ADELAIDE’S CONSOLATION
Within that heavy heart of thine,
Love’s thrilling pulse is ever leaping;
So ebbs and flows the eternal brine,
Though winds lie calm, and earth is sleeping!
And o’er the gloom thy soul which shrouds,
Hope like a star her watch is keeping;
So sits the Iris in the clouds
And all the landscape smiles—though weeping.—_Sillery._
In due time letters came from Orville Deville, for Lady Elizabeth—none
for Adelaide.
“Lady Adelaide, I have heard from my son—he sends his respects to you,”
said the mother of Orville, coldly, addressing her daughter-in-law.
“I thank him; when you write, please return my best wishes for his
happiness,” said the latter, quietly, though she trembled at holding out
this “right hand of fellowship.”
It was the day succeeding the arrival of these letters that, in the cool
of the morning, Adelaide ordered her little sail-boat, and went for a
trip up the coast, as far as the mouth of Bush Creek. When she had
arrived thither the beauty of the shaded stream tempted her on, and for
the first time, she entered the mouth of Bush Creek for a sail up the
stream.
“How far can we go, Nero?” she asked of her old helmsman.
“When de tide’s high as ’tis now, up far’s de mill, ma’am, and even
furder.”
“Then we will go up to the mill and pay Kate a visit.”
“Ay, ay, ma’am!”
“This is enjoying at once a sail on the salt-water and a ramble through
the forest,” said Lady Adelaide, looking with delight up at the thicket
of tall trees that grew upon each bank, and whose upper branches met and
overshadowed the deep but narrow stream. Nothing could be more singular,
picturesque and beautiful than the effect of that little graceful
shallop skimming the surface of the creek—her white sail gleaming in and
out among the dark green foliage.
“We are navigating the forest instead of the ocean, Nero!” said the
young lady, with a smile—“but when we get up a little farther will not
the foliage interfere with the sail?”
“No, ma’am—they never meets low enough.”
They were going before a fresh wind, and might have flown, but for the
necessity of constant tacking in follow—the serpentine windings of the
stream.
At length, however, in an hour they reached the bridge below the mill,
and secured the boat to the posts.
The helmsman sprang upon the bank and assisted his mistress to land.
Adelaide looked up at the old house, once so lone and desolate, now in
“Solitude no more; but peopled by the furies,”
in the forms of four savage-looking men, with tall, spare figures, harsh
features, darkly-bronzed complexions, and long, wild, black elf-locks
and beards that hung upon their shoulders and breasts. They were clad in
tunics and leggins of ill-dressed buckskin, and were lounging about the
broken doorway and walls of the house.
“Who _are_ those barbarians?” inquired Adelaide, with some degree of
uneasiness.
“Dem? Why, dey must be Miss Kate’s older brothers come back from de
hunting-grounds.”
“Gracious! they look much more savage than the savage Indians
themselves.”
“So do all white men when dey grow wild,” was the sapient and truthful
observation of Nero.
“Ay! the Anglo-American race are bound to excel in every thing they
attempt—even when they try to be savages!” remarked Adelaide, as she
entered the yard and approached the door.
The said “savages” showed their civilization by giving way and retiring
with respectful bows, which Adelaide answered by a nod as she entered
the house.
Kate sprang from the inner room to meet and greet her.
“Oh, Lady Adelaide, I am so glad to see you! Oh, Lady Adelaide! my
brothers have come home! all safe! every one of them safe!” exclaimed
the wild girl, tears of joy rushing to her dark eyes!
“I rejoice with you, Kate! with all my heart, I rejoice with you! When
did they come, my dear?”
“They got here yesterday evening! And oh, Lady Adelaide, the oddest
thing—” exclaimed Kate, with a laugh and a blush, and above all a look
of ludicrous embarrassment.
“Well, what is it, dear?”
“Such a find!”
“A _find_?”
“Yes! such a waif!”
“_Waif?_”
“Such a treasure trove!”
“I don’t in the least understand you, my dear.”
