbray, having communed with her own thoughts, felt a glow of unwonted
satisfaction steal over her mind; and by the time Mrs Pemberton
returned, she was able to meet her with calmness and cheerfulness.

'Thou knowest my name,' said Mrs Pemberton as she entered, seating
herself by Mrs Mowbray, 'but I have yet to learn thine.'

'My name is Mowbray,' she replied sighing deeply.

'Mowbray!--The lady of Rosevalley in Gloucestershire; and the mother of
Adeline Mowbray?' exclaimed Mrs Pemberton.

'What of Adeline Mowbray? What of my child?' cried Mrs Mowbray, seizing
Mrs Pemberton's hand. 'Blessed woman! tell me,--Do you indeed know
her?--can you tell me where to find her?'

'I will tell thee all that I know of her,' replied Mrs Pemberton in
a faltering voice; 'but thy emotion overpowers me.--I--I was once a
mother, and I can feel for thee.' She then turned away her head to
conceal a starting tear; while Mrs Mowbray, in incoherent eagerness,
repeated her questions, and tremblingly awaited her answer.

'Is she well? Is she happy?--say but that!' she exclaimed, sobbing as
she spoke.

'She was well and contented when I last heard from her,' replied Mrs
Pemberton calmly.

'Heard from her? Then she writes to you! Oh, blessed, blessed woman!
show me her letters, and tell me only that she has forgiven me for all
my unkindness to her--' As she said this, Mrs Mowbray threw her arms
round Mrs Pemberton, and sunk half-fainting on her shoulder.

'I will tell thee all that has ever passed between us, if thou wilt be
composed,' gravely answered Mrs Pemberton; 'but this violent expression
of thy feelings is unseemly and detrimental.'

'Well--well--I will be calm,' said Mrs Mowbray; and Mrs Pemberton began
to relate the interview which she had with Adeline at Richmond.

'How long ago did this take place?' eagerly interrupted Mrs Mowbray.

'Full six years.'

'Oh, God!' exclaimed she, impatiently,--'Six years! By this time then
she may be dead--she may--'

'Thou art incorrigible, I fear,' said Mrs Pemberton, 'but thou art
afflicted, and I will bear with thy impatience:--sit down again and
attend to me, and thou wilt hear much later intelligence of thy
daughter.'

'How late?' asked Mrs Mowbray with frantic eagerness;--and Mrs
Pemberton, overcome with the manner in which she spoke, could scarcely
falter out, 'Within a twelvemonth I have heard of her.'

'Within a twelvemonth!' joyfully cried Mrs Mowbray: but, recollecting
herself, she added mournfully--'but in that time what--what may not have
happened!'

'I know not what to do with thee nor for thee,' observed Mrs Pemberton;
'but do try, I beseech thee, to hear me patiently!'

Mrs Mowbray then re-seated herself; and Mrs Pemberton informed her of
Adeline's premature confinement at Richmond; of her distress on
Glenmurray's death, and of her having witnessed it.

'Ah! you acted a mother's part--you did what I ought to have done,'
cried Mrs Mowbray, bursting into tears,--'but, go on--I will be
patient.'

Yet that was impossible; for, when she heard of Adeline's insanity, her
emotions became so strong that Mrs Pemberton, alarmed for her life, was
obliged to ring for assistance.

When she recovered,--'Thou hast heard the worst now,' said Mrs
Pemberton, 'and all I have yet to say of thy child is satisfactory.'

She then related the contents of Adeline's first letter, informing her
of her marriage:--and Mrs Mowbray, clasping her hands together, blessed
God that Adeline was become a wife. The next letter Mrs Pemberton read
informed her that she was the mother of a fine girl.

'A mother!' she exclaimed, 'Oh, how I should like to see her child!'--But
at the same moment she recollected how bitterly she had reviled her when
she saw her about to become a mother, at their last meeting; and, torn
with conflicting emotions, she was again insensible to aught but her
self-upbraidings.

'Well--but where is she now? where is the child? and when did you hear
from her last?' cried she.

'I have not heard from her since,' hesitatingly replied Mrs Pemberton.

'But can't you write to her?'

'Yes;--but in her last letter she said she was going to change her
lodgings, and would write again when settled in a new habitation.'

Again Mrs Mowbray paced the room in wild and violent distress: but her
sorrows at length yielded to the gentle admonitions and soothings of Mrs
Pemberton, who bade her remember, that when she rose in the morning she
had not expected the happiness and consolation which she had met with
that day; and that a short time might bring forth still greater comfort.

'For,' said Mrs Pemberton, 'I can write to the house where she formerly
lodged, and perhaps the person who keeps it can give us intelligence of
her.'

On hearing this, Mrs Mowbray became more composed, and diverted her
sorrow by a thousand fond inquiries concerning Adeline, which none but a
mother could make, and none but a mother could listen to with patience.

While this conversation was going on, a knock at the door was heard, and
Miss Woodville entered the room in great emotion; for she had heard, on
the road, that a mad bullock had attacked a lady; and also that Mrs
Mowbray, scarcely able to walk, had been led into the white house in the
field by the road side.

Miss Woodville was certainly as much alarmed as she pretended to be:
but there was a somewhat in the expression of her alarm which, though
it gratified Mrs Mowbray, was displeasing to the more penetrating Mrs
Pemberton. She could not indeed guess that Miss Woodville's alarm sprung
merely from apprehension lest Mrs Mowbray should die before she had
provided for her in her will: yet, notwithstanding, she felt that her
expressions of concern and anxiety had no resemblance to those of real
affection; and in spite of her habitual candour, she beheld Miss
Woodville with distrust.

But this feeling was considerably increased on observing, that when Mrs
Mowbray exultingly introduced her, not only as the lady whose life she
had been the means of preserving, but as the friend and correspondent
of her daughter, she evidently changed colour; and, in spite of her
habitual plausibility, could not utter a single coherent sentence of
pleasure or congratulation:--and it was also evident, that, being
conscious of Mrs Pemberton's regarding her with a scrutinizing eye, she
was not easy till, on pretence of Mrs Mowbray's requiring rest after her
alarm, she had prevailed on her to return home.

But she could not prevent the new friends from parting with eager
assurances of meeting again and again; and it was agreed between them,
that Mrs Pemberton should spend the next day at the Lawn.

