Chapter XVII (2)

Glenmurray grew rapidly worse;--and their landlord was clamorous for his rent;--advice from London also became necessary to quiet Adeline's mind,--though Glenmurray knew that he was past cure: and after she had paid a small sum to quiet the demands of the landlord for a while, she had scarcely enough left to pay a physician: however, she sent for one recommended by Dr Norberry, and by selling a writing-desk inlaid with silver, which she valued because it was the gift of her father, she raised money sufficient for the occasion.

Dr. ---- arrived, but not to speak peace to the mind of Adeline. She saw, though he did not absolutely say so, that all chance of Glenmurray's recovery was over: and though with the sanguine feelings of nineteen she could 'hope though hope were lost,' when she watched Dr. ----'s countenance as he turned from the bed-side of Glenmurray, she felt the coldness of despair thrill through her frame; and, scarcely able to stand, she followed him into the next room, and awaited his orders with a sort of desperate tranquillity.

After prescribing alleviations of the ill beyond his power to cure, Dr. ---- added that terrible confirmation of the fears of anxious affection. 'Let him have whatever he likes; nothing can hurt him now; and all your endeavours must be to make the remaining hours of his existence as comfortable as you can, by every indulgence possible: and indeed, my dear madam,' he continued, 'you must be prepared for the trial that awaits you.'

'Prepared! did you say?' cried Adeline in the broken voice of tearless and almost phrensied sorrow. 'O God! if he must die, in mercy let me die with him. If I have sinned,' (here she fell on her knees,) 'surely, surely, the agony of this moment is atonement sufficient.'

Dr. ----, greatly affected, raised her from the ground, and conjured her for the sake of Glenmurray, and that she might not make his last hours miserable, to bear her trial with more fortitude.

'And can you talk of his "last hours" and yet expect me to be composed?--O sir! say but there is one little little gleam of hope for me, and I will be calm.'

'Well,' replied Dr. ----, 'I _may_ be mistaken; Mr Glenmurray is young, and--and--' here his voice faltered, and he was unable to proceed; for the expression of Adeline's countenance, changing as it instantly did from misery to joy,--joy of which he knew the fallacy,--while her eyes were intently fixed on him, was too much for a man of any feeling to support; and when she pressed his hand in the convulsive emotions of her gratitude, he was forced to turn away his head to conceal the starting tear.

'Well, I may be mistaken--Mr Glenmurray is young,' Adeline repeated again and again, as his carriage drove off; and she flew to Glenmurray's bed-side to impart to him the satisfaction which he rejoiced to see her feel, but in which he could not share.

Her recovered security did not, however, last long; the change in Glenmurray grew every day more visible; and to increase her distress, they were forced, to avoid disagreeable altercations, to give the landlord a draft on Mr Berrendale for the sum due to him, and remove to very humble lodgings in a closer part of the town.

Here their misery was a little alleviated by the unexpected receipt of twenty pounds, sent to Glenmurray by a tenant who was in arrears to him, which enabled Adeline to procure Glenmurray every thing that his capricious appetite required; and at his earnest entreaty, in order that she might sometimes venture to leave him, lest her health should suffer, she hired a nurse to assist her in her attendance upon him.

A hasty letter too was at length received from Mr Berrendale, saying, that he should very soon be in England, and should hasten to Richmond immediately on his landing. The terror of wanting money, therefore, began to subside; but day after day elapsed, and Mr Berrendale came not; and Adeline, being obliged to deny herself almost necessary sustenance that Glenmurray's appetite might be tempted, and his nurse, by the indulgence of hers, kept in good humour, resolved, presuming on the arrival of Mr Berrendale, to write to Dr Norberry and solicit the loan of twenty pounds.

Having done so, she ceased to be alarmed, though she found herself in possession of only three guineas to defray the probable expenses of the ensuing week; and in somewhat less misery than usual, she, at the earnest entreaty of Glenmurray, set out to take a walk.

Scarcely conscious what she did, she strolled through the town, and seeing some fine grapes at the window of a fruiterer, she went in to ask the price of them, knowing how welcome fruit was to the feverish palate of Glenmurray. While the shopman was weighing the grapes, she saw a pine-apple on the counter, and felt a strong wish to carry it home as a more welcome present; but with unspeakable disappointment she heard that the price of it was two guineas--a sum which she could not think herself justified in expending, in the present state of their finances, even to please Glenmurray, especially as he had not expressed a wish for such an indulgence; besides, he liked grapes; and, as medicine, neither of them could be effectual.

It was fortunate for Adeline's feelings that she had not overheard what the mistress of the shop said to her maid as she left it.

'I should have asked another person only a guinea; but as those sort of women never mind what they give, I asked two, and I dare say she will come back for it.'

'I have brought you some grapes,' cried Adeline as she entered Glenmurray's chamber, 'and I would have brought you a pine-apple, but that it was too dear.'

'A pine-apple!' said Glenmurray, languidly turning over the grapes, and with a sort of distaste putting one of them in his mouth, 'a pine-apple!--I wish you had brought it with all my heart! I protest that I feel as if I could eat a whole one.'

'Well,' replied Adeline, 'if you would enjoy it so much, you certainly ought to have it.'

'But the price, my dear girl!--what was it?'

'Only two guineas,' replied Adeline, forcing a smile.

'Two guineas!' exclaimed Glenmurray: 'No,--that is too much to give--I will not indulge my appetite at such a rate--but, take away the grapes--I can't eat them.'

