ADELAIDE.
And she was lost and yet I breathed,
But not the breath of common life.
A serpent ’round my heart was wreathed
That stung its every thought to strife.—_Byron._
For many days all Mr. Deville’s efforts to trace Adelaide were vain.
Those were not the times of telegraphs, railroads, country papers and
cheap postage. Instead of flying in an instant from one extremity of the
continent to another, news crept slowly from house to house. Thus,
though Mr. Deville never left his saddle and his emissaries never
relaxed their inquiries, yet ten days had passed before they heard a
rumor that a young person, answering to the description of Lady Adelaide
Deville, had been found in the snow, insensible with cold, and had been
conveyed to the Fieldhurst Farm, distant about thirteen miles from
River-view.
Mr. Deville put spurs to his horse and galloped without delay to the
house of John Fieldhurst.
There he found the tale confirmed—a beautiful young girl, apparently
about fifteen or sixteen years of age, of a slight and graceful form,
fair complexion, golden hair and blue eyes with a gentle manner and a
sweet-toned voice, had been picked out of the snow and succored at the
farm-house.
Her garments, like her person, bespoke her of high rank, refined habits,
and delicate tastes. Her linen was marked with the initials A. D. She
had remained but a night and departed silently the next day, leaving
behind her a note and a costly diamond-ring.
That was all that they could tell him. They had heard nothing of her
after-fate.
With a groan, Orville desired to see the ring and the note, and when
they were produced he recognized both as belonging to Lady Adelaide, and
took possession of them in her name. And with many thanks to the family
for their succor of his bride, and many earnest requests that they would
assist him in his search by making every possible inquiry for her in
their neighborhood, Orville took leave and returned home.
When he entered the parlor his mother, who sat by the centre-table
engaged in sewing, drew an awkward looking letter from her work basket
and handed him, with the words:
“Here, Orville, I cannot help thinking that this queer-looking epistle
brings news of our Adelaide—though the superscription is misspelled in a
style that would be perfectly horrible, if it were not so ridiculous.”
Orville seized the letter with almost rude haste, was ill-folded, dirty,
greasy, blotted, and directed to
“Mister Awful Devil Eskvire
of River-vue.”
“Did you ever in your life see such preposterous spelling?” said Lady
Elizabeth.
“It strikes me that the name is spelt correctly, mother,” said Orville
Deville, with a sorrowful sarcasm, as he tore the letter open and read:
“MISTER AWFUL DEVIL SUR,—A yung wummun like the wun yu lawst, strade
to mi howse on Sadderdy last, whare she was tuk with a brane feever in
Hur hed. pleeze kum and se if it is the saim, and obleege yores toe
kummand
“JOHN TWIGS at the sine of the Myrtle.”
“It _must_ be her, poor child! She is ill at the Myrtle Inn, on the New
Cut Road. Oh, mother, you will go with me to attend her?” inquired
Orville, in agitation.
“I will go with you to ascertain the facts, and if I find her I shall
remain to nurse her,” said Lady Elizabeth, ringing for her maid to
assist her in dressing for the ride, while Mr. Deville went out to order
the carriage.
In another hour they were on their way to the Myrtle Inn, which was
distant thirty miles from River-view.
As more than half the day had been consumed by Mr. Deville in his ride
to and from the Fieldhurst Farm, it was now three o’clock when they set
out from River-view for the inn. They drove rapidly along the Bush Creek
Road until they reached Bush Creek Mill, where they turned off to the
left into the country road leading through the heart of the forest, and
continued their journey until they reached Fieldhurst Farm.
Here Lady Elizabeth would have alighted to make fresh inquiries, but her
son, on fire with impatience, assured her that there was no more
intelligence to be gained there, and ordered the coachman to turn to the
right and drive faster.
They entered the New Cut Road, and after a rapid ride of six hours in
all, they reached the Myrtle Inn—a large, two-story, brown-stone house,
situated in a small clearing of the forest, on the left hand of the New
Cut Road.
Leaving his mother seated in the carriage, Mr. Deville sprang out and
ran into the quiet little bar, where his correspondent, the little,
short, fat landlord, sat alone, idly smoking his pipe while waiting for
a chance customer in the shape of a wagoner. This little personage laid
down his pipe and inquired now he could serve the gentleman.