Mrs Pemberton, who is thus again introduced to the notice of my readers,
had been, as well as Mrs Mowbray, the pupil of adversity. She had been
born and educated in fashionable life; and she united to a very lovely
face and elegant form, every feminine grace and accomplishment.

When she was only eighteen, Mr Pemberton, a young and gay Quaker, fell
in love with her; and having inspired her with a mutual passion, he
married her, notwithstanding the difference of their religious opinions,
and the displeasure of his friends. He was consequently disowned by the
society: but being weaned by the happiness which he found at home from
those public amusements which had first lured him from the strict habits
of his sect, he was soon desirous of being again admitted a member of
it; and in process of time he was once more received into it; while
his amiable wife, having no wish beyond her domestic circle, and being
disposed to think her husband's opinions right, became in time a convert
to the same profession of faith, and exhibited in her manners the rare
union of the easy elegance of a woman of the world with the rigid
decorum and unadorned dress of a strict Quaker.

But in the midst of her happiness, and whilst looking forward to a
long continuance of it, a fever, caught in visiting the sick bed of a
cottager, carried off her husband, and next two lovely children; and Mrs
Pemberton would have sunk under the stroke, but for the watchful care
and affectionate attentions of the friend of her youth, who resided
near her, and who, in time, prevailed on her to receive with becoming
fortitude and resignation the trials which she was appointed to undergo.

During this season of affliction, as we have before stated, she became
a minister in the Quaker society: but at the time of her meeting
Adeline at Richmond, she had been called from the duties of her public
profession to watch over the declining health of her friend and
consoler, and to accompany her to Lisbon.

There, during four long years, she bent over her sick couch, now elated
with hope, and now sunk into despondence; when, at the beginning of the
fifth year, her friend died in her arms, and she returned to England,
resolved to pass her days, except when engaged in active duties, on a
little estate in Cumberland, bequeathed to her by her friend on her
death-bed. But ill health and various events had detained her in the
west of England since her return; and she had not long taken possession
of her house near Penrith, when she became introduced in so singular a
manner to Mrs Mowbray's acquaintance--an acquaintance which would, she
hoped, prove of essential service to them both; and as soon as her guest
departed, Mrs Pemberton resolved to inquire what character Mrs Mowbray
bore in the neighbourhood, and whether her virtues at all kept pace with
her misfortunes.

Her inquiries were answered in the most satisfactory manner; as,
fortunately for Mrs Mowbray, with the remembrance of her daughter had
recurred to her that daughter's benevolent example. She remembered the
satisfaction which used to beam from Adeline's countenance when she
returned from her visits to the sick and the afflicted; and she resolved
to try whether those habits of charitable exertion which could increase
the happiness of the young and light-hearted Adeline, might not have
power to alleviate the sorrows of her own drooping age, and broken
joyless heart.

'Sweet are the uses of adversity!'--She who, while the child of
prosperity, was a romantic, indolent theorist, an inactive speculator,
a proud contemner of the dictates of sober experience, and a neglecter
of that practical benevolence which can in days produce more benefit to
others than theories and theorists can accomplish in years--this erring
woman, awakened from her dreams and reveries, to habits of useful
exertion, by the stimulating touch of affliction, was become the
visitor of the sick, the consoler of the sorrowful, the parent of the
fatherless, while virtuous industry looked up to her with hope; and her
name, like that of Adeline in happier days, was pronounced with prayers
and blessings.

But, alas! she felt that blessing could reach her only in the shape of
her lost child: and though she was conscious of being useful to others,
though she had the satisfaction of knowing that she had but the day
before been the means of preserving a valuable life, she met Mrs
Pemberton, when she arrived at the Lawn, with a countenance of fixed
melancholy, and was at first disposed to expect but little success from
the project of writing to Adeline's former lodgings in order to inquire.

The truth was, that Miss Woodville had artfully insinuated the
improbability of such an inquiry's succeeding; and, though Mrs Mowbray
had angrily asserted her hopes when Miss Woodville provokingly asserted
her _fears_, the treacherous girl's insinuations had sunk deeply into
her mind, and Mrs Pemberton saw, with pain and wonder, an effect
produced of which the cause was wholly unseen. But she at length
succeeded in awakening Mrs Mowbray's hopes; and in a letter written by
Mrs Pemberton to the mistress of the house whence Adeline formerly
dated, she enclosed one to her daughter glowing with maternal
tenderness, and calculated to speak peace to her sorrows.

These letters were sent, as soon as written, to the post by Mrs
Mowbray's footman; but Miss Woodville contrived to meet him near the
post-office, and telling him she would put the letter in the receiver,
she gave him a commission to call at a shop in Penrith for her, at which
she had not time to call herself.

Thus was another scheme for restoring Adeline to her afflicted mother
frustrated by the treachery of this interested woman; who, while Mrs
Pemberton and Mrs Mowbray looked anxiously forward to the receipt of an
answer from London, triumphed with malignant pleasure in the success of
her artifice.--But, spite of herself, she feared Mrs Pemberton, and was
not at all pleased to find that, till the answer from London could
arrive, that lady was to remain at the Lawn.

She contrived, however, to be as little in her presence as possible;
for, contrary to Mrs Pemberton's usual habits, she felt a distrust of
Miss Woodville, which her intelligent eye could not help expressing, and
which consequently alarmed the conscious heart of the culprit. Being
left therefore, by Miss Woodville's fears, alone with Mrs Mowbray,
she drew from her, at different times, ample details of Adeline's
childhood, and the method which Mrs Mowbray had pursued in her
education.

'Ah! 'tis as I suspected,' interrupted Mrs Pemberton during one of
these conversations. 'Thy daughter's _faults_ originated in thee! her
education was cruelly defective.'

'No!' replied Mrs Mowbray with almost angry eagerness, 'whatever my
errors as a mother have been, and for the rash marriage which I made I
own myself culpable in the highest degree, I am sure that I paid the
greatest attention to my daughter's education. If you were but to
see the voluminous manuscript on the subject, which I wrote for her
improvement--'

'But where was thy daughter; and how was she employed during the time
that thou wert writing a book by which to educate her?'

Mrs Mowbray was silent: she recollected that, while she was gratifying
her own vanity in composing her system of education, Adeline was almost
banished her presence; and, but for the humble instruction of her
grandmother, would, at the age of fifteen, have run a great risk of
being both an ignorant and useless being.

