'O! I am safe now!' exclaimed Adeline, throwing herself into his arms; while he was so overcome with surprise and joy that he could not speak the welcome which his heart gave her: and Adeline, happy to behold him again, was as silent as her lover. At length Glenmurray exclaimed:—
'Do we then meet again, Adeline!'
'Yes,' replied she; 'and we meet to part no more.'
'Do not mock me,' cried Glenmurray starting from his seat, and seizing her extended hand; 'my feelings must not be trifled with.'
'Nor am I a woman to trifle with them. Glenmurray, I come to you for safety and protection;—I come to seek shelter in your arms from misery and dishonour. You are ill, you are going into a foreign country: and from this moment look on me as your nurse, your companion;—your home shall be my home, your country my country!'
Glenmurray, too much agitated, too happy to speak, could only press the agitated girl to his bosom, and fold his arms round her, as if to assure her of the protection which she claimed.
'But there is not a moment to be lost,' cried Adeline: 'I may be missed and pursued: let us be gone directly.'
The first word was enough for Glenmurray: eager to secure the recovered treasure which he had thought for ever lost, his orders were given, and executed by the faithful Arthur with the utmost dispatch; and even before Adeline had explained to him the cause of her resolution to elope with him they were on their road to Cornwall, meaning to embark at Falmouth for Lisbon.
But Arthur, who was going to marry, and leave Glenmurray's service, received orders to stay at the farm till he had learned how Sir Patrick was: and having obtained the necessary information, he was to send it to Glenmurray at Falmouth. The next morning he saw Sir Patrick himself driving full speed past the farm; and having written immediately to his master, Adeline had the satisfaction of knowing that she had not purchased her own safety by the sufferings or danger of her persecutor, and the consequent misery of her mother.
But Glenmurray's heart needed no explanation of the cause of Adeline's elopement. She was with him—with him, as she said, for ever. True, she had talked of flying from misery and dishonour; but he knew they could not reach her in his arms,—not even dishonour according to the ideas of society,—for he meant to make Adeline legally his as soon as they were safe from pursuit, and his illness was forgotten in the fond transport of the present moment.
Adeline's joy was of a much shorter duration. Recollections of a most painful nature were continually recurring. True it was that it was no longer possible for her to reside under the roof of her mother: but was it necessary for her to elope with Glenmurray? the man whom she had solemnly promised her mother to renounce! Then, on the other side, she argued that the appearance of love for Glenmurray was an excuse sufficient to conceal from her deluded parent the real cause of her elopement.
'It was my sole alternative,' said she mentally:—'my mother must either suppose me an unworthy child, or know Sir Patrick to be an unworthy husband; and it will be easier for her to support the knowledge of the one than the other: then, when she forgives me, as no doubt she will in time, I shall be happy: but that I could never be, while convinced that I had made her miserable by revealing to her the wickedness of Sir Patrick.'
While this was passing in her mind, her countenance was full of such anxious and mournful expression, that Glenmurray, unable to keep silence any longer, conjured her to tell him what so evidently weighed upon her spirits.
'The difficulty that oppressed me is past,' she replied, wiping from her eyes the tears which the thought of having left her mother so unexpectedly, and for the first time, produced. 'I have convinced myself, that to leave home and commit myself to your protection was the most proper and virtuous step that I could take: I have not obeyed the dictates of love, but of reason.'
'I am very sorry to hear it,' said Glenmurray mournfully.
'It seems to me so very rational to love you,' returned Adeline tenderly, shocked at the sad expression of his countenance, 'that what seems to be the dictates of reason may be those of love only.'
To a reply like this, Glenmurray could only answer by close involvement not intelligible expressions of fondness to the object of them, which are so delightful to lovers themselves, and so uninteresting to other people: nay, so entirely was Glenmurray again engrossed by the sense of present happiness, that his curiosity was still suspended, and Adeline's story remained untold. But Adeline's pleasure was damped by painful recollections, and still more by her not being able to hide from herself the mournful consciousness that the ravages of sickness were but too visible in Glenmurray's face and figure, and that the flush of unexpected delight could but ill conceal the hollow paleness of his cheek, and the sunk appearance of his eyes.
Meanwhile the chaise rolled on,—post succeeded to post; and though night was far advanced, Adeline, fearful of being pursued, would not consent to stop, and they travelled till morning. But Glenmurray, feeling himself exhausted, prevailed on her, for his sake, to alight at a small inn on the road side near Marlborough.
There Adeline narrated the occurrences of the past day; but with difficulty could she prevail on herself to own to Glenmurray that she had been the object of such an outrage as she had experienced from Sir Patrick.
A truly delicate woman feels degraded, not flattered, by being the object of libertine attempts; and, situated as Adeline and Glenmurray now were, to disclose the insult which had been offered to her was a still more difficult task: but to conceal it was impossible. She felt that, even to him, some justification of her precipitate and unsolicited flight was necessary; and nothing but Sir Patrick's attempt could justify it. She, therefore, blushing and hesitating, revealed the disgraceful secret; but such was its effect on the weak spirits and delicate health of Glenmurray, that the violent emotions which he underwent brought on a return of his most alarming symptoms; and in a few hours Adeline, bending over the sick bed of her lover, experienced for the first time that most dreadful of feelings, fear for the life of the object of her affections.
Two days, however, restored him to comparative safety, and they reached a small and obscure village within a short distance from Falmouth, most conveniently situated. There they took up their abode, and resolved to remain till the wind should change, and enable them to sail for Lisbon.
In this retreat, situated in air as salubrious as that of the south of France, Glenmurray was soon restored to health, especially as happy love was now his, and brought back the health of which hopeless love had contributed to deprive him. The woman whom he loved was his companion and his nurse; and so dear had the quiet scene of their happiness become to them, that, forgetful there was still a danger of their being discovered, it was with considerable regret that they received a summons to embark, and saw themselves on their voyage to Portugal.
But before she left England Adeline wrote to her mother.
After a pleasant and short voyage the lovers found themselves at Lisbon; and Glenmurray, pursuant to his resolution, immediately proposed to Adeline, to unite himself to her by the indissoluble ties of marriage.
Nothing could exceed Adeline's surprise at this proposal: at first she could not believe Glenmurray was in earnest; but seeing that he looked not only grave but anxious, and as if earnestly expecting an answer, she asked him whether he had convinced himself that what he had written against marriage was a tissue of mischievous absurdity.
Glenmurray, blushing, with the conceit of an author replied 'that he still thought his arguments unanswerable.'
'Then, if you still are convinced your theory is good, why let your practice be bad? It is incumbent on you to act up to the principles that you profess, in order to give them their proper weight in society—else you give the lie to your own declarations.'
'But it is better for me to do that, than for you to be the sacrifice to my reputation.'
'I,' replied Adeline, 'am entirely out of the question: you are to be governed by no other law but your desire to promote general utility, and are not to think at all of the interest of an individual.'
'How can I do so, when that individual is dearer to me than all the world beside?' cried Glenmurray passionately.
'And if you but once recollect that you are dearer to me than all the world beside, you will cease to suppose that my happiness can be affected by the opinion entertained of my conduct by others.' As Adeline said this, she twisted both her hands in his arms so affectionately, and looked up in his face with so satisfied and tender an expression, that Glenmurray could not bear to go on with a subject which evidently drew a cloud across her brow; and hours, days, weeks, and months passed rapidly over their heads before he had resolution to renew it.
Hours, days, weeks, and months spent in a manner most dear to the heart and most salutary to the mind of Adeline!—Her taste for books, which had hitherto been cultivated in a partial manner, and had led her to one range of study only, was now directed by Glenmurray to the perusal of general literature; and the historian, the biographer, the poet, and the novelist, obtained alternately her attention and her praises.