Adeline, disappointed, removed them from his sight; and, to increase her vexation, Glenmurray was continually talking of pine-apples, and in that way that showed how strongly his diseased appetite wished to enjoy the gratification of eating one. At last, unable to bear to see him struggling with an ungratified wish, she told him that she believed they could afford to buy the pine-apple, as she had written to borrow some money of Dr Norberry, to be paid as soon as Mr Berrendale arrived. In a moment the dull eye of Glenmurray lighted up with expectation; and he, who in health was remarkable for self-denial and temperance, scrupled not, overcome by the influence of the fever which consumed him, to gratify his palate at a rate the most extravagant.

Adeline sighed as she contemplated this change effected by illness; and, promising to be back as soon as possible, she proceeded to a shop to dispose of her lace veil, the only ornament which she had retained; and that not from vanity, but because it concealed from the eye of curiosity the sorrow marked on her countenance. But she knew a piece of muslin would do as well; and for two guineas sold a veil worth treble that sum; but it was to give a minute's pleasure to Glenmurray, and that was enough for Adeline.

On her way to the fruiterer's she saw a crowd at the door of a mean-looking house, and in the midst of it she beheld a mulatto woman, the picture of sickness and despair, supporting a young man who seemed ready to faint every moment, but whom a rough-featured man, regardless of his weakness, was trying to force from the grasp of the unhappy woman; while a mulatto boy, known in Richmond by the name of the Tawny Boy, to whom Adeline had often given halfpence in her walks, was crying bitterly, and hiding his face in the poor woman's apron.

Adeline immediately pressed forward to inquire into the cause of a distress only too congenial to her feelings; and as she did so, the tawny boy looked up, and, knowing her immediately, ran eagerly forward to meet her, seeming, though he did not speak, to associate with her presence an idea of certain relief.

'Oh! it is only a poor man,' replied an old woman in answer to Adeline's inquiries, 'who can't pay his debts,--and so they are dragging him to prison--that's all.' 'They are dragging him to his death too,' cried a younger woman in a gentle accent; 'for he is only just recovering from a bad fever: and if he goes to jail the bad air will certainly kill him, poor soul!'

'Is that his wife?' said Adeline. 'Yes, and my mammy,' said the tawny boy, looking up in her face, 'and she so ill and sorry.'

'Yes, unhappy creatures,' replied her informant, 'and they have known great trouble; and now, just as they had got a little money together, William fell ill, and in doctor's stuff Savanna (that's the mulatto's name) has spent all the money she had earned, as well as her husband's; and now she is ill herself, and I am sure William's going to jail will kill her. And a hard-hearted, wicked wretch Mr Davis is, to arrest him--that he is--not but what it is his due, I cannot say but it is--but, poor souls! he'll die, and she'll die, and then what will become of their poor little boy?'

The tawny boy all this time was standing, crying, by Adeline's side, and had twisted his fingers in her gown, while her heart sympathized most painfully in the anguish of the mulatto woman. 'What is the amount of the sum for which he is taken up?' said Adeline.

'Oh! trifling: but Mr Davis owes him a grudge, and so will not wait any longer. It is in all only ten pounds; and he says if they will pay part he will wait for the rest; but then he knows they could as well pay all as part.'

Adeline, shocked at the knowledge of a distress which she was not able to remove, was turning away as the woman said this, when she felt that the little boy pulled her gown gently, as if appealing to her generosity; while a surly-looking man, who was the creditor himself, forcing a passage through the crowd, said, 'Why, bring him along, and have done with it; here is a fuss to make indeed about that idle dog, and that ugly black toad!'

Adeline till then had not recollected that she was a mulatto; and this speech, reflecting so brutally on her colour,--a circumstance which made her an object of greater interest to Adeline,--urged her to step forward to their joint relief with an almost irresistible impulse; especially when another man reproached the fellow for his brutality, and added, that he knew them both to be hard-working, deserving persons. But to disappoint Glenmurray of his promised pleasure was impossible; and having put sixpence in the tawny boy's hand, she was hastening to the fruiterer's, when the crowd, who were following William and the mulatto to the jail, whither the bailiffs were dragging rather than leading him, fell back to give air to the poor man, who had fainted on Savanna's shoulder, and seemed on the point of expiring--while she, with an expression of fixed despair, was gazing on his wan cheek.

Adeline thought on Glenmurray's danger, and shuddered as she beheld the scene; she felt it but a too probable anticipation of the one in which she might soon be an actor.

At this moment a man observed, 'If he goes to prison he will not live two days, that every one may see;' and the mulatto uttered a shriek of agony.

Adeline felt it to her very soul; and, rushing forward, 'Sir, sir,' she exclaimed to the unfeeling creditor, 'if I were to give you a guinea now, and promise you two more a fortnight hence, would you release this poor man for the present?'

'No: I must have three guineas this moment,' replied he. Adeline sighed, and withdrew her hand from her pocket. 'But were Glenmurray here, he would give up his indulgence, I am sure, to save the lives of, probably two fellow-creatures,' thought Adeline: 'and he would not forgive me if I were to sacrifice such an opportunity to the sole gratification of his palate.'--But then again, Glenmurray eagerly expecting her with the promised treat, so gratifying to the feverish taste of sickness, seemed to appear before her, and she turned away; but the eyes of the mulatto, who had heard her words, and had hung on them breathless with expectation, followed her with a look of such sad reproach for the disappointment which she had occasioned her, and the little boy looked up so wistfully in her face, crying, 'Poor fader, and poor mammy!' that Adeline could not withstand the force of the appeal; but almost exclaiming 'Glenmurray would upbraid me if I did not act thus,' she gave the creditor the three guineas, paid the bailiffs their demand, and then made her way through the crowd, who respectfully drew back to give her room to pass, saying, 'God bless you, lady! God bless you!'