'Forgive me, friend Mowbray,' resumed Mrs Pemberton, aware in some
measure of what was passing in Mrs Mowbray's mind--'forgive me if I
venture to observe, that till of late years a thick curtain of self-love
seems to have been dropped between thy heart and maternal affection. It
is now, and now only, that thou hast learned to feel like a true and
affectionate mother!'

'Perhaps you are right,' replied Mrs Mowbray mournfully, 'still, I
always meant well; and hoped that my studies would conduce to the
benefit of my child.'

'So they might, perhaps, to that of thy second, third, or fourth child,
hadst thou been possessed of so many; but, in the meanwhile, thy
first-born must have been fatally neglected. A child's education begins
almost from the hour of its birth; and the mother who understands her
task, knows that the circumstances which every moment calls forth, are
the tools with which she is to work in order to fashion her child's mind
and character. What would you think of the farmer who was to let his
fields lie fallow for years, while he was employed in contriving a
method of cultivating land to increase his gains ten-fold?'

'But I did not suffer Adeline's mind to lie fallow.--I allowed her to
read, and I directed her studies.'

'Thou didst so; but what were those studies? and didst thou acquaint
thyself with the deductions which her quick mind formed from them?
No--thou didst not, as parents should do, inquire into the impressions
made on thy daughter's mind by the books which she perused. Prompt to
feel, and hasty to decide, as Adeline was, how necessary was to her the
warning voice of judgment and experience!'

'But how could I imagine that a girl so young should dare to act,
whatever her opinions might be, in open defiance of the opinions of the
world?'

'But she had not lived in the world; therefore, scarcely knew how
repugnant to it her opinions were; nor, as she did not mix in general
society, could she care sufficiently for its good opinion, to be willing
to act contrary to her own ideas of right, rather than forfeit it:
besides, thou ownest that thou didst openly profess thy admiration
of the sentiments which she adopted; nor, till they were confirmed
irrevocably hers, didst thou declare, that to act up to them was, in thy
opinion, vicious. And then it was too late: she thought thy timidity,
and not thy wisdom, spoke, and she set thee the virtuous example of
acting up to the dictates of conscience. But Adeline and thou are both
the pupils of affliction and experience; and I trust that, all your
errors repented of, you will meet once more to expiate your past follies
by your future conduct.'

'I hope so too,' meekly replied Mrs Mowbray, whose pride had been
completely subdued by self-upbraidings and distress: 'Oh! when--when
will an answer arrive from London?'




CHAPTER XXVII


Alas! day after day elapsed, and no letter came; but while Mrs Mowbray
was almost frantic with disappointment and anxiety, Mrs Pemberton
thought that she observed in Miss Woodville's countenance a look of
triumphant malice, which ill accorded with the fluent expressions of
sympathy and regret with which she gratified her unsuspicious relation,
and she determined to watch her very narrowly; for she thought it
strange that Adeline, however she might respect her mother's oath,
should never, in the bitterness of her sorrows, have unburthened her
heart by imparting them to her: one day, when, as usual, the post had
been anxiously expected, and, as usual, had brought no letter from
London concerning Adeline; and while Miss Woodville was talking on
indifferent subjects with ill suppressed gaiety, though Mrs Mowbray,
sunk into despondence, was lying on the sofa by her; Mrs Pemberton
suddenly exclaimed--'There is only one right way of proceeding, friend
Mowbray,--thou and I must go to London, and make our inquiries in
person, and then we shall have a great chance of succeeding.' As she
said this, she looked steadfastly at Miss Woodville, and saw her turn
very pale, while her eye was hastily averted from the penetrating glance
of Mrs Pemberton; and when she heard Mrs Mowbray, in a transport of
joy, declare that they had better set off that very evening,--unable to
conceal her terror and agitation, she hastily left the room.

Mrs Pemberton instantly followed her into the apartment to which she had
retired, and the door of which she had closed with much violence. She
found her walking to and fro, and wringing her hands, as if in agony.
On seeing Mrs Pemberton, she started, and sinking into a chair, she
complained of being very ill, and desired to be left alone.

'Thou art ill, and thy illness is of the worst sort, I fear,' replied
Mrs Pemberton; 'but I will stay, and be thy physician.'

'_You_, my physician?' replied Miss Woodville, with fury in her looks;
'You?'

'Yes--_I_--I see that thou art afraid lest Adeline should be restored to
her paternal roof.'

'Who told you so, officious, insolent woman?' returned Miss Woodville.

'Thy own looks--but all this is very natural in thee: thou fearest that
Adeline's favour should annihilate thine.'

'Perhaps I do,' cried Miss Woodville, a little less alarmed, and
catching at this plausible excuse for her uneasiness; 'for, should I be
forced to leave my cousin's house, I shall be reduced to comparative
poverty and solitude again.'

'But why shouldest thou be forced to leave it? Art thou not Adeline's
friend?'

'Ye--yes,' faltered out Miss Woodville.

'But it is uncertain whether we can find Adeline--still we shall be very
diligent in our inquiries; yet it is so strange that she should never
have written to her mother, if alive, that perhaps--'

'Oh, I dare say she is dead,' hastily interrupted Miss Woodville.

'Has she been dead long, thinkest thou?'

'No--not long--not above six months, I dare say.'

'No!--Hast thou any reason then for knowing that she was alive six
months ago?' asked Mrs Pemberton, looking steadily at Miss Woodville, as
she spoke.

'I?--Lord--no--How should I know?' she replied, her lip quivering, and
her whole frame trembling.

'I tell thee how.--Art thou not conscious of having intercepted letters
from thy cousin to her relenting parent?'

Mrs Pemberton had scarcely uttered these words, when Miss Woodville fell
back nearly _insensible_ in her chair--a proof that the accusation was
only too well founded. As soon as she recovered, Mrs Pemberton said,
with great gentleness, 'Thou art ill,--ill indeed, but, as I suspected,
thy illness is of the mind; there is a load of guilt on it; throw it off
then by a full confession, and be the sinner that repenteth.'

In a few moments Miss Woodville, conscious that her emotion had betrayed
her, and suspecting that Mrs Pemberton had by some means or other
received hints of her treachery, confessed that she had intercepted and
destroyed letters from Adeline to her mother; and also owned, to the
great joy of Mrs Pemberton, that Adeline's last letter, the letter
in which she informed Mrs Mowbray, that all the conditions were then
fulfilled, without which alone she had sworn never to forgive her, had
arrived only two months before; and that it was dated from such a
street, and such a number, in London.

