to remove, was turning away as the woman said this, when she felt
that the little boy pulled her gown gently, as if appealing to her
generosity; while a surly-looking man, who was the creditor himself,
forcing a passage through the crowd, said, 'Why, bring him along, and
have done with it; here is a fuss to make indeed about that idle dog,
and that ugly black toad!'
Adeline till then had not recollected that she was a mulatto; and this
speech, reflecting so brutally on her colour,--a circumstance which made
her an object of greater interest to Adeline,--urged her to step forward
to their joint relief with an almost irresistible impulse; especially
when another man reproached the fellow for his brutality, and added,
that he knew them both to be hard-working, deserving persons. But to
disappoint Glenmurray of his promised pleasure was impossible; and
having put sixpence in the tawny boy's hand, she was hastening to the
fruiterer's, when the crowd, who were following William and the mulatto
to the jail, whither the bailiffs were dragging rather than leading him,
fell back to give air to the poor man, who had fainted on Savanna's
shoulder, and seemed on the point of expiring--while she, with an
expression of fixed despair, was gazing on his wan cheek.
Adeline thought on Glenmurray's danger, and shuddered as she beheld the
scene; she felt it but a too probable anticipation of the one in which
she might soon be an actor.
At this moment a man observed, 'If he goes to prison he will not live
two days, that every one may see;' and the mulatto uttered a shriek of
agony.
Adeline felt it to her very soul; and, rushing forward, 'Sir, sir,' she
exclaimed to the unfeeling creditor, 'if I were to give you a guinea
now, and promise you two more a fortnight hence, would you release this
poor man for the present?'
'No: I must have three guineas this moment,' replied he. Adeline sighed,
and withdrew her hand from her pocket. 'But were Glenmurray here, he
would give up his indulgence, I am sure, to save the lives of, probably
two fellow-creatures,' thought Adeline: 'and he would not forgive me if
I were to sacrifice such an opportunity to the sole gratification of
his palate.'--But then again, Glenmurray eagerly expecting her with
the promised treat, so gratifying to the feverish taste of sickness,
seemed to appear before her, and she turned away; but the eyes of the
mulatto, who had heard her words, and had hung on them breathless with
expectation, followed her with a look of such sad reproach for the
disappointment which she had occasioned her, and the little boy looked
up so wistfully in her face, crying, 'Poor fader, and poor mammy!'
that Adeline could not withstand the force of the appeal; but almost
exclaiming 'Glenmurray would upbraid me if I did not act thus,' she gave
the creditor the three guineas, paid the bailiffs their demand, and then
made her way through the crowd, who respectfully drew back to give her
room to pass, saying, 'God bless you, lady! God bless you!'
But William was too ill, and Savanna felt too much to speak; and the
surly creditor said, sneeringly, 'If I had been you, I would, at least,
have thanked the lady.' This reproach restored Savanna to the use of
speech; and (but with a violent effort) she uttered in a hoarse and
broken voice, '_I_ tank her! God tank her! I never can:' and Adeline,
kindly pressing her hand, hurried away from her in silence, though
scarcely able to refrain exclaiming, 'you know not the sacrifice which
you have cost me!' The tawny boy still followed her, as loath to leave
her. 'God bless you, my dear!' said she kindly to him: 'there, go to
your mother, and be good to her.' His dark face glowed as she spoke to
him, and holding up his chin, 'Tiss me!' cried he, 'poor tawny boy love
you!' She did so; and then reluctantly, he left her, nodding his head,
and saying, 'Dood bye' till he was out of sight.
With him, and with the display of his grateful joy, vanished all that
could give Adeline resolution to bear her own reflections at the idea of
returning home, and of the trial that awaited her. In vain did she now
try to believe that Glenmurray would applaud what she had done.--He was
now the slave of disease, nor was it likely that even his self-denial
and principle benevolence could endure with patience so cruel a
disappointment--and from the woman whom he loved too!--and to whom the
indulgence of his slightest wishes ought to have been the first object.
'What shall I do?' cried she: 'what will he say?--No doubt he is
impatiently expecting me; and, in his weak state, disappointment may--'
Here, unable to hear her apprehensions, she wrung her hands in agony;
and when she arrived in sight of her lodgings she dared not look up,
lest she should see Glenmurray at the window watching for her return.
Slowly and fearfully did she open the door; and the first sound she
heard was Glenmurray's voice from the door of his room, saying, 'So, you
are come at last!--I have been so impatient!' And indeed he had risen
and dressed himself, that he might enjoy his treat more than he could do
in a sick-bed.
'How can I bear to look him in the face!' thought Adeline, lingering on
the stairs.
'Adeline, my love! why do you make me wait so long?' cried Glenmurray.
'Here are knives and plates ready; where is the treat I have been so
long expecting?'
Adeline entered the room and threw herself on the first chair, avoiding
the sight of Glenmurray, whose countenance, as she hastily glanced her
eyes over it, was animated with the expectation of a pleasure which he
was not to enjoy. 'I have not brought the pine-apple,' she faintly
articulated. 'No!' replied Glenmurray, 'how hard upon me!--the only
thing for weeks that I have wished for, or could have eaten with
pleasure! I suppose you were so long going that it was disposed of
before you got there?'
'No,' replied Adeline, struggling with her tears at this first instance
of pettishness in Glenmurray.
'Pardon me the supposition,' replied Glenmurray, recovering himself:
'more likely you met some dun on the road, and so the two guineas were
disposed of another way--If so, I can't blame you. What say you? Am I
right?'
'No.' 'Then how was it?' gravely asked Glenmurray. 'You must have had a
very powerful and a sufficient reason, to induce you to disappoint a
poor invalid of the indulgence which you had yourself excited him to
wish for.'
'This is terrible, indeed!' thought Adeline, 'and never was I so tempted
to tell a falsehood.'
'Still silent! You are very unkind, Miss Mowbray,' said Glenmurray; 'I
see that I have tired even _you_ out.'
These words, by the agony which they excited, restored to Adeline all
her resolution. She ran to Glenmurray; she clasped his burning hands in
hers; and as succinctly as possible she related what had passed. When
she had finished, Glenmurray was silent; the fretfulness of disease
prompted him to say, 'So then, to the relief of strangers you sacrificed
the gratification of the man whom you love, and deprived him of the
only pleasure he may live to enjoy!' But the habitual sweetness and
generosity of his temper struggled, and struggled effectually, with his
malady; and while Adeline, pale and trembling, awaited her sentence, he
caught her suddenly to his bosom, and held her there a few moments in
silence.
'Then you forgive me?' faltered out Adeline.
'Forgive you! I love and admire you more than ever! I know your heart,
Adeline; and I am convinced that depriving yourself of the delight of
giving me the promised treat, in order to do a benevolent action, was
an effort of virtue of the highest order; and never, I trust, have you
known, or will you know again, such bitter feelings as you this moment
experienced.'
Adeline, gratified by his generous kindness, and charmed with his
praise, could only weep her thanks. 'And now,' said Glenmurray,
laughing, 'you may bring back the grapes--I am not like Sterne's dear
Jenny; if I cannot get pine-apple, I will not insist on eating crab.'