But William was too ill, and Savanna felt too much to speak; and the surly creditor said, sneeringly, 'If I had been you, I would, at least, have thanked the lady.' This reproach restored Savanna to the use of speech; and (but with a violent effort) she uttered in a hoarse and broken voice, '_I_ tank her! God tank her! I never can:' and Adeline, kindly pressing her hand, hurried away from her in silence, though scarcely able to refrain exclaiming, 'you know not the sacrifice which you have cost me!' The tawny boy still followed her, as loath to leave her. 'God bless you, my dear!' said she kindly to him: 'there, go to your mother, and be good to her.' His dark face glowed as she spoke to him, and holding up his chin, 'Tiss me!' cried he, 'poor tawny boy love you!' She did so; and then reluctantly, he left her, nodding his head, and saying, 'Dood bye' till he was out of sight.

With him, and with the display of his grateful joy, vanished all that could give Adeline resolution to bear her own reflections at the idea of returning home, and of the trial that awaited her. In vain did she now try to believe that Glenmurray would applaud what she had done.--He was now the slave of disease, nor was it likely that even his self-denial and principle benevolence could endure with patience so cruel a disappointment--and from the woman whom he loved too!--and to whom the indulgence of his slightest wishes ought to have been the first object.

'What shall I do?' cried she: 'what will he say?--No doubt he is impatiently expecting me; and, in his weak state, disappointment may--' Here, unable to hear her apprehensions, she wrung her hands in agony; and when she arrived in sight of her lodgings she dared not look up, lest she should see Glenmurray at the window watching for her return. Slowly and fearfully did she open the door; and the first sound she heard was Glenmurray's voice from the door of his room, saying, 'So, you are come at last!--I have been so impatient!' And indeed he had risen and dressed himself, that he might enjoy his treat more than he could do in a sick-bed.

'How can I bear to look him in the face!' thought Adeline, lingering on the stairs.

'Adeline, my love! why do you make me wait so long?' cried Glenmurray. 'Here are knives and plates ready; where is the treat I have been so long expecting?'

Adeline entered the room and threw herself on the first chair, avoiding the sight of Glenmurray, whose countenance, as she hastily glanced her eyes over it, was animated with the expectation of a pleasure which he was not to enjoy. 'I have not brought the pine-apple,' she faintly articulated. 'No!' replied Glenmurray, 'how hard upon me!--the only thing for weeks that I have wished for, or could have eaten with pleasure! I suppose you were so long going that it was disposed of before you got there?'

'No,' replied Adeline, struggling with her tears at this first instance of pettishness in Glenmurray.

'Pardon me the supposition,' replied Glenmurray, recovering himself: 'more likely you met some dun on the road, and so the two guineas were disposed of another way--If so, I can't blame you. What say you? Am I right?'

'No.' 'Then how was it?' gravely asked Glenmurray. 'You must have had a very powerful and a sufficient reason, to induce you to disappoint a poor invalid of the indulgence which you had yourself excited him to wish for.'

'This is terrible, indeed!' thought Adeline, 'and never was I so tempted to tell a falsehood.'

'Still silent! You are very unkind, Miss Mowbray,' said Glenmurray; 'I see that I have tired even _you_ out.'

These words, by the agony which they excited, restored to Adeline all her resolution. She ran to Glenmurray; she clasped his burning hands in hers; and as succinctly as possible she related what had passed. When she had finished, Glenmurray was silent; the fretfulness of disease prompted him to say, 'So then, to the relief of strangers you sacrificed the gratification of the man whom you love, and deprived him of the only pleasure he may live to enjoy!' But the habitual sweetness and generosity of his temper struggled, and struggled effectually, with his malady; and while Adeline, pale and trembling, awaited her sentence, he caught her suddenly to his bosom, and held her there a few moments in silence.

'Then you forgive me?' faltered out Adeline.

'Forgive you! I love and admire you more than ever! I know your heart, Adeline; and I am convinced that depriving yourself of the delight of giving me the promised treat, in order to do a benevolent action, was an effort of virtue of the highest order; and never, I trust, have you known, or will you know again, such bitter feelings as you this moment experienced.'

Adeline, gratified by his generous kindness, and charmed with his praise, could only weep her thanks. 'And now,' said Glenmurray, laughing, 'you may bring back the grapes--I am not like Sterne's dear Jenny; if I cannot get pine-apple, I will not insist on eating crab.'

The grapes were brought; but in vain did he try to eat them. At this time, however, he did not send them away without highly commending their flavour, and wishing that he dared give way to his inclinations, and feast upon them.

'O God of mercy!' cried Adeline, bursting into an agony of grief as she reached her own apartment, and throwing herself on her knees by the bed-side, 'Must that benevolent being be taken from me for ever, and must I, must I survive him!'

She continued for some minutes in this attitude, and with her heart devoutly raised to heaven; till every feeling yielded to resignation, and she arose calm, if not contented; when, on turning round, she saw Glenmurray leaning against the door, and gazing on her.

'Sweet enthusiast!' cried he smiling: 'so, thus, when you are distressed, you seek consolation.'

'I do,' she replied: 'Sceptic, wouldst thou wish to deprive me of it?'

'No, by heaven!' warmly exclaimed Glenmurray; and the evening passed more cheerfully than usual.

