'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.