The grapes were brought; but in vain did he try to eat them. At this
time, however, he did not send them away without highly commending their
flavour, and wishing that he dared give way to his inclinations, and
feast upon them.
'O God of mercy!' cried Adeline, bursting into an agony of grief as she
reached her own apartment, and throwing herself on her knees by the
bed-side, 'Must that benevolent being be taken from me for ever, and
must I, must I survive him!'
She continued for some minutes in this attitude, and with her heart
devoutly raised to heaven; till every feeling yielded to resignation,
and she arose calm, if not contented; when, on turning round, she saw
Glenmurray leaning against the door, and gazing on her.
'Sweet enthusiast!' cried he smiling: 'so, thus, when you are
distressed, you seek consolation.'
'I do,' she replied: 'Sceptic, wouldst thou wish to deprive me of it?'
'No, by heaven!' warmly exclaimed Glenmurray; and the evening passed
more cheerfully than usual.
The next post brought a letter, not from Dr. Norberry, but from his
wife; it was as follows, and contained three pound-notes:--
'Mrs Norberry's compliments to Miss Mowbray, having opened her
letter, poor Dr Norberry being dangerously ill of a fever, find
her distress; of which shall not inform the doctor, as he feels
so much for his friend's misfortunes, specially when brought on
by misconduct. But, out of respect for your mother, who is a
good sort of woman, though rather particular, as all learned
ladies are, have sent three pound-notes; the Miss Norberrys
giving one a-piece, not to lend, but a gift, and they join Mrs
Norberry in hoping Miss Mowbray will soon see the error of her
ways; and, if so be, no doubt Dr Norberry will use his interest
to get her into the Magdalen.'
This curious epistle would have excited in Glenmurray and Adeline no
other feelings save those of contempt, but for the information it
contained of the doctor's being dangerously ill; and, in fear for the
worthy husband, they forgot the impertinence of the wife and daughters.
The next day, fortunately, Mr Berrendale arrived, and with him the three
hundred pounds. Consequently, all Glenmurray's debts were discharged,
better lodgings procured, and the three pound-notes returned in a blank
cover to Mrs Norberry. Charles Berrendale was first-cousin to
Glenmurray, and so like him in face, that they were, at first, mistaken
for brothers: but to a physiognomist they must always have been unlike;
as Glenmurray was remarkable for the character and expression of his
countenance, and Berrendale for the extreme beauty of his features and
complexion. Glenmurray was pale and thin, and his eyes and hair dark.
Berrendale's eyes were of a light blue; and though his eye-lashes were
black, his hair was of a rich auburn; Glenmurray was thin and muscular;
Berrendale, round and corpulent: still they were alike; and it was not
ill observed of them, that Berrendale was Glenmurray in good health.
But Berrendale could not be flattered by the resemblance, as his face
and person were so truly what is called handsome, that, partial as our
sex is said to be to beauty, any woman would have been excused for
falling in love with him. Whether his mind was equal to his person we
shall show hereafter.
The meeting between Berrendale and Glenmurray was affectionate on both
sides; but Berrendale could scarcely hide the pain he felt on seeing
the situation of Glenmurray, whose virtues he had always loved, whose
talents he had always respected, and to whose active friendship towards
himself he owed eternal gratitude.
But he soon learnt to think Glenmurray, in one respect, an object of
envy, when he beheld the constant, skilful, and tender attentions of
his nurse, and saw in that nurse every gift of heart, mind, and person,
which could make a woman amiable.
Berrendale had heard that his eccentric cousin was living with a girl as
odd as himself; who thought herself a genius, and pretended to universal
knowledge; great then was his astonishment to find this imagined pedant,
and pretender, not only an adept in every useful and feminine pursuit,
but modest in her demeanour, and gentle in her manners: little did he
expect to see her capable of serving the table of Glenmurray with dishes
made by herself, not only tempting to the now craving appetite of the
invalid but to the palate of an epicure,--while all his wants were
anticipated by her anxious attention, and many of the sufferings of
sickness alleviated by her inventive care.
Adeline, meanwhile, was agreeably surprised to see the good effect
produced on Glenmurray's spirits, and even his health, by the arrival of
his cousin; and her manner became even affectionate to Berrendale, from
gratitude for the change which his presence seemed to have occasioned.
Adeline had now a companion in her occasional walks;--Glenmurray
insisted on her walking, and insisted on Berrendale's accompanying
her. In these tete-a-tetes Adeline unburthened her heart, by telling
Berrendale of the agony she felt at the idea of losing Glenmurray; and
while drowned in tears she leaned on his arm, she unconsciously suffered
him to press the hand that leaned against him; nor would she have felt
it a freedom to be reproved, had she been conscious that he did so. But
these trifling indulgences were fuel to the flame that she had kindled
in the heart of Berrendale; a flame which he saw no guilt in indulging,
as he looked on Glenmurray's death as certain, and Adeline would then be
free.
But though Adeline was perfectly unconscious of his attachment,
Glenmurray had seen it even before Berrendale himself discovered it; and
he only waited a favourable opportunity to make the discovery known to
the parties. All he had as yet ventured to say was, 'Charles, my Adeline
is an excellent nurse!--You would like such as one during your fits of
the gout;' and Berrendale had blushed deeply while he assented to
Glenmurray's remarks, because he was conscious that, while enumerating
Adeline's perfections, he had figured her to himself warming his
flannels, and leaning tenderly over his gouty couch.
One day, while Adeline was reading to Glenmurray, and Berrendale was
attending not to what she read, but to the beauty of her mouth while
reading, the nurse came in, and said that 'a mulatto woman wished to
speak to Miss Mowbray.'
'Show her up,' immediately cried Glenmurray; 'and if her little boy is
with her, let him come too.'
In vain did Adeline expostulate--Glenmurray wished to enjoy the
mulatto's expressions of gratitude; and, in spite of all she could say,
the mother and child were introduced.
'So!' cried the mulatto, (whose looks were so improved that Adeline
scarcely knew her again,) 'So! me find you at last; and, please God! we
not soon part more.' As she said this, she pressed the hem of Adeline's
gown to her lips with fervent emotion.
'Not part from her again!' cried Glenmurray, 'What do you mean, my good
woman?'
'Oh! when she gave tree guinea for me, me tought she mus be rich lady,
but now dey say she be poor, and me mus work for her.'
'And who told you I was poor?'
'Dat cross man where you live once--he say you could not pay him, and
you go away--and he tell me that your love be ill; and me so sorry, yet
so glad! for my love be well aden, and he have good employ; and now
I can come and serve you, and nurse dis poor gentleman, and all for
nothing but my meat and drink; and I know dat great fat nurse have gold
wages, and eat and drink fat beside,--I knowd her well.'
All this was uttered with volubility, and in a tone between laughing and
crying.
'Well, Adeline,' said Glenmurray when she had ended, 'you did not throw
away your kindness on an unworthy and ungrateful object; so I am quite
reconciled to the loss of the pine-apple; and I will tell your honest
friend here the story,--to show her, as she has a tender heart herself,
the greatness of the sacrifice you made for her sake.'
Adeline begged him to desist; but he went on; and the mulatto could not
keep herself quiet on the chair while he related the circumstance.