'My poor friend will be so happy!' said Mrs Pemberton; and, her own eyes
filling with tears of joy, she hastened to find Mrs Mowbray.

'But what will become of _me_?' exclaimed Miss Woodville, detaining
her--'_I_ am ruined--ruined for ever!'

'Not so,' replied Mrs Pemberton, 'thou art _saved_,--saved, I trust, for
_ever_--Thou hast confessed thy guilt, and made all the atonement now in
thy power. Go to thine own room, and I will soon make known to thee thy
relation's sentiments towards thee.'

So saying, she hastened to Mrs Mowbray, whom she found giving orders,
with eager impatience, to have post horses sent for immediately.

'Then thou art full of expectation, I conclude, from the event of our
journey to town?' said Mrs Pemberton, smiling.

'To be sure I am,' replied Mrs Mowbray.

'And so am I,' she answered,--'for I think that I know the present abode
of thy daughter.'

Mrs Mowbray started--her friend's countenance expressed more joy and
exultation than she had ever seen on it before; and, almost breathless
with new hope, she seized her hand and conjured her to explain herself.

The explanation was soon given; and Mrs Mowbray's joy, in consequence of
it, unbounded.

'But what is thy will,' observed Mrs Pemberton, 'with regard to thy
guilty relation?'

'I cannot--cannot see her again now, if ever;--and she must immediately
leave my house.'

'Immediately?'

'Yes,--but I will settle on her a handsome allowance; for my conscience
tells me, that, had I behaved like a mother to my child, no one could
have been tempted to injure her thus,--I put this unhappy woman into
a state of temptation, and she yielded to it:--but I feel only too
sensibly, that no one has been such an enemy to my poor Adeline as I
have been; nor, conscious of my own offences towards her, dare I resent
those of another.'

'I love, I honour thee for what thou hast now uttered,' cried Mrs
Pemberton with unusual animation.--'I see that thou art now indeed a
Christian; such are the breathings of a truly contrite spirit; and,
verily, she who can so easily forgive the crimes of others may hope to
have her own forgiven.'

Mrs Pemberton then hastened to speak hope and comfort to the mind of
the penitent offender, while Mrs Mowbray ran to meet her servant, who,
to her surprise, was returning without horses, for none were to be
procured; and Mrs Mowbray saw herself obliged to delay her journey till
noon the next day, when she was assured of having horses from Penrith.
But when, after a long and restless night, she arose in the morning,
anticipating with painful impatience the hour of her departure, Mrs
Pemberton entered her room, and informed her that she had passed nearly
all the night at Miss Woodville's bed-side, who had been seized with a
violent delirium at one o'clock in the morning, and in her ravings was
continually calling on Mrs Mowbray, and begging to see her once more.

'I will see her directly,' replied Mrs Mowbray, without a moment's
hesitation; and hastened to Miss Woodville's apartment, where she found
the medical attendant whom Mrs Pemberton had sent for just arrived. He
immediately declared the disorder to be an inflammation on the brain,
and left them with little or no hope of her recovery.

Mrs Mowbray, affected beyond measure at the pathetic appeals for pardon
addressed to her continually by the unconscious sufferer, took her
station at the bed-side; and, hanging over her pillow, watched for the
slightest gleam of returning reason, in order to speak the pardon so
earnestly implored: and while thus piously engaged, the chaise that was
to convey her and her friend to London, and perhaps to Adeline, drove up
to the gate.

'Art thou ready?' said Mrs Pemberton, entering the room equipped for her
journey.

At this moment the poor invalid reiterated her cries for pardon, and
begged Mrs Mowbray not to leave her without pronouncing her forgiveness.

Mrs Mowbray burst into tears; and though sure that she was not even
conscious of her presence, she felt herself almost unable to forsake
her:--still it was in search of her daughter that she was going--nay,
perhaps, it was to her daughter that she was hastening; and, as this
thought occurred to her, she hurried to the door of the chamber, saying
she should be ready in a moment.

But the eye of the phrensied sufferer followed her as she did so, and in
a tone of unspeakable agony she begged, she entreated that she might not
be left to die in solitude and sorrow, however guilty she might have
been.--Then again she implored Mrs Mowbray to speak peace and pardon
to her drooping soul; while, unable to withstand these solicitations,
though she knew them to be the unconscious ravings of the disorder, she
slowly and mournfully returned to the bed-side.

'It is late,' said Mrs Pemberton--'we ought ere now to be on the road.'

'How can I go, and leave this poor creature in such a state?--But then
should we find my poor injured child at the end of the journey! Such an
expectation as that!--'

'Thou must decide quickly,' replied Mrs Pemberton gently.

'Decide! Then I will go with you.--Yet still should Anna recover her
senses before her death, and wish to see me, I should never forgive
myself for being absent--it might soothe the anguish of her last moments
to know how freely I pardon her.--No, no:--after all, if pleasure awaits
me, it is only delaying it a few days; and this, this unhappy girl is on
her _death-bed_.--You, you must go _without_ me.'

As she said this, Mrs Pemberton pressed her hand with affectionate
eagerness, and murmured out in broken accents, 'I honour thy decision,
and may I return with comfort to thee!'

'Yet though I wish you to go,' cried Mrs Mowbray, 'I grieve to expose
you to such fatigue and trouble in your weak state of health, and--'

'Say no more,' interrupted Mrs Pemberton, 'I am only doing my duty; and
reflect on my happiness if I am allowed to restore the lost sheep to
the fold again!'--So saying she set off on her journey, and arrived in
London only four days after Adeline had arrived in Cumberland.

Mrs Pemberton drove immediately to Adeline's lodgings, but received the
same answer as Colonel Mordaunt had received; namely, that she was gone
no one knew whither. Still she did not despair of finding her: she, like
the Colonel, thought that a mulatto, a lady just recovered from the
small-pox, and a child, were likely to be easily traced; and having
written to Mrs Mowbray, owning her disappointment, but bidding her not
despair, she set off on her journey back, and had succeeded in tracing
Adeline as far as an inn on the high North road,--when an event took
place which made her further inquiries needless.