“Well, then, my brothers have found—open your eyes wide and look for a
soft place to faint on—a baby in the forest!”
Adelaide’s eyes opened sufficiently wide; but instead of fainting, she
only continued to stare in silent amazement at her informant.
“It is some poor squaw’s papoose,” at length the young lady ventured to
say.
“Come in the parlor, and sit down, while I tell you; but, first of all,
have you had breakfast?” asked Kate, as she installed her visitor in a
pleasant seat beside the breezy front window.
“Oh, yes; before I left home,” replied her guest.
“Well, then, now listen. It is such a ‘cock-and-a-bull story,’ that if
Nim’, my eldest brother, did not tell it, and my other three brothers
swear to it, I shouldn’t believe it, that’s all——”
“Excuse me for interrupting you, but where _is_ the baby?” asked Lady
Adelaide, looking around.
“On my bed, in my own room, asleep, the poor little starveling!”
“Well, go on, dear; I am listening.”
“Well, you see, they—my brothers, I mean—were on their way home,
travelling on foot, when they came to a stream of water whose name they
did not know. You may judge they meet many such in the wilderness.”
“Yes; well?”
“It was late in the evening, and they walked some distance up and down
the banks to find a good fording-place; and while they were so hunting,
the dogs pointed a place in the rocks, and when my brothers came up they
found the brutes at the mouth of a dark cavern in the side of the
mountain—I forgot to tell you that this stream ran at the foot of the
mountain.”
“Yes; but proceed!”
“The dogs continued to point, and my brothers, with their guns cocked,
crept close and listened for some sound to come from the cavern to help
them judge what sort of a beast might be concealed within; for, you see,
experienced hunters like them can tell from the very character of the
growl what manner of beast may be in lair.”
“Yes, I know.”
“But this time never the sound of a growl issued from the cavern! That
looked ugly, they thought; so Nim’, who is an impatient sort of a
fellow, swore a big oath that he would bring the varmint out. So he
crept closer, with his gun cocked, and—fired into the cavern——”
“Ugh!” shuddered Adelaide.
——“expecting fully to see a wild beast bound forth. But never a thing
came forth! ‘The mountain’ did not even give birth to a mouse!—only the
piteous, weak, wailing voice of a new-born baby, that smote their hearts
with horror, for they feared no less than that they had mortally wounded
an infant.”
“Oh, oh, go on! Was the child hurt?” exclaimed Adelaide, clasping her
hands in excess of pity.
“Why, of course it wasn’t! Do you think I’d take it so easy telling you
the story if it _was_? In a word, when the smoke cleared away, my
brothers entered the dark cavern, and struck a light, and looked around.
And there on a bearskin, on the floor, lay this little female Orson, too
young, and wee, and helpless, even to hold out its arms to its
preserver!”
“Its perfect helplessness being its greatest strength and strongest
appeal.”
“Yes; well, there was not a black hair of its little head hurt. From all
the savage surroundings—wampums, pouches, belts, rattlesnakes’ skins and
rattles, buffaloes’ tusks, scalps, and other Indian devilisms—my
brothers thought it was the home of an Indian ‘medicine,’ and that the
infant was a white child, stolen from some settler’s cabin, or carried
off from a massacre.”
“And they determined to rescue and take charge of the child, although it
must have been a great, great care! It was very merciful of them!” said
the young lady.
“My poor, rough brothers are as merciful and as gentle as—as the Lady
Adelaide Deville herself.”
The young lady blushed intensely at this compliment, while Kate resumed:
“With the very best care of its rough, inexperienced nurses, the poor
infant must have suffered, for when they brought it to me you never saw
such an object! But come, I will show you my waif!” and so saying, Kate
Kyte conducted her visitor across the front passage to her own room, on
the other side of the house, where, on the bed, lay the little
foundling—a wretched looking little creature, thin as a skeleton, dark
as an Indian, with black hair, and great, wild, black eyes.
