Chapter XIV

As soon as Adeline beheld Glenmurray, 'See!' she exclaimed in a hoarse and agitated tone, 'there is my letter to my mother, returned unopened, and here is a letter from Dr Norberry which has broken my heart:--however, we must go to England directly.'

The letter was as follows:--

'You have made a pretty fool of me, deluded but still dear
girl! for you have made me believe in forebodings. You may
remember with what a full heart I bade you adieu, and I
recollect what a devilish queer sensation I had when the
park-gates closed on your fleet carriage. I almost swore at the
postillions for driving so fast, as I wished to see you as long
as I could; and now I protest that I believe I was actuated by
a foreboding that at that house, and on that spot, I should
never behold you again. (Here a tear had fallen on the paper,
and the word, '_again_' was nearly blotted out.) Dear, lost
Adeline, I prayed for you too! I prayed that you might return
as innocent and happy as you left me. Heaven have mercy on us!
who should have thought it?--But this is nothing to the
purpose, and I suppose you think you have done nought but what
is right and clever.'

He then proceeded to inform Adeline, who had written to him to implore his mediation between her and her mother, 'that the latter had sent express for him on finding, by the hasty scrawl which came the day after Adeline's departure from the farm-house, that she had eloped, and who was the companion of her flight; that he found her in violent agitation, as Sir Patrick, stung to madness at the success of his rival, had with an ingenuousness worthy a better cause avowed to her his ardent passion for her daughter, his resolution to follow the fugitives, and by every means possible separate Adeline from her lover; and that, after having thanked Lady O'Carrol for her great generosity to him, he had taken his pistols, mounted his horse, attended by his groom also well armed, and vowed that he would never return unless accompanied by the woman whom he adored.'

'No wonder therefore,' continued the doctor, 'that I was an
unsuccessful advocate for you,--especially as I was not
inclined to manage the old bride's self-love; for I was so
provoked at her folly in marrying the handsome profligate,
that, if she had not been in distress, I never meant to see her
again. But, poor silly you! she suffers enough for her folly,
and so do you;--for, her affections and her self-love being
equally wounded by Sir Patrick's confession, you are at present
the object of her aversion. To you she attributes all the
misery of having lost the man on whom she still dotes; and when
she found from your last letter to me that you are not the wife
but the mistress of Glenmurray, (by the bye, your letter to her
from Lisbon she desires me to return unopened,) and that the
child once her pride is become her disgrace, she declared her
solemn resolution never to see you more, and to renounce you
for ever--(Terrible words, Adeline, I tremble to write them.)
But a circumstance has since occurred which gives me hopes that
she may yet forgive, and receive you on certain conditions.
About a fortnight after Sir Patrick's departure, a letter from
Ireland, directed to him in a woman's hand, arrived at the
Pavilion. Your mother opened it, and found it was from a wife
of her amiable husband, whom he had left in the north of
Ireland, and who, having heard of his second marriage, wrote to
tell him that, unless he came quickly back to her, she would
prosecute him for bigamy, as he knew very well that undoubted
proofs of the marriage were in her possession. At first this
new proof of her beautiful spouse's villany drove your mother
almost to phrensy, and I was again sent for; but time,
reflection, and perhaps my arguments, convinced her, that
to be able to free herself from this rascal for ever, and
consequently her fortune, losing only the ten thousand pounds
which she had given him to pay his debts, was in reality a
consoling circumstance. Accordingly, she wrote to the real Lady
O'Carrol, promising to accede quietly to her claim, and wishing
that she would spare her and herself the disgrace of a public
trial; especially as it must end in the conviction of Sir
Patrick. She then, on hearing from him that he had traced you
to Falmouth, and was going to embark for Lisbon when the wind
was favourable, enclosed him a copy of his wife's letter, and
bade him an eternal farewell!--But be not alarmed lest this
insane profligate should overtake and distress you. He is gone
to his final account. In his hurry to get on board, overcome as
he was with the great quantity of liquor which he had drunk to
banish care, he sprung from the boat before it was near enough
to reach the vessel; his foot slipped against the side, he fell
into the water, and, going under the ship, never rose again. I
leave you to imagine how the complicated distresses of the last
three months, and this awful climax to them, have affected your
mother's mind; even I cannot scold her, now, for the life of
me: she is not yet, I believe, disposed in your favour; but
were you here, and were you to meet, it is possible that,
forlorn, lonely, and deserted as she now feels, the tie between
you might be once more cemented; and much as I resent your
conduct, you may depend on my exertions.--O Adeline, child of
my affection, why must I blush to subscribe myself

'Your sincere friend,
'J. N.?'

