There is a joy in grief, when peace dwells in the breast of the
sad, but sorrow wastes the mournful, and their days are few! They
fall away like the flower on which the Sun looks in his strength,
after the mildew has passed over it, and its head is heavy with the
drops of night.
CROMA.
Whilst Selina thus brilliantly moved in the gayest scenes of fashionable
splendor, Adelaide Wildenheim, unknown, unnoticed, was endeavouring, in
the calm retirement of the country, to acquire fortitude to support a
weight of misfortune, by which a less firm mind would have been crushed,
and which, from time and space, seemed but to gain increased momentum.
In the beginning of winter, each day to her had passed by but as the sad
shade of its miserable anniversary; for, at that period, she had not
even the consolation of seeing either Mr. or Mrs. Temple, and the
inhabitants of Webberly House becoming hourly more repugnant to her
feelings, she was insensibly falling a prey to that habitual depression
of spirits, which is equally fatal to the mind and body of those who
indulge in it; and which is indeed commonly but a refined name for
discontent, or ill temper. Some trifling circumstances roused her to a
sense of the state of her mind, and she immediately determined to
struggle against it; resolving, as the best preliminary, to look her
situation steadily in the face, and ascertain whether it was in her
power to remedy it; well knowing, that if once convinced it was
unavoidable, she should acquire strength to bear it, not only with
resignation but cheerfulness. Though she but too acutely felt, that in
losing a beloved parent, she had lost all that had formerly constituted
the happiness of her existence; yet, in her rigid self-examination, she
confessed she harboured more of repining sorrow at being deprived of
this blessing, than of gratitude to Heaven for having so long enjoyed
it; and acknowledged it was unworthy of a religious or a rational being,
to convert the felicity of one period of life into a curse for the
remainder by vain comparison. Turning therefore from the past, she
accused herself of being too fastidious in her sentiments towards the
companions of her present lot; and, with laudable self-delusion,
endeavoured to think her dislike of Mrs. Sullivan and the Miss Webberlys
unreasonable; and that from the affection of the charming little
Caroline she derived a pleasure more than equivalent to the annoyances
occasioned by her mother and sisters. But here the mother and sisters
very naturally brought the brother to her mind, and with him a long
train of reflections, which ended in her adopting the wise but simple
plan, of laying her situation open to Mr. and Mrs. Temple, in order to
consult them, as to the propriety of her quitting Webberly House at the
expiration of her minority.
Young Webberly's attentions to Miss Wildenheim had, previous to his last
visit to town, been unremitting; and no less marked was his mother's
disapprobation of them, arising partly from interested motives, partly
from the idea of Adelaide being the natural sister of Caroline; which
made Mrs. Sullivan regard the prospect of her marrying her son with a
sentiment little short of abhorrence. But these objections had but
little weight with Mr. Webberly, who, when Selina was not present to
awaken his vanity or his cupidity, found no counterpoise to his
conceited passion, which was more piqued than restrained by the
dignified simplicity of Miss Wildenheim's manners; and had she given him
any encouragement, no remonstrance from his mother would have prevented
his making the most explicit declaration of his attachment; for it was
the practice of this amiable family, to set their mother at defiance,
whenever she, in the slightest degree, interfered with their wishes.
Adelaide's pride and sense of propriety equally prompted her desire to
relieve Mrs. Sullivan from the presence of a person, who was evidently a
cause of quarrel between her and her son; and therefore, when the
Webberly family proposed visiting London, in the beginning of March, she
wrote the subjoined letter to Mrs. Temple:--
MISS WILDENHEIM TO MRS. TEMPLE.
My dear Mrs. Temple,
The kindness you and Mr. Temple have honoured me with encourages
me, to apply to you for advice in a most embarrassing situation. I
am sure your usual humanity will prompt you, to grant it to one
who has, at present, no friend to resort to for counsel but
yourself. If you will permit me, I will call upon you, and lay open
to your view my situation and my wishes. But as it is not justice
to a friend in asking advice to give but a half confidence, before
you hear my plans, I ought to make you acquainted with all the
circumstances regarding myself, that it is in my power to confide.