As Adelaide looked upon those wondrous eyes, a thrill of emotion shook
her frame—her bosom heaved—her color fluctuated. Turning to Kate, in a
stifled voice, she asked:
“What day was it that this child was found?”
“On the seventeenth of August,” replied Kate, looking in wonder at the
agitated countenance of Lady Adelaide.
“And Lionne died suddenly on the _fifteenth_,” murmured the poor bride
to herself.
“Now, what _ever_ shall I do with this infant, Lady Adelaide? If my
brothers had brought me as a present a young bear, or a young panther, I
might have raised the cub—but a baby! As I am a human woman, and a
_humane_ woman to boot, I don’t know what to do with it! Seriously, I am
sure it will perish in my inexperienced keeping!”
“Poor little lost one!” exclaimed Lady Adelaide, gazing with deep pity
upon the child. “I am afraid indeed, Kate, that you will——”
“Kill it! I am sure I shall!”
“If I were my own mistress—if I could—if I dared——”
“Ah, if you only _would_, Lady Adelaide, what a mercy it would be to
this poor little wretch! what a blessing it would bring you!”
“I will consult Lady Elizabeth.”
“But—are you not the mistress of River-view? Can you not do as you
please?”
“Not to that extent, perhaps. And I please not to abuse my prerogative.
But, indeed, I should like to adopt this poor, desolate little one.
True, I do not know more of infants than yourself, Kate; but then Lady
Elizabeth does; and besides, we have experienced servants and nursing
mothers among our people, some one of whom would take this infant to her
bosom. I will speak to Lady Elizabeth.”
“_Do_, dear Lady Adelaide! But please don’t think that I am anxious to
get rid of the poor, dear little waif! I am only desirous that it should
be in better keeping than my own.”
“I know it, Kate. And at all events I—I will find _some_ way of
providing the babe with a proper nurse,” said the gentle girl, and
stooping until her golden ringlets touched the dark cheek of the infant,
she silently vowed to protect its feeble life.
Then she announced her intention of returning home, and attended by her
young hostess, she left the room and the house.
“Put up the helm for River-view, Nero,” was the order given her dark
helmsman as she re-entered the boat.
An hour’s sailing down the thickly shaded stream, and then a half hour’s
run up the river, brought them to the landing-place at River-view.
It was now noon, and Lady Elizabeth was standing upon the front piazza,
on the look-out for her son’s wife.
“You have been absent four hours; you should not have stayed so long. I
feared some accident had happened,” said her ladyship.
“I went up Bush Creek—it was such a tempting sail—as far as the mill,
and saw Kate. I am very sorry to have caused you any uneasiness,”
replied her daughter-in-law.
“Seriously, Lady Adelaide, in one way and another, you give me a great
deal of uneasiness.”
“I truly regret it; please forgive me.”
“Well, lunch is waiting. Go take off your things and cool yourself, and
come to the table,” said Lady Elizabeth, somewhat mollified.
The young lady obeyed and soon joined her mother in the sitting-room.
There was never an hour in which, all other things being as usual, in
which Lady Elizabeth was so good-humored as at lunch. Adelaide knew
this, and therefore chose this very opportunity to speak of the little
foundling at the mill. She told the story as it had been related by the
Kytes, and if she had any private suspicions as to the parentage of the
child, she reserved them to herself. She finished by saying—
“There is no one about here capable of taking charge of the poor baby;
it is, in a manner, thrown upon our mercy; if we do not save it, it will
perish.”
“In a word, you would like to adopt this motherless infant? Having
neither parrot nor poodle, you would like to take this baby for a pet.”
“Indeed, I would like to succor the poor thing. And what says our
Saviour—‘Whoso receiveth one such little one in my name, receiveth me.’”
“Well, Adelaide, I tell you honestly that if this child were an ordinary
city-foundling, I would have nothing more to do with it than to send it
to the county poor-house; but being, as it probably is, the child of
honest parents, stolen from some cabin, and rescued from an Indian
wigwam——”
“Grotto.”