Words cannot describe the feelings of anguish which this letter excited in Adeline: nor could she make known her sensations otherwise than by reiterated requests to be allowed to set off for England directly--requests to which Glenmurray, alarmed for her intellects, immediately assented. Therefore, leaving a hasty note for the Douglases, they soon bade farewell to Perpignan; and after a long laborious journey, but a short passage, they landed at Brighton.

It was a fine evening; and numbers of the gay and fashionable of both sexes were assembled on the beach, to see the passengers land. Adeline and Glenmurray were amongst the first: and while heartsick, fatigued, and melancholy, Adeline took the arm of her lover, and turned disgusted from the brilliant groups before her, she saw, walking along the shore, Dr Norberry, his wife, and his two daughters.

Instantly, unmindful of every thing but the delight of seeing old acquaintances, and of being able to gain some immediate tiding of her mother, she ran up to them: and just as they turned round, she met them, extending her hand in friendship as she was wont to do.--But in vain;--no hand was stretched out to meet hers, nor tongue nor look proclaimed a welcome to her; Dr Norberry himself coldly touched his hat, and passed on, while his wife and daughters looked scornfully at her, and, without deigning to notice her, pursued their walk.

Astonished and confounded, Adeline had not power to articulate a word; and had not Glenmurray caught her in his arms, she would have fallen to the ground.

'Then now I am indeed an outcast! even my oldest and best friend renounces me,' she exclaimed.

'But I am left to you,' cried Glenmurray.

Adeline sighed. She could not say, as she had formerly done, 'and you are all to me.' The image of her mother, happy as the wife of a man she loved, could not long rival Glenmurray; but the image of her mother, disgraced and wretched, awoke all the habitual but dormant tenderness of years; every feeling of filial gratitude revived in all its force; and, even while leaning on the shoulder of her lover, she sighed to be once more clasped to the bosom of her mother.

Glenmurray felt the change, but, though grieved, was not offended:--'I shall die in peace,' he cried, 'if I can but see you restored to your mother's affection, even though the surrender of my happiness is to be the purchase.'

'You shall die in peace!' replied Adeline shuddering. The phrase was well-timed, though perhaps undesignedly so. Adeline clung close to his arm, her eyes filled with tears, and all the way to the inn she thought only of Glenmurray with an apprehension which she could not conquer.

'What do you mean to do now?' said Glenmurray.

'Write to Dr Norberry. I think he will at least have humanity enough to let me know where to find my mother.'

'No doubt; and you had better write directly.'

Adeline took up her pen. A letter was written,--and as quickly torn. Letter succeeded to letter; but not one of them answered her wishes. The dark hour arrived, and the letter remained unwritten.

'It is too soon to ring for candles,' said Glenmurray, putting his arm round her waist and leading her to the window. The sun was below the horizon, but the reflection of his beams still shone beautifully on the surrounding objects. Adeline, reclining her cheek on Glenmurray's arm, gazed in silence on the scene before her: when the door suddenly opened, and a gentleman was announced. It was now so dark that all objects were indistinctly seen, and the gentleman had advanced close to Adeline before she knew him to be Dr Norberry: and before she could decide how she should receive him, she felt herself clasped to his bosom with the affection of a father.

Surprised and affected, she could not speak; and Glenmurray had ordered candles before Adeline had recovered herself sufficiently to say these words, 'After your conduct on the beach, I little expected this visit.'

'Pshaw!' replied the doctor: 'when a man out of regard to society has performed a painful task, surely he may be allowed, out of regard to himself, to follow the dictates of his heart.--I obeyed my head when I passed you so cavalierly, and I thought I should never have gone through my task as I did;--but then for the sake of my daughters, I gave a gulp, and called up a fierce look. But I told madam that I meant to call on you, and she insisted, very properly, that it should be in the dark hour.'

'But what of my mother?'

'She is a miserable woman, as she deserved to be--an old fool.'

'Pray do not call her so; to hear she is miserable is torment sufficient to me:--where is she?'

'Still at the Pavilion: but she is going to let Rosevalley, retire to her estate in Cumberland, and live unknown and unseen.'

'But will she not allow me to live with her?'

'What! as Mr Glenmurray's mistress? receive under her roof the seducer of her daughter?'