“My name is Deville,” said Orville.
“Oh! the gentleman as I writ to ’bout the young woman. What a desput
pity she should o’ gone crazy and wandered off, afore her friends
suspicioned any thing was amiss with her head-piece,” said the host.
“Oh! that is the fortunate construction the people put upon her flight,
is it?” thought Orville within himself. Aloud he inquired—
“First of all, how is the young lady?”
“She’s better, sir; but very feeble. Our doctor has fotch her through,
as one may say, like a brand from the burning!”
As they spoke, Lady Elizabeth, who had alighted and hastened after her
son, entered in time to hear the landlord’s report of his guest’s
condition.
“I think, Orville,” she said, “that you had better remain here and
gather all the details that you can get from Mr. Twigs, while I go up
and see our dear girl.”
“As you think best, mother,” said Mr. Deville.
“Can you call some one to show me up to my daughter, sir?” asked Lady
Elizabeth, of the landlord.
“Certainly, ma’am!—here Jenny! Jenny!”
A fair-haired, blue-eyed little girl of twelve came out from an inner
room and curtsied respectfully to the strangers.
“Jenny, show this lady up to the young lady’s sick-room.”
With another curtsey, the little maiden said—
“This way, ma’am,” and conducted Lady Elizabeth through a side-door into
the hall, and thence up the narrow stairs to a medium-sized front room,
where, on a neat, white-draped bed, lay Adelaide, alone and apparently
sleeping.
“Do you leave her alone?” inquired the lady, in a tone of displeasure.
“Oh, no, ma’am. I watch her, and had only just run down to get a drink
of water, when father saw me and called me in,” replied the little
maiden.
“You may go now, and leave me with my daughter,” said her ladyship.
The little girl withdrew quietly, closing the door after her.
Lady Elizabeth laid off her bonnet and mantle, and quietly drew a chair
to the side of the bed, to wait until the patient should awake. Adelaide
lay perfectly still, with her fair, transparent hands folded upon her
young, saintly bosom in perfect repose, her eyelids resting upon her
delicate cheek, and her long, pale hair flowing down each side of her
paler face.
“Poor child! poor, sensitive child! how much she must have suffered
secretly, e’er she was driven to this!” said Lady Elizabeth.
While she watched, Adelaide opened her gentle eyes, and with a slight
start recognized her mother-in law.
“Lady Elizabeth! _you_ here!” she exclaimed, in a faint tone of
astonishment.
“Yes, sweet girl! I have come to take care of you until you are able to
return with me!” said the elder lady, judiciously refraining from
expressing the least surprise or annoyance.
“Ah! fate is against me! fate is against me!” mourned the unhappy one,
covering her face with her attenuated, fair hands.
“Why should you say fate is against you, our dear one? Providence has
loaded you with blessings! Youth, beauty, accomplishments, wealth, and
last, but by no means least, the first and undivided love of your
husband!” said the matron, soothingly.
Adelaide looked up in sad surprise, repeating almost unconsciously,
“‘The first and undivided love’ of my husband.”
“Why, surely yes! it is a truth too manifest to dwell upon! He scarcely
knows another woman—scarcely shares his heart even with his mother. You
have it all.”
“Is it possible she knows nothing of Lionne?” thought Adelaide, looking
wistfully into the face of her mother-in-law.
The examination was satisfactory. Orville’s mother knew nothing of
Orville’s duplicate marriage.
“And yet how does she account to herself for my leaving the house?”
thought Adelaide.
Her thought was soon answered by Lady Elizabeth’s next observation.
“I do wonder that you should have imagined Orville cold and neglectful
of you, when nothing was farther from his heart, as he will soon prove.”
“Oh,” thought Adelaide, “she thinks I left home because he slighted me!”
She remained silent, while Lady Elizabeth continued talking very much in
the same vein.
Orville’s partial and confiding mother knew nothing of her son’s sins,
and Orville’s heart-broken young wife would not accuse her husband. Yet
how to escape without exposing him?
“Will you see Orville now, my dear?” inquired Lady Elizabeth.