“Well, from a squaw’s lair of some sort—I—have no objection to your
taking it home. Yes, I think it would be a meritorious act. Polly, who
has a young child and is hearty enough to nurse two, can take it to her
breast. And if the pet give you pleasure, I shall be glad, my dear.”
Adelaide’s eyes filled with tears of gratitude; she suddenly took the
hand of her mother-in-law and pressed it to her lips, then impulsively
put her arms around the lady’s neck, and said:
“I have displeased you lately, how unwillingly you do not know. Oh,
forgive me, and let us be the tender friends of old.”
“Dear child, I was displeased with you, as I might have been with a
child of my own blood, who did not know her own mind, or heed the
matters that involved her own interest. Let us trust to time and
Providence to remedy all our evils. And—let our estrangement be
forgotten,” said Orville’s mother, drawing her daughter-in-law to her
bosom.
And thus the two were reconciled.
In the cool of the afternoon Lady Elizabeth ordered her carriage, and
attended by the mulatto woman Polly, went up to Bush Creek Mill to fetch
the babe.
Half smiling, half crying, Kate gave up her little charge, with the
words—
“To think that in twenty-four hours I should have grown so attached to
the little thing!”
“That is natural,” said the lady from River-view.
“But to think that I should be so good-for-nothing as to be incapable of
taking care of one little baby!”
“Your incapacity in this single respect does not imply general
worthlessness, though I should advise you, as your best friend, my dear,
to apply yourself more to feminine occupation than has been your
custom,” said Lady Elizabeth.
“La! what odds? Who cares what I do, or leave undone?”
“Yourself should care more than all, Kate. All who like you care. Above
all, your Saviour cares,” said the lady, launching into a little lecture
on the beauty of Christian womanhood and woman’s sphere, to which Kate
Kyte listened in silent respect.
When the lady had finished her little sermon, she bade her woman Polly
wrap up the child, and precede her, into the carriage. And as she
prepared to follow her attendant, she suddenly turned to Kate, and said:
“You do not know whether the child has been baptized, or what is its
name?”
“Of course we don’t! There is no mark upon its linen, and—it is so very
young, that the probability is, it has never been christened.”
“It would be safer at least to baptize it,” said the orthodox Lady
Elizabeth, as she entered her carriage.
She ordered the coachman to drive fast; and in an hour they were at
home.
Lady Adelaide sprang from the front door to meet them.
The babe was carried into the house, and under the directions of Lady
Adelaide, preparations for its accommodation were immediately commenced.
The family crib was brought down from the garret and made up in
Adelaide’s chamber.
And from that day to the end of the month, the nimble fingers of the
young lady were engaged in making up for her protégé an ample set of
baby linen.
The afternoon of the first Sunday in every month was set apart in their
parish church for the baptism of infants.
Accordingly during the last week in September, Lady Elizabeth said to
her daughter—
“We should have your little charge baptized next Sunday. Have you
thought of a name for her?”
“Yes, madam,” said Adelaide, with some hesitation, “as she also was left
to perdition, we will call her after the great bard’s beautiful
creation—Perdita!”
“A pretty name, as well as a rare one—it will do.”
“And, as she has no ascertained family name, we will add our
own—Deville—that is if you have no objection.”
“None whatever, my dear.”
Accordingly, the next Sabbath, the infant was taken to church and given
in baptism the name of Perdita Deville—a name that the negroes forthwith
contracted first into “Pert,” and afterwards into “Ditto.”
As the weeks passed, the infant Perdita grew in health and beauty, and
in favor with all the household. One circumstance only, connected with
the babe, troubled the ladies; it was this:—There had been no time for
consulting Orville, and the child had been adopted without the consent
of the master of the house, and there was just a possibility that this
addition to his family might not be acceptable to Mr. Deville.
Circumstances soon occurred that required the presence of Adelaide’s
husband at home. As the fogs and rains of November came upon them, the
Lady Elizabeth suffered a return of the malady that had so nearly proved
fatal to her on the preceding winter.