'Sir, I am no seducer.'

'No,' cried Adeline: 'I became the mistress of Mr Glenmurray from the dictates of my reason, not my weakness or his persuasions.'

'Humph!' replied the doctor, 'I should expect to find such reason in Moorfields: besides, had not Mr Glenmurray's books turned your head, you would not have thought it pretty and right to become the mistress of any man: so he is your seducer, after all.'

'So far I plead guilty,' replied Glenmurray; 'but whatever my opinions are, I have ever been willing to sacrifice them to the welfare of Miss Mowbray, and have, from the first moment that we were safe from pursuit, been urgent to marry her.'

'Then why are you not married?'

'Because I would not consent,' said Adeline coldly.

'Mad, certainly mad,' exclaimed the doctor: 'but you, 'faith, you are an honest fellow after all,' turning to Glenmurray and shaking him by the hand; 'weak of the head, not bad in the heart; burn your vile books, and I am your friend for ever.'

'We will discuss that point another time,' replied Glenmurray: 'at present the most interesting subject to us is the question whether Mrs Mowbray will forgive her daughter or not?'

'Why, man, if I may judge of Mrs Mowbray by myself, one condition of her forgiveness will be your marrying her daughter.'

'O blest condition!' cried Glenmurray.

'I should think,' replied Adeline coldly, 'my mother must have had too much of marriage to wish me to marry; but if she should insist on my marrying, I will comply, and on no other account.'

'Strange infatuation! To me appears only justice and duty. But your reasons, girl, your reasons?'

'They are few, but strong. Glenmurray, philanthropically bent on improving the state of society, puts forth opinions counteracting its received usages, backed by arguments which are in my opinion incontrovertible.'

'In your opinion!--Pray, child, how old are you?'

'Nineteen.'

'And at that age you set up for a reformer? Well,--go on.'

'But though it be important to the success of his opinions, and indeed to the respectability of his character, that he should act according to his precepts, he, for the sake of preserving to me the notice of persons whose narrowness of mind I despise, would conform to an institution which both he and I think unworthy of regard from a rational being.--And shall not I be as generous as he is? shall I scruple to give up for his honour and fame the petty advantages which marriage would give me? Never--his honour and fame are too dear to me; but the claims which my mother has on me are in my eyes so sacred that, for her sake, though not for my own, I would accept the sacrifice which Glenmurray offers. If, then, she says that she will never see or pardon me till I am become a wife, I will follow him to the altar directly; but till then I must insist on remaining as I am. It is necessary that I should respect the man I love; and I should not respect Glenmurray were he not capable of supporting with fortitude the consequences of his opinions; and could he, for motives less strong than those he avows, cease to act up to what he believes to be right. For, never can I respect or believe firmly in the truth of those doctrines, the followers of which shrink from a sort of martyrdom in support of them.'

'O Mr Glenmurray!' cried the doctor shaking his head, 'what have you to answer for! What a glorious champion would that creature have been in the support of truth, when even error in her looks so like to virtue!--And then the amiable disinterestedness of you both!--What a powerful thing must true love be, when it can make a speculative philosopher indifferent to the interests of his system, and ready to act in direct opposition to it, rather than injure the respectability of the woman he loves! Well, well, the Lord forgive you, young man, for having taken it into your head to set up for a great author!'

Glenmurray answered by a deep-drawn sigh; and the doctor continued: 'Then there is that girl again, with a heart so fond and true that her love comes in aid of her integrity, and makes her think no sacrifice too great, in order to prove her confidence in the wisdom of her lover,--urging her to disregard all personal inconveniences rather than let him forfeit, for her sake, his pretensions to independence and consistency of character! girl, I can't help admiring you, but no more I could a Malabar widow, who with fond and pious enthusiasm, from an idea of duty, throws herself on the funeral pile of her husband. But still I should think you a great fool, notwithstanding, for professing the opinions that led to such an exertion of duty. And now here are you, possessed of every quality both of head and heart to bless others and to bless yourself--owing to your foolish and pernicious opinions;--here you are, I say blasted in reputation in the prime of your days, and doomed perhaps to pine through existence in--Pshaw! I can't support the idea!' added he, gulping down a sob as he spoke, and traversing the room in great emotion.

Adeline and Glenmurray were both of them deeply and painfully affected; and the latter was going to express what he felt, when the doctor seizing Adeline's hand, affectionately exclaimed, 'Well, my poor child! I will see your mother once more; I will go to London tomorrow--by this time she is there--and you had better follow me; you will hear of me at the Old Hummums; and here is a card of address to an hotel near it, where I would advise you to take up your abode.'

