But she pleaded and reasoned in vain. Contented with the access which he had to the tables of his friends, it was of little importance to him that his wife ate her humble meal alone. His habits of enjoyment had ever been solitary: the school-boy, who had at school eaten his tart and cake by stealth in a corner, that he might not be asked to share them with another, had grown up with the same dispositions to manhood: and as his parents, thought opulent, were vulgar in their manners and low in their origin, he had never been taught those graceful self-denials inculcated into the children of polished life, which, though taught from factitious and not real benevolence, have certainly a tendency, by long habit, to make that benevolence real which at first was only artificial.
Adeline had both sorts of kindness and affection, those untaught of the heart, and those of education;—she was polite from the situation into which the accident of birth had thrown her, and also from the generous impulse of her nature. To her, therefore, the uncultivated and unblushingpersonnalité, as the French call it, of Berrendale, was a source of constant wonder and distress: and often, very often did she feel the utmost surprise at Berrendale's having appeared to Glenmurray a man likely to make her happy. Often did she wonder how the defects of Berrendale's character could have escaped his penetrating eyes.
Adeline forgot that the faults of her husband were such as could be known only by an intimate connexion, and which cohabitation could alone call forth;—faults, the existence of which such a man as Glenmurray, who never considered himself in any transaction whatever, could not suppose possible; and which, though they inflicted the most bitter pangs on Adeline, and gradually untwisted the slender thread which had began to unite her heart with Berrendale's, were of so slight a fabric as almost to elude the touch, and of a nature to appear almost too trivial to be mentioned in the narration of a biographer.
But though it has been long said that trifles make the sum of human things, inattention to trifles continues to be the vice of every one; and many a conjugal union which has never been assailed by the battery of crime, has fallen a victim to the slowly undermining power of petty quarrels, trivial unkindnesses and thoughtless neglect;—like the gallant officer, who, after escaping unhurt all the rage of battle by land and water, tempest on sea and earthquake on shore, returns perhaps to his native country, and perishes by the power of a slow fever.
But Adeline, who, amidst all the chimaeras of her fancy and singularities of her opinions, had happily held fast her religion, began at this moment to entertain a belief that soothed in some measure the sorrows which it could not cure. She fancied that all the sufferings she underwent were trials which she was doomed to undergo, as punishments for the crime she had committed in leaving her mother and living with Glenmurray. She therefore welcomed her afflictions, and lifted up her meek eyes to her God and Saviour, in every hour of her trials, with the look of tearful but grateful resignation.
Meanwhile her child, whom, after her mother, she called Editha, was nursed at her own bosom, and thrived even beyond her expectations. Even Berrendale beheld its growing beauty with delight, and the mulatto was wild in praise of it; while Adeline, wholly taken up all day in nursing and in working for it, and every evening in writing stories and hymns to publish, which would, she hoped, one day be useful to her own child as well as to the children of others, soon ceased to regret her seclusion from society; and by the time Editha was a year old she had learnt to bear with patience the disappointment she had experienced in Berrendale.
Soon after she became a mother she again wrote to Mrs Pemberton, as she longed to impart to her sympathizing bosom those feelings of parental delight which Berrendale could not understand, and the expression of which he witnessed with contemptuous and chilling gravity. To this letter she anticipated a most gratifying return; but month after month passed away, and no letter from Lisbon arrived. 'No doubt my letter miscarried,' said Adeline to Savanna, 'and I will write again:' but she never had resolution to do so; for she felt that her prospects of conjugal happiness were obscured, and she shrunk equally from the task of expressing the comfort which she did not feel, or unveiling to another the errors of her husband. The little regard, meanwhile, which she had endeavoured to return for Berrendale soon vanished, being unable to withstand a new violence offered to it.
Editha was seized with the hooping-cough; and as Adeline had sold her last little volume to advantage, Berrendale allowed her to take a lodging at a short distance from town, as change of air was good for the complaint. She did so, and remained there two months. At her return she had the mortification to find that her husband, during her absence, had intrigued with the servant of the house:—a circumstance of which she would probably have remained ignorant, but for the indiscreet affection of Savanna, who, in the first transports of her indignation on discovering the connexion, had been unable to conceal from her mistress what drove her almost frantic with indignation.
But Adeline, though she felt disgust and aversion swallowing up the few remaining sparks of regard for Berrendale which she felt, had one great consolation under this new calamity.—Berrendale had not been the choice of her heart: 'But, thank Heaven! I never loved this man,' escaped her lips as she ran into her own room; and pressing her child to her bosom, she shed on its unconscious cheeks the tears which resentment and a deep sense of injury wrung from her.—'Oh! had I loved him,' she exclaimed, 'this blow would have been mortal!'
She, however, found herself in one respect the better for Berrendale's guilt. Conscious that the mulatto was aware of what had passed, and afraid lest she should have mentioned her discovery to Adeline, Berrendale endeavoured to make amends for his infidelity by attention such as he had never shown her since the first weeks of his marriage; and had she not been aware of the motive, the change in his behaviour would have re-awakened her tenderness. However, it claimed at least complaisance and gentleness from her while it lasted: which was not long; for Berrendale, fancying from the apparent tranquillity of Adeline (the result of indifference, not ignorance,) that she was not informed of his fault, and that the mulatto was too prudent to betray him, began to relapse into his old habits; and one day, forgetting his assumed liberality, he ventured, when alone with Savanna, who was airing one of Editha's caps, to expatiate on the needless extravagance of his wife in trimming her child's caps with lace.
This was enough to rouse the quick feelings of the mulatto, and she poured forth all her long concealed wrath in a torrent of broken English, but plain enough to be well understood.—'You man!' she cried at last, 'you will kill her; she pine at your no kindness;—and if she die, mind me, man! never you marry aden.—You marry, forsoot! you marry a lady! true bred lady like mine! No, man!—You best get a cheap miss from de street and be content—'
As she said this, and in an accent so provoking that Berrendale was pale and speechless with rage, Adeline entered the room; and Savanna, self-condemned already from what she had uttered, was terrified when Adeline, in a tone of voice unusually severe, said, 'Leave the room; you have offended me past forgiveness.'
These words, in a great measure, softened the angry feelings of Berrendale, as they proved that Adeline resented the insult offered to him as deeply as he could wish; and with some calmness he exclaimed, 'Then I conclude, Mrs Berrendale, that you will have no objection to discharge your mulatto directly?'
This conclusion, though a very natural one, was both a shock and a surprise to Adeline; nor could she at first reply.
'You aresilent, madam,' said Berrendale; 'what is your answer? Yes, or No?'
'Yes,—yes,—certainly,' faltered out Adeline; 'she—she ought to go—I mean that she has used very improper language to you.'
'And, therefore, a wife who resents as she ought to do, injuries offered to her husband cannot hesitate for a moment to discharge her.'
'True, very true in some measure,' replied Adeline; 'but—'
'But what?' demanded Berrendale. 'O Berrendale!' cried Adeline, bursting into an agony of frantic sorrow, 'if she leaves me, what will become of me! I shall lose the only person now in the world, perhaps, who loves me with sincere and faithful affection!'