In her knowledge of the French and Italian languages, too, she was now considerably improved by the instructions of her lover; and while his occasional illnesses were alleviated by her ever watchful attentions, their attachment was cemented by one of the strongest of all ties—the consciousness of mutual benefit and assistance.
One evening, as they were sitting on a bench in one of the public walks, a gentleman approached them, whose appearance bespoke him to be an Englishman, though his sun-burnt complexion showed that he had been for years exposed to a more ardent climate than that of Britain.
As he came nearer, Glenmurray thought his features were familiar to him; and the stranger, starting with joyful surprise, seized his hand, and welcomed him as an old friend. Glenmurray returned his salutation with great cordiality, and recognized in the stranger, a Mr Maynard, an amiable man, who had gone to seek his fortune in India, and was returned a nabob, but with an irreproachable character.
'So, then,' cried Mr Maynard gaily, 'this is the elegant young English couple that my servant, and even the inn-keeper himself, was so loud in praise of! Little did I think the happy man was my old friend,—though no man is more deserving of being happy: but I beg you will introduce me to your lady.'
Glenmurray, though conscious of the mistake he was under, had not resolution enough to avow that he was not married; and Adeline, unaware of the difficulty of Glenmurray's situation, received Mr Maynard's salutation with the utmost ease, though the tremor of her lover's voice, and the blush on his cheek, as he said—'Adeline, give me leave to introduce to you Mr Maynard, an old friend of mine,'—were sufficient indications that the rencontre disturbed him.
In a few minutes Adeline and Mr Maynard were no longer strangers. Mr Maynard, who had not lived much in the society of well-informed women, and not at all in that of women accustomed to original thinking, was at once astonished and delighted at the variety of Adeline's remarks, at the playfulness of her imagination, and the eloquence of her expressions. But it was very evident, at length, to Mr Maynard, that in proportion as Adeline and he became more acquainted and more satisfied with each other, Glenmurray grew more silent and more uneasy. The consequence was unavoidable: as most men would have done on a like occasion, Mr Maynard thought Glenmurray was jealous of him.
But no thought so vexatious to himself, and so degrading to Adeline, had entered the confiding and discriminating mind of Glenmurray. The truth was, he knew that Mr Maynard, whom he had seen in the walks, though he had not known him again, had ladies of his party; and he expected that the more Mr Maynard admired his supposed wife, the more would he be eager to introduce her to his companions.
Nor was Glenmurray wrong in his conjectures.
'I have two sisters with me, madam,' said Mr Maynard, 'whom I shall be happy and proud to introduce to you. One of them is a widow, and has lived several years in India, but returned with me in delicate health, and was ordered hither: she is not a woman of great reading, but has an excellent understanding, and will admire you. The other is several years younger; and I am sure she would be happy in an opportunity of profiting by the conversation of a lady, who, though not older than herself, seems to have had so many more opportunities of improvement.'
Adeline bowed, and expressed her impatience to form this new acquaintance; and looked triumphantly at Glenmurray, meaning to express—'See, spite of the supposed prejudices of the world, here is a man who wants to introduce me to his sisters.' Little did she know that Maynard concluded she was a wife: his absence from England had made him ignorant of the nature of Glenmurray's works, or even that he was an author; so that he was not at all likely to suppose that the moral, pious youth, whom he had always respected, was become a visionary philosopher, and, in defiance of the laws of society, was living openly with a mistress.
'But my sister will wonder what is become of me;' suddenly cried Maynard; 'and as Emily is so unwell as to keep her room to-day, I must not make her anxious. But for her illness, I should have requested your company to supper.'
'And I should have liked to accept the invitation,' replied Adeline; 'but I will hope to see the ladies soon.'
'Oh! without fail, to-morrow,' cried Maynard: 'if Emily be not well enough to call on you, perhaps you will come to her apartments.'
'Undoubtedly: expect me at twelve o'clock.'
Maynard then shook his grave and silent friend by the hand and, departed,—his vanity not a little flattered by the supposed jealousy of Glenmurray.
'There now,' said Adeline, when he was out of hearing. 'I hope some of your tender fears are done away. You see there are liberal and unprejudiced persons in the world; and Mr Maynard, instead of shunning me, courts my acquaintance for his sisters.'
Glenmurray shook his head, and remained silent; and Adeline was distressed to feel by his burning hand that he was seriously uneasy.
'I shall certainly call on these ladies to-morrow,' continued Adeline:—'I really pine for the society of amiable women.'
Glenmurray sighed deeply: he dreaded to tell her that he couldnotallow her to call on them, and yet he knew that this painful task awaited him. Besides, she wished, she said, to know some amiable women; and, eager as he was to indulge all her wishes, he felt but too certainly that in this wish she could never be indulged. Even had he been capable of doing so dishonourable an action as introducing his mistress as his wife, he was sure that Adeline would have spurned at the deception; and silent and sad he grasped Adeline's hand as her arm rested within his, and complaining of indisposition, slowly returned to the inn.
The next morning at breakfast, Adeline again expressed her eagerness to form an acquaintance with the sisters of Mr Maynard; when Glenmurray, starting from his seat, paced the room in considerable agitation.
'What is the matter!' cried Adeline, hastily rising and laying her hand on his arm.
Glenmurray grasped her hand, and replied with assumed firmness: 'Adeline, it is impossible for you to form an acquaintance with Mr Maynard's sisters: propriety and honour both forbid me to allow it.'
'Indeed!' exclaimed Adeline, 'are they not as amiable, then, as he described them? are they improper acquaintances for me? Well then—I am disappointed: but you are the best judge of what is right, and I am contented to obey you.'
The simple, ingenuous and acquiescent sweetness with which she said this, was a new pang to her lover:—had she repined, had she looked ill-humoured, his task would not have been so difficult.
'But what reason can you give for declining this acquaintance?' resumed Adeline.
'Aye! there's the difficulty,' replied Glenmurray: 'pure-minded and amiable as I know you to be, how can I bear to tell these children of prejudice that you are not my wife, but my mistress?'
Adeline started; and, turning pale, exclaimed, 'Are you sure, then, that they do not know it already?'
'Quite sure—else Maynard would not have thought you a fit companion for his sisters.'
'But surely—he must know your principles;—he must have read your works?'
'I am certain he is ignorant of both, and does not even know that I am an author.'
'Is it possible?' cried Adeline: 'is there any one so unfortunate to be unacquainted with your writings?'
Glenmurray at another time would have been elated at a compliment like this from the woman whom he idolized; but at this moment he heard it with a feeling of pain which he would not have liked to define to himself, and casting his eyes to the ground he said nothing.
'So then,' said Adeline mournfully, 'I am an improper companion for them, not they for me!' and spite of herself her eyes filled with tears.—At this moment a waiter brought in a note for Glenmurray;—it was from Maynard, and as follows:—
My Dear Friend,Emily is better to-day; and both my sisters are so impatient to see, and know, your charming wife, that they beg me to present their compliments to Mrs Glenmurray and you; and request the honour of your company to a late breakfast:—at eleven o'clock we hope to see you.Ever yours,G. M.
My Dear Friend,
Emily is better to-day; and both my sisters are so impatient to see, and know, your charming wife, that they beg me to present their compliments to Mrs Glenmurray and you; and request the honour of your company to a late breakfast:—at eleven o'clock we hope to see you.
Ever yours,
G. M.
'We will send an answer,' said Glenmurray: but the waiter had been gone some minutes before either Adeline or Glenmurray spoke. At length Adeline, struggling with her feelings, observed, 'Mr Maynard seems so amiable a man, that I should think it would not be difficult to convince him of his errors: surely, therefore, it is your duty to call on him, state our real situation, and our reasons for it, and endeavour to convince him that our attachment is sanctioned both by reason and virtue.'