The next post brought a letter, not from Dr. Norberry, but from his wife; it was as follows, and contained three pound-notes:--

'Mrs Norberry's compliments to Miss Mowbray, having opened her
letter, poor Dr Norberry being dangerously ill of a fever, find
her distress; of which shall not inform the doctor, as he feels
so much for his friend's misfortunes, specially when brought on
by misconduct. But, out of respect for your mother, who is a
good sort of woman, though rather particular, as all learned
ladies are, have sent three pound-notes; the Miss Norberrys
giving one a-piece, not to lend, but a gift, and they join Mrs
Norberry in hoping Miss Mowbray will soon see the error of her
ways; and, if so be, no doubt Dr Norberry will use his interest
to get her into the Magdalen.'

This curious epistle would have excited in Glenmurray and Adeline no other feelings save those of contempt, but for the information it contained of the doctor's being dangerously ill; and, in fear for the worthy husband, they forgot the impertinence of the wife and daughters.

The next day, fortunately, Mr Berrendale arrived, and with him the three hundred pounds. Consequently, all Glenmurray's debts were discharged, better lodgings procured, and the three pound-notes returned in a blank cover to Mrs Norberry. Charles Berrendale was first-cousin to Glenmurray, and so like him in face, that they were, at first, mistaken for brothers: but to a physiognomist they must always have been unlike; as Glenmurray was remarkable for the character and expression of his countenance, and Berrendale for the extreme beauty of his features and complexion. Glenmurray was pale and thin, and his eyes and hair dark. Berrendale's eyes were of a light blue; and though his eye-lashes were black, his hair was of a rich auburn; Glenmurray was thin and muscular; Berrendale, round and corpulent: still they were alike; and it was not ill observed of them, that Berrendale was Glenmurray in good health.

But Berrendale could not be flattered by the resemblance, as his face and person were so truly what is called handsome, that, partial as our sex is said to be to beauty, any woman would have been excused for falling in love with him. Whether his mind was equal to his person we shall show hereafter.

The meeting between Berrendale and Glenmurray was affectionate on both sides; but Berrendale could scarcely hide the pain he felt on seeing the situation of Glenmurray, whose virtues he had always loved, whose talents he had always respected, and to whose active friendship towards himself he owed eternal gratitude.

But he soon learnt to think Glenmurray, in one respect, an object of envy, when he beheld the constant, skilful, and tender attentions of his nurse, and saw in that nurse every gift of heart, mind, and person, which could make a woman amiable.

Berrendale had heard that his eccentric cousin was living with a girl as odd as himself; who thought herself a genius, and pretended to universal knowledge; great then was his astonishment to find this imagined pedant, and pretender, not only an adept in every useful and feminine pursuit, but modest in her demeanour, and gentle in her manners: little did he expect to see her capable of serving the table of Glenmurray with dishes made by herself, not only tempting to the now craving appetite of the invalid but to the palate of an epicure,--while all his wants were anticipated by her anxious attention, and many of the sufferings of sickness alleviated by her inventive care.

Adeline, meanwhile, was agreeably surprised to see the good effect produced on Glenmurray's spirits, and even his health, by the arrival of his cousin; and her manner became even affectionate to Berrendale, from gratitude for the change which his presence seemed to have occasioned.

Adeline had now a companion in her occasional walks;--Glenmurray insisted on her walking, and insisted on Berrendale's accompanying her. In these tete-a-tetes Adeline unburthened her heart, by telling Berrendale of the agony she felt at the idea of losing Glenmurray; and while drowned in tears she leaned on his arm, she unconsciously suffered him to press the hand that leaned against him; nor would she have felt it a freedom to be reproved, had she been conscious that he did so. But these trifling indulgences were fuel to the flame that she had kindled in the heart of Berrendale; a flame which he saw no guilt in indulging, as he looked on Glenmurray's death as certain, and Adeline would then be free.

But though Adeline was perfectly unconscious of his attachment, Glenmurray had seen it even before Berrendale himself discovered it; and he only waited a favourable opportunity to make the discovery known to the parties. All he had as yet ventured to say was, 'Charles, my Adeline is an excellent nurse!--You would like such as one during your fits of the gout;' and Berrendale had blushed deeply while he assented to Glenmurray's remarks, because he was conscious that, while enumerating Adeline's perfections, he had figured her to himself warming his flannels, and leaning tenderly over his gouty couch.

One day, while Adeline was reading to Glenmurray, and Berrendale was attending not to what she read, but to the beauty of her mouth while reading, the nurse came in, and said that 'a mulatto woman wished to speak to Miss Mowbray.'

'Show her up,' immediately cried Glenmurray; 'and if her little boy is with her, let him come too.'

In vain did Adeline expostulate--Glenmurray wished to enjoy the mulatto's expressions of gratitude; and, in spite of all she could say, the mother and child were introduced.

'So!' cried the mulatto, (whose looks were so improved that Adeline scarcely knew her again,) 'So! me find you at last; and, please God! we not soon part more.' As she said this, she pressed the hem of Adeline's gown to her lips with fervent emotion.

'Not part from her again!' cried Glenmurray, 'What do you mean, my good woman?'

'Oh! when she gave tree guinea for me, me tought she mus be rich lady, but now dey say she be poor, and me mus work for her.'

'And who told you I was poor?'

'Dat cross man where you live once--he say you could not pay him, and you go away--and he tell me that your love be ill; and me so sorry, yet so glad! for my love be well aden, and he have good employ; and now I can come and serve you, and nurse dis poor gentleman, and all for nothing but my meat and drink; and I know dat great fat nurse have gold wages, and eat and drink fat beside,--I knowd her well.'

All this was uttered with volubility, and in a tone between laughing and crying.