Berrendale was wholly unprepared for an appeal like this; and, speechless from surprise not unmixed with confusion, staggered into the next chair. He was conscious, indeed, that his fidelity to his wife had not been proof against a few weeks' absence; but then, being, like most men, not over delicate in his idea on such subjects, as soon as Adeline returned he had given up the connexion which he had formed, and therefore he thought she had not much reason to complain. In all other respects he was sure that he was an exemplary husband, and she had no just grounds for doubting his affection. He was sure that she had no reason to accuse him of unkindness; and, unless she wished him to be always tied to her apron-string, he was certain he had never omitted to pay her all proper attention.
Alas! he felt not the many wounds he had inflicted by
'The word whose meaning kills; yet, told,The speaker wonders that you thought it cold.'
and he had yet to learn, that in order to excite or testify affection, it is necessary to seem to derive exclusive enjoyment from the society of the object avowed to be beloved, and to seek its gratification in preference to one's own, even in the most trivial things. He knew not that opportunities of conferring large benefits, like bank-bills for £1,000, rarely come into use; but little attentions, friendly participations and kindnesses, are wanted daily, and like small change, are necessary to carry on the business of life and happiness.
A minute more perhaps, elapsed, before Berrendale recovered himself sufficiently to speak: and the silence was made still more awful to Adeline, by her hearing from the adjoining room the sobs of the mulatto. At length, 'I cannot find words to express my surprise at what you have just uttered,' exclaimed Berrendale. 'My conscience does not reproach me with deserving the reproof it contained.'
'Indeed!' replied Adeline, fixing her penetrating eyes on his, which shrunk downcast and abashed from her gaze. Adeline saw her advantage, and pursued it.
'Mr Berrendale,' continued she, 'it is indeed true, that the mulatto has offended both of us; for in offendingyoushe has offendedme; but, have you committed no fault, nothing formeto forgive? I know that you are too great a lover of truth, too honourable a man, to declare that you have not deserved the just anger of your wife: but you know that I have never reproached you, nor should you ever have been aware that I was privy to the distressing circumstance to which I allude, but for what has just passed: and, now, do but forgive the poor mulatto, who sinned only from regard for me, and from supposed slight offered to her mistress, and I will not only assure you of my forgiveness, but, from this moment, will strenuously endeavour to blot from my remembrance every trace of what has passed.'
Berrendale, conscious and self-condemned, scarcelyknewwhat to answer; but, thinking that it was better to accept Adeline's offer even on her own conditions, he said, that if Savanna would make a proper apology, and Adeline would convince her that she was seriously displeased with her, he would allow her to stay; and Adeline having promised every thing which he asked, peace was again restored.
'But what can you mean, Adeline,' said Berrendale, 'by doubting my affection? I think I gave a sufficient proof of that, when, disregarding the opinion of the world, I married you, though you had been the mistress of another: and I really think that, by accusing me of unkindness, you make me a very ungrateful return.' To this indelicate and unfeeling remark Adeline vainly endeavoured to reply; but, starting from her chair, she paced the room in violent agitation. 'Answer me,' continued Berrendale, 'name one instance in which I have been unkind to you.' Adeline suddenly stopped, and, looking steadfastly at him, smiled with a sort of contemptuous pity, and was on the point of saying, 'Is not what you have now said an instance of unkindness?' But she saw that the same want of delicacy, and of that fine moraltactwhich led him to commit this and similar assaults on her feelings, made him unconscious of the violence which he offered.
Finding, therefore, that he could not understand her causes of complaint, even if it were possible for her to define them, she replied, 'Well, perhaps I was too hasty, and in a degree unjust: so let us drop the subject; and, indeed, my dear Berrendale, you must bear with my weakness: remember, I have always been a spoiled child.'
Here the image of Glenmurray and that ofhome, the home which she once knew, the home of her childhood, and of herearliestyouth, pressed on her recollection. She thought of her mother, of the indulgencies which she had once known, of the advantages, of opulence, the value of which she had never felt till deprived of them; and, struck with the comparative forlornness of her situation—united for life to a being whose sluggish sensibilities could not understand, and consequently not soothe, the quick feelings and jealous susceptibility of her nature—she could hardly forbear falling at the feet of her husband, and conjuring him to behave, at least, with forbearance to her, and to speak and look at her with kindness.
She did stretch out her hand to him with a look of mournful entreaty, which, though not understood by Berrendale, was not lost upon him entirely. He thought it was a confession of her weakness and his superiority; and, flattered by the thought into unusual softness, he caught her fondly to his bosom, and gave up an engagement to sup at an oyster club, in order to spend the evening tête-à-tête with his wife. Nay, he allowed the little Editha to remain in the room for a whole hour, though she cried when he attempted to take her in his arms, and, observing that it was a cold evening, allowed Adeline her due share of the fire-side.
These circumstances, trivial as they were, had more than their due effect on Adeline, whose heart was more alive to kindness than unkindness; and those paltry attentions of which happy wives would not have been conscious, were to her a source of unfeigned pleasure.—As sailors are grateful, after a voyage unexpectedly long, for the muddy water which at their first embarking they would have turned from with disgust.
That very night Adeline remonstrated with the mulatto on the impropriety of her conduct; and, having convinced her that in insulting her husband she failed in respect to her, Savanna was prevailed upon the next morning to ask pardon of Berrendale; and, out of love for her mistress, she took care in future to do nothing that required forgiveness.
As Adeline's way of life admitted of but little variety, Berrendale having persisted in not introducing her to his friends, on the plea of not being rich enough to receive company in return, I shall pass over in silence what occurred to her till Editha was two years old; premising that a series of little injuries on the part of Berrendale, and a quick resentment of them on the part of Adeline, which not even her habitual good humour could prevent, had, during that time, nearly eradicated every trace of love for each other from their hearts.
One evening Adeline as usual, in the absence of her husband, undressed Editha by the parlour fire, and, playing with the laughing child, was enjoying the rapturous praises which Savanna put forth of its growing beauty; while the tawny boy, who had spent the day with them, built houses with cards on the table, which Editha threw down as soon as they were built, and he with good-humoured perseverance raised up again.
Adeline, alive only to the maternal feeling, at this moment had forgotten all her cares; she saw nothing but the happy group around her, and her countenance wore the expression of recovered serenity.
At this moment a loud knock was heard at the door, and Adeline, starting up, exclaimed, 'It is my husband's knock!'
'O! no:—he never come so soon,' replied the mulatto running to the door; but she was mistaken—it was Berrendale: and Adeline, hearing his voice, began instantly to snatch up Editha's clothes, and to knock down the tawny boy's newly-raised edifice: but order was not restored when Berrendale entered; and, with a look and tone of impatience, he said, 'So! fine confusion indeed! Here's a fire-side to come to! Pretty amusement too, for a literary lady—building houses of cards! Shame on your extravagance, Mrs Berrendale, to let that brat spoil cards in that way!'
The sunshine of Adeline's countenance on hearing this vanished: to be sure, she was accustomed to such speeches; but the moment before she had felt happy, for the first time, for years. She, however, replied not; but hurrying Editha to bed, ordering the reluctant tawny boy into the kitchen, and setting Berrendale's chair, as usual, in the warmest place, she ventured in a faint voice to ask, what had brought him home so early.
'More early than welcome,' replied Berrendale, 'if I may judge from the bustle I have occasioned.'
'It is very true,' replied Adeline, 'that, had I expected you, I should have been better prepared for your reception; and then you, perhaps, would have spoken more kindly to me.'