'But not by the church,' replied Glenmurray, 'and Maynard is of the old school: besides, a man of forty-eight is not likely to be convinced by the arguments of a young man of twenty-eight, and the example of a girl of nineteen.'
'If age be necessary to give weight to arguments,' returned Adeline, 'I wonder that you thought proper to publish four years ago.'
'Would to God I never had published!' exclaimed Glenmurray, almost pettishly.
'If you had not, I probably should never have been yours,' replied Adeline, fondly leaning her head on his shoulder, and then looking up in his face. Glenmurray clasped her to his bosom; but again the pleasure was mixed with pain. 'All this time,' rejoined Adeline, 'your friends are expecting an answer: you had better carry it in person.'
'I cannot,' replied Glenmurray, 'and there is only one way of getting out of this business to my satisfaction.'
'Name it; and rest assured that I shall approve it.'
'Then I wish to order horses immediately, and set off on our road to France.'
'So soon,—though the air agrees with you so well?'
'O yes;—for when the mind is uneasy no air can be of use to the body.'
'But why is your mind uneasy?'
'Here I should be exposed to see Maynard, and—and—he would see you too.'
'And what then?'
'What then?—Why, I could not bear to see him look on you with an eye of disrespect.'
'And wherefore should he?'
'O Adeline, the name of wife imposes restraint even on a libertine; but that of mistress—'
'Is Mr Maynard a libertine?' said Adeline gravely: and Glenmurray, afraid of wounding her feelings by entering into a further explanation, changed the subject, and again requested her consent to leave Lisbon.
'I have often told you,' said Adeline sighing, 'that my will is yours; and if you will give strict orders to have letters sent after us to the towns that we shall stop at, I am ready to set off immediately.'
Glenmurray then gave his orders; wrote a letter explaining his situation to Maynard, and in an hour they were on their journey to France.
In the meanwhile Mr Maynard, Miss Maynard, and Mrs Wallington his widowed sister, were impatiently expecting Glenmurray's answer, and earnestly hoping to see him and his lovely companion,—but from different motives. Maynard was impatient to see Adeline because he really admired her; his sisters, because they hoped to find her unworthy of such violent admiration.
Their vanity had been piqued, and their envy excited, by the extravagant praises of their brother; and they had interrupted him by the first questions which all women ask on such occasions,—'Is she pretty?'
And he answered, 'Very pretty.'
'Is she tall?'
'Very tall, taller than I am.'
'I hate tall women,' replied Miss Maynard (a little round girl of nineteen).
'Is she fair?'
'Exquisitely fair.'
'I like brown women,' cried the widow: 'fair people always look silly.'
'But Mrs Glenmurray's eyes are hazel, and her eyelashes long and dark.'
'Hazel eyes are always bold-looking,' cried Miss Maynard.
'Not Mrs Glenmurray's; for her expression is the most pure and ingenuous that I ever saw. Some girls, indecent in their dress, and very licentious in their manner, passed us as we sat on the walk; and the comments which I made on them provoked from Mrs Glenmurray some remarks on the behaviour and dress of women; and, as she commented on the disgusting expression of vice in women, and the charm of modest dignity both in dress and manners, her own dress, manners, and expression, were such an admirable comment on her words, and she shone so brightly, if I may use the expression, in the graceful awfulness of virtue, that I gazed with delight, and somewhat of apprehension lest this fair perfection should suddenly take flight to her native skies, toward which her fine eyes were occasionally turned.'
'Bless me! if our brother is not quite poetical! This prodigy has inspired him,' replied the widow with a sneer.
'For my part, I hate prodigies,' said Miss Maynard: 'I feel myself unworthy to associate with them.'
When one woman calls another a prodigy, and expresses herself as unworthy to associate with her, it is very certain that she means to insult rather than compliment her; and in this sense Mr Maynard understood his sister's words: therefore after having listened with tolerable patience to a few more sneers at the unconscious Adeline, he was provoked to say that, ill-disposed as he found they were toward his new acquaintance, he hoped that when they became acquainted with her they would still give him reason to say, as he always had done, that he was proud of his sisters; for, in his opinion, no woman ever looked so lovely as when she was doing justice to the merits and extenuating the faults of a rival.
'A rival!' exclaimed the sisters at once:—'And, pray, what rivalship could there be in this case?'
'My remark was a general one: but since you choose to make it a particular one, I will answer to it as such,' continued Mr Maynard. 'All women are rivals in one sense—rivals for general esteem and admiration; and she only shall have my suffrage in her favour, who can point out a beauty or a merit in another woman without insinuating at the same time a counterbalancing effect.'
'But Mrs Glenmurray, it seems, has no defects!'
'At least I have not known her long enough to find them out; but you, no doubt, will, when you know her, very readily spare me that trouble.'
How injudiciously had Maynard prepared the minds of his sisters to admire Adeline. It was a preparation to make them hate her; and they were very impatient to begin the task of depreciating both hermoraleand herphysique, when Glenmurray's note arrived.
'It is not Glenmurray's hand,' said Maynard—(indeed, from agitation of mind the writing was not recognizable). 'It must be hers then,' continued he, affecting to kiss the address with rapture.
'It is the hand of a sloven,' observed Mrs Wallington, studying the writing.
'But in dress she is as neat as a Quaker,' retorted the brother, eagerly snatching the letter back, 'and her mind seems as pure as her dress.'
He then broke the seal, and read out what follows:—
'Dear Maynard,'When you receive this, Adeline and I shall be on our road to France, and you,—start not!—are the occasion of our abrupt departure.'
'Dear Maynard,
'When you receive this, Adeline and I shall be on our road to France, and you,—start not!—are the occasion of our abrupt departure.'
'So, so, jealous indeed,' said Maynard to himself, and more impressed than ever with the charms of Adeline; for he concluded that Glenmurray had discovered in her an answering prepossession.
'You the occasion, brother!' cried both sisters.
'Have patience.'
'You saw Adeline; you admired her; and wished to introduce her to your sisters—this, honour forbad me to allow'—(the sisters started from their seats) 'for Adeline is not my wife, but my companion.'
'You saw Adeline; you admired her; and wished to introduce her to your sisters—this, honour forbad me to allow'—(the sisters started from their seats) 'for Adeline is not my wife, but my companion.'
Here Maynard made a full pause—at once surprised and confounded. His sisters, pleased as well as astonished, looked triumphantly at each other; and Mrs Wallington exclaimed. 'So, then, this angel of purity turns out to be a kept lady!' At this remark Miss Maynard laughed heartily, but Maynard, to hide his confusion, commanded silence, and went on with the letter:
'But spite of her situation, strange as it may seem to you, believe me, no wife was ever more pure than Adeline.'
'But spite of her situation, strange as it may seem to you, believe me, no wife was ever more pure than Adeline.'
At this passage the sisters could no longer contain themselves, and they gave way to loud bursts of laughter, which Maynard could hardly help joining in; but being angry at the same time he uttered nothing but an oath, which I shall not repeat, and retreated to his chamber to finish the letter alone.
During his absence the laughters redoubled;—but in themidstof it Maynard re-entered, and desired they would allow him to read the letter to the end. The sisters immediately begged that he would proceed, as it was so amusing that they wished to hear more.—Glenmurray continued thus:
'You have no doubt yet to learn that some few years ago I commenced author, and published opinions contrary to the established usage of society: amongst other things I proved the absurdity of the institution of marriage; and Adeline, who at an early age read my works, became one of my converts.'
'You have no doubt yet to learn that some few years ago I commenced author, and published opinions contrary to the established usage of society: amongst other things I proved the absurdity of the institution of marriage; and Adeline, who at an early age read my works, became one of my converts.'
'The man is certainly mad,' cried Maynard, 'and how dreadful it is that this angelic creature should have been his victim.'