“Is he here?” exclaimed Adelaide, in surprise.
“Why, of course he is, my dear! Orville has been consumed with anxiety
since you left. See him, my dear.”
“Oh, not to-night, please! not to-night!” said Adelaide, clasping her
hands pleadingly.
“Well, certainly it _is_ very late—nearly ten o’clock! It was nine when
we got here. He must wait until to-morrow,” admitted Lady Elizabeth, who
then rang and ordered the chambermaid to make her up a bed in Adelaide’s
room, saying that she should remain with her daughter both day and night
until the recovery of the latter.
And while the servant obeyed these directions, the lady who had given
them went down-stairs to give her news of their patient to Orville, and
to join him at their plain supper.
Orville had gathered but little further details from the landlord, and
that, such as it was, proved more mortifying than satisfactory: namely,
that one evening, nearly two weeks before, the young lady had reached
the inn, alone, on foot, and in a complete state of exhaustion. They
could do no otherwise than take her in.
That night, brain-fever had declared itself, and in the morning the
chambermaid discovered her in high delirium. A purse of money was found
in her pocket, but there was no clue to her identity.
At noon, when the neighborhood’s physician stopped to water his horse
and brandy himself, he was called to her bedside, and had since attended
her regularly. That he, John Twigs, had heard only three or four days
before of the missing girl from River-view, and had written accordingly.
This was all, but quite enough deeply to humiliate the proud and
fastidious Devilles.
“I cannot understand at all your neglect of your beautiful bride,
Orville! and neither can I comprehend how she should take it so _very_
deeply to heart as actually to leave the house! The whole thing is
incomprehensible to me!” said Lady Elizabeth.
“I did not mean to neglect her, and heaven knows I was far from
indifference; but she is a morbidly sensitive child,” said Orville,
suppressing all mention of Lionne, which would have explained the whole
matter.
“Evidently she is so deeply, deeply hurt, that she shrinks even from
hearing your name.”
“Then I had better refrain from forcing myself upon her—for the
present,” said Orville.
After supper Lady Elizabeth inspected the chamber that had been prepared
for her son, to see that the room was well ventilated, the sheets were
well aired, etc., and then bade him good-night and retired to Adelaide’s
apartment.
“Do you sit up with her?” inquired the lady of the little girl who
attended her with a lighted lamp.
“The neighbors used to when she was very ill, but now I only sleep in
the room in case she wants any thing.”
“Then you may retire, and leave that duty to me for the future.”
When the little girl had left the room, Lady Elizabeth drew an
arm-chair, and took her place at the side of the bed.
On looking more closely at Adelaide, she perceived, to her alarm, that
the patient was not sleeping, but lying in a state of gentle delirium,
and at intervals murmuring low, sad, inaudible lamentations.
By means of stooping low and listening attentively, she heard her
murmur:
“Oh, lay me in the quiet earth, beneath the gentle overbending trees;
let me sleep and forget—sleep and forget!”
And then followed sighs and silence. Presently the feverish lips moved
again, and she said:
“I love too much, too much! My love _burns_ whom it means to _bless!_
and it is thrown back upon me to consume the heart and frame in which it
lives! Oh, lay me down where the shade is always deep and dark, and the
dew is always fresh and cool—it will draw the fire from my burning heart
and beating brain, and cool me into sleep!”
Lady Elizabeth applied such sedatives as she found at hand and as her
experience had proved to be efficacious in such cases of excitement.
Presently, partially recovering from that wandering state of mind,
Adelaide looked up, and recognizing Lady Elizabeth, said:
“Oh, mother, mother, there is in this world no room at all for my
heart—_none, none_! Like Noah’s poor banished dove, it wanders over a
waste of waters, finding no single spot to repose for an instant.”
To these plaintive words, Lady Elizabeth replied by the tenderest
caresses, and the most affectionate words—
“You are ill now, my love, and you labor under an illusion. Your heart’s
home is in your husband’s bosom.”
At that word, Adelaide shrank like a sensitive plant, and soon after
relapsed into wandering and low delirium.
Lady Elizabeth passed the night in watching beside the patient’s bed.
The morning found Adelaide weaker from her night of fever and of partial
delirium.
In a word, the shock of the sudden arrival of the Devilles had
occasioned in Adelaide a serious relapse.
Orville, at the suggestion of his mother, returned to River-view.
Lady Elizabeth remained and nursed her patient with tenderness and
skill. The physician, stimulated by the discovery of his patient’s rank
and wealth, redoubled his attentions. But with the best medical advice,
and the most devoted nursing, it was still a fortnight before Adelaide
could leave her chamber.
Upon the third day after her first appearance in the parlor, Lady
Elizabeth said to her:
“Adelaide my dear, to-morrow Orville will arrive with our
travelling-carriage, and we will return home.”
“Oh, no, no, no! I cannot! Indeed I cannot! Send me away to some far
distant place, to some quiet family, where I can live, obscure and
unknown, until God is willing to let me die!” pleaded the suffering
girl, clasping her fragile hands and raising her beseeching eyes to the
face of her protectress.
“Lady Adelaide Deville, your proposition is an insane one! Consider your
husband! A wife has _no right_, thus, without just cause, to leave her
husband! What would Orville say? What would your Christian friends—what
would the _world_ say? My dear, your proposal is perfectly
preposterous.”
“Mother, you have been _more_ than a mother to me. Hear me! bear with
me! Suppose that my honor and dignity, and—and Orville’s happiness, are
concerned in my going; and let me, oh, let me depart!”
“Nonsense, my dear child; you are hurt, _deeply_ hurt, and you think
that Orville does not love you; but I know that he does, and that he
will soon convince you of it.”
“Oh, mother! mother! you do not know what you say! Oh, believe me, I
_ought not_ and _must not_ return to River-view!” pleaded Adelaide, with
her hands still clasped and her blue eyes still fixed beseechingly upon
her companion’s face.
“My sweet child, I not only know what I say, but I know what I _do_! I
am thirty years older than you are, Lady Adelaide; I am, besides, your
guardian, and my son is your husband. We have a legal, though limited
disposal of your person. I shall assuredly take you back to River-view.
And Lady Adelaide is too meek and modest, as well as too conscientious,
to rebel against lawful authority,” said Lady Elizabeth, with a manner
that admitted of no opposition.
Adelaide dropped her hands upon her lap with a look of despair.
“All that is left for me, then,” she thought, “is to have an explanation
with Mr. Deville. Yes, painful, distressing, revolting as it is, I must
see him once again, and leave it to him to explain to his mother why it
is that I cannot remain under his roof.”
While Adelaide was reluctantly coming to this resolution, Lady Elizabeth
relapsed into silence, fearing that further conversation might too much
excite her patient.
Late that evening Orville arrived in the family-carriage.
“How is my dear Adelaide?” was his first inquiry, on meeting his mother.
“Heart-sick and brain-sick, though otherwise convalescent. I sometimes
suspect that there may be more reason than appears for her sorrow,”
looking wistfully into Orville’s face.
“Where is she? I must see her,” said Mr. Deville.
“You cannot, to-night! she has retired to rest, and is probably
sleeping. And really, it is time that we should do the same.”
In the morning Lady Adelaide arose before her usual time, and while her
mother-in-law was still sleeping, dressed herself and descended to the
parlor.
At the same hour, Mr. Deville, while standing before his dressing-glass,
had a note placed in his hand. It was from his young bride, requesting
an immediate interview.
He hastened his toilet and descended to the parlor, where he found
Adelaide, delicate, fair and languid from recent illness and present
sorrow.
“My own, my dearest one, my heart’s life,” he began, softly approaching
her and attempting to take her hand.
But with a look, gentle and compassionate as it was firm and repellant—a
look such as that with which a pitying angel might forever banish a
sinner—she stopped him.
Then with that candor and decision that often distinguishes the most
gentle woman when called upon to act from duty, pointing to a chair near
her, which he took, she said—
“Mr. Deville, I took the liberty of asking you to come here to consult
with you concerning my future course in regard to Lady Elizabeth,”—she
paused, passed her hand before her eyes, blushed, and seemed
embarrassed.
“As for instance,” said Mr. Deville—
“—For instance, then,” continued Adelaide, with a deepening blush—“Lady
Elizabeth knows nothing at all of your—your—”
“—Sins and follies you would say!”
“—Nay, your marriage with Lionne Delaforêt; and consequently, neither
can she understand the imminent necessity of my withdrawing from her
roof,” said Adelaide, gathering firmness.
“Lady,” said Orville, coldly and severely—“you have ventured directly to
mention a subject to which it does not become one of your age, sex, and
condition, even remotely to allude! What can the Lady Adelaide Deville
have in common with the wild and frail girl, whom she has suffered to
disturb her peace?”
“What,” said Adelaide, sadly—“a common human nature, a common woman’s
heart, in a word, a common capacity for suffering the same wrongs or
enjoying the same blessings.”
“I will not ask what you _mean_, Adelaide; but I _will_ request you not
to offend me again with the mention of that wretched girl,” said Mr.
Deville, with a sternness unusual in his manner.
Delicate, gentle and retiring, how hard for her to nerve her heart to
the contest now before her! a contest with the man she had from
childhood exclusively and passionately loved as her husband—a contest
not for her _own_, but for her rival’s and for his sake. Nevertheless,
she braced her nerves by a strong effort of will, and said—
“Mr. Deville, if you please, hear me while I tell you what I have heard
and seen—a subject painful to me as to you; but which needs to be
discussed.”
“Adelaide, if you _will_ take advantage of your privilege to give me
pain, you must do so, of course!” he said, coldly.
Distressed, but not daunted by this sarcasm, Adelaide began and related
the whole history of her interview with Lionne.
Orville, with knit brows, compressed lips and severe countenance, heard
her through in silence. At the close of her narrative, when she looked
inquiringly at him, he expressed neither denial, assent, nor regret, at
what had passed.
“Oh, how hard! how hard under that gentle exterior he must be!” thought
Adelaide, as she again resumed her speech and spoke of the note of
renunciation that she had written, and of her plan of retiring from the
neighborhood.
The better nature of Orville Deville was deeply stirred by her beautiful
spirit of self-sacrifice.
“Here is a woman, young, beautiful and pure, who is ready to sacrifice
her every good in life, that the man she loves may be happy with her
rival!” he thought, as he gazed in wonder upon her angelic face.
Alas! she dared not meet that gaze! Her pure, calm, trusting love of
years had been by grief sublimed to passion, so that now every glance of
his strong, dark eyes, every tone of his deep voice, every touch of his
compelling hand, thrilled her sensitive frame with a deep, intense,
sweet madness that must have been pure rapture, but for the blasting
memories that traversed her bosom liked forked lightning. Now feeling
his ardent gaze upon her, she turned, half-fainting, away, like a lily
drooping under the hot noonday sun.
He approached her again, and endeavored to take her hand, but she drew
it away with a shiver, half pain, half pleasure, and trembled so visibly
that Orville contented himself with drawing his chair nearer to her as
he said:
“Adelaide, you have told me that _you_ were _forced_ upon me, and that
_another_ was the wife of my _choice_, that therefore you wish to leave
me. In reply, I have but one thing to say and swear, namely, that you
are not only my _lawful_ wife, but the wife of my deliberate _choice_,
and that I not only love you _more_ than any _other_ woman, but I love
you _only_ of _all_ women! Further, that nothing on earth shall ever
induce me to part with you;” and so saying, in a voice vibrating with
his soul’s profound passion, he swiftly and softly seized her hand,
turned and gazed into her face, and surprised there—a smile of joy in
the depths of her soft, dark blue eyes!
“He loves me! oh, he loves me, notwithstanding all!” was the quick
thought that had sent the thrill of rapture through her heart. But swift
upon the track of that thought and that rapture came the Nemesis of
memory, bringing anguish. Snatching her hand in horror from his clasp,
she exclaimed, in a low, breathless voice:
“I must not listen to you! oh, I must not! Oh, no, no, no!”
It was too late! In that first light of joy Orville had read—not the
calm love that he knew before, but the consuming passion of her heart.
He caught her to his bosom, he strained her to his heart, he pressed his
lips with devouring avidity to her lips, her cheeks, her eyes, and
bosom, exclaiming passionately between the kisses:
“You are my _wife! my own! my indisputable!_ no earthly power shall
snatch you from my arms! none none! henceforth and forever you shall lie
in my bosom, my wife! my own! heart of my heart! life of my life!”
Suddenly he was stopped as by a death-stroke. While still hailing kisses
like a storm of fire upon her lips, her form suddenly grew heavy in his
embrace, her sweet eyes closed, her lips paled, and her head fell back,
with all its long, golden tresses unwinding over his arm.
“She has fainted!” he cried, in alarm, hurrying toward the sofa, where
he laid her, and then rang a peal of bells that brought all the
household and Lady Elizabeth Deville to the scene.
That the delicate invalid should have swooned, excited more sympathy
than surprise.
Under Lady Elizabeth’s directions, she was removed to her bedchamber,
where the best means were used for her relief, and where she soon
recovered consciousness.
The journey home to River-view was necessarily deferred until the next
day.
Leaving Adelaide reposing, Lady Elizabeth came down into the parlor to
have a talk with her son.
“Orville,” she said, “I know not how you have contrived to do it, but
you have very deeply offended, or rather, I should say, hopelessly
estranged Adelaide. She gently but firmly refuses to accompany us to
River-view. As her guardian I shall take her thither, whether she will
or no; but to make the task a little less difficult, I shall have to
promise that you will not seek her company, or in any way molest her;
and I wish you, my son, to give me your word to that effect.”
“You have my word, mother, that I will not disturb the quiet of Lady
Adelaide for—a limited time, say a week or two.”
“Certainly, that is all that I require; for, surely, Adelaide’s
displeasure cannot last longer—though I ought not to call her state of
feeling displeasure; it is more like grief. There must be more in it
than I know of! Your neglect, bad as it was, could never have made such
a deep and lasting impression, never! But as neither of you volunteer to
enlighten me, I suppose you prefer that I should not pry into your
matrimonial secrets,” said Lady Elizabeth, with a doubtful smile.
“At least it is not necessary that I should trouble you with the details
of our misunderstanding, mother; it is sufficient to say that through
all, Lady Adelaide Deville has not only been entirely blameless, but
angelic; and however mistaken her acts, her motives were heavenly. As
for me, with all my faults, I have no dearer wish for earth or heaven
than the re-establishment of perfect confidence and a perfect union with
her—the only woman on earth I love, except my mother.”
Again the lady smiled, ambiguously, and the conference closed.
The next morning the large family-carriage was drawn up before the
inn-door, and several soft pillows that had been brought from River-view
were arranged to support the invalid.
Adelaide was placed within, lying upon the pillows, and supported by
Lady Elizabeth.
Orville, by his mother’s advice, rode on the box beside the driver. And
thus they journeyed to River-view.
They arrived late in the afternoon.
Adelaide was immediately conveyed to her apartments, where she was laid
upon a lounge and refreshments were served to her.
And sitting by her couch, her mother-in-law reiterated her promise in
behalf of herself and her son, that Orville should not approach the
apartment of Adelaide until she herself summoned him to her presence.
It was reported among the servants, that the Lady Adelaide, in a state
of partial delirium from the approach of illness, had unconsciously
wandered from her home; and in the absence of any knowledge of the
facts, on the part of the community, this explanation of her strange
conduct obtained general credence—with a single exception, that of Kate
Kyte, who knew all about the matter; but who, for the sake of Lady
Adelaide, continued to keep the secret.
“It” was in the second week after her return to River-view, that Lady
Adelaide sent to request Kate to come and see her.
And the young Diana lost no time in complying.
When questioned by Adelaide, Kate frankly told her all she knew of what
had passed at Bush Creek, and also of the relentless anger and stubborn
departure of Lionne.
Adelaide heard all this with pain that was only eased by prayer.
Kate spent the day with the invalid, and after that became her frequent
visitor and favorite companion.
Orville kept his promise, and never, by word or deed, molested the peace
of his unhappy bride, or even betrayed a wish to seek her presence,
until one day when, unexpectedly, an event occurred that promised to
restore their mutual association, confidence and happiness.