'There—there you go again.—If I say but a word to you, then I am called unkind, though I never speak without just provocation: and, I declare, I came home in the best humour possible, to tell you what may turn out of great profit to us both:—but when a man has an uncomfortable home to come to, it is enough to put him out of humour.'
The mulatto, who was staying to gather up the cards which had fallen, turned herself round on hearing this, and exclaimed, 'Home was very comfortable till you come;' and then with a look of the most angry contempt she left the room, and threw the door to with great violence.
'But what is this good news, my dear?' said Adeline, eager to turn Berrendale's attention from Savanna's insolent reply.
'I have received a letter,' he replied, 'which, by the by, I ought to have had some weeks ago, from my father-in-law in Jamaica, authorizing me to draw on his banker for £900, and inviting me to come over to him; as he feels himself declining, and wishes to give me the care of his estate, and of my son, to whom all his fortune will descend: and of whose interest, he properly thinks, no one can be so likely to take good care as his own father.'
'And do you mean that I and Editha should go with you?' said Adeline turning pale.
'No, to be sure not,' eagerly replied Berrendale; 'I must first see how the land lies. But if I go—as the old man no doubt will make a handsome settlement on me—I shall be able to remit to you a very respectable annuity.'
Adeline's heart, spite of herself, bounded with joy at this discovery; but she had resolution to add,—and if duplicity can ever be pardonable, this was,—'So then the good news which you had to impart to me was, that we were going to be separated!' But as she said this, the consciousness that she was artfully trying to impress Berrendale with an idea of her feeling a sorrow which was foreign to her heart, overcame her; and affected also at being under the necessity of rejoicing at the departure of that being who ought to be the source of her comfort, she vainly struggled to regain composure, and burst into an agony of tears.
But her consternation cannot be expressed, when she found that Berrendale imputed her tears to tender anguish at the idea of parting with him: and when, his vanity being delighted by this homage to his attractions, he felt all his fondness for her revive, and, overwhelming her with caresses, he declared that he would reject the offer entirely if by accepting it he should give her a moment's uneasiness; Adeline, shocked at his error, yet not daring to set him right, could only weep on his shoulder in silence: but, in order to make real the distress which he only fancied so, she enumerated to herself all the diseases incident to the climate, and the danger of the voyage. Still the idea of Berrendale's departure was so full of comfort to her, that, though her tears continued to flow, they flowed not for his approaching absence. At length, ashamed of fortifying him in so gross an error, she made an effort to regain her calmness, and found words to assure him, that she would no longer give way to such unpardonable weakness, as she could assure him that she wished his acceptance of his father-in-law's offer, and had no desire to oppose a scheme so just and so profitable.
But Berrendale, to whose vanity she had never before offered such a tribute as her tears seemed to be, imputed these assurances to disinterested love and female delicacy, afraid to own the fondness which it felt; and the rest of the evening was spent in professions of love on his part, which, on Adeline's, called forth at least some grateful and kind expressions in return.
Still, however, she persisted in urging Berrendale to go to Jamaica: but, at the same time, she earnestly begged him to remember, that temperance could alone preserve his health in such a climate:—'or the use of pepper in great quantities,' replied he, 'to counteract the effects of good living?'—and Adeline, though convinced temperance was thebestpreservation, was forced to give up the point, especially as Berrendale began to enumerate the number of delicious things for the table which Jamaica afforded.
To be brief: Berrendale, after taking a most affectionate leave of his wife and child, a leave which almost made the mulatto his friend, and promising to allow them £200, a-year till he should be able to send over for them, set sail for Jamaica; while Adeline, the night of his departure, endeavoured, by conjuring up all the horrors of a tempest at sea on his passage, and of a hurricane and an earthquake on shore when he arrived, to force herself to feel such sorrow as the tenderness which he had expressed at the moment of parting seemed to make it her duty to feel.
But morning came, and with it a feeling of liberty and independence so delightful, that she no longer tried to grieve on speculation as it were; but giving up her whole soul to the joys of maternal fondness, she looked forward with pious gratitude to days of tranquil repose, save when she thought with bitter regret of the obdurate anger of her mother, and with tender regret of the lost and ever lamented Glenmurray.
Berrendale had been arrived at Jamaica some months, when Adeline observed a most alarming change in Savanna. She became thin, her appetite entirely failed, and she looked the image of despondence. In vain did Adeline ask the reason of a change so apparent: the only answer she could obtain was, 'Me better soon;' and, continuing every day to give this answer, she in a short time became so languid as to be obliged to lie down half the day.
Adeline then found that it was necessary to be more serious in her interrogatories; but the mulatto at first only answered, 'No, me die, but me never break my duty vow to you: no, me die, but never leave you.'
These words implying a wish to leave her, with a resolution not to do so how much soever it might cost her, alarmed in a moment the ever disinterested sensibility of Adeline; and she at length wrung from her a confession that her dear William, who was gone to Jamaica as a servant to a gentleman, was, she was credibly informed, very ill and like to die.
'You therefore wish to go and nurse him, I suppose, Savanna?'
'Oh! me no wish; me only tink dat me like to go to Jamaica, see if be true dat he be so bad; and if he die, I den return and die wid you.'
'Live with me, you mean, Savanna; for, indeed, I cannot spare you. Remember, you have given me a right to claim your life as mine; nor can I allow you to throw away my property in fruitless lamentations, and the indolent indulgence of regret. You shall go to Jamaica, Savanna: Heaven forbid that I should keep a wife from her duty! You shall see and try to recover William if he be really ill,' (Savanna here threw herself on Adeline's neck,) 'and then you shall return to me, who will either warmly share in your satisfaction or fondly sooth your distress.'
'Den you do love poor Savanna?'
'Love you! Indeed I do, next to my child, and,—and my mother,' replied Adeline, her voice faltering.
'Name not dat woman,' cried Savanna hastily; 'me will never see, never speak to her even in heaven.'
'Savanna, remember, she is my mother.'
'Yes, and Mr Berrendale be your husban; and yet, who dat love you can love dem?'
'Savanna,' replied Adeline, 'these proofs of your regard, though reprehensible, are not likely to reconcile me to your departure; and I already feel that in losing you—' Here she paused, unable to proceed.
'Den me no go—me no go:—yet, dearest lady, you have love yourself.'
'Aye, Savanna, and can feel for you: so say no more. The only difficulty will be to raise money enough to pay for your passage, and expenses while there.'
'Oh! me once nurse the captain's wife who now going to Jamaica, and she love me very much; and he tell me yesterday that he let me go for nothing, because I am good nurse to his wife, if me wish to see William.'
'Enough,' replied Adeline: 'then all I have to do is to provide you with money for your maintenance when you arrive; and I have no doubt but that what I cannot supply the tawny boy's generous patroness will.'
Adeline was not mistaken. Savanna obtained from her son's benefactress a sum equal to her wants; and almost instantly restored to her wonted health, by her mind's being lightened of the load which oppressed it, she took her passage on board her friend's vessel, and set sail for Jamaica, carrying with her letters from Adeline to Berrendale; while Adeline felt the want of Savanna in various ways, so forcibly, that not even Editha could, for a time at least, console her for her loss. It had been so grateful to her feelings to meet every day the eyes of one being fixed with never-varying affection on hers, that, when she beheld those eyes no longer, she felt alone in the universe,—nor had she a single female friend to whom she could turn for relief or consolation.