'But perhaps thisfallenangel, brother, for such you will allow she is, spite of herpurity, was as wicked as he. I know people in general only blame the seducer, but I always blame the seduced equally.'
'I do not doubt it,' said her brother sneeringly, and going on with the letter.
'No wonder then, that, being forced to fly from her maternal roof, she took refuge in my arms.'
'No wonder then, that, being forced to fly from her maternal roof, she took refuge in my arms.'
'Lucky dog!'
'But though Adeline was the victim neither of her own weakness nor of my seductions, but was merely urged by circumstances to act up to the principles which she openly professed, I felt so conscious that she would be degraded in your eyes after you were acquainted with her situation, though in mine she appears as spotless as ever, that I could not bear to expose her even to a glance from you less respectful than those with which you beheld her last night. I therefore prevailed on her to leave Lisbon; nor had I any difficulty in so doing, when she found that your wish of introducing her to your sisters was founded on your supposition of her being my wife, and that all chance of your desiring her acquaintance for them would be over, when you knew the nature of her connexion with me. I shall now bid you farewell. I write in haste and agitation, and have not time to say more than God bless you!'F. G.'
'But though Adeline was the victim neither of her own weakness nor of my seductions, but was merely urged by circumstances to act up to the principles which she openly professed, I felt so conscious that she would be degraded in your eyes after you were acquainted with her situation, though in mine she appears as spotless as ever, that I could not bear to expose her even to a glance from you less respectful than those with which you beheld her last night. I therefore prevailed on her to leave Lisbon; nor had I any difficulty in so doing, when she found that your wish of introducing her to your sisters was founded on your supposition of her being my wife, and that all chance of your desiring her acquaintance for them would be over, when you knew the nature of her connexion with me. I shall now bid you farewell. I write in haste and agitation, and have not time to say more than God bless you!
'F. G.'
'Yes, yes, I see how it is,' muttered Mr Maynard to himself when he had finished the letter, 'he was jealous of me. I wish (raising his voice) that he had not been in such a hurry to go away.'
'Why, brother,' replied Mrs Wallington, 'to be sure you would not have introduced us to this piece of angelic purity a little the worse for the wear!'
'No,' replied he; 'but I might have enjoyed her company myself.'
'And perhaps, brother, you might have rivalled the philosophic author in time,' observed Miss Maynard.
'If I had not, it would have been from no want of good will on my part,' returned Maynard.
'Well, then I rejoice that the creature is gone,' replied Mrs Wallington, drawing up.
'And I too,' said Miss Maynard disdainfully: 'but I think we had better drop this subject; I have had quite enough of it.'
'And so have I,' cried Mrs Wallington: 'but I must observe, before we drop it entirely, that when next my brother comes home and wearies his sisters by exaggerated praises of another woman, I hope he will take care that his goddess, or rather his angel of purity, does not turn out to be a kept mistress.'
So saying she left the room, and Miss Maynard, tittering, followed her; while Maynard, too sore on this subject to bear to be laughed at, took his hat in a pet, and, flinging the door after him with great violence, walked out to muse on the erring but interesting companion of Glenmurray.
While these conversations were passing at Lisbon, Glenmurray and Adeline were pursuing their journey to France; and insensibly did the charm of being together obliterate from the minds of each the rencontre which had so much disturbed them.
But Adeline began to be uneasy on a subject of much greater importance; she every day expected an answer from her mother, but no answer arrived; and they had been stationary at Perpignan some days, to which place they had desired their letters to be addressed,poste restante, and still none were forwarded thither from Lisbon.
The idea that her mother had utterly renounced her now took possession of her imagination, and love had no charm to offer her capable of affording her consolation: the care which she had taken of her infancy, the affectionate attentions that had preserved her life, and the uninterrupted kindness which she had shown towards her till her attachment to Sir Patrick took place,—all these pressed powerfully and painfully on her memory, till her elopement seemed wholly unjustifiable in her eyes, and she reprobated her conduct in terms of the most bitter self-reproach.
At these moments even Glenmurray seemed to become the object of her aversion. Her mother had forbidden her to think of him; yet, to make her flight more agonizing to her injured parent, she had eloped withhim. But as soon as ever she beheld him he regained his wonted influence over her heart, and her self-reproaches became less poignant: she became sensible that Sir Patrick's guilt and her mother's imprudent marriage were the causes of her own fault, and not Glenmurray; and could she but receive a letter of pardon from England, she felt that her conscience would again be at peace.
But soon an idea of a still more harassing nature succeeded and overwhelmed her. Perhaps her desertion had injured her mother's health; perhaps she was too ill to write; perhaps she was dead:—and when this horrible supposition took possession of her mind she used to avoid even the presence of her lover; and as her spirits commonly sunk towards evening, when the still renewed expectations of the day had been deceived, she used to hasten to a neighbouring church when the bell called to vespers, and, prostrate on the steps of the altar, lift up her soul to heaven in the silent breathings of penitence and prayer. Having thus relieved her heart she returned to Glenmurray, pensive but resigned.
One evening after she had unburthened her feelings in this manner, Glenmurray prevailed on her to walk with him to a public promenade; and being tired they sat down on a bench in a shady part of the mall. They had not sat long before a gentleman and two ladies seated themselves beside them.
Glenmurray instantly rose up to depart; but the gentleman also rose and exclaimed, ''Tis he indeed! Glenmurray, have you forgotten your old friend Willie Douglas?'
Glenmurray, pleased to see a friend whom he had once so highly valued, returned the salutation with marked cordiality; while the ladies with great kindness accosted Adeline, and begged she would allow them the honour of her acquaintance.
Taught by the rencontre at Lisbon, Adeline for a moment felt embarrassed; but there was something so truly benevolent in the countenance of both ladies, and she was so struck by the extreme beauty of the younger one, that she had not resolution to avoid, or even to receive their advances coldly; and while the gentlemen were commenting on each other's looks, and in an instant going over the occurrences of past years, the ladies, pleased with each other, had entered into conversation.
'But I expected to see you and your lady,' said Major Douglas; 'for Maynard was writing to me from Lisbon when he laid by his pen and took the walk in which he met you; and on his return he filled up the rest of his letter with the praises of Mrs Glenmurray, and expressions of envy at your happiness.'
Glenmurray and Adeline both blushed deeply. 'So!' said Adeline to herself, 'here will be another letter to write when we get home;' for, though ingenuousness was one of her most striking qualities, she had not resolution enough to tell her new acquaintance that she was not married: besides, she flattered herself, that, could she once interest these charming women in her favour, they would not refuse her their society even when they knew her real situation; for she thought them too amiable to be prejudiced, as she called it, and was not yet aware how much the perfection of the female character depends on respect even to what may be called the prejudices of others.
The day began to close in; but Major Douglas, though Glenmurray was too uneasy to answer him except by monosyllables, would not hear of going home, and continued to talk with cheerfulness and interest of the scenes of his and Glenmurray's early youth. He too was ignorant of his friend's notoriety as an author: he had lived chiefly at his estates in the Highlands; nor would he have left them, but because he was advised to travel for his health: and the lovely creature whom he had married, as well as his only sister, was anxious on his account to put the advice in execution. He therefore made no allusions to Glenmurray's opinions that could give him an opportunity of explaining his real situation; and he saw with confusion, that every moment increased the intimacy of Adeline and the wife and sister of his friend.
At length his feelings operated so powerfully on his weak frame, that a sudden faintness seized him, and supported by Adeline and the major, and followed by his two kind companions, he returned to the inn: there, to get rid of the Douglases and avoid the inquiries of Adeline, who suspected the cause of his illness, he immediately retired to bed.
