The first question which Adeline asked on her recovery was, Whether any letter had come by the general-post during her illness; and Savanna gave one to her immediately.
It was the letter so ardently desired; for the direction was in her mother's hand-writing! and she opened it full of eager expectation, while her whole existence seemed to depend on the nature of its contents. What then must have been her agony on finding that theenveloppecontained nothing but her own letter returned! For some time she spoke not, she breathed not; while Savanna mixed with expressions of terror, at sight of her mistress's distress, poured execrations on the unnatural parent who had so cruelly occasioned it.
After a few days' incessant struggle to overcome the violence of her sorrow, Adeline recovered the shock, in appearance at least: yet to Savanna's self-congratulations she could not help answering (laying her hand on her heart) 'The blow is here, Savanna, and the wound incurable.'
Soon after she thought herself well enough to see Colonel Mordaunt, and to thank him for the recent proof of his attention to her and her interest. But no obligation, however great, could shut the now vigilant eyes of Adeline to the impropriety of receiving further visits from him, or to the guilt of welcoming to her house a man who made open professions to her of illicit love.
She however thought it her duty to see him once more, in order to try to reconcile him to the necessity of the rule of conduct which she was going to lay down for herself; nor was she without hope that the yet recent traces of the disease, to which she had so nearly fallen a victim, would make her appearance so unpleasing to the eyes of her lover, that he would be very willing to absent himself from the house, for some time at least, and probably give up all thoughts of her.
But she did neither herself nor Colonel Mordaunt justice.—She was formed to inspire a real and lasting passion—a passion that no external change could destroy—since it was founded on the unchanging qualities of the heart and mind: and Colonel Mordaunt felt for her such an attachment in all its force. He had always admired the attractive person and winning graces of Adeline, and felt for her what he denominated love; but that rational though enthusiastic preference, which is deserving of the name of true love, he never felt till he had had an opportunity to appreciate justly the real character of Adeline: still there were times when he felt almost gratified to reflect that she could not legally be his; for, whatever might have been the cause and excuse of her errors, she had erred, and the delicacy of his mind revolted at the idea of marrying the mistress of another.
But when he saw and heard Adeline, this repugnance vanished; and he knew that, could he at those moments lead her to the altar, he should not have hesitated to bind himself to her for ever by the sacred ties which the early errors of her judgment had made her even in his opinion almost unworthy to form.
At length a day was fixed for his interview with Adeline, and with a beating heart he entered the apartment; nor was his emotion diminished when he beheld not only the usual vestiges of her complaint, but symptoms of debility, and a death-like meagreness of aspect, which made him fear that though one malady was conquered, another, even more dangerous, remained. The idea overcame him; and he was forced to turn to the window to hide his emotion: and his manner was so indicative of ardent yet respectful attachment, that Adeline began to feel in spite of herself that her projected task was difficult of execution.
For some minutes neither of them spoke: Mordaunt held the hand which she gave him to his heart, kissed it as she withdrew it, and again turned away his head to conceal a starting tear: while Adeline was not sorry to have a few moments in which to recover herself, before she addressed him on the subject at that time nearest to the heart of both. At length she summoned resolution enough to say:—
'Much as I have been mortified and degraded, Colonel Mordaunt, by the letter which I have received from you, still I rejoice that I did receive it:—in the first place, I rejoice, because I look on all the sufferings and mortifications which I meet with as merciful chastisements, as expiations inflicted on me in mercy by the Being whom I adore, for the sins of which I have been guilty; and, in the second place, because it gives me an opportunity of proving, incontrovertibly, my full conviction of the fallacy of my past opinions, and that I became a wife, after my idle declamations against marriage, from change of principle, on assurance of error, and not from interest, or necessity.'
Here she paused, overcome with the effort which she had made; and Colonel Mordaunt would have interrupted her, but, earnestly conjuring him to give her a patient hearing, she proceeded thus:—
'Had the change in my practice been the result of any thing but rational conviction, I should now, unfortunate as I have been in the choice of a husband, regret that ever I formed so foolish a tie, and perhaps be induced to enter into a less sacred connexion, from an idea that that state which forced me to drag out existence in hopeless misery was contrary to reason, justice, and the benefit of society; and that, the sooner its ties were dissolved, the better it would be for individual happiness and for the world at large.'
'And do you not think so?' cried Colonel Mordaunt; 'cannot your own individual experience convince you of it?'
'Far from it,' replied Adeline: 'and I bless God that it does not: for thence, and thence only, do I begin to be reconciled to myself. I have no doubt that there is a great deal of individual suffering in the marriage state, from a contrariety of temper and other causes; but I believe that the mass of happiness and virtue is certainly increased by it. Individual suffering, therefore, is no argument for the abolition of marriage, than the accidental bursting of a musket would be for the total abolition of fire-arms.'