Mrs Beauclerc, to whose society she had expected to be restored by her marriage, had been forced to give up all intercourse with her, in compliance with the peremptory wishes of a rich old maid, from whom her children had great expectations, and who threatened to leave her fortune away from them, if Mrs Beauclerc persisted in corresponding with a woman so bad in principle, and so wicked in practice, as Adeline appeared to her to be.
But, at length, from a mother's employments, from writing, and, above all, from the idea that by suffering she was making some atonement for her past sins, she derived consolation, and became resigned to every evil that had befallen, and to every evil that might still befall her.
Perhaps she did not consider as an evil what now took place: increasing coldness in the letters of Berrendale, till he said openly at last, that as they were, he was forced to confess, far from happy together, and as the air of Jamaica agreed with him, and as he was resolved to stay there, he thought she had better remain in England, and he would remit her as much money occasionally as his circumstances would admit of.
But she thought this a greater evil than it at first appeared; when an agent of Berrendale's father-in-law in England, and a friend of Berrendale himself, called on her, pretending that he came to inquire concerning her health, and raised in her mind suspicions of a very painful nature.
After the usual compliments:—'I find, madam,' said Mr Drury, 'that our friend is very much admired by the ladies in Jamaica.'
'I am glad to hear it, sir,' coolly answered Adeline.
'Well, that's kind and generous now,' replied Drury, 'and very disinterested.'
'I see no virtue, sir, in my rejoicing of what must make Mr Berrendale's abode in Jamaica pleasant to him.'
'May be so; but most women, I believe, would be apt to be jealous on the occasion.'
'But it has been the study of my life, sir, to endeavour to consider my own interest, when it comes in competition with another's, as little as possible;—I doubt I have not always succeeded in my endeavours: but on this occasion I am certain that I have expressed no sentiment which I do not feel.'
'Then, madam, if my friend should have an opportunity, as indeed I believe he has, of forming a most agreeable and advantageous marriage, you would not try to prevent it?'
'Good heavens! sir,' replied Adeline; 'What can you mean? Mr Berrendale form an advantageous marriage when he is already married to me?'
'Married to you, ma'am!' answered Mr Drury with a look of incredulity. 'Excuse me, but I know that such marriages as yours may be easily dissolved.'
At first Adeline was startled at this assertion; but recollecting that it was impossible any form or ceremony should have been wanting at the marriage, she recovered herself, and demanded, with an air of severity, what Mr Drury meant by so alarming and ill-founded a speech.
'My meaning, ma'am,' replied he, 'must be pretty evident to you: I mean that I do not look upon you, though you bear Mr Berrendale's name, to be his lawful wife; but that you live with him on the same terms on which you lived with Mr Glenmurray.'
'And on what, sir, could you build such an erroneous supposition?'
'On Mr Berrendale's own words, madam; who always spoke of his connexion with you, as of a connexion which he had formed in compliance with love and in defiance of prudence.'
'And is it possible that he could be such a villain?' exclaimed Adeline. 'Oh my child! and does thy father brand thee with the stain of illegitimacy?—But, sir, whatever appellation Mr Berrendale might choose to give his union with me to his friends in England, I am sure he will not dare to incur the penalty attendant on a man's marrying one wife while he has another living; for, that I am his wife, I can bring pretty sufficient evidence to prove.'
'Indeed, madam! You can produce a witness of the ceremony, then, I presume?'
'No, sir; the woman who attended me to the altar, and the clergyman who married us, are dead; and the only witness is a child now only ten years old.'
'That is unfortunate!' (with a look of incredulity) 'but, no doubt, when you hear that Mr Berrendale is married to a West Indian heiress, you will come forward with incontrovertible proofs of your prior claims; and if you do that, madam, you may command my good offices:—but, till then, I humbly take my leave.'—Saying this, with a very visible sneer on his countenance he departed, leaving Adeline in a state of distress—the more painful to endure from her having none to participate in it,—no one to whom she could impart the cause of it.
That Mr Drury did not speak of the possible marriage of Berrendale from mere conjecture, was very apparent; and Adeline resolved not to delay writing to her husband immediately, to inform him of what had passed, and put before his eyes, in the strongest possible manner, the guilt of what he was about to do; and also the utter impossibility of its being successful guilt, as she was resolved to assert her claims for the sake of her child, if not for her own. This letter she concluded, and with truth too, with protestations of believing all Mr Drury said to be false: for, indeed, the more she considered Berrendale's character, the more she was convinced that, however selfish and defective his disposition might be, it was more likely Mr Drury should be mistaken, than Berrendalebea villain.
But, where a man's conduct is not founded on virtuous motives and immutable principles, he may not err while temptation is absent; but once expose him to her presence, and he is capable of falling into the very vices the most abhorrent to his nature: and though Adeline knew it not, such a man was Berrendale.
Adeline, having relieved her mind by this appeal to her husband, and being assured that Berrendale could not be married before her letter could reach him, as it was impossible that he should dare to marry while the mulatto was in the very town near which he resided, felt herself capable of attending to her usual employments again, and had recovered her tranquillity, when an answer to her letter arrived; and Adeline, being certain that the letter itself would be a proof of the marriage, had resolved to show it, in justification of her claims, to Mr Drury.
What then must have been her surprise, to find it exactly such a letter as would be evidence against a marriage between her and Berrendale having ever taken place! He thanked her for the expressions of fond regret which her letter contained, and for the many happy hours which he owed to her society; but hoped that, as Fate had now separated their destinies, she could be as happy without him as she had been with him; and assuring her that he should, according to his promise, regularly remit her £150 a-year if possible, but that he could at present only inclose a draft for £50.
Adeline was absolutely stupified with horror at reading this apparent confirmation of the villany of her husband and the father of her child; but roused to indignant exertion by the sense of Berrendale's baseness, and of what she owed her daughter, she resolved to take counsel's opinion in what manner she should proceed to prove her marriage, as soon as she was assured that Berrendale's (which she had no doubt was fixed upon) should have taken place; and this intelligence she received a short time after the mulatto herself, who, worn out with sorrow, sickness, and hardship, one day tottered into the house, seeming as if she indeed only returned to die with her mistress.
At first the joy of seeing Savanna restored to her swallowed up every other feeling; but tender apprehension for the poor creature's health soon took possession of her mind, and Adeline drew from her a narrative, which exhibited Berrendale to her eyes as capable of most atrocious actions.
It is very certain that when Berrendale left England, though he meant to conceal his marriage entirely, he had not even the slightest wish to contract another; and had any one told him that he was capable of such wicked conduct, he would have answered, like Hazael, 'Is thy servant a dog that he should do this thing?' But he was then unassailed by temptations:—and habituated as he was to selfish indulgence, it was impossible that to strong temptation he should not fall an immediate victim.
This strong temptation assailed him soon after his arrival, in the person of a very lovely and rich widow, a relation of his first wife, who, having no children of her own, had long been very fond of his child, then a very fine boy, and with great readiness transferred to the father the affection which she bore the son. For some time conscience and Adeline stood their ground against this new mistress and her immense property; but at length, being pressed by his father-in-law, who wished the match, to assign a sufficient reason for his coldness to so fine a woman, and not daring to give the true one, he returned the lady's fondness: and though he had not yet courage enough to name the marriage day, it was known that it would some time or other take place.