His friends also returned home, lamenting the apparently declining health of Glenmurray, and expatiating with delight on the winning graces of his supposed wife; for these ladies were of a different class of women to the sisters of Maynard.—Mrs Douglas was so confessedly a beauty, so rich in acknowledged attractions, that she could afford to do justice to the attractions of another: and Miss Douglas was so decidedly devoid of all pretensions to the lovely in person, that the idea of competition with the beautiful never entered her mind, and she was always eager to admire what she knew that she was incapable of rivalling. Unexposed, therefore, to feel those petty jealousies, those paltry competitions which injure the character of women in general, Emma Douglas's mind was the seat of benevolence and candour,—as was her beautiful sister's from a different cause; and they were both warmer even than the major in praise of Adeline.
But a second letter from Mr Maynard awaited Major Douglas at the inn, which put a fatal stop to their self-congratulations at having met Glenmurray and his companion.
Mr Maynard, full of Glenmurray's letter, and still more deeply impressed than ever with the image of Adeline, could not forbear writing to the major on the subject; giving as a reason, that he wished to let him know the true state of affairs, in order that he might avoid Glenmurray.—The letter came too late.
'And I have seen him, have welcomed him as a friend, and he has had the impudence to introduce his harlot to my wife and sister!'
So spoke the major in the language of passion,—and passion is never accurate.—Glenmurray hadnotintroduced Adeline: and this was gently hinted by the kind and candid Emma Douglas; while the younger and more inexperienced wife sat silent with consternation, at having pressed with the utmost kindness the hand of a kept mistress.
Vain were the representations of his sister to sooth the wounded pride of Major Douglas. Without considering the difficulty of such a proceeding, he insisted upon it that Glenmurray should have led Adeline away instantly, as unworthy to breathe the same air with his wife and sister.
'You find by that letter, brother,' said Miss Douglas, 'that this unhappy Adeline is still an object of respect in his eyes, and he could not wound her feelings so publicly, especially as she seems to be more ill-judging than vicious.'
She spoke in vain.—The major was a soldier, and so delicate in his ideas of the honour of women, that he thought his wife and sister polluted from having, though unconsciously, associated with Adeline; being violently irritated therefore at the supposed insult offered him by Glenmurray, he left the room, and, having dispatched a challenge to him, told the ladies he had letters to write to England till bed-time arrived: then, after having settled his affairs in case he should fall in the conflict, he sat brooding alone over the insolence of his former friend.
There was a consciousness too which aggravated his resentment. Calumny had been busy with his reputation; and, though he deserved it not, had once branded him with the name of coward. Besides, his elder sister had been seduced by a man of very high rank, and was then living with him as his mistress. Made still more susceptible therefore of affront by this distressing consciousness, he suspected that Glenmurray, from being acquainted with these circumstances, had presumed on them, and dared to take a liberty with him, situated as he then was, which in former times he would not have ventured to offer.
As Adeline and Glenmurray were both retired for the night when the major's note arrived, it was not delivered till morning,—nor then, luckily, till Adeline, supposing Glenmurray asleep, was gone to take her usual walk to the post-office: Glenmurray, little aware of its contents, opened it, and read as follows:—
'Sir,'For your conduct in introducing your mistress to my wife and sister, I demand immediate satisfaction. As you may possibly not have recovered your indisposition of last night, and I wish to take no unfair advantages, I do not desire you to meet me till evening; but at six o'clock, a mile out of the north side of the town, I shall expect you.—I can lend you pistols if you have none.'
'Sir,
'For your conduct in introducing your mistress to my wife and sister, I demand immediate satisfaction. As you may possibly not have recovered your indisposition of last night, and I wish to take no unfair advantages, I do not desire you to meet me till evening; but at six o'clock, a mile out of the north side of the town, I shall expect you.—I can lend you pistols if you have none.'
'There is only one step to be taken,' said Glenmurray mentally, starting up and dressing himself: and in a few moments he was at Major Douglas's lodgings.
The major had just finished dressing, when Glenmurray was announced. He started and turned pale at seeing him; then, dismissing his servant and taking up his hat and his pistols, he desired Glenmurray to walk out with him.
'With all my heart,' replied Glenmurray. But recollecting himself, 'No, no,' said he: 'I come hither now, merely to talk to you; and if, after what has passed, the ladies should see us go out together, they would be but too sure of what was going to happen, and might follow us.'
'Well, then sir,' cried the major, 'we had better separate till evening.'
'I shall not leave you, Major Douglas,' replied Glenmurray solemnly, 'whatever harsh things you may say or do, till I have made you listen to me.'
'How can I listen to you, when nothing you can say can be a justification of your conduct?'
'I do not mean to offer any.—I am only come to tell you my story, with that of my companion, and my resolutions in consequence of my situation; and I conjure you, by the recollections of our early days, of our past pleasures and fatigues, those days when fatigue itself was a pleasure, and I was not the weak emaciated being that I am now, unable to bear exertion, and overcome even to female weakness by agitation of mind such as I experienced last night—'
'For God's sake sit down,' cried the major, glancing his eye over the faded form of Glenmurray.—Glenmurray sat down.
'I say, I conjure you by these recollections,' he continued, 'to hear me with candour and patience. Weakness will render me brief.' Here he paused to wipe the damps from his forehead; and Douglas, in a voice of emotion, desired him to say whatever he chose, but to say it directly.
'I will,' replied Glenmurray; 'for indeed there is one at home who will be alarmed at my absence.'
The major frowned; and, biting his lip, said, 'Proceed, Mr Glenmurray,' in his usual tone.
Glenmurray obeyed. He related his commencing author,—the nature of his works,—his acquaintance with Adeline,—its consequences,—her mother's marriage,—Sir Patrick's villany,—Adeline's elopement, her refusal to marry him, and the grounds on which it was founded. 'And now,' cried Glenmurray when his narration was ended, 'hear my firm resolve. Let the consequences to my reputation be what they may, let your insults be what they may, I will not accept your challenge; I will not expose Adeline to the risk of being left without a protector in a foreign land, and probably without one in her own. I fear that, in the natural course of things, I shall not continue with her long; but while I can watch over and contribute to her happiness, no dread of shame, no fear for what others may think of me, no selfish consideration whatever shall induce me to hazard a life which belongs to her, and on which at present her happiness depends. I think, Douglas, you are incapable of treating me with dignity; but even to that I will patiently submit, rather than expose my life; while consoled by my motive, I will triumphantly exclaim—'See, Adeline, what I can endure for thy sake!'
Here he paused; and the major, interested and affected, had involuntarily put out his hand to him; but, drawing it back, he said, 'Then I may be sure that you meant no affront to me by suffering my wife and sister to converse with Miss Mowbray?'
Glenmurray having put an end to these suspicions entirely, by a candid avowal of his feelings, and of his wish to have escaped directly if possible, the major shook him affectionately by the hand, and told him that though he firmly believed too much learning had made him mad, yet, that he was as much his friend as ever. 'But what vexes me is,' said he, 'that you should have turned the head of that sweet girl. The opinion of the world is every thing to a woman.'
'Aye, it is indeed,' replied Glenmurray; 'and, spite of ridicule, I would marry Adeline directly, as I said before, to guaranty her against reproach,—I wish you would try to persuade her to be mine legally.'
'That I will,' eagerly replied the major; 'I am sure I shall prevail with her. I am sure I shall soon convince her that the opinions she holds are nothing but nonsense.'
'You will find,' replied Glenmurray, blushing, 'that her arguments are unanswerable notwithstanding.'
'What, though taken from the cursed books you mentioned?'
'You forget that I wrote these books.'
'So I did; and I wish she could forget it also: and then they would appear to her, as they must do no doubt to all people of common sense, and that is, abominable stuff.'
Glenmurray bit his lips,—but the author did not long absorb the lover, and he urged the major to return with him to his lodgings.