Though all matters of business are best discussed _viv‚ voce_, yet
there are things it would be impossible to speak, and are
sufficiently painful to write: such a distressing task it is the
object of this letter to fulfil. My history is but short, and
simple--all my happiness was centred in a beloved father; all my
misery caused by his loss. Oh! Mrs. Temple, what grief can be
compared to that desolation a daughter feels, when she is deprived
of the parent, whom it has been the study of her whole life to
please; when she first finds she has no filial duty to perform, no
approving smile to look for!
My father was not only the tenderest parent, but my sole
instructor, and, in his fond love, condescended to be even my
companion and friend. His image is the first object memory recurs
to in my infant years; and I now feel, that to be enabled to
practise his own lessons of resignation and fortitude, I must
banish that image from my mind. The aid I might derive from
employment is denied me; for every pursuit is inseparably
associated with scenes I ought not now to think of. 'When I look up
to Heaven thou art there; when I behold the earth, thou art there
also!' My mother having died at Hamburgh the day I was born, this
beloved father was the only parent I ever knew. He, though a German
Baron, was both by birth and education English, being the son of a
British peer. But some unfortunate circumstances, with which I am
unacquainted, gave him an unconquerable aversion to his native
country; and having, by the maternal line, inherited large
possessions in Westphalia, he very early in life repaired to the
continent, where he continued to reside, principally at Vienna,
till I had attained my nineteenth year. About sixteen months ago,
to my inexpressible astonishment, he adopted the sudden resolution
of visiting England. His health, which had always in my
recollection been delicate, had about that period rapidly declined,
and I have the grief of thinking, that the journey to England
shortened his life. The misery of this thought is still further
aggravated by knowing, that he came to this country solely to
accomplish my introduction to his family, with whom he had never
maintained any intercourse or correspondence since the period of my
birth. How little during the progress of our journey did I suspect
its fatal termination! The usual tenderness and indulgence of my
father's manner was, if possible, increased, and visions of the
brightest joy occupied my mind. Our journey through France was the
most delightful one we had ever undertaken. My father concealed the
anguish of his own mind, and to divert my attention from observing
it, spared neither pains nor expense to gratify every capricious
fancy I formed. We remained a month at Paris waiting for letters
from England, which were to direct our future proceedings, and
during that time passed so rapidly from one public place to
another, that we never had a moment's private conversation. At last
my dear father received letters to inform him, that the late Mr.
Sullivan, who had been his old friend and fellow-soldier, and whom
I had known very well in my childish days at Vienna, waited at
Dover to welcome us to England. This communication, the precursor
of all my sorrow, was read by me with the most extravagant joy.
When we landed at Dover, we also met Mr. Austin, my father's
former law agent, and one of his sincerest friends. For two days I
scarcely saw my father, as he was in constant consultation with the
gentlemen I have mentioned. On the morning of the third, I was
informed he had decided on resigning me to their care; that Mr.
Sullivan would immediately introduce me to my relations, as Baron
Wildenheim himself was under the unavoidable necessity of returning
to France without delay. You may imagine my despair on receiving
this fatal sentence:--the scenes that ensued are too dreadful for
me to touch on. My beloved father's life fell a sacrifice to the
agitation of his feelings. Oh, that I had died too! Pity me, dear
Mrs. Temple, and excuse my writing any more. Nothing now remains,
that I cannot tell you when we meet.
Ever sincerely and gratefully yours,
ADELAIDE WILDENHEIM.
The day after Mrs. Temple received the above letter, she called on Miss
Wildenheim, and invited her to remain at the Parsonage, if she had any
dislike to accompany Mrs. Sullivan to London; saying, in conclusion,
"Mr. Temple told me the other day you looked so ill, he was afraid you
would suffer from the journey; and desired I would make my best speech
to induce you to stay with us. Indeed it would be an act of charity, for
we have had so great a loss in the dear family at Deane Hall! If you
will afford us the gratification of your society, we can at leisure
discuss the subjects you wish to consult us upon, and you shall have my
opinion; and, what is of much more value, Mr. Temple's, to the best of
our judgment. You know not how sincerely we commiserate your
misfortunes, nor what an interest we feel in your welfare." Adelaide
gratefully accepted her friend's invitation, assuring her she felt
convinced, that spending a little time at the Rectory would more
effectually mitigate her grief, than any other probable occurrence.
Mrs. Temple immediately applied for Mrs. Sullivan's permission, who gave
it with a joy that defied concealment, as by this means what she
supposed the only obstacle to her son's union with Miss Seymour would be
removed; for whenever Adelaide was present, his interest and inclination
were at constant variance.