But all his scruples soon yielded to the dominion which the attractions of the lady, who was well versed in the arts of seduction, obtained over his senses, and to the strong power which the sight of the splendour in which she lived, acquired over his avarice; when, just as every thing was on the point of being concluded, the poor mulatto, who had found her husband dead, arrived almost broken-hearted at the place of Berrendale's abode, and delivered to him letters from Adeline.
Terrified and confounded at her presence, he received her with such evident marks of guilty confusion in his face, that Savanna's apprehensive and suspicious attachment to her mistress took the alarm; and, as she had seen a very fine woman leave the room as she entered, she, on pretence of leaving Berrendale alone to read his letters, repaired to the servants' apartments, where she learnt the intended marriage. Immediately forgetting her own distresses in those of Adeline, she returned to Berrendale, not with the languid, mournful pace with which she had first entered, but with the firm, impetuous and intrepid step of conscious integrity going to confound vice in the moment of its triumph.
Berrendale read his doom, the moment he beheld her, in her dark and fiery eye, and awaited in trembling silence the torrent of reproaches that trembled on her lip. But I shall not repeat what passed. Suffice that Berrendale pretended to be moved by what she said, and promised to break off the marriage,—only exacting from Savanna, in return, a promise of not imparting to the servants, or to any one, that he had a wife in England.
In the meanwhile he commended her most affectionately to the care of the steward; and confessing to his intended bride that he had a mistress in England, who had sent the mulatto over to prevent the match if possible, by persuading her he was already married, he conjured her to consent to a private marriage; and to prevent some dreadful scene, occasioned by the revenge of disappointed passion, should his mistress, as she had threatened, come over in person, he entreated her to let every splendid preparation for their nuptials be laid aside, in order to deceive Savanna, and induce her to return quietly to England.
The credulous woman, too much in love to believe what she did not wish, consented to all he proposed: but Berrendale, still fearful of the watchful jealousy of Savanna, contrived to find out the master to whom she belonged before she had escaped, early in life, with her first husband to England; and as she had never been made free, as soon as he arrived, he, on a summons from Berrendale, seized her as his property; and poor Savanna, in spite of her cries and struggles, was conveyed some miles up the country.
At length, however, she found means to escape to the coast; and, having discovered an old acquaintance in an English sailor on board a vessel then ready to sail, and who had great influence with the captain, she was by him concealed on board, with the approbation of the commander, and was on her way to England before Berrendale was informed of her escape.
I will not endeavour to describe Adeline's feelings on hearing this narration, and on finding also that Savanna before she left the island had been assured that Berrendale was really married, though privately, but that the marriage could not long be attempted to be concealed, as the lady even before it took place was likely to become a mother; and, that as a large estate depended on her giving birth to a son, the event of her confinement was looked for with great anxiety.
Still, in the midst of her distress, a sudden thought struck Adeline, which converted her anger into joy, and her sorrow into exultation. 'Yes, my mother may now forgive me without violating any part of her oath,' she exclaimed.—'I am now forsaken, despised and disgraced!'—and instantly she wrote to Mrs Mowbray a letter calculated to call forth all her sympathy and affection. Then, with a mind relieved beyond expression, she sat down to deliberate in what manner she should act to do herself justice as a wife and a mother, cruelly aggrieved in both these intimate relations. Nor could she persuade herself that she should act properly by her child, if she did not proceed vigorously to prove herself Berrendale's wife, and substantiate Editha's claim to his property; and as Mr Langley was, she knew, a very great lawyer, she resolved, in spite of his improper conduct to her, to apply to him again.
Indeed she could not divest herself of a wish to let him know that she was become a wife, and no longer liable to be treated with that freedom with which, as a mistress, he had thought himself at liberty to address her. However, she wished that she had not been obliged to go to him alone; but, as the mulatto was in too weak a state of health to allow of her going out, and she could not speak of business like hers before any one else, she was forced to proceed unaccompanied to the Temple; and on the evening of the day after Savanna's return, she with a beating heart, repaired once more to Mr Langley's chambers.
Luckily, however, she met the tawny boy on her way, and took him for her escort. 'Tell your master,' said she to the servant, 'that Mrs Berrendale wishes to speak to him:' and in a few minutes she was introduced.
'Mrs Berrendale!' cried Langley with a sarcastic smile; 'pray be seated, madam! I hope Mr Berrendale is well.'
'He is in Jamaica, sir,' replied Adeline.
'Indeed!' returned Langley. 'May I presume so far as to ask,—hem, hem,—whether your visit to me be merely of a professional nature?'
'Certainly, sir,' replied Adeline: 'of what other nature should it be?'
Langley replied to this only by a significant smile. At this moment the tawny boy asked leave to walk in the temple gardens; and Adeline, though reluctantly, granted his request.
'Oh! à propos, John,' cried Langley to the servant, 'let Mrs Montgomery know that her friend Miss Mowbray, Mrs Berrendale I mean, is here—she is walking in the garden.'
'My friend Mrs Montgomery, sir! I have no friend of that name.'
'No, my sweet soul? You may not know her by that name; but names change, you know. You, for instance, are Mrs Berrendale now, but when I see you again you may be Mrs Somebody else.'
'Never, sir,' cried Adeline indignantly; 'but, though I do not exactly understand your meaning, I feel as if you meant to insult me, and therefore—'
'Oh no—sit down again, my angel; you are mistaken, and so apt to fly off in a tangent! But—so—that wonderfully handsome man, Berrendale, is off—heh? Your friend and mine, heh! pretty one!'
'If, sir, Mr Berrendale ever considered you as his friend, it is very strange that you should presume to insult his wife.'
'Madam,' replied Langley with a most provoking sneer, 'Mr Berrendale's wife shall always be treated by me with proper respect.'
'Gracious Heaven!' cried Adeline, clasping her hands and looking upwards with tearful eyes, 'when shall my persecutions cease! and how much greater must my offences be than even my remorse paints them, when their consequences still torment me so long after the crime which occasioned them has ceased to exist! But it is Thy will, and I will submit even to indignity with patience.'
There was a touching solemnity in this appeal to Heaven, an expression of truth, which it was so impossible for art to imitate, that Langley felt in a moment the injustice of which he had been guilty, and an apology was on his lips, when the door opened, and a lady rouged like a French countess of the ancien régime, her hair covered with a profusion of brown powder, and dressed in the height of fashion, ambled into the room; and saying, 'How d'ye do, Miss Mowbray?' threw herself carelessly on the sofa, to the astonishment of Adeline, who did not recollect her, and to the confusion of Langley, who now, impressed with involuntary respect for Adeline, repented of having exposed her to the scene that awaited her: but to prevent it was impossible; he was formed to be a slave of woman, and had not courage to protect another from the insolence to which he tamely yielded himself.
Adeline at first did not answer this soi-disant acquaintance of hers; but, in looking at her more attentively, she exclaimed, 'What do I see? Is it possible that this can be Mary Warner!'
'Yes, it is, my dear, indeed,' replied she with a loud laugh, 'Mary Warner, alias Mrs Montgomery; as you, you know, are Miss Mowbray, alias Mrs Berrendale.'
Adeline, incapable of speaking, only gazed at her in silence, but with 'a countenance more in sorrow than in anger.'