'Well, Adeline,' said Glenmurray when she had ended, 'you did not throw away your kindness on an unworthy and ungrateful object; so I am quite reconciled to the loss of the pine-apple; and I will tell your honest friend here the story,--to show her, as she has a tender heart herself, the greatness of the sacrifice you made for her sake.'

Adeline begged him to desist; but he went on; and the mulatto could not keep herself quiet on the chair while he related the circumstance.

'And did she do dat to save me?' she passionately exclaimed: 'Angel woman! I should have let poor man go to prison, before disappoint my William!'

'And did you forgive her immediately?' said Berrendale.

'Yes, certainly.'

'Well, that was heroic too,' returned he.

'And no one but Glenmurray would have been so heroic, I believe,' said Adeline.

'But, lady, you break my heart,' cried the mulatto, 'if you not take my service. Mr William and me, too poor to live togedder of some year perhaps. Here, child, tawny boy, down on knees, and vow wid me to be faithful and grateful to this our mistress, till our last day; and never to forsake her in sickness or in sorrow! I swear dis to my great God:--and now say dat after me.' She then clasped the little boy's hands, bade him raise his eyes to heaven, and made him repeat what she had said, ending it with 'I swear dis, to my great God.'

There was such an affecting solemnity in this action, and in the mulatto such a determined enthusiasm of manner incapable of being controlled, that Adeline, Glenmurray, and Berrendale observed what passed in respectful silence: and when it was over, Glenmurray said, in a voice of emotion, 'I think, Adeline, we must accept this good creature's offer; and as nurse grows lazy and saucy, we had better part with her: and as for your young knight there,' (the tawny boy had by this time nestled himself close to Adeline, who, with no small emotion, was playing with his woolly curls,) 'we must send him to school; for, my good woman, we are not so poor as you imagine.'

'God be thanked!' cried the mulatto.

'But what is your name?'

'I was christened Savanna,' replied she.

'Then, good Savanna,' cried Adeline, 'I hope we shall both have reason to bless the day when first we met; and to-morrow you shall come home to us.' Savanna, on hearing this, almost screamed with joy, and as she took her leave Berrendale slipped a guinea into her hand: the tawny boy meanwhile slowly followed his mother, as if unwilling to leave Adeline, even though she gave him halfpence to spend in cakes: but on being told that she would let him come again the next day, he tripped gaily down after Savanna.

The quiet of the chamber being then restored, Glenmurray fell into a calm slumber. Adeline took up her work; and Berrendale, pretending to read, continued to feed his passion by gazing on the unconscious Adeline.

While they were thus engaged, Glenmurray, unobserved, awoke; and he soon guessed how Berrendale's eyes were employed, as the book which he held in his hand was upside down; and through the fingers of the hand which he held before his face, he saw his looks fixed on Adeline.

The moment was a favourable one for Glenmurray's purpose: and just as he raised himself from his pillow, Adeline had discovered the earnest gaze of Berrendale; and a suspicion of the truth that instant darting across her mind, disconcerted and blushing, she had cast her eyes on the ground.

'That is an interesting study which you are engaged in, Charles,' cried Glenmurray smiling.

Berrendale started; and, deeply blushing, faltered out, 'Yes.'

Adeline looked at Glenmurray, and seeing a very arch and meaning expression on his countenance, suspected that he had made the same discovery as herself: yet, if so, she wondered at his looking so pleasantly on Berrendale as he spoke.

'It is a book, Charles,' continued Glenmurray, 'which the more you study the more you will admire; and I wish to give you a clue to understand some passages in it better than you can now do.'

This speech deceived Adeline, and made her suppose that Glenmurray really alluded to the book which lay before Berrendale: but it convinced _him_ that Glenmurray spoke metaphorically; and as his manner was kind, it also made him think that he saw and did not disapprove his attachment.

For a few minutes, each of them being engrossed in different contemplations, there was a complete silence; but Glenmurray interrupted it by saying, 'My dear Adeline, it is your hour for walking; but, as I am not disposed to sleep again, will you forgive me if I keep your walking companion to myself to-day?--I wish to converse with him alone.'

'Oh! most cheerfully,' she replied with quickness: 'you know I love a solitary ramble of all things.'

'Not very flattering that to my cousin,' observed Glenmurray.

'I did not wish to flatter him,' said Adeline gravely; and Berrendale, fluttered at the idea of the coming conversation with Glenmurray, and mortified by Adeline's words and manner, turned to the window to conceal his emotion.

Adeline, then, with more than usual tenderness, conjured Glenmurray not to talk too much, nor do anything to destroy the hopes on which her only chance of happiness depended, viz. the now possible chance of his recovery, and then set out for her walk; while, with a restraint and coldness which she could not conquer, she bade Berrendale farewell for the present.

The walk was long, and her thoughts perturbed:--'What could Glenmurray want to say to Mr Berrendale?'--'Why did Mr Berrendale sit with his eyes so intently and clandestinely, as it were, fixed on me?' were thoughts perpetually recurring to her: and half impatient, and half reluctant, she at length returned to her lodgings.

When she entered the apartment, she saw signs of great emotion in the countenance of both the gentlemen; and in Berrendale's eyes the traces of recent tears. The tone of Glenmurray's voice too, when he addressed her, was even more tender than usual, and Berrendale's attentions more marked, yet more respectful; and Adeline observed that Glenmurray was unusually thoughtful and absent, and that the cough and other symptoms of his complaint were more troublesome than ever.

'I see you have exerted yourself and talked too much during my absence,' cried Adeline, 'and I will never leave you again for so long a time.'

'You never shall,' said Glenmurray. 'I must leave _you_ for so long a time at last, that I will be blessed with the sight of you as long as I can.'