CHAPTER XXVIII


Adeline, after several repeated trials, succeeded in writing the
following letter to her mother:--


      'Dearest of Mothers,

     'When this letter reaches you, I shall be no more; and however
     I may hitherto have offended you, I shall then be able to
     offend you no longer; and that child, whom you bound yourself
     by oath never to see or forgive but on the most cruel of
     conditions while living, dead you may perhaps deign to receive
     to your pardon and your love.--Nay, my heart tells me that you
     will do more,--that you will transfer the love which you once
     felt for me, to my poor helpless orphan; and in full confidence
     that you will be this indulgent, I bequeath her to you with my
     dying breath.--O! look on her, my mother, nor shrink from her
     with disgust, although you see in her my features; but rather
     rejoice in the resemblance, and fancy that I am restored to you
     pure, happy, and beloved as I once was.--Yes, yes,--it will be
     so: I have known a great deal of sorrow--let me then indulge
     the little ray of pleasure that breaks in upon me when I think
     that you will not resist my dying prayer, but bestow on my
     child the long arrears of tenderness due to me.

     'Yes, yes, you will receive, you will be kind to her; and by so
     doing you will make me ample amends for all the sorrow which
     your harshness caused me when we met last.--That was a dreadful
     day! How you frowned on me! I did not think you could have
     frowned so dreadfully--but then I was uninjured by affliction,
     unaltered by illness. Were you to see me now, you would not
     have the heart to frown on me: and yet my letters being
     repeatedly returned, and even the last unnoticed and unanswered,
     though it told you that even on your own conditions I could now
     claim your pardon, for that I had been "wretched in love," and
     had experienced "the anguish of being forsaken, despised, and
     disgraced in the eye of the world," proves but too surely that
     the bitterness of resentment is not yet passed!--But on my
     _death-bed_ you promised to see and forgive me--_and I am there,
     my mother_!! Yet will I not claim that promise;--I will not
     weaken, by directing it towards myself, the burst of sorrow,
     of too late regret, of self-upbraidings, and long-restrained
     affection, which must be directed towards my child when I am
     not alive to profit by it. No:--though I would give worlds to
     embrace you once more, for the sake of my child I resign the
     gratification.

     'Oh, mother! you little think that I saw you, only a few days
     ago, from the stile by the cottage which overlooks your house:
     you were walking with a lady, and my child was with me
     (my Editha, for I have called her after you.) You seemed,
     methought, even cheerful, and I was so selfish that I felt
     shocked to think I was so entirely forgotten by you; for I was
     sure that if you thought of me you could not be cheerful. But
     your companion left you; and then you looked so very sad, that
     I was wretched from the idea that you were then thinking too
     much of me, and I wished you to resume your cheerfulness again.

     '_I_ was not cheerful, and Editha by her artless prattle
     wounded me to the very soul.--She wished, she said, to live in
     that sweet house, and asked why she should not live there? _I
     could_ have told her why, but dared not do it; but I assured
     her, and do not for mercy's sake prove that assurance false!
     that she _should_ live there _one day_.

     '"But when--when?" she asked.

     '"When I am in my grave,"' replied I: and, poor innocent!
     throwing herself into my arms with playful fondness, she begged
     me to go to my grave directly. I feel but too sensibly that her
     desire will soon be accomplished.

     'But must I die unblest by you? True, I am watched by the
     kindest of human beings! but then she is not my mother--that
     mother, who, with the joys of my childhood and my home, is so
     continually recurring to my memory. Oh! I forget all your
     unkindness, my mother, and remember only your affection. How I
     should like to feel your hand supporting my head, and see you
     perform the little offices which sickness requires!--And must
     I never, never see you more? Yes! you will come, I am sure you
     will: but come, come quickly, or I shall die without your
     blessing.

     'I have had a fainting fit--but I am recovered, and can address
     you again.--Oh! teach my Editha to be humble, teach her to be
     slow to call the experience of ages contemptible prejudices;
     teach her no opinions that can destroy her sympathies with
     general society, and make her an alien to the hearts of those
     amongst whom she lives.

     'Be above all things careful that she wanders not in the night
     of scepticism. But for the support of religion, what, amidst my
     various sorrows, what would have become of _me_?

     'There is something more that I would say. Should my existence
     be prolonged even but a few days, I shall have to struggle with
     poverty as well as sickness; and the anxious friend (I will not
     call her servant) who is now my all of earthly comfort, will
     scarcely have money sufficient to pay me the last sad duties;
     and I owe her, my mother, a world of obligation! She will make
     my last moments easy, and _you_ must reward her. From her you
     will receive this letter when I am no more, and to your care
     and protection I bequeath her. She is--my eyes grow dim, and I
     must leave off for the present.'

On the very evening in which Adeline had written this address to her
mother, Mrs Mowbray had received Mrs Pemberton's letter; and as Miss
Woodville had been interred that morning, she felt herself at liberty to
join Mrs Pemberton in her search after Adeline. While various plans for
this purpose presented themselves to her mind, and each of them was
dismissed in its turn as fruitless or impracticable,--full of these
thoughts she pensively walked along the lawn before her door, till sad
and weary she leaned on a little gate at the bottom of it; which, as she
did so, swung slowly backwards and forwards, responsive as it were to
her feelings.

But, as she continued to muse, and to recall the varied sorrows of her
past life, the gate on which she leaned began to vibrate more quickly;
till, unable to bear the recollections which assailed her, she was
hastening with almost frantic speed towards the house, when she saw a
cottager approaching, to whose sick daughter and helpless family she had
long been a bountiful benefactress.

'What is the matter, John?' cried Mrs Mowbray, hastening forward to meet
him--'you seem agitated.'

'My poor daughter, madam;' replied the man, bursting into tears.

At the sight of his distress, his _parental_ distress, Mrs Mowbray
sighed deeply, and asked if Lucy was worse.

'I doubt she is dying,' said the afflicted father.

'Heaven forbid!' exclaimed Mrs Mowbray, throwing her shawl over her
shoulders; 'I will go and see her myself.'

'What, really?--But the way is so long, and the road is so miry?'

'No matter--I must do my duty.'

'God bless you, and reward you!' cried the grateful father--'that is so
like you! Lucy said you would come!'

Mrs Mowbray then filled a basket with medicine and refreshments, and set
out on her charitable visit.

She found the poor girl in a very weak and alarming state; but the
sight of her benefactress, and the tender manner in which she supported
her languid head, and administered wine and other cordials to her,
insensibly revived her; and while writhing under the feelings of an
unhappy parent herself, Mrs Mowbray was soothed by the blessings of the
parent whom she comforted.