'And did she do dat to save me?' she passionately exclaimed: 'Angel
woman! I should have let poor man go to prison, before disappoint my
William!'
'And did you forgive her immediately?' said Berrendale.
'Yes, certainly.'
'Well, that was heroic too,' returned he.
'And no one but Glenmurray would have been so heroic, I believe,' said
Adeline.
'But, lady, you break my heart,' cried the mulatto, 'if you not take
my service. Mr William and me, too poor to live togedder of some year
perhaps. Here, child, tawny boy, down on knees, and vow wid me to be
faithful and grateful to this our mistress, till our last day; and
never to forsake her in sickness or in sorrow! I swear dis to my great
God:--and now say dat after me.' She then clasped the little boy's
hands, bade him raise his eyes to heaven, and made him repeat what she
had said, ending it with 'I swear dis, to my great God.'
There was such an affecting solemnity in this action, and in the mulatto
such a determined enthusiasm of manner incapable of being controlled,
that Adeline, Glenmurray, and Berrendale observed what passed in
respectful silence: and when it was over, Glenmurray said, in a voice of
emotion, 'I think, Adeline, we must accept this good creature's offer;
and as nurse grows lazy and saucy, we had better part with her: and as
for your young knight there,' (the tawny boy had by this time nestled
himself close to Adeline, who, with no small emotion, was playing with
his woolly curls,) 'we must send him to school; for, my good woman, we
are not so poor as you imagine.'
'God be thanked!' cried the mulatto.
'But what is your name?'
'I was christened Savanna,' replied she.
'Then, good Savanna,' cried Adeline, 'I hope we shall both have reason
to bless the day when first we met; and to-morrow you shall come home to
us.' Savanna, on hearing this, almost screamed with joy, and as she took
her leave Berrendale slipped a guinea into her hand: the tawny boy
meanwhile slowly followed his mother, as if unwilling to leave Adeline,
even though she gave him halfpence to spend in cakes: but on being told
that she would let him come again the next day, he tripped gaily down
after Savanna.
The quiet of the chamber being then restored, Glenmurray fell into a
calm slumber. Adeline took up her work; and Berrendale, pretending
to read, continued to feed his passion by gazing on the unconscious
Adeline.
While they were thus engaged, Glenmurray, unobserved, awoke; and he soon
guessed how Berrendale's eyes were employed, as the book which he held
in his hand was upside down; and through the fingers of the hand which
he held before his face, he saw his looks fixed on Adeline.
The moment was a favourable one for Glenmurray's purpose: and just as he
raised himself from his pillow, Adeline had discovered the earnest gaze
of Berrendale; and a suspicion of the truth that instant darting across
her mind, disconcerted and blushing, she had cast her eyes on the
ground.
'That is an interesting study which you are engaged in, Charles,' cried
Glenmurray smiling.
Berrendale started; and, deeply blushing, faltered out, 'Yes.'
Adeline looked at Glenmurray, and seeing a very arch and meaning
expression on his countenance, suspected that he had made the same
discovery as herself: yet, if so, she wondered at his looking so
pleasantly on Berrendale as he spoke.
'It is a book, Charles,' continued Glenmurray, 'which the more you study
the more you will admire; and I wish to give you a clue to understand
some passages in it better than you can now do.'
This speech deceived Adeline, and made her suppose that Glenmurray
really alluded to the book which lay before Berrendale: but it convinced
_him_ that Glenmurray spoke metaphorically; and as his manner was kind,
it also made him think that he saw and did not disapprove his
attachment.
For a few minutes, each of them being engrossed in different
contemplations, there was a complete silence; but Glenmurray interrupted
it by saying, 'My dear Adeline, it is your hour for walking; but, as
I am not disposed to sleep again, will you forgive me if I keep your
walking companion to myself to-day?--I wish to converse with him alone.'
'Oh! most cheerfully,' she replied with quickness: 'you know I love a
solitary ramble of all things.'
'Not very flattering that to my cousin,' observed Glenmurray.
'I did not wish to flatter him,' said Adeline gravely; and Berrendale,
fluttered at the idea of the coming conversation with Glenmurray, and
mortified by Adeline's words and manner, turned to the window to conceal
his emotion.
Adeline, then, with more than usual tenderness, conjured Glenmurray not
to talk too much, nor do anything to destroy the hopes on which her only
chance of happiness depended, viz. the now possible chance of his
recovery, and then set out for her walk; while, with a restraint and
coldness which she could not conquer, she bade Berrendale farewell for
the present.
The walk was long, and her thoughts perturbed:--'What could Glenmurray
want to say to Mr Berrendale?'--'Why did Mr Berrendale sit with his eyes
so intently and clandestinely, as it were, fixed on me?' were thoughts
perpetually recurring to her: and half impatient, and half reluctant,
she at length returned to her lodgings.
When she entered the apartment, she saw signs of great emotion in the
countenance of both the gentlemen; and in Berrendale's eyes the traces
of recent tears. The tone of Glenmurray's voice too, when he addressed
her, was even more tender than usual, and Berrendale's attentions more
marked, yet more respectful; and Adeline observed that Glenmurray was
unusually thoughtful and absent, and that the cough and other symptoms
of his complaint were more troublesome than ever.
'I see you have exerted yourself and talked too much during my absence,'
cried Adeline, 'and I will never leave you again for so long a time.'
'You never shall,' said Glenmurray. 'I must leave _you_ for so long a
time at last, that I will be blessed with the sight of you as long as I
can.'
Adeline whose hopes had been considerably revived during the last few
days, looked mournfully and reproachfully in his face as he uttered
these words.
'It is even so, my dearest girl,' continued Glenmurray, 'and I say this
to guard you against a melancholy surprise:--I wish to prepare you for
an event which to me seems unavoidable.'
'Prepare me!' exclaimed Adeline wildly. 'Can there be any preparation to
enable one to bear such a calamity? Absurd idea! However, I shall derive
consolation from the severity of the stroke: I feel that I shall not be
able to survive it.' So saying, her head fell on Glenmurray's pillow;
and for some time, her sorrow almost suspended the consciousness of
suffering.
From this state she was aroused by Glenmurray's being attacked with a
violent paroxysm of his complaint, and all selfish distress was lost in
the consciousness of his sufferings: again he struggled through, and
seemed so relieved by the effort, that again Adeline's hopes revived;
and she could scarcely return, with temper, Berrendale's 'good night,'
when Glenmurray expressed a wish to rest, because his spirits had not
risen in any proportion to hers.
The nurse had been dismissed that afternoon; and Adeline, as Savanna
was not to come home till the next morning, was to sit up alone with
Glenmurray that night; and, contrary to his usual custom, he did not
insist that she should have a companion.
For a few hours his exhausted frame was recruited by a sleep more than
usually quiet, and but for a few hours only. He then became restless,
and so wakeful and disturbed, that he professed to Adeline an utter
inability to sleep, and therefore he wished to pass the rest of the
night in serious conversation with her.
Adeline, alarmed at this intention, conjured him not to irritate his
complaint by so dangerous an exertion.
'My mind will irritate it more,' replied he, 'if I refrain from it; for
it is burthened, my Adeline, and it longs to throw off its burthen. Now,
then, ere my senses wander, hear what I wish to communicate to you, and
interrupt me as little as possible.'