'Aye, that I will,' cried he: 'and what is more, my sister Emma, who writes admirably, shall write her a letter to convince her that she had better be married directly.'
'She had better converse with her,' said Glenmurray.
The major looked grave, and observed that they would do well to go and consult the women on the subject, and tell them the whole story. So saying, he opened the door of a closet leading to their apartment: but there, to their great surprise, they found Mrs Douglas and Emma, and as well informed of everything as themselves;—for, expecting that a duel might be the consequence of the major's impetuosity, and hearing Mr Glenmurray announced, they resolved to listen to the conversation, and, if it took the turn which they expected, to rush in and endeavour to mollify the disputants.
'So, ladies; this is very pretty indeed! Eaves-droppers, I protest,' cried Major Douglas: but he said no more; for his wife, affected by the recital which she had heard, and delighted to find that there would be no duel, threw her arms round his neck, and burst into tears. Emma, almost equally affected, gave her hand to Glenmurray, and told him nothing on her part should be omitted to prevail on Adeline to sacrifice her opinions to her welfare.
'I said so,' cried the major. 'You will write to her.'
'No; I will see her, and argue with her.'
'And so will I,' cried the wife.
'That you shall not,' bluntly replied the major.
'Why not? I think it my duty to do all I can to save a fellow-creature from ruin; and words spoken from the heart are always more powerful than words written.'
'But what will the world say, if I permit you to converse with a kept mistress?'
'The world here to us, as we associate with none and are known to none, is Mr Glenmurray and Miss Mowbray; and of their good word we are sure.'
'Aye,' cried Emma, 'and sure of succeeding with this interesting Adeline too; for if she likes us, as I think she does—'
'She adores you,' replied Glenmurray.
'So much the better:—then, when we shall tell her that we cannot associate with her, much as we admire her, unless she consents to become a wife, surely she will hear reason.'
'No doubt,' cried Mrs Douglas; 'and then we will go to church with her, and you, Emma, shall be bride's maid.'
'I see no necessity for that,' observed the major gravely.
'But I do,' replied Emma. 'She will repeat her vows with more heartfelt reverence, when two respectable women, deeply impressed themselves with their importance, shall be there to witness them.'
'But there is no Protestant church here,' exclaimed Glenmurray: 'however, we can go back to Lisbon, and you are already resolved to return thither.'
This point being settled, it was agreed that Glenmurray should prepare Adeline for their visit; and with a lightened heart he went to execute his commission. But when he saw Adeline he forgot his commission and every thing but her distress; for he found her with an open letter in her hand, and an unopened one on the floor, in a state of mind almost bordering on phrensy.
As soon as Adeline beheld Glenmurray, 'See!' she exclaimed in a hoarse and agitated tone, 'there is my letter to my mother, returned unopened, and here is a letter from Dr Norberry which has broken my heart:—however, we must go to England directly.'
The letter was as follows:—
'You have made a pretty fool of me, deluded but still dear girl! for you have made me believe in forebodings. You may remember with what a full heart I bade you adieu, and I recollect what a devilish queer sensation I had when the park-gates closed on your fleet carriage. I almost swore at the postillions for driving so fast, as I wished to see you as long as I could; and now I protest that I believe I was actuated by a foreboding that at that house, and on that spot, I should never behold you again. (Here a tear had fallen on the paper, and the word, 'again' was nearly blotted out.) Dear, lost Adeline, I prayed for you too! I prayed that you might return as innocent and happy as you left me. Heaven have mercy on us! who should have thought it?—But this is nothing to the purpose, and I suppose you think you have done nought but what is right and clever.'
'You have made a pretty fool of me, deluded but still dear girl! for you have made me believe in forebodings. You may remember with what a full heart I bade you adieu, and I recollect what a devilish queer sensation I had when the park-gates closed on your fleet carriage. I almost swore at the postillions for driving so fast, as I wished to see you as long as I could; and now I protest that I believe I was actuated by a foreboding that at that house, and on that spot, I should never behold you again. (Here a tear had fallen on the paper, and the word, 'again' was nearly blotted out.) Dear, lost Adeline, I prayed for you too! I prayed that you might return as innocent and happy as you left me. Heaven have mercy on us! who should have thought it?—But this is nothing to the purpose, and I suppose you think you have done nought but what is right and clever.'
He then proceeded to inform Adeline, who had written to him to implore his mediation between her and her mother, 'that the latter had sent express for him on finding, by the hasty scrawl which came the day after Adeline's departure from the farm-house, that she had eloped, and who was the companion of her flight; that he found her in violent agitation, as Sir Patrick, stung to madness at the success of his rival, had with an ingenuousness worthy a better cause avowed to her his ardent passion for her daughter, his resolution to follow the fugitives, and by every means possible separate Adeline from her lover; and that, after having thanked Lady O'Carrol for her great generosity to him, he had taken his pistols, mounted his horse, attended by his groom also well armed, and vowed that he would never return unless accompanied by the woman whom he adored.'
'No wonder therefore,' continued the doctor, 'that I was an unsuccessful advocate for you,—especially as I was not inclined to manage the old bride's self-love; for I was so provoked at her folly in marrying the handsome profligate, that, if she had not been in distress, I never meant to see her again. But, poor silly you! she suffers enough for her folly, and so do you;—for, her affections and her self-love being equally wounded by Sir Patrick's confession, you are at present the object of her aversion. To you she attributes all the misery of having lost the man on whom she still dotes; and when she found from your last letter to me that you are not the wife but the mistress of Glenmurray, (by the bye, your letter to her from Lisbon she desires me to return unopened,) and that the child once her pride is become her disgrace, she declared her solemn resolution never to see you more, and to renounce you for ever—(Terrible words, Adeline, I tremble to write them.) But a circumstance has since occurred which gives me hopes that she may yet forgive, and receive you on certain conditions. About a fortnight after Sir Patrick's departure, a letter from Ireland, directed to him in a woman's hand, arrived at the Pavilion. Your mother opened it, and found it was from a wife of her amiable husband, whom he had left in the north of Ireland, and who, having heard of his second marriage, wrote to tell him that, unless he came quickly back to her, she would prosecute him for bigamy, as he knew very well that undoubted proofs of the marriage were in her possession. At first this new proof of her beautiful spouse's villany drove your mother almost to phrensy, and I was again sent for; but time, reflection, and perhaps my arguments, convinced her, that to be able to free herself from this rascal for ever, and consequently her fortune, losing only the ten thousand pounds which she had given him to pay his debts, was in reality a consoling circumstance. Accordingly, she wrote to the real Lady O'Carrol, promising to accede quietly to her claim, and wishing that she would spare her and herself the disgrace of a public trial; especially as it must end in the conviction of Sir Patrick. She then, on hearing from him that he had traced you to Falmouth, and was going to embark for Lisbon when the wind was favourable, enclosed him a copy of his wife's letter, and bade him an eternal farewell!—But be not alarmed lest this insane profligate should overtake and distress you. He is gone to his final account. In his hurry to get on board, overcome as he was with the great quantity of liquor which he had drunk to banish care, he sprung from the boat before it was near enough to reach the vessel; his foot slipped against the side, he fell into the water, and, going under the ship, never rose again. I leave you to imagine how the complicated distresses of the last three months, and this awful climax to them, have affected your mother's mind; even I cannot scold her, now, for the life of me: she is not yet, I believe, disposed in your favour; but were you here, and were you to meet, it is possible that, forlorn, lonely, and deserted as she now feels, the tie between you might be once more cemented; and much as I resent your conduct, you may depend on my exertions.—O Adeline, child of my affection, why must I blush to subscribe myself'Your sincere friend,'J. N.?'