Notwithstanding all the medical science of the village doctor, and all
the skill and attention of her best of nurses, Adelaide, the strength of
Lady Elizabeth rapidly declined. From her easy chair she took to the
sofa, and from that to the bed. Singularly enough, now that her life was
in imminent danger, she never thought of dying.
“I suppose I shall be ailing all the winter, and get well in the spring,
as I did before,” she said to Adelaide.
“God grant it, dear mother,” replied her sorrowing daughter.
Still her strength decayed. She was no longer able to raise herself up
in bed.
Doctor Williams, her physician, visited her twice a day. After one of
his morning visits, as Adelaide attended him to the door, he suddenly
said to her—
“My dear, you had better write at once for your husband to come home.”
“I—I wished to summon Mr. Deville; but Lady Elizabeth will not hear of
such a thing as his visit South being cut short,” said Adelaide.
“Nevertheless, _write_, or permit me to do so, which will be still
better. Shall I write to him?”
“I thank you, doctor, very much—pray do so,” replied Adelaide, as the
physician entered his carriage, hurrying away to conceal her tears. Well
she knew that in the doctor’s words she had heard the death-sentence of
her beloved friend. A long time she wept before she could compose
herself sufficiently to venture into the sick-room.
When at last she did, she was shocked to hear the invalid, unconscious
of doom, speak only of worldly matters, and talk of sending to Bell
Haven for drygoods, and a dressmaker to make up their winter suits!
Alas, what would be their probable winter suits? A shroud for her, and
deepest mourning for the rest!
The doctor kept his word, and the same night wrote to Orville Deville.
Adelaide also wrote to him. But long before either of those letters
could have reached their destination, the malady of the invalid had
brought her close upon the confines of the grave. She now required
watching by night as well as by day.
One night, while Adelaide sat beside her, she suddenly said:
“Adelaide, my child, I feel something within my chest—giving—giving
away—like the breaking up of the very central core of life. Adelaide!
Adelaide! quick! I am going!”
“It is nothing but a fainting-spell, dear mother, drink this!” said the
tender nurse, placing a cordial to the lips of the invalid.
“No fainting-fit was ever like this, my child! It is the breaking up of
the wreck!” said the sick woman, as she took and drank the cordial.
“You feel better now?”
“A little, dear; but, Adelaide, this is death! I feel it, I know it, I
am sure of it!”
“No, no, do not say so; let me send for the doctor.”
“Useless, dear, useless! nay, I will not have him sent for! Oh, that my
son were here!”
“Oh, that he were!” said Adelaide.
The invalid subsided into a soft slumber.
Adelaide slipped down-stairs and despatched a man in haste for the
doctor.
When she returned to the sick-room the patient was still slumbering.
From that slumber she awoke with a start, exclaiming:
“Adelaide!—quick!—some stimulant, or I sink into death!”
With the speed and silence of lightning the young lady placed the
cordial to her lips.
She was somewhat revived by the draught, and as she sank back upon the
pillow she said:
“Oh, Adelaide, I must not die until Orville comes!”
“Orville?” repeated the young nurse, in her perplexity not knowing what
her mother-in-law meant.
“Yes, my child, though this is death, I shall live till Orville comes!
for he is on his way! Far off I hear the gallop of his steed!”
“Oh, that the doctor were here,” groaned Adelaide to herself.
“I know you think I rave; but I do not! You see me dying here, and you
think Orville two thousand miles away, and that I wander when I say I
shall live till he comes. Oh, Adelaide, the spirits of the dying reach
out to their beloved; mine has met my only son thundering through the
forests of St. Mary’s, on fire to reach home! He knows not what it is
that attracts, that pulls him onward—though it is the spirit of his
dying mother that cannot be released until she blesses him!”
Exhausted by this long and rambling speech, the dying woman sank into a
slumberous state, in which way she lay for nearly an hour.