'But, surely, dear Mrs Berrendale, you would wish divorce to be made easier than it is?'
'By no means.' interrupted Adeline, understanding what he was going to say: 'tobearandforbearI believe to be the grand secret of happiness, and that it ought to be the great study of life: therefore, whatever would enable married persons to separate on the slightest quarrel or disgust, would make it so much the less necessary for us to learn this important lesson; a lesson so needful in order to perfect the human character, that I believe the difficulty of divorce to be one of the greatest blessings of society.'
'What can have so completely changed your opinions on this subject?' replied Colonel Mordaunt.
'Not my own experience,' returned Adeline; 'for the painful situations in which I have been placed, I might attribute, not to the fallacy of the system on which I have acted, but to those existing prejudices in society which I wish to see destroyed.'
'Then, to what else is the change in your sentiments to be attributed?'
'To a more serious, unimpassioned, and unprejudiced view of the subject than I had before taken: at present I am not equal to expatiate on matters so important: however, some time or other, perhaps, I may make known to you my sentiments on them in a more ample manner: but I have, I trust, said enough to lead you to conclude, that though Mr Berrendale's conduct to me has been atrocious, and that you are in many respects entitled to my gratitude and thanks, you and I must henceforward be strangers to each other.'
Colonel Mordaunt, little expecting such a total overthrow to his hopes, was, on receiving it, choked with contending emotions; and his broken sentences and pale cheek were sufficiently expressive of the distress which he endured. But I shall not enter into a detail of all he urged in favour of his passion; nor the calm, dignified, manner in which Adeline replied. Suffice that, at last, from a sort of intuitive knowledge of the human heart, as it were, which persons of quick talent and sensibilities possess however defective their experience, Adeline resolved to try to soothe the self-love which she had wounded, knowing that self-love is scarcely to be distinguished in its effects from love itself; and that the agony of disappointed passion is always greater when it is inflicted by the coldness or falsehood of the beloved object, than when it proceeds from parental prohibition, or the cruel separation enjoined by conscious poverty. She therefore told Colonel Mordaunt that he was once very near being the first choice of her heart: when she first saw him, she said, his person, and manners, and attentions, had so strongly prepossessed her in his favour, that he himself, by ceasing to see and converse with her, could alone have saved her from the pain of a hopeless attachment.
'In pity, spare me,' cried Mordaunt, 'the contemplation of the happiness I might have enjoyed!'
'But you know you were not a marrying-man, as it is called; and forgive me if I say, that men who can on system suppress the best feelings of their nature, and prefer a course of libertine indulgence to a virtuous connexion, at that time of life when they might become happy husbands and fathers, with the reasonable expectation of living to see their children grown up to manhood, and superintending their education themselves—such men, Colonel Mordaunt, deserve, in the decline of life, to feel that regret and that self-condemnation which you this moment anticipate.'
'True—too true!' replied the colonel; 'but, for mercy'ssake, torture me no more.'
'I would not probe where I did not intend to make a cure,' replied Adeline.
'A cure!—what mean you!'
'I mean to induce you, ere it be yet too late, to endeavour to form a virtuous attachment, and to unite yourself for life with some amiable young woman who will make you as happy as I would have endeavoured to make you, had it been my fortunate lot to be yours: for, believe me, Colonel Mordaunt,' and her voice faltered as she said it, 'hadhe, whom I still continue to love with unabated tenderness, though years have elapsed since he was taken from me,—had he bequeathed me to you on his death-bed, the reluctance with which I went to the altar would have been more easily overcome.'
Saying this, she suddenly left the room, leaving Colonel Mordaunt surprised, gratified, and his mind struggling between hopes and fears; for Adeline was not conscious that she imparted hope as well as consolation by the method which she pursued; and though she sent Savanna to tell the colonel she could see him no more that evening, he departed in firm expectation that Adeline would not have resolution to forbid him to see her again.
In this, however, he was mistaken; Adeline had learnt the best of all lessons, distrust of her own strength:—and she resolved to put it out of her power to receive visits which a regard to propriety forbade, and which might injure her reputation, if not her peace of mind. Therefore, as soon as Colonel Mordaunt was gone, she summoned Savanna, and desired her to proceed to business.
'What!' cried the delighted mulatto, 'are we going to prosecu massa?'
'No,' replied Adeline, 'we are going into the country: I am come to a determination to take no legal steps in this affair, but leave Mr Berrendale to the reproaches of his own conscience.'
'A fiddle's end!' replied Savanna, 'he have no conscience, or he no leave you: better get him hang, if you can; den you marry de colonel.'
'I had better hang the father of my child, had I, Savanna?'
'Oh! no, no, no, no,—me forget dat.'