Adeline, oppressed and awed beyond measure at the unusual solemnity of
his manner, made no answer; but, leaning her cheek on his hand, awaited
his communication in silence.
'I think,' said Glenmurray, 'I shall begin with telling you Berrendale's
history; it is proper that you should know all that concerns him.'
Adeline raising her head, replied hastily,--'Not to satisfy any
curiosity of mine; for I feel none, I assure you.'
'Well, then,' returned Glenmurray, sighing, 'to please me, be
it.--Berrendale is the son of my mother's sister, by a merchant of
the neighbourhood of the 'Change, who hurt the family pride so much by
marrying a tradesman, that I am the only one of the clan who has noticed
her since. He ran away, about four years ago, with the only child of a
rich West Indian from a boarding-school. The consequence was, that her
father renounced her; but, when, three years ago, she died in giving
birth to a son, the unhappy parent repented of his displeasure, and
offered to allow Berrendale, who from the bankruptcy and sudden death
of both his parents had been left destitute, an annuity of 300_l._ for
life, provided he would send the child over to Jamaica, and allow him to
have all the care of his education. To this Berrendale consented.'
'Reluctantly, I hope,' said Adeline, 'and merely out of pity for the
feelings of the childless father.'
'I hope so too,' continued Glenmurray; 'for I do not think the chance of
inheriting all his grandfather's property a sufficient reason to lead
him to give up to another, and in a foreign land too, the society and
education of his child: but, whatever were his reasons, Berrendale
acceded to the request, and the infant was sent to Jamaica; and ever
since the 300_l._ has been regularly remitted to him: besides that, he
has recovered two thousand and odd hundred pounds from the wreck of his
father's property; and with economy, and had he a good wife to manage
his affairs for him, Berrendale might live very comfortably.'
'My dear Glenmurray,' cried Adeline impatiently, 'what is this to
me? and why do you weary yourself to tell me particulars so little
interesting to me?'
Glenmurray bade her have patience, and continued thus: 'And now,
Adeline,' (here his voice evidently faltered,) 'I must open my whole
heart to you, and confess that the idea of leaving you friendless,
unprotected, and poor, your reputation injured, and your peace of mind
destroyed, is more than I am able to bear, and will give me, in my last
moments, the torments of the damned.' Here a violent burst of tears
interrupted him; and Adeline, overcome with emotion and surprise at the
sight of the agitation which his own sufferings could never occasion in
him, hung over him in speechless woe.
'Besides,' continued Glenmurray, recovering himself a little, 'I--O
Adeline!' seizing her cold hand, 'can you forgive me for having been the
means of blasting all your fair fame and prospects in life?'
'For the sake of justice, if not of mercy,' exclaimed Adeline, 'forbear
thus cruelly to accuse yourself. You know that from my own free,
unbiassed choice I gave myself to you, and in compliance with my own
principles.'
'But who taught you those principles?--who led you to a train of
reasoning, so alluring in theory, so pernicious in practice? Had not
I, with the heedless vanity of youth, given to the world the crude
conceptions of four-and-twenty, you might at this moment have been the
idol of a respectable society; and I, equally respected, have been the
husband of your heart; while happiness would perhaps have kept the fatal
disease at bay, of which anxiety has facilitated the approach.'
He was going on: but Adeline, who had till now struggled successfully
with her feelings, wound up almost to phrensy at the possibility that
anxiety had shortened Glenmurray's life, gave way to a violent paroxysm
of sorrow, which, for a while, deprived her of consciousness; and when
she recovered she found Berrendale bending over her, while her head lay
on Glenmurray's pillow.
The sight of Berrendale in a moment roused her to exertion:--his look
was so full of anxious tenderness, and she was at that moment so ill
disposed to regard it with complacency, that she eagerly declared she
was quite recovered, and begged Mr Berrendale would return to bed; and
Glenmurray seconding her request, with a deep sigh he departed.
'Poor fellow!' said Glenmurray, 'I wish you had seen his anxiety during
your illness!'
'I am glad I did _not_,' replied Adeline: 'but how can you persist in
talking to me of any other person's anxiety, when I am tortured with
yours? Your conversation of to-night has made me even more miserable
than I was before. By what strange fatality do you blame yourself for
the conduct worthy of admiration?--for giving to the world, as soon as
produced, opinions which were calculated to enlighten it?'
'But,' replied Glenmurray, 'as those opinions militated against the
experience and custom of ages, ought I not to have paused before I
published, and kept them back till they had received the sanction of my
maturer judgment?'
'And does your maturer judgment condemn them?'
'Four years cannot have added much to the maturity of my judgment,'
replied Glenmurray: 'but I will own that some of my opinions are changed;
and that, though I believe those which are unchanged are right in
theory, I think, as the mass of society could never _at once_ adopt
them, they had better remain unacted upon, than that a few lonely
individuals should expose themselves to certain distress, by making them
the rules of their conduct. You, for instance, you, my Adeline, what
misery--!' Here his voice again faltered, and emotion impeded his
utterance.
'Live--do but live,' exclaimed Adeline passionately, 'and I can know of
misery but the name.'
'But I cannot live, I cannot live,' replied Glenmurray, 'and the sooner
I die the better;--for thus to waste your youth and health in the
dreadful solitude of a sick-room is insupportable to me.'
'O Glenmurray!' replied Adeline, fondly throwing herself on his neck,
'could you but live free from any violent pain, and were neither you nor
I ever to leave this room again, believe me, I should not have a wish
beyond it. To see you, to hear you, to prove to you how much I love you,
would, indeed it would, be happiness sufficient for me!' After this burst
of true and heartfelt tenderness, there was a pause of some moments:
Glenmurray felt too much to speak, and Adeline was sobbing on his
pillow. At length she pathetically again exclaimed, 'Live! only live!
and I am blest!'
'But I _cannot_ live, I _cannot_ live,' again replied Glenmurray; 'and
when I die, what will become of you?'
'I care not,' cried Adeline: 'if I lose you, may the same grave receive
us!'
'But it _will_ not, my dearest:--grief does not kill; and, entailed as
my estate is, I have nothing to leave you: and though richly qualified
to undertake the care of children, in order to maintain yourself, your
unfortunate connexion, and singular opinions, will be an eternal bar to
your being so employed. O Adeline! these cutting fears, these dreadful
reflections, are indeed the bitterness of death: but there is one way of
alleviating my pangs.'
'Name it,' replied Adeline with quickness.
'But you must promise then to hear me with patience.--Had I been able to
live through my illness, I should have conjured you to let me endeavour
to restore you to your place in society, and consequently to your
usefulness, by making you my wife: and young, and I may add innocent and
virtuous, as you are, I doubt not but the world would at length have
received you into its favour again.'
'But you must, you will, you shall live,' interrupted Adeline, 'and I
shall be your happy wife.'
'Not _mine_' replied Glenmurray, laying an emphasis on the last word.
Adeline started, and, fixing her eyes wildly on his, demanded what he
meant.
'I mean,' replied he, 'to prevail on you to make my last moments happy,
by promising, some time hence, to give yourself a tender, a respectable,
and a legal protector.'