“Oh, that the doctor were here!” said Adelaide, in despair, “surely my
messenger could not have found him at home, and must have gone to seek
him elsewhere—there, I do believe he is come!” she exclaimed, as the
sound of horses’ hoofs were heard approaching the house.
In another minute a servant came to the sick-room door and rapped.
Adelaide opened it.
“Has the doctor come, Keziah?”
“No, ma’am—but some one wants to see you in the parlor,” said Keziah,
mysteriously.
“Who is it?—wait here with your mistress until I return,” said Adelaide,
in a breath, as she hurried down-stairs and opened the parlor-door. The
room was dimly lighted by one wax candle that stood upon the
mantle-piece; but its direct rays fell upon the tall and elegant figure
of Adelaide’s husband.
“Mr. Deville! Oh, thank God that you have come!” exclaimed Adelaide,
eagerly.
“How is my mother, Adelaide?”
“Oh, very, very ill! How providential that you should have come! Thank
God! Oh, thank God!”
“Your letters mentioning my mother’s ill health, and the absence of all
letters from her, made me very uneasy. At length I could bear the
anxiety no longer, and set off for home. And here I am.”
“Oh, surely it was the leading of Divine Providence!”
“Can I see my dear mother at once?”
“I think so. Let me go to her first,” said Adelaide, and stealing a
glance at the pale and anxious face of her husband, she left the room
and hurried into the sick-chamber.
With astonishment and terror she found Lady Elizabeth sitting up in bed.
“I feel that my son has come! bring him to me, Adelaide!” she said.
Orville, who was just without the door, heard these words, hurried in
and dropped on his knees by the bedside, exclaiming, as he kissed her
hand:
“My dear mother! my dear, dear mother!”
“Adelaide, come hither,” said the dying woman, retaining her hold upon
her son’s hand.
The young lady came and knelt beside her husband.
“Adelaide, whatever Orville’s offences against you may have been, you
will forgive him by the death-bed of his mother!” she said, as she
placed the hand of her daughter in that of her son.
“I am not my husband’s judge, dear mother; but while I live, by God’s
grace I will be to him a true wife,” said the gentle lady.
“Thank God! And as you are merciful to each other’s faults, may he be
merciful to you, as it is written—‘Unless ye forgive men their
trespasses, neither will your Heavenly Father forgive you.’ ‘Forgive
that ye may be forgiven.’ Now may the Lord bless and comfort you! may
the Lord love you and lead you through all the trials of earth to the
eternal bliss of heaven! Amen,” said the dying woman, sinking back upon
her pillow.
After this she subsided into calm repose that lasted several hours, and
then softly sank to her eternal rest.
Bitter was the grief of the bereaved young couple. Let us draw the vail
of silence before such sacred sorrow.
The funeral of Lady Elizabeth Deville was solemnized upon the third day,
and her remains were laid in the family burial-ground on the wooded hill
behind River-view. During the sacred days of death and burial, not to
disturb her husband by any new subject of interest, Lady Adelaide had
ordered the little Perdita to be kept in the nursery or walked out into
the back lawn. Thus the infant had escaped the notice of Mr. Deville.
It was the day after the funeral, while the young pair sat at breakfast
in the sitting-room so often mentioned, that Lady Adelaide rung the bell
and ordered the babe to be brought in.
“What babe?” inquired Mr. Deville.
“A desolate infant rescued from the savages by Kate Kyte’s brothers,
while the latter were on their hunting-expedition in the far West. I
adopted the child, hoping that the act might meet your approbation.
There was no time for consulting you, but the affair is of course at
your disposal,” said Lady Adelaide.
As she spoke Keziah entered with the child, now a blooming infant six
months of age.
“Bring her to your master, Keziah,” said the young lady.
And the babe was brought up in front of Mr. Deville for inspection. He
looked not unfavorably upon the pretty creature; and then turning and
meeting the eager eyes of his wife, he smiled and said—
“Well, love, you wish to keep her?”
“If you please—oh, yes!”
“Then keep her, love. The most troublesome pet you could find, perhaps;
but that is your affair.”
“And my delight!” exclaimed Adelaide, with sparkling eyes, as she caught
the infant from the nurse’s arms to her own bosom.
The child danced, and crowed, and laughed, as she clasped her rosy arms
around her pretty foster-mother’s neck.
The face of Orville Deville was overshadowed.
“She will give her whole heart to that black-eyed infant,” was the
jealous thought that crossed his mind.
He half regretted the consent he had given to the adoption of the child;
but his word was pledged, and his pledge was sacred.
With the wife’s quick instinct, the Lady Adelaide divined the cause of
the cloud upon her husband’s brow, and hastened to dispel it by putting
the infant in the arms of her nurse, with the order to take her out for
a walk.
From that day Lady Adelaide was careful to avoid exciting the jealousy
of her husband against the child, and only lavished caresses upon her
_protégé_ in the privacy of the nursery, or in the absence of her
husband.
As the winter passed, the infant grew in strength, and beauty, and
intelligence.
It was upon the afternoon of a pleasant day in May, that Orville Deville
returned from the post-office and entered the sitting-room, holding an
open letter in his hand.
“Our uncle, the Earl of Glen Lennark, has written to me; it is a very
kind letter and a very sorrowful one!” he said, seating himself by the
work-table of Lady Adelaide.
She looked up from her sewing, and he continued:
“Our uncle writes that the last of his children—his only daughter—lies
in a foreign grave——”
“Oh, poor, bereaved father!” exclaimed Lady Adelaide.
“Yes, he has indeed been ‘a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief.’
He has seen his king dethroned, and his throne given to a stranger. He
has seen his own family impoverished, scattered, or destroyed by the
sword or the axe. He has had his estates confiscated, his blood
attainted, and himself outlawed. He has passed years in exile, poverty
and solitude. And now that he—an old and gray-haired man—is restored to
his country, his home and his old hereditary honors, he loses his
last-remaining, his only daughter, and finds himself without a child to
inherit his ancient name and title.”
“But—could his daughter have inherited his title and landed estates?”
“By the terms of his ancient patent of nobility, the females of his line
are not excluded from the succession, and failing heirs-male, the title
and estates ‘fall to the distaff,’ as it is called.”
“So that, at the death of her father, his only daughter would have
become——”
“Countess of Glen Lennark and Baroness Lockburn, in her own right, with
the power of transmitting both title and estates to her heirs.”
“_I_ think only of the personal bereavement—poor father.”
“Yes, but _he_ thinks of his line! and he writes and invites me, as his
nearest kin, his nephew and his heir, to come with my wife and spend a
year with him at his castle of Glen Lennark, in the Highlands of
Scotland.”
“My dear, old home! Oh, how I should be pleased to revisit it!”
“Well, love, I think that we should go,” said Mr. Deville.
And thus the voyage was agreed upon.
Rapid preparations were made for the journey. A competent steward was
engaged to take charge of River-view in the absence of the proprietor.
In the midst of all her bustle of preparation, doubt troubled the bosom
of Lady Adelaide—the doubt whether Mr. Deville would permit her adopted
child to accompany them—whether, in a word, he would be willing to
suffer the annoyance of a child and nurse, and all their paraphernalia
in the confined quarters of a packet ship. Indeed, she dreaded and
deferred to put the question.
He surmised her embarrassment and relieved it, by saying, with a smile,
as he caressed the little pet:
“This child will be taken for ours when we present her at Glen Lennark,
Adelaide.”
She understood this pleasantry as a delicate manner of authorizing her
to carry Perdita along with them; and accordingly she made arrangements.
It was upon the first Friday in June that they sailed, in a fine
merchantman, from Baltimore to London.
I shall not fatigue my readers with any description of this voyage; it
passed without incident worth recording; and at the end of four weeks, a
rapid run for those days, the “Thetis” entered the Thames and dropped
anchor off St. Katherine’s Docks.