At this moment they were alarmed by a shriek from a neighbouring
cottage, and a woman who was attending on the sick girl ran out to
inquire into the cause of it.

She returned, saying that a poor sick young gentlewoman, who lodged at
the next house, was fallen back in a fit, and they thought she was dead.

'A young gentlewoman,' exclaimed Mrs Mowbray, 'at the next cottage!'
rising up.

'Aye sure,' cried the woman, 'she looks like a lady for certain, and she
has the finest child I ever saw.'

'Perhaps she is not dead,' said Mrs Mowbray:--'let us go see.'




CHAPTER XXIX


Little did Mrs Mowbray think that it was her own child whom she was
hastening to relieve; and that, while meditating a kind action,
recompense was so near.

Adeline, while trying to finish her letter to her mother, had scarcely
traced a few illegible lines, when she fell back insensible on her
pillow; and at the moment of Mrs Mowbray's entering the cottage,
Savanna, who had uttered the shriek which had excited her curiosity,
had convinced herself that she was gone for ever.

The woman who accompanied Mrs Mowbray entered the house first; and
opening a back chamber, low-roofed, narrow, and lighted only by one
solitary and slender candle, Mrs Mowbray, beheld through the door the
lifeless form of the object of her solicitude, which Savanna was
contemplating with loud and frantic sorrow.

'Here is a lady come to see what she can do for your mistress,' cried
the woman, while Savanna turned hastily round:--'Here she is--here is
good Madam Mowbray.'

'Madam Mowbray!' shrieked Savanna, fixing her dark eyes on Mrs Mowbray,
and raising her arm in a threatening manner as she approached her: then
snatching up the letter which lay on the bed,--'Woman!' she exclaimed,
grasping Mrs Mowbray's arm with frightful earnestness, 'read that--'tis
for you!'

Mrs Mowbray, speechless with alarm and awe, involuntarily seized the
letter--but scarcely had she read the first words, when uttering a deep
groan she sprung forward, to clasp the unconscious form before her, and
fell beside it equally insensible.

But she recovered almost immediately to a sense of her misery; and
while, in speechless agony, she knelt by the bed-side, Savanna,
beholding her distress, with a sort of dreadful pleasure exclaimed,
'Ah! have you at last learn to feel?'

'But is she, is she _indeed_ gone?' cried Mrs Mowbray, 'is there _no_
hope?' and instantly seizing the cordial which she had brought with her,
assisted by the woman, she endeavoured to force it down the throat of
Adeline.

Their endeavours were for some time vain: at length however, she
exhibited signs of life, and in a few minutes more she opened her sunk
eye, and gazed unconsciously around her.

'My God! I thank you!' exclaimed Mrs Mowbray, falling on her knees;
while Savanna, laying her mistress's head on her bosom, sobbed with
fearful joy.

'Adeline! my child, my dear, dear child!' cried Mrs Mowbray, seizing her
clammy hand.

That voice, those words which she had so long wished to hear, though
hopeless of ever hearing them again, seemed to recall the fast fading
recollection of Adeline: she raised her head from Savanna's bosom, and,
looking earnestly at Mrs Mowbray, faintly smiled, and endeavoured to
throw herself into her arms,--but fell back again exhausted on the
pillow.

But in a few minutes she recovered so far as to be able to speak; and
while she hung round her mother's neck, and gazed upon her with eager
and delighted earnestness, she desired Savanna to bring Editha to her
immediately.

'Will you, will you--,' said Adeline, vainly trying to speak her
wishes, as Savanna put the sleeping girl in Mrs Mowbray's arms: but
she easily divined them; and, clasping her to her heart, wept over
her convulsively--'She shall be dear to me as my own soul!' said Mrs
Mowbray.

'Then I die contented,' replied Adeline.

'Die!' exclaimed Mrs Mowbray hastily: 'no, you must not, shall not die;
you must live to see me atone for--'

'It is in vain,' said Adeline faintly. 'I bless God that he allows me to
enjoy this consolation--say that you forgive me.'

'Forgive you! Oh, Adeline! for years have I forgiven and pined after
you; but a wicked woman intercepted all your letters; and I thought you
were dead, or had renounced me for ever.'

'Indeed!' cried Adeline. 'Oh! had I suspected that!'

'Nay more, Mrs Pemberton is now in London, in search of you, in order to
bring you back to happiness!' As Mrs Mowbray said this, Savanna, drawing
near, took her hand and gently pressed it.

Adeline observed the action, and seeing by it that Savanna's heart
relented towards her mother, said, 'I owe that faithful creature more
than I can express; but to your care I bequeath her.'

'I will love her as my child,' said Mrs Mowbray, 'and behave to her
better than I did to--'

'Hush!' cried Adeline, putting her hand to Mrs Mowbray's lips.

'But you _shall_ live! I will send for Dr Norberry; you shall be moved
to my house, and all will be well--all our past grief be forgotten,'
returned Mrs Mowbray with almost convulsive eagerness.

Adeline faintly smiled, but repeated that every hope of that kind was
over, but that her utmost wish has gratified in seeing her mother, and
receiving her full forgiveness.

'But you must live for my sake!' cried Mrs Mowbray: 'and for mine,'
sobbed out Savanna.

'Could you not be moved to my house?' said Mrs Mowbray. 'There every
indulgence and attention that money can procure shall be yours. Is this
a place,--is this poverty--this--' Here her voice failed her, and she
burst into tears.

'Mother, dearest mother,' replied Adeline, 'I see you, I am assured of
your love again, and I have not a want beside. Still, I could like, I
could wish, to be once more under a _parent's roof_.'

In a moment, the cottager who was present, and returning with usury to
Mrs Mowbray's daughter the anxious interest which she had taken in his,
proposed various means of transporting Adeline to the Lawn; a difficult
and a hazardous undertaking: but the poor invalid was willing to risk
the danger and the fatigue; and her mother could not but indulge her. At
length the cottager, as it was for the _general benefactress_, having
with care procured even more assistance than was necessary, Adeline was
conveyed on a sort of a litter, along the valley, and found herself once
more in the house of her mother; while Savanna, sharing in the joy which
Adeline's countenance expressed, threw herself on Mrs Mowbray's neck,
and exclaimed, 'Now I forgive you!'

'Mother, dear mother,' cried Adeline, after having for some minutes
vainly endeavoured to speak--'I am so happy! no more an outcast, but
under my mother's roof!--Nay, I even think I _can_ live now,' added she
with a faint smile.