'O Glenmurray!' exclaimed Adeline, 'and can you insult my tenderness for
you with such a proposal? If I can even survive you, do you think that I
can bear to give you a successor in my affection? or, how can you bear
to imagine that I shall?'
'Because my love for you is without selfishness, and I wish you to be
happy even though another makes you so. The lover, or the husband, who
wishes the woman of his affection to form no second attachment, is, in
my opinion, a selfish, contemptible being. Perhaps I do not expect that
you will ever feel, for another man, an attachment like that which has
subsisted between us--the first affection of young and impassioned
hearts; but I am sure that you may again feel love enough to make
yourself and the man of your choice perfectly happy; and I hope and
trust that you will be so.'
'And forget you, I suppose?' interrupted Adeline reproachfully.
'Not so: I would have you remember me always, but with a chastized and
even a pleasing sorrow; nay, I would wish you to imagine me a sort of
guardian spirit watching your actions and enjoying your happiness.'
'I have _listened_ to you,' cried Adeline in a tone of suppressed
anguish, 'and, I trust, with tolerable patience: there is one thing yet
for me to learn--the name of the object whom you wish me to marry, for I
suppose _he_ is found.'
'He is,' returned Glenmurray, 'Berrendale loves you; and he it is whom I
wish you to choose.'
'I thought so,' exclaimed Adeline, rising and traversing the room
hastily, and wringing her hands.
'But wherefore does his name,' said Glenmurray, 'excite such angry
emotion? Perhaps self-love makes me recommend him,' continued he,
forcing a smile, 'as he is reckoned like me, and I thought that likeness
might make him more agreeable to you.'
'Only the more odious,' impatiently interrupted Adeline. 'To look like
you, and not _be_ you, Oh! insupportable idea!' she exclaimed, throwing
herself on Glenmurray's pillow, and pressing his burning temples to her
cold cheek.
'Adeline,' said Glenmurray solemnly, 'this is, perhaps, the last moment
of confidential and uninterrupted intercourse that we shall ever have
together;' Adeline started, but spoke not; 'allow me, therefore, to
tell you it is my _dying request_, that you would endeavour to dispose
your mind in favour of Berrendale, and to become in time his wife.
Circumstanced as you are, your only chance for happiness is becoming a
wife: but it is too certain that few men worthy of you, in the most
essential points, will be likely to marry you after your connexion with
me.'
'Strange prejudice!' cried Adeline, 'to consider as my disgrace, what I
deem my glory!'
Glenmurray continued thus: 'Berrendale himself has a great deal of the
old school about him, but I have convinced him that you are not to be
classed with the frail of your sex; and that you are one of the purest
as well as loveliest of human beings.'
'And did he want to be convinced of this?' cried Adeline indignantly;
'and _yet_ you advise me to marry him?'
'My dearest love,' replied Glenmurray, 'in all cases the most we can
expect is, to choose the best _possible_ means of happiness. Berrendale
is not perfect; but I am convinced that you would commit a fatal error
in not making him your husband; and when I tell you it is my _dying
request_ that you should do so--'
'If you wish me to retain my senses,' exclaimed Adeline, 'repeat that
dreadful phrase no more.'
'I will not say any more at all now,' faintly observed Glenmurray, 'for
I am exhausted:--still, as morning begins to dawn, I should like to sit
up in my bed and gaze on it, perhaps for--' Here Adeline put her hand to
his mouth: Glenmurray kissed it, sighed, and did not finish the sentence.
She then opened the shutters to let in the rising splendour of day, and,
turning round towards Glenmurray, almost shrieked with terror at seeing
the visible alteration a night had made in his appearance; while the
yellow rays of the dawn played on his sallow cheek, and his dark curls,
once crisped and glossy, hung faint and moist on his beating temples.
'It is strange, Adeline,' said Glenmurray (but with great effort),
'that, even in my situation, the sight of morning, and the revival as it
were of nature, seems to invigorate my whole frame. I long to breathe
the freshness of its breeze also.'
Adeline, conscious for the first time that all hope was over, opened the
window, and felt even her sick soul and languid frame revived by the
chill but refreshing breeze. To Glenmurray it imparted a feeling of
physical pleasure, to which he had long been a stranger: 'I breathe
freely,' he exclaimed, 'I feel alive again!'--and, strange as it may
seem, Adeline's hopes began to revive also.--'I feel as if I could sleep
now,' said Glenmurray, 'the feverish restlessness seems abated; but,
lest my dreams be disturbed, promise me, ere I lie down again, that you
will behave kindly to Berrendale.'
'Impossible! The only tie that bound me to him is broken:--I thought
he sincerely sympathized with me in my wishes for your recovery; but
now that, as he loves me, his wishes must be in direct opposition to
mine,--I cannot, indeed I cannot, endure the sight of him.'
Glenmurray could not reply to this natural observation: he knew that, in
a similar situation, his feelings would have been like Adeline's; and,
pressing her hand with all the little strength left him, he said 'Poor
Berrendale!' and tried to compose himself to sleep; while Adeline, lost
in sad contemplation, threw herself in a chair by his bed-side, and
anxiously awaited the event of his re-awaking.
But it was not long before Adeline herself, exhausted both in body and
mind, fell into a deep sleep; and it was mid-day before she awoke: for
no careless, heavy-treading, and hired nurse now watched the slumbers of
the unhappy lovers; but the mulatto, stepping light as air, and afraid
even of breathing lest she should disturb their repose, had assumed her
station at the bed-side, and taken every precaution lest any noise
should awake them. Hers was the service of the heart; and there is none
like it.
At twelve o'clock Adeline awoke; and her first glance met the dark eyes
of Savanna kindly fixed upon her. Adeline started, not immediately
recollecting who it could be; but in a moment the idea of the mulatto,
and of the service which she had rendered her, recurred to her mind, and
diffused a sensation of pleasure through her frame. 'There is a being
whom I have served,' said Adeline to herself, and, extending her hand to
Savanna, she started from her seat, invigorated by the thought: but she
felt depressed again by the consciousness that she, who had been able to
impart so much joy and help to another, was herself a wretch for ever;
and in a moment her eyes filled with tears, while the mulatto gazed on
her with a look of inquiring solicitude.
'Poor Savanna!' cried Adeline in a low and plaintive tone.
There are moments when the sound of one's own voice has a mournful
effect on one's feelings--this was one of those moments to Adeline;
the pathos of her own tone overcame her, and she burst into tears: but
Glenmurray slept on; and Adeline hoped nothing would suddenly disturb
his rest, when Berrendale opened the door with what appeared unnecessary
noise, and Glenmurray hastily awoke.
Adeline immediately started from her seat, and, looking at him with
great indignation, demanded why he came in in such a manner, when he
knew Mr Glenmurray was asleep.
Berrendale, shocked and alarmed at Adeline's words and expression, so
unlike her usual manner, stammered out an excuse. 'Another time, Sir',
replied Adeline coldly, 'I hope you will be more _careful_.'
'What is the matter?' said Glenmurray, raising himself in the bed. 'Are
you scolding, Adeline? If so, let me hear you: I like novelty.'