One fine evening in March, the Webberly family commenced their journey
to London, and stopping as they drove past the Parsonage, left Miss
Wildenheim to the care of its friendly owners. Mrs. Temple and her
children were setting out on their evening walk, and Adelaide, begging
she might not disappoint the little folks, joined them in their ramble
with the utmost delight. It would be difficult to say, whether the
mother or children were most pleased to see her--the latter joyfully
recollected her skill in story-telling and singing; and Mrs. Temple,
feeling most sensibly the want of her accustomed intercourse at Deane
Hall, would have welcomed a much less agreeable guest, and therefore
received her young friend with even greater pleasure than usual. The
whole party walked long enough in a brisk blowing wind, to make them
relish, on their return, a blazing fire, and a tea-table rather more
substantially provided, than is commonly to be seen in more modish
families.
When the children went to bed, Mr. Temple, saying he had letters to
write for the next morning's post, retired to his study, in order to
give Adelaide an opportunity of opening her heart to his wife. "Come, my
dear Adele," said Mrs. Temple, "neither you nor I shall be comfortable,
till we have had this conversation, that I see hangs so heavily on your
mind. Tell me what it is that distresses you, my love, and, if possible,
we will find a remedy for it."
Adelaide, with as much composure as she could command, informed Mrs.
Temple, that during the short period Mr. Sullivan survived her father,
though he treated her with great kindness, yet he had taken no steps to
fulfil the promise he had given of introducing her to her family.
Immediately on his death, Mr. Austin came to Webberly House, and
expressing his regrets that circumstances rendered it impossible for him
to receive her into his own family, as he was on the point of taking an
invalide daughter to the Madeiras, advised her nominating Mrs. Sullivan
her guardian in conjunction with himself. Adelaide, abhorring all
clandestine proceedings, earnestly solicited Mr. Austin's permission, to
inform Mrs. Sullivan for what purpose she was placed under her late
husband's protection. To this he consented only in part, refusing his
sanction to this lady's being acquainted with the name of Miss
Wildenheim's noble relations; charging her, on the contrary, to conceal
it carefully from all the world till she came of age, as he feared her
claims would meet with decided opposition from part of her family, and
little support from any; and informing her, that a premature disclosure
might ruin her future prospects; and that law proceedings would be more
costly, and less efficacious, while she was a minor, than when she could
act directly for herself. In pursuance, therefore, of this advice,
Adelaide, with the reservation of this one point, told Mrs. Sullivan all
the particulars she knew of herself and her father; and in so doing,
went through a series of interrogations of the most distressing nature,
as Mrs. Sullivan, having little delicacy of feeling herself, was really
almost unconscious of the wounds she inflicted on that of others. After
deliberating a few days, she, as has been before mentioned, consented to
accept the proposed guardianship; and Mr. Austin immediately proceeding
to the Madeiras, his ward was therefore temporarily deprived of his
protection or advice. After relating these particulars, Adelaide
endeavoured to explain to Mrs. Temple her reasons for wishing to leave
Webberly House; and in executing this unpleasant task, was much
embarrassed between the necessity of doing herself justice, by showing
she was not actuated by any unreasonable whims or caprices, and her
respect for the laws of hospitality, which made her regard as sacred the
transactions of any family she domesticated with. But, indeed, she
seldom _thought_, and never _said_, the worst the actions of those she
associated with would warrant. However, Mrs. Temple was one of those who
could understand _‡ demi-mot_, without waiting for a harassing detail
sufficient to satisfy a court of law, and often listened to rather from
a love of _slander_ than of _justice_. "I am well aware," continued
Adelaide, "that the reception I shall meet with from my relations very
much depends on the respectability of the manner, in which I first
present myself to their notice. The moment I am of age, Mrs. Sullivan
may, and probably will, withdraw her protection from me; for she has
lately hinted once or twice, that she much regretted having ever granted
it. I therefore think the most advisable course for me to pursue is, to
write her a polite letter, conveying my thanks for the asylum she has
hitherto granted me, but expressing my doubts of its being agreeable to
her longer to continue it: requesting, if my surmises are well founded,
that she will have the goodness to seek an eligible home for me; or,"
continued she, looking mournfully at Mrs. Temple, "permit me to apply to
my _only_ friend to aid me in the search: but that, if on mature
deliberation she can satisfy her mind, that she really does _wish_ my
continuing to reside with her, I shall prefer doing so to domesticating
myself in another family, till I can ascertain whether my own will
receive me; but that, when this point is once decided, either for or
against me, I do not mean to trespass further on her hospitality. And
now, my dear Mrs. Temple, this is the subject, on which I am so anxious
to obtain your opinion and that of Mr. Temple. I know not what apology
to make for having so long trespassed on your patience by this tedious
recital." Mrs. Temple begged to consult her husband, before she
expressed her own ideas, as she feared to trust to her unassisted
judgment on a point of so much importance. But before she left the room,
she took up a volume of Patronage, and laughingly pointed out to
Adelaide's notice the following passage:--"You will never be a
heroine--What a stupid uninteresting heroine you will make! You will
never get into any _entanglements_, never have any adventures; or, if
kind fate should, propitious to my prayer, bring you into some charming
difficulties, even then we could not tremble for you, or enjoy all the
luxury of pity, because we should always know, that you would be so well
able to extricate yourself,--so certain to conquer, or,--not die--but
endure."