'No wonder therefore,' continued the doctor, 'that I was an unsuccessful advocate for you,—especially as I was not inclined to manage the old bride's self-love; for I was so provoked at her folly in marrying the handsome profligate, that, if she had not been in distress, I never meant to see her again. But, poor silly you! she suffers enough for her folly, and so do you;—for, her affections and her self-love being equally wounded by Sir Patrick's confession, you are at present the object of her aversion. To you she attributes all the misery of having lost the man on whom she still dotes; and when she found from your last letter to me that you are not the wife but the mistress of Glenmurray, (by the bye, your letter to her from Lisbon she desires me to return unopened,) and that the child once her pride is become her disgrace, she declared her solemn resolution never to see you more, and to renounce you for ever—(Terrible words, Adeline, I tremble to write them.) But a circumstance has since occurred which gives me hopes that she may yet forgive, and receive you on certain conditions. About a fortnight after Sir Patrick's departure, a letter from Ireland, directed to him in a woman's hand, arrived at the Pavilion. Your mother opened it, and found it was from a wife of her amiable husband, whom he had left in the north of Ireland, and who, having heard of his second marriage, wrote to tell him that, unless he came quickly back to her, she would prosecute him for bigamy, as he knew very well that undoubted proofs of the marriage were in her possession. At first this new proof of her beautiful spouse's villany drove your mother almost to phrensy, and I was again sent for; but time, reflection, and perhaps my arguments, convinced her, that to be able to free herself from this rascal for ever, and consequently her fortune, losing only the ten thousand pounds which she had given him to pay his debts, was in reality a consoling circumstance. Accordingly, she wrote to the real Lady O'Carrol, promising to accede quietly to her claim, and wishing that she would spare her and herself the disgrace of a public trial; especially as it must end in the conviction of Sir Patrick. She then, on hearing from him that he had traced you to Falmouth, and was going to embark for Lisbon when the wind was favourable, enclosed him a copy of his wife's letter, and bade him an eternal farewell!—But be not alarmed lest this insane profligate should overtake and distress you. He is gone to his final account. In his hurry to get on board, overcome as he was with the great quantity of liquor which he had drunk to banish care, he sprung from the boat before it was near enough to reach the vessel; his foot slipped against the side, he fell into the water, and, going under the ship, never rose again. I leave you to imagine how the complicated distresses of the last three months, and this awful climax to them, have affected your mother's mind; even I cannot scold her, now, for the life of me: she is not yet, I believe, disposed in your favour; but were you here, and were you to meet, it is possible that, forlorn, lonely, and deserted as she now feels, the tie between you might be once more cemented; and much as I resent your conduct, you may depend on my exertions.—O Adeline, child of my affection, why must I blush to subscribe myself
'Your sincere friend,'J. N.?'
Words cannot describe the feelings of anguish which this letter excited in Adeline: nor could she make known her sensations otherwise than by reiterated requests to be allowed to set off for England directly—requests to which Glenmurray, alarmed for her intellects, immediately assented. Therefore, leaving a hasty note for the Douglases, they soon bade farewell to Perpignan; and after a long laborious journey, but a short passage, they landed at Brighton.
It was a fine evening; and numbers of the gay and fashionable of both sexes were assembled on the beach, to see the passengers land. Adeline and Glenmurray were amongst the first: and while heartsick, fatigued, and melancholy, Adeline took the arm of her lover, and turned disgusted from the brilliant groups before her, she saw, walking along the shore, Dr Norberry, his wife, and his two daughters.
Instantly, unmindful of every thing but the delight of seeing old acquaintances, and of being able to gain some immediate tiding of her mother, she ran up to them: and just as they turned round, she met them, extending her hand in friendship as she was wont to do.—But in vain;—no hand was stretched out to meet hers, nor tongue nor look proclaimed a welcome to her; Dr Norberry himself coldly touched his hat, and passed on, while his wife and daughters looked scornfully at her, and, without deigning to notice her, pursued their walk.
Astonished and confounded, Adeline had not power to articulate a word; and had not Glenmurray caught her in his arms, she would have fallen to the ground.
'Then now I am indeed an outcast! even my oldest and best friend renounces me,' she exclaimed.
'But I am left to you,' cried Glenmurray.
Adeline sighed. She could not say, as she had formerly done, 'and you are all to me.' The image of her mother, happy as the wife of a man she loved, could not long rival Glenmurray; but the image of her mother, disgraced and wretched, awoke all the habitual but dormant tenderness of years; every feeling of filial gratitude revived in all its force; and, even while leaning on the shoulder of her lover, she sighed to be once more clasped to the bosom of her mother.
Glenmurray felt the change, but, though grieved, was not offended:—'I shall die in peace,' he cried, 'if I can but see you restored to your mother's affection, even though the surrender of my happiness is to be the purchase.'
'You shall die in peace!' replied Adeline shuddering. The phrase was well-timed, though perhaps undesignedly so. Adeline clung close to his arm, her eyes filled with tears, and all the way to the inn she thought only of Glenmurray with an apprehension which she could not conquer.
'What do you mean to do now?' said Glenmurray.
'Write to Dr Norberry. I think he will at least have humanity enough to let me know where to find my mother.'
'No doubt; and you had better write directly.'
Adeline took up her pen. A letter was written,—and as quickly torn. Letter succeeded to letter; but not one of them answered her wishes. The dark hour arrived, and the letter remained unwritten.
'It is too soon to ring for candles,' said Glenmurray, putting his arm round her waist and leading her to the window. The sun was below the horizon, but the reflection of his beams still shone beautifully on the surrounding objects. Adeline, reclining her cheek on Glenmurray's arm, gazed in silence on the scene before her: when the door suddenly opened, and a gentleman was announced. It was now so dark that all objects were indistinctly seen, and the gentleman had advanced close to Adeline before she knew him to be Dr Norberry: and before she could decide how she should receive him, she felt herself clasped to his bosom with the affection of a father.
Surprised and affected, she could not speak; and Glenmurray had ordered candles before Adeline had recovered herself sufficiently to say these words, 'After your conduct on the beach, I little expected this visit.'
'Pshaw!' replied the doctor: 'when a man out of regard to society has performed a painful task, surely he may be allowed, out of regard to himself, to follow the dictates of his heart.—I obeyed my head when I passed you so cavalierly, and I thought I should never have gone through my task as I did;—but then for the sake of my daughters, I gave a gulp, and called up a fierce look. But I told madam that I meant to call on you, and she insisted, very properly, that it should be in the dark hour.'
'But what of my mother?'
'She is a miserable woman, as she deserved to be—an old fool.'
'Pray do not call her so; to hear she is miserable is torment sufficient to me:—where is she?'
'Still at the Pavilion: but she is going to let Rosevalley, retire to her estate in Cumberland, and live unknown and unseen.'
'But will she not allow me to live with her?'
'What! as Mr Glenmurray's mistress? receive under her roof the seducer of her daughter?'
'Sir, I am no seducer.'
'No,' cried Adeline: 'I became the mistress of Mr Glenmurray from the dictates of my reason, not my weakness or his persuasions.'
'Humph!' replied the doctor, 'I should expect to find such reason in Moorfields: besides, had not Mr Glenmurray's books turned your head, you would not have thought it pretty and right to become the mistress of any man: so he is your seducer, after all.'
'So far I plead guilty,' replied Glenmurray; 'but whatever my opinions are, I have ever been willing to sacrifice them to the welfare of Miss Mowbray, and have, from the first moment that we were safe from pursuit, been urgent to marry her.'
'Then why are you not married?'
'Because I would not consent,' said Adeline coldly.
'Mad, certainly mad,' exclaimed the doctor: 'but you, 'faith, you are an honest fellow after all,' turning to Glenmurray and shaking him by the hand; 'weak of the head, not bad in the heart; burn your vile books, and I am your friend for ever.'