Here Adeline and Berrendale both hastened to him, and Adeline almost
looked with complacency on Berrendale; when Glenmurray, declaring
himself wonderfully refreshed by his long sleep, expressed a great
desire for his breakfast, and said he had a most voracious appetite.
But to all Berrendale's attentions she returned the most forbidding
reserve; nor could she for a moment lose the painful idea, that the
death of Glenmurray would be to him a source of joy, not of anguish.
Berrendale was not slow to observe this change in her conduct; and he
conceived that, as he knew Glenmurray had mentioned his pretensions
to her, his absence would be of more service to his wishes than his
presence; and he resolved to leave Richmond that afternoon,--especially
as he had a dinner engagement at a tavern in London, which, in spite of
love and friendship, he was desirous of keeping.
He was not mistaken in his ideas: the countenance of Adeline assumed
less severity when he mentioned his intention of going away, nor could
she express regret at his resolution, even though Glenmurray with
anxious earnestness requested him to stay. But Glenmurray entreated in
vain: used to consider his own interest and pleasure in preference to
that of others, Berrendale resolved to go; and resisted the prayers of a
man who had often obliged him with the greatest difficulty to himself.
'Well, then,' said Glenmurray mournfully, 'if you must go, God bless
you! I wish you, Charles, all possible earthly happiness; nay, I have
done all I can to ensure it you: but you have disappointed me. I hoped
to have joined your hand, in my last moments, to that of this dear girl,
and to have bequeathed her in the most solemn manner to your care and
tenderness; but no matter, farewell! we shall probably meet no more.'
Here Berrendale's heart failed him, and he almost resolved to stay: but
a look of angry repugnance which he saw on Adeline's countenance, even
amidst her sorrow, got the better of his kind emotions, by wounding his
self-love; and grasping Glenmurray's hand, and saying 'I shall be back
in a day or two,' he rushed out of the room.
'I am sorry Mr Berrendale is forced to go,' said Adeline involuntarily
when the street door closed after him.
'Had you condescended to tell him so, he would undoubtedly have staid,'
replied Glenmurray rather peevishly. Adeline instantly felt, and
regretted, the selfishness of her conduct. To avoid the sight of a
disagreeable object, she had given pain to Glenmurray; or, rather, she
had not done her utmost to prevent his being exposed to it.
'Forgive me,' said Adeline, bursting into tears: 'I own I thought only
of myself, when I forbore to urge his stay. Alas! with you, and you
alone, I believe, is the gratification of self always a secondary
consideration.'
'You forget that I am a philanthropist,' replied Glenmurray, 'and cannot
bear to be praised, even by you, at the expense of my fellow-creatures.
But come, hasten dinner; my breakfast agreed with me so well, that I am
impatient for another meal.'
'You certainly are better to-day,' exclaimed Adeline with unwonted
cheerfulness.
'My feelings are more tolerable, at least,' replied Glenmurray: and
Adeline and the mulatto began to prepare the dinner immediately. How
often during her attendance on Glenmurray had she recollected the words
of her grandmother, and blessed her for having taught her to be
_useful_!
As soon as dinner was over, Glenmurray complained of being drowsy: still
he declared he would not go to bed till he had seen the sun set, as he
had that day, for the second time since his illness, seen it rise; and
therefore, when it was setting, Adeline and Savanna led him into a room
adjoining, which had a western aspect. Glenmurray fixed his eyes on
the crimson horizon with a peculiar expression; and his lips seemed to
murmur, 'For the last time! Let me breathe the evening air, too, once
more,' said he.
'It is too chill, dear Glenmurray.'
'It will not hurt me,' replied Glenmurray; and Adeline complied with his
request.
'The breeze of evening is not refreshing like that of morning,' he
observed; 'but the beauty of the setting is, perhaps, superior to that
of the rising sun:--they are both glorious sights, and I have enjoyed
them both to-day, nor have I for years experienced so strong a feeling
of devotion.'
'Thank God!' cried Adeline. 'O Glenmurray! there has been one thing only
wanting to the completion of our union; and that was, that we should
worship together.'
'Perhaps, had I remained longer here,' replied Glenmurray, 'we might
have done so; for, believe me, Adeline, though my feelings have
continually hurried me into adoration of the Supreme Being, I have often
wished my homage to be as regular and as founded on immutable conviction
as it once was: but it is too late now for amendment, though, alas! not
for _regret_, _deep_ regret: yet He who reads the heart knows that my
intentions were pure, and that I was not fixed in the stubbornness of
error.'
'Let us change this discourse,' cried Adeline, seeing on Glenmurray's
countenance an expression of uncommon sadness, which he, from a regard
to her feelings, struggled to cover. He did indeed feel sadness--a
sadness of the most painful nature; and while Adeline hung over him with
all the anxious and soothing attention of unbounded love, he seemed to
shrink from her embrace with horror, and, turning away his head, feebly
murmured. 'O Adeline! this faithful kindness wounds me to the very soul.
Alas! alas! how little have I deserved it!'
If Glenmurray, who had been the means of injuring the woman he loved,
merely by following the dictates of his conscience, and a love of what
he imagined to be truth, without any view of his own benefit or the
gratification of his personal wishes, felt thus acutely the anguish of
self-upbraiding,--what ought to be, and what must be, sooner or later,
the agony and remorse of that man, who, merely for the gratification of
his own illicit desires, has seduced the woman whom he loved from the
path of virtue, and ruined for ever her reputation and her peace of
mind!
'It is too late now for you to sit at an open window, indeed it is,'
cried Adeline, after having replied to Glenmurray's self-reproaches by
the touching language of tears, and incoherent expressions of confiding
and unchanged attachment; 'and as you are evidently better to-day, do
not, by breathing too much cold air, run the risk of making yourself
worse again.'
'Would I were really better! would I could live!' passionately exclaimed
Glenmurray: 'but indeed I do feel stronger to-night than I have felt for
many months.' In a moment the fine eyes of Adeline were raised to heaven
with an expression of devout thankfulness; and, eager to make the most
of a change so favourable, she hurried Glenmurray back to his chamber,
and, with a feeling of renewed hope, sat by to watch his slumbers.
She had not sat long before the door opened, and the little tawny boy
entered. He had watched all day to see the good lady, as he called
Adeline; but, as she had not left Glenmurray's chamber except to prepare
dinner, he had been disappointed: so he was resolved to seek her in her
own apartment. He had bought some cakes with the penny which Adeline had
given him, and he was eager to give her a piece of them.
'Hush!' cried Adeline, as she held out her hand to him; and he in a
whisper crying 'Bite,' held his purchase to her lips. Adeline tasted
it, said it was very good, and, giving him a halfpenny, the tawny boy
disappeared again: the noise he made as he bounded down the stairs woke
Glenmurray. Adeline was sitting on the side of the bed; and as he turned
round to sleep again he grasped her hand in his, and its feverish touch
damped her hopes, and re-awakened her fears. For a short time she
mournfully gazed on his flushed cheek, and then, gently sliding off the
bed, and dropping on one knee, she addressed the Deity in the language
of humble supplication.
Insensibly she ceased to pray in thought only, and the lowly-murmured
prayer became audible. Again Glenmurray awoke, and Adeline reproached
herself as the cause.