'But, come sit down, my dear,' cried Mary; 'no ceremony, you know, among friends and equals, you know; and you and I have been mighty familiar, you know, before now. The last time we met you called mewoman, you know—yes, "woman!" says you—and I have not forgotten it, I assure you,' she added with a sort of loud hysterical laugh, and a look of the most determined malice.
'Come, come, my dear Montgomery,' said Langley, 'you must forget and forgive;—I dare say Miss Mowbray, that is to say Mrs Berrendale, did not mean—'
'What should you know about the matter, Lang.?' replied Mary; 'I wish you would mind your own business, and let me talk to my dumb friend here.—Well, I suppose you are quite surprised to see how smart I am!—seeing as how I once overheard you say to Glenthingymy, "How very plain Mary is!" though, to be sure, it was never a barrel the better herring, and 'twas the kettle in my mind calling the pot—Heh, Lang?'
Here was the clue to the inveterate dislike which this unhappy girl had conceived against Adeline. So true is it that little wounds inflicted on the self-love are never forgotten or forgiven, and that it is safer to censure the morals of acquaintances than to ridicule them on their dress, or laugh at a defect in their person. Adeline, indeed, did not mean that her observation should be overheard by the object of it,—still she was hated: but many persons make mortifying remarks purposely, and yet wonder that they have enemies!
Motionless and almost lifeless Adeline continued to stand and to listen, and Mary went on—
'Well, but I thank you for one thing. You taught me that marriage was all nonsense, you know; and so, thought I, Miss Mowbray is a learned lady, she must know best, and so I followed your example—that's all, you know.'
This dreadful information roused the feelings of Adeline even to phrensy, and with a shriek of anguish she seized her hand, and conjured her by all her hopes of mercy to retract what she had said, and not to let her depart with the horrible consciousness of having been the means of plunging a fellow-being into vice and infamy.
A loud unfeeling laugh, and an exclamation of 'The woman is mad,' was all the answer to this.
'This then is the completion of my sufferings,' cried Adeline,—'this only was wanted to complete the misery of my remorse.'
'This is too much,' exclaimed Langley. 'Mary, you know very well that—'
'Hold your tongue, Lang.; you know nothing about the matter: it is all nothing, but that Miss Mowbray, like a lawyer, can change sides, you see, and attack one day what she defended the day before, you know; and she has made you believe that she thinks now being kept a shameful thing.'
'I do believe so,' hastily replied Adeline; 'and if it be true that my sentiments and my example led you to adopt your present guilty mode of life,—oh! save me from the pangs of remorse which I now feel, by letting my present example recall you from the paths of error to those of virtue.'
'Well pleaded,' cried the cold-hearted Mary—'Lang., you could not have done't so well—not up to that.'
'Mrs Montgomery,' said Langley with great severity, 'if you cannot treat Mrs Berrendale with more propriety and respect, I must beg you to leave the room; she is come to speak to me on business, and—'
'I sha'nt stir, for all that: and mark me, Lang., if you turn me out of the room, you know, hang me if ever I enter it again!'
'But your little boy may want you; you have left him now some time.'
'Aye, that may be true, to be sure, poor little dear! Have you any family, Miss Mowbray?'—when, without waiting for an answer, she added, 'My little boy have got the small-pox very bad, and has been likely to die from convulsion fits, you know. Poor dear! I had been nursing it so long that I could not bear the stench of the room, and so I was glad, you know, to come and get a little fresh air in the gardens.'
At this speech Adeline's fortitude entirely gave way.Herchild had not had the small-pox, and she had been for some minutes in reach of the infection; and with a look of horror, forgetting her business, and every thing but Editha, she was on the point of leaving the room, when a servant hastily entered, and told Mary that her little boy was dead.
At hearing this, even her cold heart was moved, and throwing herself back on the sofa she fell into a strong hysteric; while Adeline, losing all remembrance of her insolence in her distress, flew to her assistance; and, in pity for a mother weeping the loss of her infant, forgot for a moment that she was endangering the life of her own child.
Mr Langley, mean time, though grieved for the death of the infant, was alive to the generous forgiving disposition which Adeline evinced; and could not help exclaiming. 'Oh, Mrs Berrendale! forgive us! we deserved not such kindness at your hands:' and Adeline, wanting to loosen the tight stays of Mary, and not choosing to undress her before such a witness, coldly begged him to withdraw, advising him at the same time to go and see whether the child was really dead, as it might possibly only appear so.
Revived by this possibility, Mr Langley left Mary to the care of Adeline, and left the room. But whether it was that Mary had a mind to impress her lover and the father of her child with an idea of her sensibility, or whether she had overheard Adeline's supposition, certain it is, that as soon as Langley went away, and Adeline began to unlace her stays, she hastily recovered, and declared her stays should remain as they were: but still exclaiming about her poor dear Benny, she kept her arms closely clasped round Adeline's waist, and reposed her head on her bosom.
Adeline's fears and pity for her being thus allayed, she began to have leisure to feel and fear for herself; and the idea, that, by being in such close contact with Mary, she was imbibing so much of the disease as must inevitably communicate it to Editha, recurred so forcibly to her mind, that, begging for mercy's sake she would loose her hold, she endeavoured to break from the arms of her tormentor.
But in vain.—As soon as Mary saw that Adeline wished to leave her, she was the more eager to hold her fast; and protesting she should die if she had the barbarity to leave her alone, she only hugged her the closer. 'Well, then, I'll try to stay till Mr Langley returns,' cried Adeline: but some minutes elapsed, and Mr Langley did not return; and then Adeline, recollecting that when he did return he would come fresh fraught with the pestilence from the dead body of his infant, could no longer master her feelings, but screaming wildly,—'I shall be the death of my child; let me go,'—she struggled with the determined Mary. 'You will drive me mad if you detain me,' cried Adeline.
'You will drive me mad if you go,' replied Mary, giving way to a violent hysterical scream, while with successful strength she parried all Adeline's endeavours to break from her. But what can resist the strength of phrensy and despair? Adeline, at length worked up to madness by the fatal control exercised over her, by one great effort threw the sobbing Mary from her, and, darting down stairs with the rapidity of phrensy, nearly knocked down Mr Langley in her passage, who was coming to announce the restoration of the little boy.
She soon reached Fleet-street, and was on her road home before Langley and Mary had recovered their consternation: but she suddenly recollected that homewards she must not proceed; that she carried death about her; and wholly bewildered by this insupportable idea, she ran along the Strand, muttering the incoherencies of phrensy as she went, till she was intercepted in her passage by some young men ofton, who had been dining together, and, being half intoxicated, were on their way to the theatre.
Two of these gentlemen, with extended arms, prevented her further progress.
'Where are you going, my pretty girl,' cried one, 'in this hurry? shall I see you home? heh!'
'Home!' replied Adeline; 'name it not. My child! my child! thy mother has destroyed thee.'
'So!' cried another, 'actress, by all that's tragical!'
'Unhand me!' exclaimed Adeline wildly. 'Do not you know, poor babe, that I carry death and infection about with me!'
'The devil you do!' returned the gentleman; 'then the sooner you take yourself off the better.'
'I believe the poor soul is mad,' said a third, making way for Adeline to pass.
'But,' cried the first who spoke, catching hold of her, 'if so, there is method and meaning in her madness; for she called Jaby here a poor babe, and we all know he is little better.'
By this time Adeline was in a state of complete phrensy, and was again darting down the street in spite of the gentleman's efforts to hold her, when another gentleman, whom curiosity had induced to stop and listen to what passed, suddenly seized hold of her arm, and exclaimed, 'Good Heavens! what can this mean? It is—it can be no other than Miss Mowbray.'
At the sound of her own name Adeline started: but in a moment her senses were quite lost again; and the gentleman, who was no other than Colonel Mordaunt, being fully aware of her situation, after reproving the young men for sporting with distress so apparent, called a coach which happened to be passing, and desired to know whither he should have the honour of conducting her.
But she was too lost to be able to answer the question: he therefore, lifting her into the coach, desired the man to drive towards Dover-street; and when there, he ordered him to drive to Margaret-street, Oxford-street; when, not being able to obtain one coherent word from Adeline, and nothing but expressions of agony, terror, and self-condemnation, he desired him to stop at such a house, and, conducting Adeline up stairs, desired the first assistance to be procured immediately.
It was not to his own lodgings that Colonel Mordaunt had conducted Adeline, but to the house of a convenient friend of his, who, though not generally known as such, and bearing a tolerably good character in the world, was very kind to the tender distresses of her friends, and had no objection to assist the meetings of two fond lovers.
It is to be supposed, then, that she was surprised at seeing Colonel Mordaunt with a companion, who was an object of pity and horror rather than of love: but she did not want humanity; and when the colonel recommended Adeline to her tenderest care, she with great readiness ordered a bed to be prepared, and assisted in prevailing on Adeline to lie down on it. In a short time a physician and a surgeon arrived; and Adeline, having been bled and made to swallow strong opiates, was undressed by her attentive landlady; and though still in a state of unconsciousness, she fell into a sound sleep which lasted till morning.
But Colonel Mordaunt passed a sleepless night. The sight of Adeline, even frantic and wretched as she appeared, had revived the passion which he had conceived for her; and if on her awaking the next morning she should appear perfectly rational, and her phrensy merely the result of some great fright which she had received, he resolved to renew his addresses, and take advantage of the opportunity now offered him, while she was as it were in his power.
But to return to the Temple.—Soon after Mr Langley had entered his own room, and while Mary and he were commenting on the frantic behaviour of Adeline, the tawny boy came back from his walk, and heard with marks of emotion, apparently beyond his age, (for though near twelve he did not lookaboveeight years old,) of the sudden and frantic disappearance of Adeline.
'Oh! my dear friend,' cried he, 'if, you are not gone home you will break my poor mother's heart!'
'And who is your mother?'
'Her name is Savanna; and she lives with Mrs Berrendale.'
'Mrs Berrendale!' cried Mary, 'Miss Mowbray you mean.'
'No, I do not; her name was Mowbray, but is now Berrendale.'
'What! is she really married?' asked Langley.
'Yes to be sure.'
'But how do you know that she is?'
'Oh! because I went to church with them, and my mother cooked the wedding-dinner, and I ate plum-pudding and drank punch, and we were very merry,—only my mother cried, because my father could not come.'
'Very circumstantial evidence indeed!' cried Langley, 'and I am very sorry that I did not know so much before. So you and your mother love this extraordinary fine woman, Mrs Berrendale, heh?'
'Love her! To be sure—we should be very wicked if we did not. Did you never hear the story of the pineapple?' said the tawny boy.
'Not I. What was it?' and the tawny boy, delighted to tell the story, with sparkling eyes sat down to relate it.
'You must know, Mr Glenmurray longed for a pineapple.'
'Mrs Glenmurray you mean,' said Mary laughing immoderately.
'I know what I say,' replied the tawny boy angrily; 'and so Miss Adeline, as she was then called, went out to buy one;—well, and so she met my poor father going to prison, and I was crying after her, and so—' Here he paused, and bursting into tears exclaimed, 'And perhaps she is crying herself now, and I must go and see for her directly.'
'Do so, my fine fellow,' cried Langley: 'you had better go home, tell your mother what has passed, and to-morrow' (accompanying him down stairs, and speaking in a low voice) 'I will either write a note of apology or call on Mrs Berrendale myself.'
The tawny boy instantly set off, running as fast as he could, telling Langley first, that if any harm had happened to his friend, both he and his mother should lie down and die. And this further proof of Adeline's merit did not tend to calm Langley's remorse for having exposed her to the various distresses which she had undergone at his chambers.
Adeline awoke early the next morning perfectly sane, though weakened by the exertions which she had experienced the night before, and saw with surprise and alarm that she was not in her own lodging.
But she had scarcely convinced herself that she was awake, when Mrs Selby, the mistress of the house, appeared at her bed-side, and, seeing what was passing in her mind by her countenance, explained to her as delicately as she could the situation in which she had been brought there.
'And who brought me hither?' replied Adeline, dreadfully agitated, as the remembrance of what had passed by degrees burst upon her.
'Colonel Mordaunt of the guards,' was the answer; and Adeline was shocked to find that he was the person to whom she was under so essential an obligation. She then hastily arose, being eager to return home; and in a short time she was ready to enter the drawing-room, and to express her thanks to Colonel Mordaunt.
But in vain did she insist on going home directly, to ease the fears of her family. The physician, who arrived at the moment, forbade her going out without having first taken both medicine and refreshment; and by the time that, after the most earnest entreaties, she obtained leave to depart, she recollected that, as her clothes were the same, she might still impart disease to her child, and therefore must on no account think of returning to Editha.
'Whither, whither then can I go?' cried she, forgetting she was not alone.
'Why not stay here?' said the colonel, who had been purposely left alone with her. 'O dearest of women! that you would but accept the protection of a man who adores you; who has long loved you; who has been so fortunate as to rescue you from a situation of misery and danger, and the study of whose life it shall be to make you happy.'
He uttered this with such volubility, that Adeline could not find an opportunity to interrupt him; but when he concluded, she calmly replied, 'I am willing to believe, Colonel Mordaunt, from a conversation which I once had with you, that you are not aware of the extent of the insult which you are now offering to me. You probably do not know that I have been for years a married woman?'
Colonel Mordaunt started and turned pale at this intelligence; and in a faltering voice replied, that he was indeed a stranger to her present situation;—for that, libertine as he confessed himself to be, he had never yet allowed himself to address the wife of another.
This speech restored him immediately to the confidence of Adeline. 'Then I hope,' cried she, holding out her hand to him, which in spite of his virtue he passionately kissed, 'that, as a friend, you will have the kindness to procure me a coach to take me to a lodging a few miles out of town, where I once was before; and that you will be so good as to drive directly to my lodgings, and let my poor maid know what is become of me. I dread to think,' added she bursting into tears, 'of the agony that my unaccountable absence must have occasioned her.'
The colonel, too seriously attached to Adeline to know yet what he wished, or what he hoped on this discovery of her situation, promised to obey her, provided she would allow him to call on her now and then; and Adeline was too full of gratitude to him for the service which he had rendered her, to have resolution enough to deny his request. He then called a coach for himself, and for Adeline, as she insisted on his going immediately to her lodgings; and also begged that he would tell the mulatto to send for advice, and prepare her little girl for inoculation directly.
Adeline drove directly to her old lodgings in the country, where she was most gladly received; and the colonel went to deliver his commission to the mulatto.
He found her in strong hysterics; the tawny boy crying over her, and the woman of the house holding her down on the bed by force, while the little Editha had been conveyed to a neighbour's house, that she might not hear the screams which had surprised and terrified her.
Colonel Mordaunt had opened the door, and was witnessing this distressing scene, before any one was conscious of his presence; but the tawny boy soon discovered him, and crying out—
'Oh! sir, do you bring us news of our friend?' sprang to him, and hung almost breathless on his arm.
Savanna, who was conscious enough to know what passed, though too much weakened from her own sufferings and anxieties to be able to struggle with this new affliction, started up on hearing these words, and screamed out 'Does she live? Blessed man! but say so, dat's all,' in a tone so affecting, and with an expression of agonized curiosity so overwhelming to the feelings, that Colonel Mordaunt, whose spirits were not very high, was so choked that he could not immediately answer her; and when at last he faltered out, 'She lives, and is quite well,' the frantic joy of the mulatto overcame him still more. She jumped about his neck, she hugged the tawny boy; and her delight was as extravagant as her grief had been; till exhausted and silent she sunk upon the bed, and was unable for some minutes to listen quietly to the story which Colonel Mordaunt came to relate.
When she was composed enough to listen to it, she did not long remain so; for as soon as she heard that Colonel Mordaunt had met Adeline in her phrensy, and conveyed her to a place of safety, she fell at his feet, embraced his knees, and, making the tawny boy kneel down by her, invoked the blessing of God on him so fervently and so eloquently that Colonel Mordaunt wept like a child, and, exclaiming, 'Upon my soul, my good woman, I cannot bear this,' was forced to run out of the house to recover his emotion.
When he returned, Savanna said 'Well—now, blessed sir, take me to my dear lady.'
'Indeed,' replied he, 'I must not; you are forbidden to see her.'
'Forbidden!' replied she, her eyes flashing fire; 'and who dare to keep Savanna from her own mistress?—I will see her.'
'Not if she forbids it, Savanna; and if her child's life should be endangered by it?'
'O, no, to be sure not,' cried the tawny boy, who doted upon Editha, and, having fetched her back from the next house, was lulling her to sleep in his arms.
Colonel Mordaunt started at sight of the child, and, stooping down to kiss its rosy cheek, sighed deeply as he turned away again.
'Well,' cried Savanna, 'you talk very strange—me no understand.'
'But you shall, my excellent creature,' replied the colonel, 'immediately.' He then entered on a full explanation to Savanna; who had no sooner heard that her mistress feared that she had been so much exposed to the infection of the small-pox, as to make her certain of giving it to her child, than she exclaimed, 'Oh, my good God! save and protect her own self! She never have it, and she may get it and die!'
'Surely you must be mistaken,' replied the colonel, 'Mrs Berrendale must have recollected and mentioned her own danger if this be the case.'
'She!' hastily interrupted the mulatto, 'she tink of herself! Never—she only mind others' good. Do you tink, if she be one selfish beast like her husban, Savanna love her so dear? No, Mr Colonel, me know her, and me know though we may save the child we may lose the mother.' Here she began to weep bitterly; while the colonel, more in love than ever with Adeline from these proofs of her goodness, resolved to lose no time in urging her to undergo herself the operation which she desired for Editha.
Then, begging the mulatto to send for a surgeon directly, in spite of the tears of the tawny boy, who thought it cruel to run the risk of spoiling Miss Editha's pretty face, he took his leave, saying to himself, 'What a heart has this Adeline! how capable of feeling affection! for no one can inspire it who is not able to feel it: and this creature is thrown away on a man undeserving her, it seems!'
On this intelligence he continued to muse till he arrived at Adeline's lodgings, to whom he communicated all that had passed; and from whom he learned, with great anxiety, that it was but too true that she had never had the small-pox; and that, therefore, she should probably show symptoms of the disease in a few days: consequently, as she considered it too late for her to be inoculated, she should do all that now remained to be done for her security, by low living and good air.
That same evening Colonel Mordaunt returned to Savanna, in hopes of learning from her some further particulars respecting Adeline's husband; as he felt that his conscience would not be much hurt by inducing Adeline to leave the protection of a man who was unworthy of possessing her. Fortunately for his wishes, he could not wish to hear more than Savanna wished to tell every thing relating to her adored lady: and Colonel Mordaunt heard with generous indignation of the perfidious conduct of Berrendale; vowing, at the same time, that his time, his interest, and his fortune, should all be devoted to bring such a villain to justice, and to secure to the injured Editha her rightful inheritance.
The mulatto was in raptures:—she told Colonel Mordaunt that he was a charming man, and infinitely handsomer than Berrendale, though she must own he was very good to look at; and she wished with all her soul that Colonel Mordaunt was married to her lady; for then she believed she would have never known sorrow, but been as happy as the day was long.
Colonel Mordaunt could not hear this without a secret pang. 'Had I followed,' said he mentally, 'the dictates of my heart when I saw Adeline at Bath, I might now, perhaps, instead of being a forlorn unattached being, have been a happy husband and father; and Adeline, instead of having been the mistress of one man, the disowned wife of another, might have been happy and beloved, and as respectable in the eyes of the world as she is in those of her grateful mulatto.'
However, there was some hope left for him yet.—Adeline, he thought, was not a woman likely to be over-scrupulous in her ideas; and might very naturally think herself at liberty to accept the protection of a lover, when, from no fault of hers, she had lost that of her husband.
It is natural to suppose that, while elevated with these hopes, he did not fail to be very constant in his visits to Adeline; and that at length, more led by passion than policy, he abruptly, at the end of ten days, informed Adeline that he knew her situation, and that he trusted that she would allow him to hope that in due time his love, which had been proof against time, absence, and disdain, would meet with reward; and that, on his settling a handsome income on her and her child for their joint lives, she would allow him to endeavour to make her as happy as she, and she only, could make him.
To this proposal, which was in form of a letter, Colonel Mordaunt did not receive an immediate answer; nor was it at first likely that he should ever receive an answer to it at all, as Adeline was at the moment of its arrival confined to her bed, according to her expectations, with the disease which she had been but too fearful of imbibing: while the half-distracted mulatto was forced to give up to others the care of the sickening Editha, to watch over the delirious and unconscious Adeline.
But the tawny boy's generous benefactress gave him leave to remain at Adeline's lodgings, in order to calm his fears for Editha, and assist in amusing and keeping her quiet; and if attention had any share in preserving the life and beauty of Editha, it was to the affectionate tawny boy that she owed them; and he was soon rewarded for all his care and anxiety by seeing his little charge able to play about as usual.
Colonel Mordaunt and the mulatto meanwhile did not obtain so speedy a termination to their anxieties: Adeline's recovery was for a long time a matter of doubt; and her weakness so great after the crisis of the disorder was past, that none ventured to pronounce her, even then, out of danger.
But at length she was in a great measure restored to health, and able to determine what line of conduct it was necessary for her to pursue.—To return an answer to Colonel Mordaunt's proposals was certainly her first business; but as she felt that the situation in which he had once known her made his offer less affronting than it would have been under other circumstances, she resolved to speak to him on the subject with gentleness, not severity; especially as during her illness, to amuse the anxiety that had preyed upon him, he had taken every possible step to procure evidence of the marriage, and gave into Savanna's hands, the first day that he was permitted to see her, an attested certificate of it.