'But I do not, nor can I even bear to disgrace the father of Editha: therefore, trusting that I can dispose of her, and secure her interest better than by forcing her father to do her justice, and bastardize the poor innocent whom his wife will soon bring into the world, I am going to bury myself in retirement, and live the short remainder of my days unknowing and unknown.'
Savanna was going to remonstrate, but the words 'short remainder of my days' distressed her so much, that tears choked her words; and she obeyed in silence her mistress's orders to pack up, except when she indulged in a few exclamations against her lady's cruelty in going away without taking leave of Colonel Mordaunt, who, sweet gentleman, would break his heart at her departure, especially as he was not to know whither she was going. A postchaise was at the door the next morning at six o'clock; and as Adeline had not much luggage, having left the chief part of her furniture to be divided between the mistresses of her two lodgings, in return for their kind attention to her and her child, she took an affectionate leave of her landlady, and desired the post-boy to drive a mile on the road before him: and when he had done so, she ordered him to go on to Barnet; while the disappointed mulatto thanked God that the tawny boy was gone to Scotland with his protectress, as it prevented her having the mortification of leaving him behind her, as well as the colonel.—'O had I such a lover,' cried she, (her eyes filling with tears,) 'me never leave him, nor he me!' and for the first time she thought her angel-lady hard-hearted.
For some miles they proceeded in silence, for Adeline was too much engrossed to speak; and the little Editha, being fast asleep in the mulatto's arms, did not draw her mother out of the reverie into which she had fallen.
'And where now?' said the mulatto, when the chaise stopped.
'To the next stage on the high north road.' And on they went again; nor did they stop, except for refreshments, till they had travelled thirty miles; when Adeline, worn out with fatigue, staid all night at the inn where the chaise stopped, and the next morning they resumed their journey, but not their silence. The mulatto could no longer restrain her curiosity; and she begged to know whither they were going, and why they were to be buried in the country?
Adeline, sighing deeply, answered, that they were going to live in Cumberland; and then sunk into silence again, as she could not give the mulatto her true reasons for the plan that she was pursuing without wounding her affectionate heart in a manner wholly incurable. The truth was, that Adeline supposed herself to be declining: she thought that she experienced those dreadful languors, those sensations of internal weakness, which, however veiled to the eye of the observer, speak in forcible language to the heart of the conscious sufferer. Indeed, Adeline had long struggled, but in vain, against feelings of a most overwhelming nature; amongst which, remorse and horror, for having led by her example and precepts an innocent girl into a life of infamy, were the most painfully predominant: for, believing Mary Warner's assertion when she saw her at Mr Langley's chambers, she looked upon that unhappy girl's guilt as the consequence of her own; and mourned, incessantly mourned, over the fatal errors of her early judgment, which had made her, though an idolater of virtue, a practical assistant to the cause of vice. When Adeline imagined the term of her existence to be drawing nigh, her mother, her obdurate but still dear mother, regained her wonted ascendancy over her affections; and to her, the approach of death seemed fraught with satisfaction. For that parent, so long, so repeatedly deaf to her prayers, and to the detail of those sufferings which she had made one of the conditions of her forgiveness, had promised to see and to forgive her on herdeath-bed; and her heart yearned, fondly yearned, for the moment when she should be pressed to the bosom of a relenting parent.
To Cumberland, therefore, she was resolved to hasten, and into the very neighbourhood of Mrs Mowbray; while, as the chaise wheeled them along to the place of their destination, even the prattle of her child could not always withdraw her from the abstraction into which she was plunged, as the scenes of her early years thronged upon her memory, and with them the recollection of those proofs of a mother's fondness, for a renewal of which, even in the society of Glenmurray, she had constantly and despondingly sighed.
As they approached Penrith, her emotion redoubled, and she involuntarily exclaimed—'Cruel, but still dear, mother, you little think your child is so near!'
'Heaven save me!' cried Savanna; 'are we to go and be near dat woman?'
'Yes,' replied Adeline. 'Did she not say she would forgive me on my death-bed?'
'But you not there yet, dear missess,' sobbed Savanna; 'you not there of long years!'
'Savanna,' returned Adeline, 'I should die contented to purchase my mother's blessing and forgiveness.'
Savanna, speechless with contending emotions, could not express by words the feeling of mixed sorrow and indignation which overwhelmed her; but she replied by putting Editha in Adeline's arms; then articulating with effort, 'Look there!' she sobbed aloud.
'I understand you,' said Adeline, kissing away the tears gathering in Editha's eyes, at sight of Savanna's distress: 'but perhaps I think my death would be of more service to my child than my life.'
'And to me too, I suppose,' replied Savanna reproachfully. 'Well,—me go to Scotland; for no one love me but the tawny boy.'
'You will stay and close my eyes first, I hope!' observed Adeline mournfully.
In a moment Savanna's resentment vanished. 'Me will live and die vid you,' she replied, her tears redoubling, while Adeline again sunk into thoughtful silence.