'My rest was uneasy,' cried he, 'and I rejoice that you woke me:
besides, I like to hear you--Go on, my dearest girl; there is a
something in the breathings of your pious fondness that soothes me,'
added he, pressing the hand he held to his parched lips.
Adeline obeyed: and as she continued, she felt ever and anon, by the
pressure of Glenmurray's hand, how much he was affected by what she
uttered.
'But must he be taken from me!' she exclaimed in one part of her prayer.
'Father, if it be possible, permit this cup to pass by me untasted.'
Here she felt the hand of Glenmurray grasp hers most vehemently; and,
delighted to think that he had pleasure in hearing her, she went on to
breathe forth all the wishes of a trembling yet confiding spirit, till
overcome with her own emotions she ceased and arose, and leaning over
Glenmurray's pillow was going to take his hand:--but the hand which she
pressed returned not her pressure; the eyes were fixed whose approving
glance she sought; and the horrid truth rushed at once on her mind, that
the last convulsive grasp had been an eternal farewell, and that he had
in that grasp expired.
Alas! what preparation however long, what anticipation however sure, can
enable the mind to bear a shock like this! It came on Adeline like a
thunder-stroke: she screamed not; she moved not; but, fixing a dim and
glassy eye on the pale countenance of her lover, she seemed as insensible
as poor Glenmurray himself; and hours might have elapsed--hours
immediately fatal both to her senses and existence--ere any one had
entered the room, since she had given orders to be disturbed by no one,
had not the tawny boy, encouraged by his past success, stolen in again,
unperceived, to give her a piece of the apple which he had bought with
her last bounty.
The delighted boy tripped gaily to the bed-side, holding up his
treasure; but he started back, and screamed in all the agony of terror,
at the sight which he beheld--the face of Glenmurray ghastly, and the
mouth distorted as if in the last agony, and Adeline in the stupor of
despair.
The affectionate boy's repeated screams soon summoned the whole family
into the room, while he, vainly hanging on Adeline's arm, begged her
to speak to him. But nothing could at first rouse Adeline, not even
Savanna's loud and extravagant grief. When, however, they tried to force
her from the body, she recovered her recollection and her strength; and
it was with great difficulty she could be carried out of the room, and
kept out when they had accomplished their purpose.
But Savanna was sure that looking at such a sad sight would kill her
mistress; for she should die herself if she saw William dead, she
declared; and the people of the house agreed with her. They knew not
that grief is the best medicine for itself; and that the overcharged
heart is often relieved by the sight which standers-by conceive likely
to snap the very threads of existence.
As Adeline and Glenmurray had both of them excited some interest in
Richmond, the news of the death of the latter was immediately abroad;
and it was told to Mrs Pemberton, with a pathetic account of Adeline's
distress, just as the carriage was preparing to convey her and her sick
friend on their way to Lisbon. It was a relation to call forth all the
humanity of Mrs Pemberton's nature. She forgot Adeline's crime in her
distress; and knowing she had no female friend with her, she hastened on
the errand of pity to the abode of vice. Alas! Mrs Pemberton had learnt
but too well to sympathize in grief like that of Adeline. She had seen
a beloved husband expire in her arms, and had afterwards followed two
children to the grave. But she had taken refuge from sorrow in the
active duties of her religion, and was enabled to become a teacher of
those truths to others, by which she had so much benefited herself.
Mrs Pemberton entered the room just as Adeline, on her knees, was
conjuring the persons with her to allow her to see Glenmurray once more.
Adeline did not at all observe the entrance of Mrs Pemberton, who, in
spite of the self-command which her principles and habits gave her, was
visibly affected when she beheld the mourner's tearless affliction: and
the hands which, on her entrance, were quietly crossed on each other,
confining the modest folds of her simple cloak, were suddenly and
involuntarily separated by the irresistible impulse of pity; while,
catching hold of the wall for support, she leaned against it, covering
her face with her hands. 'Let me see him! only let me see him once
more!' cried Adeline, gazing on Mrs Pemberton, but unconscious who she
was.
'Thou shalt see him,' replied Mrs Pemberton with considerable effort;
'give me thy hand, and I will go with thee to the chamber of death.'
Adeline gave a scream of mournful joy at this permission, and suffered
herself to be led into Glenmurray's apartment. As soon as she entered it
she sprang to the bed, and, throwing herself beside the corpse, began to
contemplate it with an earnestness and firmness which surprised every
one. Mrs Pemberton also fixedly gazed on the wan face of Glenmurray:
'And art thou fallen!' she exclaimed, 'thou, wise in thine own conceit,
who presumedst, perhaps, sometimes to question even the existence of the
Most High, and to set up thy vain chimeras of yesterday against the
wisdom and experience of centuries? Child of the dust! child of error!
what art thou now, and whither is thy guilty spirit fled? But balmy is
the hand of affliction; and she, thy mourning victim, may learn to bless
the hand that chastizes her, nor add to the offences which will weigh
down thy soul, a dread responsibility for hers!'
Here she was interrupted by the voice of Adeline; who, in a deep and
hollow tone, was addressing the unconscious corpse. 'For God's sake,
speak! for this silence is dreadful--it looks so like death.'
'Poor thing!' said Mrs Pemberton, kneeling beside her, 'and is it even
thus with thee? Would thou couldst shed tears, afflicted one!'
'It is very strange,' continued Adeline: 'he loved me so tenderly, and
he used to speak and look so tenderly, and now, see how he neglects me!
Glenmurray, my love! for mercy's sake, speak to me!' As she said this,
she laid her lips to his: but, feeling on them the icy coldness of
death, she started back, screaming in all the violence of phrensy; and,
recovered to the full consciousness of her misfortune, she was carried
back to her room in violent convulsions.
'Would I could stay and watch over thee!' said Mrs Pemberton, as she
gazed on Adeline's distorted countenance; 'for thou, young as thou art,
wert well known in the chambers of sorrow and of sickness; and I should
rejoice to pay back to thee part of the debt of those whom thy presence
so often soothed: but I must leave thee to the care of others.'
'You leave her to my care,' cried Savanna reproachfully,--who felt even
her violent sorrow suspended while Mrs Pemberton spoke in accents at
once sad yet soothing,--'you leave her to my care, and who watch, who
love her more than me?'
'Good Savanna!' replied Mrs Pemberton, pressing the mulatto's hand as
she returned to her station beside Adeline, who was fallen into a calm
slumber, 'to thy care, with confidence, I commit her. But perhaps there
may be an immediate necessity for money, and I had better leave this
with thee,' she added, taking out her purse: but Savanna assured her
that Mr Berrendale was sent for, and to him all those concerns were to
be left. Mrs Pemberton stood for a few moments looking at Adeline in
silence, then slowly left the house.