So saying he shook Glenmurray by the hand; when, starting back, he exclaimed 'Why, man! here is a skin like fire, and a pulse like lightning. My dear fellow, you must take care of yourself.'

Adeline burst into tears.

'Indeed, doctor, I am only nervous.'

'Nervous!--What, I suppose you think you understand my profession better than I do. But don't cry, my child: when your mind is easier, perhaps, he will do very well; and, as one thing likely to give him immediate ease, I prescribe a visit to the altar of the next parish church.'

So saying he departed; and all other considerations were again swallowed up in Adeline's mind by the idea of Glenmurray's danger.

'Is it possible that my marrying you would have such a blessed effect on your health?' cried Adeline after a pause.

'It certainly would make my mind easier than it now is,' replied he.

'If I thought so,' said Adeline: 'but no--regard for my supposed interest merely makes you say so; and indeed I should not think so well of you as I now do, if I imagined that you could be made easy by an action by which you forfeited all pretensions to that consistency of character so requisite to the true dignity of a philosopher.'

A deep sigh from Glenmurray, in answer, proved that he was no philosopher.

In the morning the lovers set off for London, Dr Norberry having preceded them by a few hours. This blunt but benevolent man had returned the evening before slowly and pensively to his lodgings, his heart full of pity for the errors of the well-meaning enthusiasts whom he had left, and his head full of plans for their assistance, or rather for that of Adeline. But he entered his own doors again reluctantly--he knew but too well that no sympathy with his feelings awaited him there. His wife, a woman of narrow capacity and no talents or accomplishments, had, like all women of that sort, a great aversion to those of her sex who united to feminine graces and gentleness, the charms of a cultivated understanding and pretensions to accomplishments or literature.

Of Mrs Mowbray, as we have before observed, she had always been peculiarly jealous, because Dr Norberry spoke of her knowledge with wonder, and of her understanding with admiration; not that he entertained one moment a feeling of preference towards her, inconsistent with an almost idolatrous love of his wife, whose skill in all the domestic duties, and whose very pretty face and person, were the daily themes of his praise. But Mrs Norberry wished to engross all his panegyrics to herself, and she never failed to expatiate on Mrs Mowbray's foibles and flightiness as long as the doctor had expatiated on her charms.

Sometimes, indeed, this last subject was sooner exhausted than the one which she had chosen; but when Adeline grew up, and became as it were the rival of her daughters in the praises of her husband, she found it difficult as we have said before, to bring faults in array against excellencies.

Mrs Norberry could with propriety observe, when the doctor, was exclaiming, 'What a charming essay Mrs Mowbray has just written!'

'Aye,--but I dare say she can't write a market bill.'

When he said, 'How well she comprehends the component parts of the animal system!'

She could with great justice reply, 'But she knows nothing of the component parts of a plum pudding.'

But when Adeline became the object of the husband's admiration and the wife's enmity, Mrs Norberry could not make these pertinent remarks, as Adeline was as conversant with all branches of housewifery as herself; and, though as learned in all systems as her mother, was equally learned in the component parts of puddings and pies. She was therefore at a loss what to say when Adeline was praised by the doctor; and all she could observe on the occasion was, that the girl might be clever, but was certainly very ugly, very affected, and very conceited.

It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that Mrs Mowbray's degrading and unhappy marriage, and Adeline's elopement, should have been sources of triumph to Mrs Norberry and her daughters; who, though they liked Mrs Mowbray very well, could not bear Adeline.

'So Dr Norberry, these are your uncommon folks!'--exclaimed Mrs Norberry on hearing of the marriage and of the subsequent elopement;--'I suppose you are now well satisfied at not having a genius for your wife, or geniuses for your daughters?'

'I always was, my dear,' meekly replied the mortified and afflicted doctor, and dropped the subject as soon as possible; nor had it been resumed for some time when Adeline accosted them on the beach at Brighton. But her appearance called forth their dormant enmity; and the whole way to their lodgings the good doctor heard her guilt expatiated upon with as much violence as ever: but just as they got home he coldly and firmly observed, 'I shall certainly call on the poor deluded girl this evening.'

And Mrs Norberry, knowing by the tone and manner in which he spoke, that this was a point which he would not give up, contented herself with requiring only that he should go in the dark hour.