Had Adeline risen from her bed in complete health and vigour, she would
scarcely have excited more joy in her mother, and in Savanna, than she
did by this expression.

'Can live!' cried Mrs Mowbray, 'O! you shall, you must live.' And an
express was sent off immediately to Dr Norberry too, who was removed to
Kendal, to be near his elder daughter, lately married in the
neighbourhood.

Dr Norberry arrived in a few hours. Mrs Mowbray ran out to meet him; but
a welcome died on her tongue, and she could only speak by her tears.

'There, there, my good woman, don't be foolish,' replied he: 'it is very
silly to blubber, you know: besides, it can do no good,' giving her a
kiss, while the tears trickled down his rough cheek. 'So, the lost sheep
is found?'

'But, O! she will be lost again,' faltered Mrs Mowbray; 'I doubt nothing
can save her!'

'No!' cried the old man, with a gulp, 'no! not my coming so many miles
on purpose?--Well, but where is she?'

'She will see you presently, but begged to be excused for a few
minutes.' 'You see,' said he, 'by my dress, what has happened,' gulping
as he spoke. 'I have lost the companion of thirty years!--and--and--'
here he paused, and after an effort went on to say, that his wife in her
last illness had owned that she had suppressed Adeline's letters, and
had declared the reason of it--'But, poor soul!' continued the doctor,
'it was the only sin against me, I believe, or any one else, that she
ever committed--so I forgave her: and I trust that God will.'

Soon after they were summoned to the sick room, and Dr Norberry beheld
with a degree of fearful emotion, which he vainly endeavoured to hide
under a cloak of pleasantry, the dreadful ravages which sorrow and
sickness had made in the face and form of Adeline.

'So, here you are at last!' cried he, trying to smile while he sobbed
audibly, 'and a pretty figure you make, don't you?--But we have you
again, and we will not part with you so soon, I can tell you (almost
starting as the faint but rapid pulse met his fingers)--that is, I
mean,' added he, 'unless it please God.' Mrs Mowbray and Savanna, during
this speech, gazed on his countenance in breathless anxiety, and read in
it a confirmation of their fears. 'But who's afraid?' cried the doctor,
forcing a laugh, while his tone and his looks expressed the extreme of
apprehension, and his laugh ended in a sob.

Mrs Mowbray turned away in a sort of desperate silence; but the mulatto
still kept her penetrating eye fixed upon him, and with a look so full
of woe!

'I'll trouble you, mistress, to take those formidable eyes of yours
off my face,' cried the doctor pettishly; 'for I can't stand their
inquiry!--But who the devil are you?'

'She is my nurse, my consoler, and my friend,' said Adeline.

'Then she is mine of course,' cried the doctor, 'though she has a
terrible stare with her eyes:--but give me your hand, mistress. What is
your name?'

'Me be name Savanna,' replied the mulatto; 'and me die and live wid my
dear mistress,' she added, bursting into tears.

'Pshaw!' cried the doctor, 'I can't bear this--here I came as a
physician, and these blubberers melt me down into an old woman. Adeline,
I must order all these people out of the room, and have you to myself,
or I can do nothing.'

He was obeyed; and on inquiring into all Adeline's symptoms, he found
little to hope and every thing to fear--'But your mind is relieved, and
you have youth on your side; and who knows what good air, good food, and
good nurses may do for you!'

'Not to mention a good physician,' added Adeline, smiling, 'and a good
friend in that physician.'

'This it be to have money,' said Savanna, as she saw the various things
prepared and made to tempt Adeline's weak appetite:--'poor Savanna mean
as well--her heart make all these, but her hand want power.'

During this state of alarming suspense Mrs Pemberton was hourly expected,
as she had written word that she had traced Adeline into Lancashire,
and suspected that she was in her mother's neighbourhood.--It may be
supposed that Mrs Mowbray, Adeline, and Savanna, looked forward to her
arrival with eager impatience; but not so Dr Norberry--he said that
no doubt she was a very good sort of woman, but that he did not like
pretensions to righteousness over much, and had a particular aversion to
a piece of formal drab-coloured morality.

Adeline only laughed at these prejudices, without attempting to confute
them; for she knew that Mrs Pemberton's appearance and manners would
soon annihilate them. At length she reached the Lawn; and Savanna,
who saw her alight, announced her arrival to her mistress, and was
commissioned by her to introduce her immediately into the sick
chamber.--She did so; but Mrs Pemberton, almost overpowered with joy
at the intelligence which awaited her, and ill fortified by Savanna's
violent and mixed emotions against the indulgence of her own, begged to
compose herself a few moments before she met Adeline: but Savanna was
not to be denied; and seizing her hand she led her up to the bedside of
the invalid.--Adeline smiled affectionately when she saw her; but Mrs
Pemberton started back, and, scarcely staying to take the hand which
she offered her, rushed out of the room, to vent in solitude the burst
of uncontrollable anguish which the sight of her altered countenance
occasioned her.--Alas! her eye had been but too well tutored to read
the characters of death in the face, and it was some time before she
recovered herself sufficiently to appear before the anxious watchers by
the bed of Adeline with that composure which on principle she always
endeavoured to display.--At length, however, she re-entered the room,
and approaching the poor invalid, kissed in silence her wan flushed
cheek.

'I am very different now, my kind friend, to what I was when you _first_
saw me,' said Adeline, faintly smiling.

To the moment when they _last_ met, Adeline had not resolution enough to
revert, for then she was mourning by the dead body of Glenmurray.

Mrs Pemberton was silent for a moment; but, making an effort, she
replied, 'Thou art now more like what thou wert in _mind_, when I
_first_ met thee at Rosevalley, than when I first saw thee at Richmond.
At Rosevalley I beheld thee innocent, at Richmond guilty, and here I see
thee penitent, and, I hope, resigned to thy fate.'--She spoke the word
_resigned_ with emphasis, and Adeline _understood_ her.

'I am indeed resigned,' replied Adeline in a low voice: 'nay, I feel
that I am much favoured in being spared so long. But there is one thing
that weighs heavily on my mind; Mary Warner is leading a life of shame,
and she told me when I last saw her, that she was corrupted by my
precept and example: if so--'

'Set thy conscience at rest on that subject,' interrupted Mrs Pemberton:
'while she lived with me, I discovered, long before she ever saw thee,
that she had been known to have been faulty.'