'We will discuss that point another time,' replied Glenmurray: 'at present the most interesting subject to us is the question whether Mrs Mowbray will forgive her daughter or not?'
'Why, man, if I may judge of Mrs Mowbray by myself, one condition of her forgiveness will be your marrying her daughter.'
'O blest condition!' cried Glenmurray.
'I should think,' replied Adeline coldly, 'my mother must have had too much of marriage to wish me to marry; but if she should insist on my marrying, I will comply, and on no other account.'
'Strange infatuation! To me appears only justice and duty. But your reasons, girl, your reasons?'
'They are few, but strong. Glenmurray, philanthropically bent on improving the state of society, puts forth opinions counteracting its received usages, backed by arguments which are in my opinion incontrovertible.'
'In your opinion!—Pray, child, how old are you?'
'Nineteen.'
'And at that age you set up for a reformer? Well,—go on.'
'But though it be important to the success of his opinions, and indeed to the respectability of his character, that he should act according to his precepts, he, for the sake of preserving to me the notice of persons whose narrowness of mind I despise, would conform to an institution which both he and I think unworthy of regard from a rational being.—And shall not I be as generous as he is? shall I scruple to give up for his honour and fame the petty advantages which marriage would give me? Never—his honour and fame are too dear to me; but the claims which my mother has on me are in my eyes so sacred that, for her sake, though not for my own, I would accept the sacrifice which Glenmurray offers. If, then, she says that she will never see or pardon me till I am become a wife, I will follow him to the altar directly; but till then I must insist on remaining as I am. It is necessary that I should respect the man I love; and I should not respect Glenmurray were he not capable of supporting with fortitude the consequences of his opinions; and could he, for motives less strong than those he avows, cease to act up to what he believes to be right. For, never can I respect or believe firmly in the truth of those doctrines, the followers of which shrink from a sort of martyrdom in support of them.'
'O Mr Glenmurray!' cried the doctor shaking his head, 'what have you to answer for! What a glorious champion would that creature have been in the support of truth, when even error in her looks so like to virtue!—And then the amiable disinterestedness of you both!—What a powerful thing must true love be, when it can make a speculative philosopher indifferent to the interests of his system, and ready to act in direct opposition to it, rather than injure the respectability of the woman he loves! Well, well, the Lord forgive you, young man, for having taken it into your head to set up for a great author!'
Glenmurray answered by a deep-drawn sigh; and the doctor continued: 'Then there is that girl again, with a heart so fond and true that her love comes in aid of her integrity, and makes her think no sacrifice too great, in order to prove her confidence in the wisdom of her lover,—urging her to disregard all personal inconveniences rather than let him forfeit, for her sake, his pretensions to independence and consistency of character! girl, I can't help admiring you, but no more I could a Malabar widow, who with fond and pious enthusiasm, from an idea of duty, throws herself on the funeral pile of her husband. But still I should think you a great fool, notwithstanding, for professing the opinions that led to such an exertion of duty. And now here are you, possessed of every quality both of head and heart to bless others and to bless yourself—owing to your foolish and pernicious opinions;—here you are, I say blasted in reputation in the prime of your days, and doomed perhaps to pine through existence in—Pshaw! I can't support the idea!' added he, gulping down a sob as he spoke, and traversing the room in great emotion.
Adeline and Glenmurray were both of them deeply and painfully affected; and the latter was going to express what he felt, when the doctor seizing Adeline's hand, affectionately exclaimed, 'Well, my poor child! I will see your mother once more; I will go to London tomorrow—by this time she is there—and you had better follow me; you will hear of me at the Old Hummums; and here is a card of address to an hotel near it, where I would advise you to take up your abode.'
So saying he shook Glenmurray by the hand; when, starting back, he exclaimed 'Why, man! here is a skin like fire, and a pulse like lightning. My dear fellow, you must take care of yourself.'
Adeline burst into tears.
'Indeed, doctor, I am only nervous.'
'Nervous!—What, I suppose you think you understand my profession better than I do. But don't cry, my child: when your mind is easier, perhaps, he will do very well; and, as one thing likely to give him immediate ease, I prescribe a visit to the altar of the next parish church.'
So saying he departed; and all other considerations were again swallowed up in Adeline's mind by the idea of Glenmurray's danger.
'Is it possible that my marrying you would have such a blessed effect on your health?' cried Adeline after a pause.
'It certainly would make my mind easier than it now is,' replied he.
'If I thought so,' said Adeline: 'but no—regard for my supposed interest merely makes you say so; and indeed I should not think so well of you as I now do, if I imagined that you could be made easy by an action by which you forfeited all pretensions to that consistency of character so requisite to the true dignity of a philosopher.'
A deep sigh from Glenmurray, in answer, proved that he was no philosopher.
In the morning the lovers set off for London, Dr Norberry having preceded them by a few hours. This blunt but benevolent man had returned the evening before slowly and pensively to his lodgings, his heart full of pity for the errors of the well-meaning enthusiasts whom he had left, and his head full of plans for their assistance, or rather for that of Adeline. But he entered his own doors again reluctantly—he knew but too well that no sympathy with his feelings awaited him there. His wife, a woman of narrow capacity and no talents or accomplishments, had, like all women of that sort, a great aversion to those of her sex who united to feminine graces and gentleness, the charms of a cultivated understanding and pretensions to accomplishments or literature.
Of Mrs Mowbray, as we have before observed, she had always been peculiarly jealous, because Dr Norberry spoke of her knowledge with wonder, and of her understanding with admiration; not that he entertained one moment a feeling of preference towards her, inconsistent with an almost idolatrous love of his wife, whose skill in all the domestic duties, and whose very pretty face and person, were the daily themes of his praise. But Mrs Norberry wished to engross all his panegyrics to herself, and she never failed to expatiate on Mrs Mowbray's foibles and flightiness as long as the doctor had expatiated on her charms.
Sometimes, indeed, this last subject was sooner exhausted than the one which she had chosen; but when Adeline grew up, and became as it were the rival of her daughters in the praises of her husband, she found it difficult as we have said before, to bring faults in array against excellencies.
Mrs Norberry could with propriety observe, when the doctor, was exclaiming, 'What a charming essay Mrs Mowbray has just written!'
'Aye,—but I dare say she can't write a market bill.'
When he said, 'How well she comprehends the component parts of the animal system!'
She could with great justice reply, 'But she knows nothing of the component parts of a plum pudding.'
But when Adeline became the object of the husband's admiration and the wife's enmity, Mrs Norberry could not make these pertinent remarks, as Adeline was as conversant with all branches of housewifery as herself; and, though as learned in all systems as her mother, was equally learned in the component parts of puddings and pies. She was therefore at a loss what to say when Adeline was praised by the doctor; and all she could observe on the occasion was, that the girl might be clever, but was certainly very ugly, very affected, and very conceited.
It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that Mrs Mowbray's degrading and unhappy marriage, and Adeline's elopement, should have been sources of triumph to Mrs Norberry and her daughters; who, though they liked Mrs Mowbray very well, could not bear Adeline.
'So Dr Norberry, these are your uncommon folks!'—exclaimed Mrs Norberry on hearing of the marriage and of the subsequent elopement;—'I suppose you are now well satisfied at not having a genius for your wife, or geniuses for your daughters?'
'I always was, my dear,' meekly replied the mortified and afflicted doctor, and dropped the subject as soon as possible; nor had it been resumed for some time when Adeline accosted them on the beach at Brighton. But her appearance called forth their dormant enmity; and the whole way to their lodgings the good doctor heard her guilt expatiated upon with as much violence as ever: but just as they got home he coldly and firmly observed, 'I shall certainly call on the poor deluded girl this evening.'
And Mrs Norberry, knowing by the tone and manner in which he spoke, that this was a point which he would not give up, contented herself with requiring only that he should go in the dark hour.