When Adeline awoke, she seemed so calm and resigned, that her earnest
request of being allowed to pass the night alone was granted, especially
as Mrs Pemberton had desired that her wish, even to see Glenmurray
again, should be complied with: but the faithful mulatto watched till
morning at the door. No bed that night received the weary limbs of
Adeline. She threw herself on the ground, and in alternate prayer and
phrensy passed the first night of her woe: towards morning, however, she
fell into a perturbed sleep. But when the light of day darting into the
room awakened her to consciousness; and when she recollected that he
to whom it usually summoned her existed no longer; that the eyes which
but the preceding morning had opened with enthusiastic ardour to hail
its beams, were now for ever closed; and that the voice which used
to welcome her so tenderly, she should never, never hear again; the
forlornness of her situation, the hopelessness of her sorrow burst upon
her with a violence too powerful for her reason: and when Berrendale
arrived, he found Glenmurray in his shroud, and Adeline in a state
of insanity. For six months her phrensy resisted all the efforts of
medicine, and the united care which Berrendale's love and Savanna's
grateful attachment could bestow; while with Adeline's want of their
care seemed to increase their desire of bestowing it, and their
affection gathered new strength from the duration of her helpless
malady. So true is it, that we become attached more from the aid which
we give than that which we receive; and that the love of the obliger
is more apt to increase than that of the obliged by the obligation
conferred. At length, however, Adeline's reason slowly yet surely
returned; and she, by degrees, learnt to contemplate with firmness,
and even calmness, the loss which she had sustained. She even looked
on Berrendale and his attentions not with anger, but gratitude and
complacency; she had even pleasure in observing the likeness he bore
Glenmurray; she felt that it endeared him to her. In the first paroxysms
of her phrensy, the sight of him threw her into fits of ravings; but
as she grew better she had pleasure in seeing him: and when, on her
recovery, she heard how much she was indebted to his persevering
tenderness, she felt for him a decided regard, which Berrendale tried
to flatter himself might be ripened into love.
But he was mistaken; the heart of Adeline was formed to feel violent
and lasting attachments only. She had always loved her mother with a
tenderness of a most uncommon nature; she had felt for Glenmurray the
fondest enthusiasm of passion: she was now separated from them both.
But her mother still lived: and though almost hopeless of ever being
restored to her society, all her love for her returned; and she pined
for that consoling fondness, those soothing attentions, which, in a time
of such affliction, a mother on a widowed daughter can alone bestow.
'Yet, surely,' cried she in the solitude of her own room, 'her oath
cannot now forbid her to forgive me; for, am I not as WRETCHED IN LOVE,
nay more, far more so, than _she_ has been? Yes--yes; I will write to
her: besides HE wished me to do so' (meaning Glenmurray, whom she never
named); and she did write to her, according to the address which Dr
Norberry sent soon after he returned to his own house. Still week after
week elapsed, and month after month, but no answer came.
Again she wrote, and again she was disappointed; though her loss, her
illness in consequence of it, her pecuniary distress, and the large debt
which she had incurred to Berrendale, were all detailed in a manner
calculated to move the most obdurate heart. What then could Adeline
suppose? Perhaps her mother was ill; perhaps she was dead: and her
reason was again on the point of yielding to this horrible supposition,
when she received her two letters in a cover, directed in her mother's
hand-writing.
At first she was overwhelmed by this dreadful proof of the continuance
of Mrs Mowbray's deep resentment; but, ever sanguine, the circumstance
of Mrs Mowbray's having written the address herself appeared to Adeline
a favourable symptom; and with renewed hope she wrote to Dr Norberry
to become her mediator once more: but to this letter no answer was
returned; and Adeline concluded her only friend had died of the fever
which Mrs Norberry had mentioned in her letter.
'Then I have lost my only friend!' cried Adeline, wringing her hands
in agony, as this idea recurred to her. 'Your only friend?' repeated
Berrendale, who happened to be present, 'O Adeline!'
Her heart smote her as he said this. 'My oldest friend I should have
said,' she replied, holding out her hand to him; and Berrendale thought
himself happy.
But Adeline was far from meaning to give the encouragement which this
action seemed to bestow: wholly occupied by her affliction, her mind
had lost its energy, and she would not have made an effort to dissipate
her grief by employment and exertion, had not that virtuous pride and
delicacy, which in happier hours had been the ornament of her character,
rebelled against the consciousness of owing pecuniary obligations to the
lover whose suit she was determined to reject, and urged her to make
some vigorous attempt to maintain herself.
Many were the schemes which occurred to her; but none seemed so
practicable as that of keeping a day-school in some village near the
metropolis.--True, Glenmurray had said, that her having been his
mistress would prevent her obtaining scholars; but his fears, perhaps,
were stronger than his justice in this case. These fears, however, she
found existed in Berrendale's mind also, though he ventured only to hint
them with great caution.
'You think, then, no prudent parents, if my story should be known to
them, would send their children to me?' said Adeline to Berrendale.
'I fear--I--that is to say, I am sure they would not.'
'Under such circumstances,' said Adeline, 'you yourself would not send a
child to my school?'
'Why--really--I--as the world goes,' replied Berrendale.
'I am answered,' said Adeline with a look and tone of displeasure; and
retired to her chamber, intending not to return till Berrendale was
gone to his own lodging. But her heart soon reproached her with unjust
resentment; and, coming back, she apologized to Berrendale for being
angry at his laudable resolution of acting according to those principles
which he thought most virtuous, especially as she claimed for herself a
similar right.
Berrendale, gratified by her apology, replied, 'that he saw no objection
to her plan, if she chose to deny him the happiness of sharing his
income with her, provided she would settle in a village where she was
not likely to be known, and change her name.'
'Change my name! Never. Concealment of any kind almost always implies
the consciousness of guilt; and while my heart does not condemn me, my
conduct shall not seem to accuse me. I will go to whatever place you
shall recommend; but I beg your other request may be mentioned no
more.'
Berrendale, glad to be forgiven on any terms, promised to comply with
her wishes; and he having recommended to her to settle at a village some
few miles north of London, Adeline hired there a small but commodious
lodging, and issued immediately cards of advertisement, stating what she
meant to teach, and on what terms; while Berrendale took lodgings within
a mile of her, and the faithful mulatto attended her as a servant of
all-work.
Fortunately, at this time, a lady at Richmond, who had a son the age
of the tawny boy, became so attached to him, that she was desirous of
bringing him up to be the play-fellow and future attendant on her son;
and the mulatto, pleased to have him so well disposed of, resisted the
poor little boy's tears and reluctance at the idea of being separated
from her and Adeline: and before she left Richmond she had the
satisfaction of seeing him comfortably settled in the house of his
patroness.
Adeline succeeded in her undertaking even beyond her utmost wishes.
Though unknown and unrecommended, there was in her countenance and
manner a something so engaging, so strongly inviting confidence, and
so decisively bespeaking the gentlewoman, that she soon excited in the
village general respect and attention: and no sooner were scholars
entrusted to her care, than she became the idol of her pupils; and their
improvement was rapid in proportion to the love which they bore her.
This fortunate circumstance proved a balm to the wounded mind
of Adeline. She felt that she had recovered her usefulness--that
desideratum in morals; and life, spite of her misfortunes, acquired a
charm in her eyes. True it was, that she was restored to her capability
of being useful, by being where she was unknown; and because the
mulatto, unknown to her, had described her as reduced to earn her
living, on account of the death of the man to whom she was about to be
married: but she did not revert to the reasons of her being so generally
esteemed; she contented herself with the consciousness of being so; and
for some months she was tranquil, though not happy. But her tranquillity
was destined to be of short duration.