As soon as they reached Penrith, Adeline inquired for lodgings out of the town, on that side nearest to her mother's abode; and was so fortunate, as she esteemed herself, to procure two apartments at a small house within two miles of Mrs Mowbray's.
'Then I breathe once more the same air with my mother!' exclaimed Adeline as she took possession of her lodging. 'Savanna, methinks I breathe freer already!'
'Me more choked,' replied the mulatto, and turned sullenly away.
'Nay, I—I feel so much better, that to-morrow I will—I will take a walk,' said Adeline hesitatingly.
'And where?' asked Savanna eagerly.
'Oh, to-night I shall only walk to bed,' replied Adeline smiling; and with unusual cheerfulness she retired to rest.
The next morning she arose early; and being informed that a stile near a peasant's cottage commanded a view of Mrs Mowbray's house, she hired a man and cart to convey her to the bottom of the hill, and with Editha by her side she set out to indulge her feelings by gazing on the house which contained her mother.
When they alighted, Editha gaily endeavoured to climb the hill, and urged her mother to follow her; but Adeline, rendered weak by illness and breathless by emotion, felt the ascent so difficult, that no motive less powerful than the one which actuated her could haveenabledher to reach the summit.
At length, however, she did reach it:—and the lawn before Mrs Mowbray's white house, her hay-fields, and the running stream at the bottom of it, burst in all their beauty on her view.—'And this is my mother's dwelling!' exclaimed Adeline: 'and there was I born: and near here—' shall I die, she would have added, but her voice failed her.
'Oh! what a pretty house and garden!' cried Editha in the unformed accents of childhood;—'how I should like to live there!'
This artless remark awakened a thousand mixed and overpowering feelings in the bosom of Adeline; and, after a pause of strong emotion, she exclaimed, catching the little prattler to her heart—'youshalllive there, my child!—yes, yes, youshalllive there!'
'But when?' resumed Editha.
'When I am in my grave,' answered Adeline.
'And when shall you be there?' replied the unconscious child, fondly caressing her: 'pray, mamma—pray be there soon!'
Adeline turned away, unable to answer her.
'Look—look, mamma!'—resumed Editha: 'there are ladies.—Oh! do let us go there now!—why can't we?'
'Would to God we could!' replied Adeline; as in one of the ladies she recognized Mrs Mowbray, and stood gazing on her till her eyes ached again: but what she felt on seeing her she will herself describe in the succeeding pages: and I shall only add, that, as soon as Mrs Mowbray returned into the house, Adeline, wrapped in a long and mournful reverie, returned, full of a new plan, to her lodgings.
There is no love so disinterested as parental love; and Adeline had all the keen sensibilities of a parent. To make, therefore, 'assurance doubly sure' that Mrs Mowbray should receive and should love her orphan when she was no more, she resolved to give up the gratification to which she had looked forward, the hope, before she died, of obtaining her forgiveness—that she might not weaken, by directing any part of them to herself, those feelings of remorse, fruitless tenderness, and useless regret in her mother's bosom, which she wished should be concentrated on her child.
'No,' said Adeline to herself, 'I am sure that she will not refuse to receive my orphan to her love and protection when I am no more, and am become alike insensible of reproaches and of blessings; and I think that she will love my child the more tenderly, because to me she will be unable to express the compunction which, sooner or later, she will feel from the recollection of her conduct towards me: therefore, I will make no demands on her love for myself; but, in a letter to be given her after my decease, bequeath my orphan to her care;'—and with this determination she returned from her ride.
'Have you see her?' said Savanna, running out to meet her.
'Yes—but not spoken to her; nor shall I see her again.'
'What—I suppose she see you, and not speak?'
'Oh, no; she did not see me, nor shall I urge her to see me: my plans are altered,' replied Adeline.
'And we go back to town and Colonel Mordaunt?'
'No,' resumed Adeline, sighing deeply, and preparing to write to Mrs Mowbray.
But it is necessary that we should for a short time go back to Berrendale, and relate that, while Adeline and Editha were confined with the small-pox, Mr Drury received a summons from his employer in Jamaica to go over thither, to be intrusted with some particular business: in consequence of this he resolved to call again on Adeline, and inquire whether she still persisted in styling herself Mrs Berrendale; as he concluded that Berrendale would be very glad of all the information relative to her and her child which he could possibly procure, whether his curiosity on the subject proceeded from fear or love.
It so happened, that as soon as Editha, as well as her mother, was in the height of the disorder, Mr Drury called; and finding that they were both very bad, he thought that his friend Berrendale was likely to get rid of both his encumbrances at once; and being eager to communicate good news to a man whose influence in the island might be a benefit to him, he every day called to inquire concerning their health.