Adeline whose hopes had been considerably revived during the last few days, looked mournfully and reproachfully in his face as he uttered these words.

'It is even so, my dearest girl,' continued Glenmurray, 'and I say this to guard you against a melancholy surprise:--I wish to prepare you for an event which to me seems unavoidable.'

'Prepare me!' exclaimed Adeline wildly. 'Can there be any preparation to enable one to bear such a calamity? Absurd idea! However, I shall derive consolation from the severity of the stroke: I feel that I shall not be able to survive it.' So saying, her head fell on Glenmurray's pillow; and for some time, her sorrow almost suspended the consciousness of suffering.

From this state she was aroused by Glenmurray's being attacked with a violent paroxysm of his complaint, and all selfish distress was lost in the consciousness of his sufferings: again he struggled through, and seemed so relieved by the effort, that again Adeline's hopes revived; and she could scarcely return, with temper, Berrendale's 'good night,' when Glenmurray expressed a wish to rest, because his spirits had not risen in any proportion to hers.

The nurse had been dismissed that afternoon; and Adeline, as Savanna was not to come home till the next morning, was to sit up alone with Glenmurray that night; and, contrary to his usual custom, he did not insist that she should have a companion.

For a few hours his exhausted frame was recruited by a sleep more than usually quiet, and but for a few hours only. He then became restless, and so wakeful and disturbed, that he professed to Adeline an utter inability to sleep, and therefore he wished to pass the rest of the night in serious conversation with her.

Adeline, alarmed at this intention, conjured him not to irritate his complaint by so dangerous an exertion.

'My mind will irritate it more,' replied he, 'if I refrain from it; for it is burthened, my Adeline, and it longs to throw off its burthen. Now, then, ere my senses wander, hear what I wish to communicate to you, and interrupt me as little as possible.'

Adeline, oppressed and awed beyond measure at the unusual solemnity of his manner, made no answer; but, leaning her cheek on his hand, awaited his communication in silence.

'I think,' said Glenmurray, 'I shall begin with telling you Berrendale's history; it is proper that you should know all that concerns him.'

Adeline raising her head, replied hastily,--'Not to satisfy any curiosity of mine; for I feel none, I assure you.'

'Well, then,' returned Glenmurray, sighing, 'to please me, be it.--Berrendale is the son of my mother's sister, by a merchant of the neighbourhood of the 'Change, who hurt the family pride so much by marrying a tradesman, that I am the only one of the clan who has noticed her since. He ran away, about four years ago, with the only child of a rich West Indian from a boarding-school. The consequence was, that her father renounced her; but, when, three years ago, she died in giving birth to a son, the unhappy parent repented of his displeasure, and offered to allow Berrendale, who from the bankruptcy and sudden death of both his parents had been left destitute, an annuity of 300_l._ for life, provided he would send the child over to Jamaica, and allow him to have all the care of his education. To this Berrendale consented.'

'Reluctantly, I hope,' said Adeline, 'and merely out of pity for the feelings of the childless father.'

'I hope so too,' continued Glenmurray; 'for I do not think the chance of inheriting all his grandfather's property a sufficient reason to lead him to give up to another, and in a foreign land too, the society and education of his child: but, whatever were his reasons, Berrendale acceded to the request, and the infant was sent to Jamaica; and ever since the 300_l._ has been regularly remitted to him: besides that, he has recovered two thousand and odd hundred pounds from the wreck of his father's property; and with economy, and had he a good wife to manage his affairs for him, Berrendale might live very comfortably.'

'My dear Glenmurray,' cried Adeline impatiently, 'what is this to me? and why do you weary yourself to tell me particulars so little interesting to me?'

Glenmurray bade her have patience, and continued thus: 'And now, Adeline,' (here his voice evidently faltered,) 'I must open my whole heart to you, and confess that the idea of leaving you friendless, unprotected, and poor, your reputation injured, and your peace of mind destroyed, is more than I am able to bear, and will give me, in my last moments, the torments of the damned.' Here a violent burst of tears interrupted him; and Adeline, overcome with emotion and surprise at the sight of the agitation which his own sufferings could never occasion in him, hung over him in speechless woe.

'Besides,' continued Glenmurray, recovering himself a little, 'I--O Adeline!' seizing her cold hand, 'can you forgive me for having been the means of blasting all your fair fame and prospects in life?'

'For the sake of justice, if not of mercy,' exclaimed Adeline, 'forbear thus cruelly to accuse yourself. You know that from my own free, unbiassed choice I gave myself to you, and in compliance with my own principles.'

'But who taught you those principles?--who led you to a train of reasoning, so alluring in theory, so pernicious in practice? Had not I, with the heedless vanity of youth, given to the world the crude conceptions of four-and-twenty, you might at this moment have been the idol of a respectable society; and I, equally respected, have been the husband of your heart; while happiness would perhaps have kept the fatal disease at bay, of which anxiety has facilitated the approach.'

He was going on: but Adeline, who had till now struggled successfully with her feelings, wound up almost to phrensy at the possibility that anxiety had shortened Glenmurray's life, gave way to a violent paroxysm of sorrow, which, for a while, deprived her of consciousness; and when she recovered she found Berrendale bending over her, while her head lay on Glenmurray's pillow.

The sight of Berrendale in a moment roused her to exertion:--his look was so full of anxious tenderness, and she was at that moment so ill disposed to regard it with complacency, that she eagerly declared she was quite recovered, and begged Mr Berrendale would return to bed; and Glenmurray seconding her request, with a deep sigh he departed.