'Oh! what a load have you removed from my mind!' replied Adeline. 'Still
it would be more relieved, if you would promise to find her out; and she
may be heard of at Mr Langley's chambers in the Temple. Offer her a
yearly allowance for life, provided she will quit her present vicious
habits; I am sure my mother will gladly fulfil my wishes in this
respect.'

'And so will I,' replied Mrs Pemberton. 'Is there any thing else that I
can do for thee?'

'Yes: I have two pensioners at Richmond,--a poor young woman, and her
orphan boy,--an illegitimate child,' she added, deeply sighing, as she
recollected what had interested her in their fate. 'I bequeath them to
your care: Savanna knows where they are to be found. And now, all that
disturbs my thoughts at this awful moment is, the grief which my poor
mother and Savanna will feel;--nay, they will be quite unprepared for
it; for they persist to hope still, and I believe that even Dr Norberry
allows his wishes to deceive his judgment.'

'They will suffer, indeed!' cried Mrs Pemberton: 'but I give thee my
word, that I will never leave thy mother, and that Savanna shall be our
joint care.'

'It is enough--I shall now die in peace,' said Adeline; and Mrs
Pemberton turned away to meet Mrs Mowbray, who, with Dr Norberry at that
moment entered the room. Mrs Mowbray met her, and welcomed her audibly
and joyfully: but Mrs Pemberton, aware of the blow which impended over
her, vainly endeavoured to utter a congratulation; but throwing herself
into Mrs Mowbray's extended arms, she forgot her usual self-command, and
sobbed loudly on her bosom.

Dr Norberry gazed at the benevolent Quaker with astonishment. True, she
was '_drab-coloured_;' but where was the repulsive formality that he had
expected? 'This woman can feel like other women, and is as good a hand
at a crying-bout as myself.' But Mrs Pemberton did not long give way to
so violent an indulgence of her feelings; and gently withdrawing herself
from Mrs Mowbray's embrace, she turned to the window, while Mrs Mowbray
hastened to the bed-side of Adeline. Mrs Pemberton then turned round
again, and, seizing Dr Norberry's hand, which she fervently pressed,
said in a faltering voice, 'Would thou couldst _save_ her!'

'And--and _can't_ I? can't I?' replied he, gulping. Mrs Pemberton looked
at him with an expression which he could neither mistake nor endure; but
muttering in a low tone, 'No! dear, sweet soul! I doubt I can't, I doubt
I can't, by the Lord!' he rushed out of the room.

From that moment he never was easy but when he could converse with Mrs
Pemberton; for he knew that she, and she only, sympathized in his
feelings, as she only knew that Adeline was not likely to recover. The
invalid herself observed his attention to her friend, nor could she
forbear to rally him on the total disappearance of his prejudices
against the fair Quaker; for, such was the influence of Mrs Pemberton's
dignified yet winning manners, and such was the respect with which she
inspired him, that, if he had his hat on, he always took it off when she
entered the room, and never uttered any thing like an oath, without
humbly begging her pardon; and he told Adeline, that were all Quakers
like Mrs Pemberton, he should be tempted to cry. 'Drab is your only
wear.'

Another and another day elapsed, and Adeline still lived.--On the
evening of the third day, as she lay half-slumbering with her head on
Savanna's arm, and Mrs Mowbray, lulling Editha to sleep on her lap, was
watching beside her, glancing her eye alternately with satisfied and
silent affection from the child to the mother, whom she thought in a
fair way of recovery; while Dr Norberry, stifling an occasional sob, was
contemplating the group, and Mrs Pemberton, her hands clasped in each
other, seemed lost in devout contemplation, Adeline awoke, and as she
gazed on Editha, who was fondly held to Mrs Mowbray's bosom, a smile
illumined her sunk countenance. Mrs Mowbray at that moment eagerly and
anxiously pressed forward to catch her weak accents, and inquire how
she felt. 'I have seen that fond and anxious look before,' she faintly
articulated, 'but in happier times! and it assures me that you love me
still.'

'Love you still!' replied Mrs Mowbray with passionate fondness:--'never,
never were you so dear to me as now!'

Adeline tried to express the joy which flushed her cheek at these words,
and lighted up her closing eyes: but she tried in vain. At length she
grasped Mrs Mowbray's hand to her lips, and in imperfect accents
exclaiming 'I thank thee, blessed Lord!' she laid her head on Savanna's
bosom, and expired.


END OF ADELINE MOWBRAY.




TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE


The period spelling has generally been retained along with the often
inconsistent hyphenation. Obvious spelling errors (e.g. Patrtick, Diety,
solioquy, forigve, loking, pwoerfully) have been silently corrected.

The following additional changes were made to the text, in some of the
subtler cases with reference to the 1805 edition. In each instance, the
corrected version follows the original.

  Adeline was leaning o the arm of a young lady.
    Adeline was leaning on the arm of a young lady.

  little tricks and minauderies
    little tricks and minaudieres

  Adeline, bursting into tears, threw himself into his arms
    Adeline, bursting into tears, threw herself into his arms

  he dreaded to tell her that he could now allow her to call on them
    he dreaded to tell her that he could not allow her to call on them

  the slight favours by which true love is long contended to be fed
    the slight favours by which true love is long contented to be fed

  though I think all they say are true
     though I think all they say is true

  your writing are the lights
    your writings are the lights

  as a author
    as an author

  but in the mildst of it Maynard re-entered
    but in the midst of it Maynard re-entered

  continued to feel his passion
    continued to feed his passion

  He had brought some cakes with the penny which Adeline had given
    He had bought some cakes with the penny which Adeline had given

  who felt even her violet sorrow suspended
    who felt even her violent sorrow suspended

  it was more likely Mr Drury should be mistaken, than
  Berrendale to be a villain
    it was more likely Mr Drury should be mistaken, than
    Berrendale be a villain

  Berrendale, (...) scarcely know what to answer
    Berrendale, (...) scarcely knew what to answer

  though near twelve he did not look about eight years old
    though near twelve he did not look above eight years old

  no motive less powerful (...) could have enable her to reach
  the summit
    no motive less powerful (...) could have enabled her to reach
    the summit

  for mercy's safe, torture me no more
    for mercy's sake, torture me no more

  she hurried to the door of the chamber, saving she should be ready
    she hurried to the door of the chamber, saying she should be ready

  Po! dear, sweet soul! I doubt I can't
    No! dear, sweet soul! I doubt I can't





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