The second floor in the house where Adeline lodged was then occupied by a young woman in indigent circumstances, who, as well as her child, had sickened with the distemper the very day that Editha was inoculated: and when Drury, just as he was setting off for Portsmouth, ran to gain the latest intelligence of the invalids, a charwoman, who attended to the door, not being acquainted with the name of the poor young woman and her little girl, concluding that Mr Drury, by Mrs Berrendale and miss who were ill with the small-pox, meant them, replied to his inquiries,—'Ah, poor things! it is all over with them, they died last night.'
On which, not staying for any further intelligence, Drury set off for Portsmouth, and arrived at Jamaica just as Berrendale was going to remit to Adeline a draft for a hundred pounds. For Adeline and the injury which he had done her, had been for some days constantly present to his thoughts. He had been ill; and as indigestion, the cause of his complaints, is apt to occasion disturbed dreams, he had in his dreams been haunted by the image of Glenmurray, who, with a threatening aspect, had reproached him with cruelty and base ingratitude to him, in deserting in such a manner the wife whom he had bequeathed to him.
The constant recurrence of these dreams had depressed his spirits and excited his remorse so much, that he could calm his feelings in no other way than by writing a kind letter to Adeline, and enclosing her a draft on his banker. This letter was on the point of being sent when Drury arrived, and, with very little ceremony, informed him that Adeline was dead.
'Dead!' exclaimed Berrendale, falling almost sensless on his couch: 'Dead!—Oh! for God's sake, tell me of what she died!—Surely, surely, she—' Here his voice failed him.
Drury coolly replied, that she and her child both died of the small-pox.
'Butwhen? my dear fellow!—when? Say that they died nine months ago' (that was previous to his marriage) 'and you make me your friend for life!'
Drury, sobribed, would have saidany thing; and, with all the coolness possible, he replied, 'Then be my friend for life:—they died rather better than nine months ago.'
Berrendale, being then convinced that bigamy was not likely to be proved against him, soon forgot, in the joy which this thought occasioned him, remorse for his conduct to Adeline, and regret for her early fate: besides, he concluded that he saved £100 by the means; for he knew not that the delicate mind of Adeline would have scorned to owe pecuniary obligations to the husband who had basely and unwarrantably deserted her.
But he was soon undeceived on this subject, by a letter which Colonel Mordaunt wrote in confidence to a friend in Jamaica, begging him to inquire concerning Mr Berrendale's second marriage; and to inform him privately that his injured wife had zealous and powerful friends in England, who were continually urging her to prosecute him for bigamy.
This intelligence had a fatal effect on the health of Berrendale; for though the violent temper and overbearing disposition of his second wife had often made him regret the gentle and compliant Adeline, and a separation from her, consequently, would be a blessing, still he feared to encounter the disgrace of a prosecution, and still more the anger of his West Indian wife; who, it was not improbable, might even attack his life in the first moment of ungoverned passion.
And to these fears he soon fell a sacrifice; for a frame debilitated by intemperance could not support the assaults made on it by the continued apprehensions which Colonel Mordaunt's friend had excited in him; and he died in that gentleman's presence, whom in his last moments he had summoned to his apartment to witness a will, by which he owned Adeline Mowbray to be his lawful wife, and left Editha, his acknowledged and only heir, a very considerable fortune.
But this circumstance, an account of which, with the will, was transmitted to Colonel Mordaunt, did not take place till long after Adeline took up her abode in Cumberland.
But to return to Colonel Mordaunt. Though Adeline had said that he must discontinue his visits, he resolved to disobey her; and the next morning, as soon as he thought she had breakfasted, he repaired to her lodgings; where he heard, with mixed sorrow and indignation, that she had set off in a post-chaise at six o'clock, and was gone no one knew whither.
'But, surely she has left some note or message for me!' exclaimed Colonel Mordaunt.
'Neither the one nor the other,' was the answer; and he returned home in no very enviable state of mind.
Various, indeed, and contradictory were his feelings: yet still affection was uppermost; and he could not but respect in Adeline the conduct which drove him to despair. Nor was self-love backward to suggest to him, that had not Adeline felt his presence and attentions to be dangerous, she would not so suddenly have withdrawn from them; and this idea was the only one on which he could at all bear to dwell: for, when he reflected that day after day might pass without his either seeing or hearing from her, existence seemed to become suddenly a burthen, and he wandered from place to place with joyless and unceasing restlessness.
At one time he resolved to pursue her; but the next, piqued at not having received from her even a note of farewell, he determined to endeavour to forget her: and this was certainly the wiser plan of the two: but the succeeding moment he determined to let a week pass, in hopes of receiving a letter from her, and, in case he did not, to set off in search of her, being assured of succeeding in his search of her, because the singularity of Savanna's appearance, and the traces of the small-pox visible in the face of Adeline, made them liable to be observed, and easy for him to describe.