'Poor fellow!' said Glenmurray, 'I wish you had seen his anxiety during your illness!'

'I am glad I did _not_,' replied Adeline: 'but how can you persist in talking to me of any other person's anxiety, when I am tortured with yours? Your conversation of to-night has made me even more miserable than I was before. By what strange fatality do you blame yourself for the conduct worthy of admiration?--for giving to the world, as soon as produced, opinions which were calculated to enlighten it?'

'But,' replied Glenmurray, 'as those opinions militated against the experience and custom of ages, ought I not to have paused before I published, and kept them back till they had received the sanction of my maturer judgment?'

'And does your maturer judgment condemn them?'

'Four years cannot have added much to the maturity of my judgment,' replied Glenmurray: 'but I will own that some of my opinions are changed; and that, though I believe those which are unchanged are right in theory, I think, as the mass of society could never _at once_ adopt them, they had better remain unacted upon, than that a few lonely individuals should expose themselves to certain distress, by making them the rules of their conduct. You, for instance, you, my Adeline, what misery--!' Here his voice again faltered, and emotion impeded his utterance.

'Live--do but live,' exclaimed Adeline passionately, 'and I can know of misery but the name.'

'But I cannot live, I cannot live,' replied Glenmurray, 'and the sooner I die the better;--for thus to waste your youth and health in the dreadful solitude of a sick-room is insupportable to me.'

'O Glenmurray!' replied Adeline, fondly throwing herself on his neck, 'could you but live free from any violent pain, and were neither you nor I ever to leave this room again, believe me, I should not have a wish beyond it. To see you, to hear you, to prove to you how much I love you, would, indeed it would, be happiness sufficient for me!' After this burst of true and heartfelt tenderness, there was a pause of some moments: Glenmurray felt too much to speak, and Adeline was sobbing on his pillow. At length she pathetically again exclaimed, 'Live! only live! and I am blest!'

'But I _cannot_ live, I _cannot_ live,' again replied Glenmurray; 'and when I die, what will become of you?'

'I care not,' cried Adeline: 'if I lose you, may the same grave receive us!'

'But it _will_ not, my dearest:--grief does not kill; and, entailed as my estate is, I have nothing to leave you: and though richly qualified to undertake the care of children, in order to maintain yourself, your unfortunate connexion, and singular opinions, will be an eternal bar to your being so employed. O Adeline! these cutting fears, these dreadful reflections, are indeed the bitterness of death: but there is one way of alleviating my pangs.'

'Name it,' replied Adeline with quickness.

'But you must promise then to hear me with patience.--Had I been able to live through my illness, I should have conjured you to let me endeavour to restore you to your place in society, and consequently to your usefulness, by making you my wife: and young, and I may add innocent and virtuous, as you are, I doubt not but the world would at length have received you into its favour again.'

'But you must, you will, you shall live,' interrupted Adeline, 'and I shall be your happy wife.'

'Not _mine_' replied Glenmurray, laying an emphasis on the last word.

Adeline started, and, fixing her eyes wildly on his, demanded what he meant.

'I mean,' replied he, 'to prevail on you to make my last moments happy, by promising, some time hence, to give yourself a tender, a respectable, and a legal protector.'

'O Glenmurray!' exclaimed Adeline, 'and can you insult my tenderness for you with such a proposal? If I can even survive you, do you think that I can bear to give you a successor in my affection? or, how can you bear to imagine that I shall?'

'Because my love for you is without selfishness, and I wish you to be happy even though another makes you so. The lover, or the husband, who wishes the woman of his affection to form no second attachment, is, in my opinion, a selfish, contemptible being. Perhaps I do not expect that you will ever feel, for another man, an attachment like that which has subsisted between us--the first affection of young and impassioned hearts; but I am sure that you may again feel love enough to make yourself and the man of your choice perfectly happy; and I hope and trust that you will be so.'

'And forget you, I suppose?' interrupted Adeline reproachfully.

'Not so: I would have you remember me always, but with a chastized and even a pleasing sorrow; nay, I would wish you to imagine me a sort of guardian spirit watching your actions and enjoying your happiness.'

'I have _listened_ to you,' cried Adeline in a tone of suppressed anguish, 'and, I trust, with tolerable patience: there is one thing yet for me to learn--the name of the object whom you wish me to marry, for I suppose _he_ is found.'

'He is,' returned Glenmurray, 'Berrendale loves you; and he it is whom I wish you to choose.'

'I thought so,' exclaimed Adeline, rising and traversing the room hastily, and wringing her hands.

'But wherefore does his name,' said Glenmurray, 'excite such angry emotion? Perhaps self-love makes me recommend him,' continued he, forcing a smile, 'as he is reckoned like me, and I thought that likeness might make him more agreeable to you.'

'Only the more odious,' impatiently interrupted Adeline. 'To look like you, and not _be_ you, Oh! insupportable idea!' she exclaimed, throwing herself on Glenmurray's pillow, and pressing his burning temples to her cold cheek.

'Adeline,' said Glenmurray solemnly, 'this is, perhaps, the last moment of confidential and uninterrupted intercourse that we shall ever have together;' Adeline started, but spoke not; 'allow me, therefore, to tell you it is my _dying request_, that you would endeavour to dispose your mind in favour of Berrendale, and to become in time his wife. Circumstanced as you are, your only chance for happiness is becoming a wife: but it is too certain that few men worthy of you, in the most essential points, will be likely to marry you after your connexion with me.'

'Strange prejudice!' cried Adeline, 'to consider as my disgrace, what I deem my glory!'