Mrs. Temple, in the first spontaneous benevolence of her heart, had
nearly been tempted to offer Adelaide an asylum at the Rectory, till her
future line of life should be finally decided; but quickly recollecting
what was due to Mr. Temple, repaired to his study, more for the purpose
of suggesting it to him, than for that of stating her young friend's
queries; which dispatching in as few words as possible, without further
preparation, she proposed her own plan in the most abrupt manner
possible; and as quickly read in his countenance his marked
disapprobation of her inconsiderate project. "My dear Charlotte," said
he, after a short pause, "the goodness of your heart makes you always so
zealous to promote the happiness of others, that you quite forget your
own. But, my love, you must respect the sanctuary of your domestic
peace; it, like the Paradise of our first parents, admits of no
intruder. I am inclined to believe Miss Wildenheim to be a most
estimable young woman. The prudence and uprightness of her present
proposition strengthens my former good opinion of her. As long as these
impressions remain, I shall be happy to receive her occasionally as a
visitor, and will most willingly do any thing to promote her welfare,
short of domesticating her in this house. But, setting yourself out of
the question, my dear Charlotte, do you think you would act justly
towards your daughters (recollect Anna is now eleven years old), by
introducing into the very bosom of your family a girl we have so
superficial a knowledge of; and whose situation is so doubtful and
extraordinary, and who may after all be but a foreign adventurer?" As
Mr. Temple said this, his features wore an expression of unusual
gravity. "Oh, James!" exclaimed his wife, "don't let your prudence make
you unjust: go to her, and if you will impartially look on her ingenuous
countenance, and observe her simple manners, you will never pronounce
her a foreign adventurer. Besides, after knowing Mr. Austin so many
years, can you suppose him capable of being an accomplice in a fraud?"
"You are right, my dear Charlotte: I was most unjust," replied Mr.
Temple, his brow relaxing from the austerity that had overcast it a
moment before. "And I," said she, extending her hand with a smile of
conciliating sweetness, "was equally imprudent." In this confession she
was perfectly sincere; she hardly wished to dissuade her husband from
his sage resolution; for he had convinced her judgment, though perhaps
her feelings were yet unsubdued.
It may here be remarked, that there is something in the ties of
relationship, which acts as a sort of necessity, and makes us excuse the
faults, which a domestic scene displays in the most perfect characters.
But it is far otherwise in friendship; and those who there court too
great intimacy, resemble the man in the fable of the golden eggs, and
often destroy in a day riches, that, by wise forbearance, might have
lasted their lives.
Mr. Temple, on going up stairs to Adelaide, told her, that the line of
conduct she had marked out for herself was the most proper she could
adopt, giving it his unqualified approbation. He then proceeded to give
her much sage advice, adding to it the most comforting assurances of
support and protection. Adelaide poured forth her gratitude and her
pleasure, with all the ardency of feelings long suppressed. Her spirits
rose in proportion to their previous depression. She once more had the
happiness of hearing a reverend voice address her in tones of
approbation for her virtues, and of consolation for her distresses.
Perhaps the evening of this anxious day was one of the happiest of her
life.