But before the week elapsed, from agitation of mind, and from having exposed himself unnecessarily to cold, by lying on damp grass at midnight, after having heated himself by immoderate walking, Colonel Mordaunt became ill of a fever; and when, after a confinement of several weeks, he was restored to health, he despaired of being able to learn tidings of the fugitives; and disappointed and dejected, he sought in the gayest scenes of the metropolis and its environs to drown the remembrances, from which in solitude he had vainly endeavoured to fly. At this time a faded but attractive woman of quality, with whom he had formerly been intimate, returned from abroad, and, meeting Colonel Mordaunt at the house of a mutual friend, endeavoured to revive in him his former attachment: but it was a difficult task for a woman, who had never been able to touch the heart, to excite an attachment in a man already sentimentally devoted to another.
Her advances, however, flattered Colonel Mordaunt, and her society amused him, till, at length, their intimacy was renewed on its former footing: but soon tired of his mistress, and displeased with himself, he took an abrupt leave of her, and throwing himself into his post-chaise, retired to the seat of a relation in Herefordshire.
Near this gentleman's house lived Mr Maynard and his two sisters, who had taken up their abode there immediately on their return from Portugal. Major Douglas, his wife, and Emma Douglas, were then on a visit to them. Mordaunt had known Major Douglas in early life; and as soon as he found that he was in the neighbourhood, he rode over to renew his acquaintance with him; and received so cordial a welcome, not only from the major, but the master of the house and his sisters, that he was strongly induced to repeat his visits, and not a day passed in which he was not, during some part of it, a guest at Mr Maynard's.
Mrs Wallington and Miss Maynard, indeed, received him with such pointed marks of distinction and preference, as to make it visible to every observer that it was not as a friend only they were desirous of considering Colonel Mordaunt; while, by spiteful looks and acrimonious remarks directed to each other, the sisters expressed the jealousy which rankled in their hearts, whenever he seemed by design or inadvertency to make one of them the particular object of his attention.
Of Emma Douglas's chance for his favour, they were not at all fearful:—they thought her too plain, and too unattractive, to be capable of rivalling them; especially in the favour of an officer, a man of fashion; and therefore they beheld without emotion the attention which Colonel Mordaunt paid to her whenever she spoke, and the deference which he evidently felt for her opinion, as her remarks on whatever subject she conversed were formed always to interest, and often to instruct.
One evening, while Major Douglas was amusing himself in looking over some magazines which had lately been bound up together, and had not yet been deposited in Mr Maynard's library, he suddenly started, laid down the book, and turning to the window, with an exclamation of—'Poor fellow!'—passed his hand across his eyes, as if meaning to disperse an involuntary tear.
'What makes you exclaim "Poor fellow?"' asked his lovely wife: 'have you met with an affecting story in those magazines?'
'No, Louisa,' replied he, 'but I met in the obituary with a confirmation of the death of an old friend, which I suspected must have happened by this time, though I never knew it before; I see by this magazine that poor Glenmurray died a very few months after we saw him at Perpignan.'
'Poor fellow!' exclaimed Mrs Douglas.
'I wish I knew what is become of his interesting companion, Miss Mowbray,' said Emma Douglas.
'I wish I did too,' secretly sighed Colonel Mordaunt: but his heart palpitated so violently at this unexpected mention of the woman for whom he still pined in secret, that he had not resolution to say that he knew her.
'Become of her!' cried Miss Maynard sneeringly: 'you need not wonder, I think, what her fate is: no doubt Mr Glenmurray'sinteresting companionhas not lost her companionable qualities, and is a companion still.'
'Yes,' observed Mrs Wallington; 'or, rather, I dare say that angel of purity is gone upon the town.'
It was the dark hour, else Colonel Mordaunt's agitation, on hearing these gross and unjust remarks, must have betrayed his secret to every eye; while indignation now impeded his utterance as much as confusion had done before.
'Surely, surely,' cried the kind and candid Emma Douglas, 'I must grossly have mistaken Miss Mowbray's character, if she was capable of the conduct which you attribute to her!'
'My dear creature!' replied Mrs Wallington, 'how should you know any thing of her character, when it was gone long before you knew her?—Character, indeed! you remind me of my brother—Mr Davenport,' continued she to a gentleman present, 'did you ever hear the story of my brother and an angel of purity whom he met with abroad?'
'No—never.'
'Be quiet,' said Maynard; 'I will not be laughed at.'
However, Mrs Wallington and Miss Maynard, who had not yet forgiven the deep impression which Adeline's graces had made on their brother, insisted on telling the story; to which Colonel Mordaunt listened with eager and anxious curiosity. It received all the embellishments which female malice could give it; and if it amused any one, certainly that person was neither Mordaunt, nor Emma Douglas, nor her gentle sister.
'But how fortunate it was,' added Miss Maynard, 'that we were not with my brother! as we should unavoidably have walked and talked with this angel.'