Glenmurray continued thus: 'Berrendale himself has a great deal of the old school about him, but I have convinced him that you are not to be classed with the frail of your sex; and that you are one of the purest as well as loveliest of human beings.'

'And did he want to be convinced of this?' cried Adeline indignantly; 'and _yet_ you advise me to marry him?'

'My dearest love,' replied Glenmurray, 'in all cases the most we can expect is, to choose the best _possible_ means of happiness. Berrendale is not perfect; but I am convinced that you would commit a fatal error in not making him your husband; and when I tell you it is my _dying request_ that you should do so--'

'If you wish me to retain my senses,' exclaimed Adeline, 'repeat that dreadful phrase no more.'

'I will not say any more at all now,' faintly observed Glenmurray, 'for I am exhausted:--still, as morning begins to dawn, I should like to sit up in my bed and gaze on it, perhaps for--' Here Adeline put her hand to his mouth: Glenmurray kissed it, sighed, and did not finish the sentence. She then opened the shutters to let in the rising splendour of day, and, turning round towards Glenmurray, almost shrieked with terror at seeing the visible alteration a night had made in his appearance; while the yellow rays of the dawn played on his sallow cheek, and his dark curls, once crisped and glossy, hung faint and moist on his beating temples.

'It is strange, Adeline,' said Glenmurray (but with great effort), 'that, even in my situation, the sight of morning, and the revival as it were of nature, seems to invigorate my whole frame. I long to breathe the freshness of its breeze also.'

Adeline, conscious for the first time that all hope was over, opened the window, and felt even her sick soul and languid frame revived by the chill but refreshing breeze. To Glenmurray it imparted a feeling of physical pleasure, to which he had long been a stranger: 'I breathe freely,' he exclaimed, 'I feel alive again!'--and, strange as it may seem, Adeline's hopes began to revive also.--'I feel as if I could sleep now,' said Glenmurray, 'the feverish restlessness seems abated; but, lest my dreams be disturbed, promise me, ere I lie down again, that you will behave kindly to Berrendale.'

'Impossible! The only tie that bound me to him is broken:--I thought he sincerely sympathized with me in my wishes for your recovery; but now that, as he loves me, his wishes must be in direct opposition to mine,--I cannot, indeed I cannot, endure the sight of him.'

Glenmurray could not reply to this natural observation: he knew that, in a similar situation, his feelings would have been like Adeline's; and, pressing her hand with all the little strength left him, he said 'Poor Berrendale!' and tried to compose himself to sleep; while Adeline, lost in sad contemplation, threw herself in a chair by his bed-side, and anxiously awaited the event of his re-awaking.

But it was not long before Adeline herself, exhausted both in body and mind, fell into a deep sleep; and it was mid-day before she awoke: for no careless, heavy-treading, and hired nurse now watched the slumbers of the unhappy lovers; but the mulatto, stepping light as air, and afraid even of breathing lest she should disturb their repose, had assumed her station at the bed-side, and taken every precaution lest any noise should awake them. Hers was the service of the heart; and there is none like it.

At twelve o'clock Adeline awoke; and her first glance met the dark eyes of Savanna kindly fixed upon her. Adeline started, not immediately recollecting who it could be; but in a moment the idea of the mulatto, and of the service which she had rendered her, recurred to her mind, and diffused a sensation of pleasure through her frame. 'There is a being whom I have served,' said Adeline to herself, and, extending her hand to Savanna, she started from her seat, invigorated by the thought: but she felt depressed again by the consciousness that she, who had been able to impart so much joy and help to another, was herself a wretch for ever; and in a moment her eyes filled with tears, while the mulatto gazed on her with a look of inquiring solicitude.

'Poor Savanna!' cried Adeline in a low and plaintive tone.

There are moments when the sound of one's own voice has a mournful effect on one's feelings--this was one of those moments to Adeline; the pathos of her own tone overcame her, and she burst into tears: but Glenmurray slept on; and Adeline hoped nothing would suddenly disturb his rest, when Berrendale opened the door with what appeared unnecessary noise, and Glenmurray hastily awoke.

Adeline immediately started from her seat, and, looking at him with great indignation, demanded why he came in in such a manner, when he knew Mr Glenmurray was asleep.

Berrendale, shocked and alarmed at Adeline's words and expression, so unlike her usual manner, stammered out an excuse. 'Another time, Sir', replied Adeline coldly, 'I hope you will be more _careful_.'

'What is the matter?' said Glenmurray, raising himself in the bed. 'Are you scolding, Adeline? If so, let me hear you: I like novelty.'

Here Adeline and Berrendale both hastened to him, and Adeline almost looked with complacency on Berrendale; when Glenmurray, declaring himself wonderfully refreshed by his long sleep, expressed a great desire for his breakfast, and said he had a most voracious appetite.

But to all Berrendale's attentions she returned the most forbidding reserve; nor could she for a moment lose the painful idea, that the death of Glenmurray would be to him a source of joy, not of anguish. Berrendale was not slow to observe this change in her conduct; and he conceived that, as he knew Glenmurray had mentioned his pretensions to her, his absence would be of more service to his wishes than his presence; and he resolved to leave Richmond that afternoon,--especially as he had a dinner engagement at a tavern in London, which, in spite of love and friendship, he was desirous of keeping.

He was not mistaken in his ideas: the countenance of Adeline assumed less severity when he mentioned his intention of going away, nor could she express regret at his resolution, even though Glenmurray with anxious earnestness requested him to stay. But Glenmurray entreated in vain: used to consider his own interest and pleasure in preference to that of others, Berrendale resolved to go; and resisted the prayers of a man who had often obliged him with the greatest difficulty to himself.