Mordaunt longed to say, 'I think the good fortune was all on Miss Mowbray's side.'
But Adeline and her cause were in good hands: Emma Douglas stood forth as her champion.—'We feel very differently on that subject,' she replied. 'I shall ever regret, not that I saw and conversed with Miss Mowbray, but that I did not see and converse with her again and again.'
At this moment Emma was standing by Colonel Mordaunt, who involuntarily caught her hand and pressed it eagerly; but tried to disguise his motives by suddenly seating her in a chair behind her, saying, 'You had better sit down; I am sure you must be tired with standing so long.'
'No; really, Emma,' cried Major Douglas, 'you go too far there; though to be sure, if by seeing and conversing with Miss Mowbray you could have convinced her of her errors, I should not have objected to your seeing her once more or so.'
'Surely,' said Mrs Douglas timidly, 'we ought, my love, to have repeated our visits till we had made a convert of her.'
'Aconvertof her!' exclaimed Mr Maynard's sisters, 'a convert of a kept mistress!' bursting into a violent laugh, which had a most painful effect on the irritable nerves of Colonel Mordaunt, whose tongue, parched with emotion, cleaved to the roof of his mouth whenever he attempted to speak.
'Pray, to what other circumstance, yet untold, do you allude?' said Mr Davenport.
'Oh, we too had a rencontre with the philosopher and his charming friend,' said Major Douglas, 'and—but, Emma, do you tell the story.—'Sdeath!—Poor fellow!—Well, but we parted good friends,' added the kind-hearted Caledonian, dispersing a tear; while Emma, in simple but impressive language, related all that passed at Perpignan between themselves, Adeline, and Glenmurray; and concluded with saying, that, 'from the almost idolatrous respect with which Glenmurray spoke and apparently thought of Adeline, and from the account of her conduct and its motives, which he so fully detailed, she was convinced that, so far from being influenced by depravity in connecting herself with Glenmurray, Adeline was the victim of a romantic, absurd, and false conception of virtue; and she should have thought it her duty to have endeavoured, assisted by her sister, to have prevailed on her to renounce her opinions, and, by becoming the wife of Glenmurray, to restore to the society of her own sex, a woman formed to be its ornament and its example. 'Poor thing!' she added in a faltering voice, 'would that I knew her fate!'
'I can guess it, I tell you,' said Mrs Wallington.
'We had better drop the subject, madam,' replied Emma Douglas indignantly, 'as it is one that we shall never agree upon. If I supposed Miss Mowbray happy, I should feel for her, and feel interest sufficient in her fate to make me combat your prejudices concerning her; but now that she is perhaps afflicted, poor, friendless, and scorned, though unjustly, by every "virtuous she that knows her story," I cannot command my feelings when she is named with sarcastic respect, nor can I bear to hear an unhappy woman supposed to be plunged in the lowest depths of vice, whom I, on the contrary, believe to be at this moment atoning for the error of her judgment by a life of lonely penitence, or sunk perhaps already in the grave, the victim of a broken heart.'
Colonel Mordaunt, affected and delighted, hung on Emma Douglas's words with breathless attention, resolving when she had ended her narration to begin his, and clear Adeline from the calumnies of Mrs Wallington and Miss Maynard: but after articulating with some difficulty—'Ladies,—I—Miss Douglas,—I—' he found that his feelings would not allow him to proceed: therefore, suddenly raising Emma's hand to his lips, imprinted on it a kiss, at once fervent and respectful, and, making a hasty bow, ran out of the house.
Every one was astonished; but none so much as Emma Douglas.
'Why, Emma!' cried the major, 'who should have thought it? I verily believe you have turned Mordaunt's head;—I protest that he kissed your hand:—I suppose he will be here to-morrow, making proposals in form.'
'I wish he may!' exclaimed Mrs Douglas.
'It is not very likely, I think,' cried Miss Maynard.
Mrs Wallington said nothing; but she fanned herself violently.
'How do you know that?' said Maynard. 'He kissed your hand very tenderly—did he not, Miss Douglas? and took advantage of the dark hour: that looks very lover-like.'
Emma Douglas, who, in spite of her reason, was both embarrassed and flattered by Colonel Mordaunt's unexpected mode of taking leave, said not a word; but Mrs Wallington, in a voice hoarse with angry emotion, cried:
'It was very free in him, I think, and very unlike Colonel Mordaunt; for he was not a sort of man to take liberties but where he met with encouragement.'
'Then I am sure he would be free with you, sister, sometimes,' sarcastically observed Miss Maynard.
'Nay, with both of you, I think,' replied Maynard, who had not forgiven the laugh at his expense which they had tried to excite; on which an angry dialogue took place between the brother and sisters: and the Douglases, disgusted and provoked, retired to their apartment.
'There was something very strange and uncommon,' said Mrs Douglas, detaining Emma in her dressing-room, 'in Colonel Mordaunt's behaviour—Do you not think so, Emma?—If it should have any meaning!'
'Meaning!' cried the major: 'what meaning should it have? Why, my dear, do you think Mordaunt never kissed a woman's hand before?'
'But it was soparticular.—Well, Emma, if it should lead to consequences!'
'Consequences!' cried the major: 'my dear girl, what can you mean?'
'Why, if he shouldreally loveour Emma?'
'Why then I hope our Emma will love him.—What say you, Emma?'
'I say?—I—' she replied: 'really I never thought it possible that Colonel Mordaunt should have any thoughts of me, nor do I now;—but it is very strange that he should kiss my hand!'
The major could not help laughing at thenaivetéof this reply, and in a mutual whisper they agreed how much they wished to see their sister so happily disposed of; while Emma paced up and down her own apartment some time before she undressed herself; and after seeming to convince herself, by recollecting all Colonel Mordaunt's conduct towards her, that he could not possiblymeanany thing by his unusual adieu, she went to sleep, exclaiming, 'But it is very strange that he should kiss my hand!'
The next morning explained the mystery: for breakfast was scarcely over, when Colonel Mordaunt appeared; and his presence occasioned a blush, from different causes, on the cheeks of all the ladies, and a smile on the countenances of both the gentlemen.
'You left us very abruptly last night,' said Major Douglas.
'I did so,' replied Mordaunt with a sort of grave smile.
'Were you taken ill?' asked Maynard.
'I—I was not quite easy,' answered he: 'but, Miss Douglas, may I request the honour of seeing you alone for a few minutes?'
Again the ladies blushed, and the gentlemen smiled. But Emma's weakness had been temporary: she had convinced herself that Colonel Mordaunt's action had been nothing more than a tribute to what he fancied her generous defence of an unfortunate woman: and with an air of embarrassed dignity she gave him her hand to lead her into an adjoining apartment.
'This is very good of you,' cried Colonel Mordaunt: 'but you are all goodness!—My dear Miss Douglas, had I not gone away as I did last night, I believe I should have fallen down and worshipped you, or committed some other extravagance.'
'Indeed!—What could I say to excite such enthusiasm!' replied Emma deeply blushing.
'What!—Oh, Miss Douglas!'—Then after a few more ohs, and other exclamations, he related to her the whole progress of his acquaintance with an attachment to Adeline, adding as he concluded, 'Now then judge what feelings you must have excited in my bosom:—yes, Miss Douglas, I reverenced you before for your own sake, I now adore you for that of my lost Adeline.'
'So!' thought Emma, 'the kiss of the hand is explained,'—and she sighed as she thought it; nor did she much like the wordreverenced: but she had ample amends for her mortification by what followed.
'Really,' cried Colonel Mordaunt, gazing very earnestly at her, 'I do not mean to flatter you, but there is something in your countenance that reminds me very strongly of Adeline.'
'Is it possible?' said Emma, her cheeks glowing and her eyes sparkling as she spoke: 'you may not mean to flatter me, but I assure you I am flattered; for I never saw any woman whom in appearance I so much wished to resemble.'
'You do resemble her indeed,' cried Colonel Mordaunt, 'and the likeness grows stronger and stronger.'
Emma blushed deeper and deeper.
'But come,' exclaimed he, 'let us go; and I will—no,youshall—relate to the party in the next room what I have been telling you, for I long to shame those d—'
'Fye!' said Emma smiling, and holding up her hand as if to stop the coming word. And she did stop it; for Colonel Mordaunt conveyed the reproving hand to his lips; and Emma said to herself, as she half frowning withdrew it, 'I am glad my brother was not present.'
Their return to the breakfast-room was welcome to every one, from different causes, as Colonel Mordaunt's motives for requesting a tête-à-tête had given rise to various conjectures. But all conjecture was soon lost in certainty: for Emma Douglas, with more than usual animation of voice and countenance, related what Colonel Mordaunt had authorized her to relate; and the envious sisters heard, with increased resentment, that Adeline, were she unmarried, would be the choice of the man whose affections they were eagerly endeavouring to captivate.
'You can't think,' said Colonel Mordaunt, when Emma had concluded, leaving him charmed with the manner in which she had told his story, and with the generous triumph which sparkled in her eyes at being able to exhibit Adeline's character in so favourable a point of view, 'you can't think how much Miss Douglas reminds me of Mrs Berrendale!'
'Lord!' said Miss Maynard with a toss of the head, 'my brother told us that she was handsome!'
'And so she is,' replied the colonel, provoked at this brutal speech: 'she has one of the finest countenances that I ever saw,—a countenance never distorted by those feelings of envy, and expressions of spite, which so often disfigure some women,—converting even a beauty into a fiend; and in this respect no one will doubt that Miss Douglas resembles her: