Adeline Mowbray; or, The Mother and Daughter

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Adeline Mowbray

Or The Mother And Daughter

Mrs Opie

Chapter I

In an old family mansion, situated on an estate in Gloucestershire known by the name of Rosevalley, resided Mrs Mowbray, and Adeline her only child.

Mrs Mowbray's father, Mr Woodville, a respectable country gentleman, married, in obedience to the will of his mother, the sole surviving daughter of an opulent merchant in London, whose large dower paid off some considerable mortgages on the Woodville estates, and whose mild and unoffending character soon gained that affection from her husband after marriage, which he denied her before it.

Nor was it long before their happiness was increased, and their union cemented, by the birth of a daughter; who continuing to be an only child, and the probable heiress of great possessions, became the idol of her parents, and the object of unremitted attention to those who surrounded her. Consequently, one of the first lessons which Editha Woodville learnt was that of egotism, and to consider it as the chief duty of all who approached her, to study the gratification of her whims and caprices.

But, though rendered indolent in some measure by the blind folly of her parents, and the homage of her dependents, she had a taste above the enjoyments which they offered her.

She had a decided passion for literature, which she had acquired from a sister of Mr Woodville, who had been brought up amongst literary characters of various pursuits and opinions; and this lady had imbibed from them a love of free inquiry, which she had little difficulty in imparting to her young and enthusiastic relation.

But, alas! that inclination for study, which, had it been directed to proper objects, would have been the charm of Miss Woodville's life, and the safeguard of her happiness, by giving her a constant source of amusement within herself; proved to her, from the unfortunate direction which it took, the abundant cause of misery and disappointment.

For her, history, biography, poetry, and discoveries in natural philosophy, had few attractions, while she pored with still unsatisfied delight over abstruse systems of morals and metaphysics, or new theories in politics; and scarcely a week elapsed in which she did not receive, from her aunt's bookseller in London, various tracts on these her favourite subjects.

Happy would it have been for Miss Woodville, if the merits of the works which she so much admired could have been canvassed in her presence by rational and unprejudiced persons: but, her parents and friends being too ignorant to discuss philosophical opinions or political controversies, the young speculator was left to the decision of her own inexperienced enthusiasm. To her, therefore, whatever was bold and uncommon seemed new and wise; and every succeeding theory held her imagination captive till its power was weakened by one of equal claims to singularity.

She soon, however, ceased to be contented with reading, and was eager to become a writer also. But, as she was strongly imbued with the prejudices of an ancient family, she could not think of disgracing that family by turning professed author: she therefore confined her little effusions to a society of admiring friends, secretly lamenting the loss which the literary world sustained in her being born a gentlewoman.

Nor is it to be wondered at, that, as she was ambitious to be, and to be thought, a deep thinker, she should have acquired habits of abstraction, and absence, which imparted a look of wildness to a pair of dark eyes, that beamed with intelligence, and gave life to features of the most perfect regularity.

To reverie, indeed, she was from childhood inclined; and her life was long a life of reverie. To her the present moment had scarcely ever existence; and this propensity to lose herself in a sort of ideal world, was considerably increased by the nature of her studies.

Fatal and unproductive studies! While, wrapt in philosophical abstraction, she was trying to understand a metaphysical question on the mechanism of the human mind, or what constituted the true nature of virtue, she suffered day after day to pass in the culpable neglect of positive duties; and while imagining systems for the good of society, and the furtherance of general philanthropy, she allowed individual suffering in her neighbourhood to pass unobserved and unrelieved. While professing her unbounded love for the great family of the world, she suffered her own family to pine under the consciousness of her neglect; and viciously devoted those hours to the vanity of abstruse and solitary study, which might have been better spent in amusing the declining age of her venerable parents, whom affection had led to take up their abode with her.

Let me observe, before I proceed further, that Mrs Mowbray scrupulously confined herself to theory, even in her wisest speculations; and being too timid, and too indolent, to illustrate by her conduct the various and opposing doctrines which it was her pride to maintain by turns, her practice was ever in opposition to her opinions.

Hence, after haranguing with all the violence of a true Whig on the natural rights of man, or the blessings of freedom, she would 'turn to a Tory in her elbow chair', and govern her household with despotic authority; and after embracing at some moments the doubts of the sceptic, she would often lie motionless in her bed, from apprehension of ghosts, a helpless prey to the most abject superstition.

Such was the mother of ADELINE MOWBRAY! such was the woman who, having married the heir of Rosevalley, merely to oblige her parents, saw herself in the prime of life a rich widow, with an only child, who was left by Mr Mowbray, a fond husband, but an ill-judging parent, entirely dependent on her!

At the time of Mr Mowbray's death, Adeline Mowbray was ten years old, and Mrs Mowbray thirty; and like an animal in an exhausted receiver, she had during her short existence been tormented by the experimental philosophy of her mother.

Now it was judged right that she should learn nothing, and now that she should learn every thing. Now, her graceful form and well-turned limbs were to be free from any bandage, and any clothing save what decency required,--and now they were to be tortured by stiff stays, and fettered by the stocks and the back-board.

All Mrs Mowbray's ambition had settled in one point, one passion, and that was EDUCATION. For this purpose she turned over innumerable volumes in search of rules on the subject, on which she might improve, anticipating with great satisfaction the moment when she should be held up as a pattern of imitation to mothers, and be prevailed upon, though with graceful reluctance, to publish her system, without a name, for the benefit of society.

But, however good her intentions were, the execution of them was continually delayed by her habits of abstraction and reverie. After having over night arranged the tasks of Adeline for the next day,--lost in some new speculations for the good of her child, she would lie in bed all the morning, exposing that child to the dangers of idleness.

At one time Mrs Mowbray had studied herself into great nicety with regard to the diet of her daughter; but, as she herself was too much used to the indulgences of the palate to be able to set her in reality an example of temperance, she dined in appearance with Adeline at one o'clock on pudding without butter, and potatoes without salt; but while the child was taking her afternoon's walk, her own table was covered with viands fitted for the appetite of opulence.

Unfortunately, however, the servants conceived that the daughter as well as the mother had a right to regale clandestinely; and the little Adeline used to eat for her supper, with a charge not to tell her mamma, some of the good things set by from Mrs Mowbray's dinner.

It happened that, as Mrs Mowbray was one evening smoothing Adeline's flowing curls, and stroking her ruddy cheek, she exclaimed triumphantly, raising Adeline to the glass, 'See the effect of temperance and low living! If you were accustomed to eat meat, and butter, and drink any thing but water, you would not look so healthy, my love, as you do now. O the excellent effects of a vegetable diet!'

The artless girl, whose conscience smote her during the whole of this speech, hung her blushing head on her bosom:--it was the confusion of guilt; and Mrs Mowbray perceiving it earnestly demanded what it meant, when Adeline, half crying, gave a full explanation.

Nothing could exceed the astonishment and mortification of Mrs Mowbray; but, though usually tenacious of her opinions, she in this case profited by the lesson of experience. She no longer expected any advantage from clandestine measures:--but Adeline, her appetites regulated by a proper exertion of parental authority, was allowed to sit at the well-furnished table of her mother, and was precluded, by a judicious and open indulgence, from wishing for a secret and improper one; while the judicious praises which Mrs Mowbray bestowed on Adeline's ingenuous confession endeared to her the practice of truth, and laid the foundation of a habit of ingenuousness which formed through life one of the ornaments of her character--Would that Mrs Mowbray had always been equally judicious!

Another great object of anxiety to her was the method of clothing children; whether they should wear flannel, or no flannel; light shoes, to give agility to the motions of the limbs; or heavy shoes, in order to strengthen the muscles by exertion;--when one day, as she was turning over a voluminous author on this subject, the nurserymaid hastily entered the room, and claimed her attention, but in vain; Mrs Mowbray went on reading aloud:--

'Some persons are of opinion that thin shoes are most beneficial to health; others, equally worthy of respect, think thick ones of most use: and the reasons for these different opinions we shall class under two heads--'

'Dear me, ma'am!' cried Bridget, 'and in the meantime Miss Adeline will go without any shoes at all.'

'Do not interrupt me, Bridget,' cried Mrs Mowbray, and proceeded to read on. 'In the first place, it is not clear, says a learned writer, whether children require any clothing at all for their feet.'

At this moment Adeline burst open the parlour door, and, crying bitterly, held up her bleeding toes to her mother.

'Mamma, mamma!' cried she, 'you forget to send for a pair of new shoes for me; and see, how the stones in the gravel have cut me!'

This sight, this appeal, decided the question in dispute. The feet of Adeline bleeding on a new Turkey carpet proved that some clothing for the feet was necessary; and even Mrs Mowbray for a moment began to suspect that a little experience is better than a great deal of theory.

Chapter II

Meanwhile, in spite of all Mrs Mowbray's eccentricities and caprices, Adeline, as she grew up, continued to entertain for her the most perfect respect and affection.

Her respect was excited by the high idea which she had formed of her abilities,--an idea founded on the veneration which all the family seemed to feel for her on that account,--and her affection was excited even to an enthusiastic degree by the tenderness with which Mrs Mowbray had watched over her during an alarming illness.

For twenty-one days Adeline had been in the utmost danger; nor is it probable that she would have been able to struggle against the force of the disease, but for the unremitting attention of her mother. It was then, perhaps, for the first time that Mrs Mowbray felt herself a mother:--all her vanities, all her systems, were forgotten in the danger of Adeline,--she did not even hazard an opinion on the medical treatment to be observed. For once she was contented to obey instructions in silence; for once she was never caught in a reverie; but, like the most common-place woman of her acquaintance, she lived to the present moment:--and she was rewarded for her cares by the recovery of her daughter, and by that daughter's most devoted attachment.

Not even the parents of Mrs Mowbray, who, because she talked on subjects which they could not understand, looked up to her as a superior being, could exceed Adeline in deference to her mother's abilities; and when, as she advanced in life, she was sometimes tempted to think her deficient in maternal fondness, the idea of Mrs Mowbray bending with pale and speechless anxiety over her sleepless pillow used to recur to her remembrance, and in a moment the recent indifference was forgotten.

Nor could she entirely acquit herself of ingratitude in observing this seeming indifference: for, whence did the abstraction and apparent coldness of Mrs Mowbray proceed? From her mind's being wholly engrossed in studies for the future benefit of Adeline. Why did she leave the concerns of her family to others? why did she allow her infirm but active mother to superintend all the household duties? and why did she seclude herself from all society, save that of her own family, and Dr Norberry, her physician and friend, but that she might devote every hour to endeavours to perfect a system of education for her beloved and only daughter, to whom the work was to be dedicated?

'And yet,' said Adeline mentally, 'I am so ungrateful sometimes as to think she does not love me sufficiently.'

But while Mrs Mowbray was busying herself in plans for Adeline's education, she reached the age of fifteen, and was in a manner educated; not, however, by her,--though Mrs Mowbray would, no doubt, have been surprised to have heard this assertion.

Mrs Mowbray, as I have before said, was the spoiled child of rich parents; who, as geniuses were rarer in those days than they are now, spite of their own ignorance, rejoiced to find themselves the parents of a genius; and as their daughter always disliked the usual occupations of her sex, the admiring father and mother contented themselves with allowing her to please herself; say to each other, 'She must not be managed in a common way; for you know, my dear, she is one of your geniuses,--and they are never like other folks.'

Mrs Woodville, the mother, had been brought up with all the ideas of economy and housewifery which at that time of day prevailed in the city, and influenced the education of the daughters of citizens.

'My dear,' said she one day to Adeline, 'as you are no genius, you know, like your mother, (and God forbid you should! for one is quite enough in a family,) I shall make bold to teach you every thing that young women in my young days used to learn, and my daughter may thank me for it some time or other: for you know, my dear, when I and my good man die, what in the world would come of my poor Edith, if so be she had no one to manage for her! for, Lord love you! she knows no more of managing a family, and such-like, than a newborn babe.'

'And can you, dear grandmother, teach me to be of use to my mother?' said Adeline.

'To be sure, child; for as you are no genius, no doubt you can learn all them sort of things that women commonly know:--so we will begin directly.'

In a short time Adeline, stimulated by the ambition of being useful, (for she had often heard her mother assert that utility was the foundation of all virtue,) became as expert in household affairs as Mrs Woodville herself: even the department of making pastry was now given up to Adeline, and the servants always came to her for orders, saying, that 'as their mistress was a learned lady, and that, and so could not be spoken with except here and there on occasion, they wished their young mistress, who was more easy spoken, would please to order:' and as Mr and Mrs Woodville's infirmities increased every day, Adeline soon thought it right to assume the entire management of the family.

She also took upon herself the office of almoner to Mrs Woodville, and performed it with an activity unknown to her; for she herself carried the broth and wine that were to comfort the infirm cottager; she herself saw the medicine properly administered that was to preserve his suffering existence: the comforts the poor required she purchased herself; and in sickness she visited, in sorrow she wept with them. And though Adeline was almost unknown personally to the neighbouring gentry, she was followed with blessings by the surrounding cottagers; while many a humble peasant watched at the gate of the park to catch a glimpse of his young benefactress, and pray to God to repay to the heiress of Rosevalley the kindness which she had shown to him and his offspring.

Thus happy, because usefully employed, and thus beloved and respected, because actively benevolent, passed the early years of Adeline Mowbray; and thus was she educated, before her mother had completed her system of education.

It was not long before Adeline took on herself a still more important office. Mrs Mowbray's steward was detected in very dishonest practices; but, as she was too much devoted to her studies to like to look into her affairs with a view to dismiss him, she could not be prevailed on to discharge him from her service. Fortunately, however, her father on his death-bed made it his request that she would do so; and Mrs Mowbray pledged herself to obey him.

'But what shall I do for a steward in Davison's place?' said she soon after her father died.

'Is one absolutely necessary?' returned Adeline modestly. 'Surely farmer Jenkins would undertake to do all that is necessary for half the money; and, if he were properly overlooked--'

'And pray who can overlook him properly?' asked Mrs Mowbray.

'My grandmother and I,' replied Adeline timidly: 'we both like business and--'

'Like business!--but what do you know of it?'

'Know!' cried Mrs Woodville, 'why, daughter, Lina is very clever at it, I assure you!'

'Astonishing! She knows nothing yet of accounts.'

'Dear me! how mistaken you are, child! She knows accounts perfectly well.'

'Impossible!' replied Mrs Mowbray: 'who should have taught her? I have been inventing an easy method of learning arithmetic, by which I was going to teach her in a few months.'

'Yes, child: but I, thinking it a pity that the poor girl should learn nothing, like, till she was to learn every thing, taught her according to the old way; and I cannot but say she took to it very kindly. Did not you, Lina?'

'Yes, grandmother,' said Adeline; 'and as I love arithmetic very much, I am quite anxious to keep all my mother's accounts, and overlook the accounts of the person whom she shall employ to manage her estates in future.'

To this Mrs Mowbray, half pleased and half mortified, at length consented; and Adeline and farmer Jenkins entered upon their occupations. Shortly after Mrs Woodville was seized with her last illness; and Adeline neglected every other duty, and Mrs Mowbray her studies, 'to watch, and weep, beside a parent's bed.'

But watch and weep was all that Mrs Mowbray did: with every possible wish to be useful, she had so long given way to habits of abstraction, and neglect of everyday occupations, that she was rather a hindrance than a help in the sick room.

During Adeline's illness, excessive fear of losing her only child had indeed awakened her to unusual exertion; and as all that she had to do was to get down, at stated times, a certain quantity of wine and nourishment, her task though wearisome was not difficult: but to sooth the declining hours of an aged parent, to please the capricious appetite of decay, to assist with ready and skilful alacrity the shaking hand of the invalid, jealous of waiting on herself and wanting to be cheated into being waited upon;--these trifling yet important details did not suit the habits of Mrs Mowbray. But Adeline was versed in them all; and her mother, conscious of her superiority in these things, was at last contented to sit by inactive, though not unmoved.

One day, when Mrs Mowbray had been prevailed upon to lie down for an hour or two in another apartment, and Adeline was administering to Mrs Woodville some broth which she had made herself, the old lady pressed her hand affectionately, and cried, 'Ah! child, in a lucky hour I made bold to interfere, and teach you what your mother was too clever to learn. Wise was I to think one genius enough in a family,--else, what should I have done now? My daughter, though the best child in the world, could never have made such nice broth as this to comfort me, so hot, and boiled to a minute like! bless her! she'd have tried, that she would, but ten to one but she'd have smoked it, overturned it, and scalt her fingers into the bargain.--Ah, Lina, Lina! mayhap the time will come when you, should you have a sick husband or a child to nurse, may bless your poor grandmother for having taught you to be useful.'

'Dear grandmother,' said Adeline tenderly, 'the time has come: I am, you see, useful to you; and therefore I bless you already for having taught me to be so.'

'Good girl, good girl! just what I would have you! And forgive me, Lina, when I own that I have often thanked God for not making you a genius! Not but what no child can behave better than mine; for, with all her wit and learning, she was always so respectful, and so kind to me and my dear good man, that I am sure I could not but rejoice in such a daughter; though, to be sure, I used to wish she was more conversible like; for, as to the matter of a bit of chat, we never gossiped together in our lives. And though, to be sure, the squires' ladies about are none of the brightest, and not to compare with my Edith, yet still they would have done for me and my dear good man to gossip a bit with. So I was vexed when my daughter declared she wanted all her time for her studies, and would not visit any body, no, not even Mrs Norberry, who is to be sure a very good sort of a woman, though a little given to speak ill of her neighbours. But then so we are all, you know: and, as I say, why, if one spoke well of all alike, what would be the use of one person's being better than his neighbours, except for conscience's sake? But, as I was going to say, my daughter was pleased to compliment me, and declare she was sure I could amuse myself without visiting women so much inferior to me; and she advised my beginning a course of study, as she called it.'

'And did you?' asked Adeline with surprise.

'Yes. To oblige her, my good man and I began to read one Mr Locke on the Conduct of the Human Understanding; which my daughter said would teach us to think.'

'To think?' said Adeline.

'Yes.--Now, you must know, my poor husband did not look upon it as very respectful like in Edith to say that, because it seemed to say that we had lived all these years without having thought at all; which was not true, to be sure, because we were never thoughtless like, and my husband was so staid when a boy that he was called a little old man.'

'But I am sure,' said Adeline, half smiling, 'that my mother did not mean to insinuate that you wanted proper thought.'

'No, I dare say not,' resumed the old lady, 'and so I told my husband, and so we set to study this book: but, dear me! it was Hebrew Greek to us--and so dull!'

'Then you did not get through it, I suppose?'

'Through it, bless your heart! No--not three pages! So my good man says to Edith, says he, "You gave us this book, I think, child, to teach us to think?" "Yes, sir," says she. "And it has taught us to think," says he:--"it has taught us to think that it is very dull and disagreeable." So my daughter laughed, and said her father was witty; but, poor soul! he did not mean it.

'Well, then: as, to amuse us, we liked to look at the stars sometimes, she told us we had better learn their names, and study astronomy; and so we began that: but that was just as bad as Mr Locke; and we knew no more of the stars and planets, than the man in the moon. Yet that's not right to say, neither; for, as he is so much nearer the stars, he must know more about them than any one whomsoever. So at last my daughter found out that learning was not our taste; so she left us to please ourselves, and play cribbage and draughts in an evening as usual.'

Here the old lady paused, and Adeline said affectionately, 'Dear grandmother, I doubt you exert yourself too much: so much talking can't be good for you.'

'O! yes, child!' replied Mrs. Woodville: 'it is no trouble at all to me, I assure you, but quite natural and pleasant like: besides, you know I shall not be able to talk much longer, so let me make the most of my time now.'

This speech brought tears into the eyes of Adeline; and seeing her mother re-enter the room, she withdrew to conceal the emotion which she felt, lest the cheerful loquacity of the invalid, which she was fond of indulging, should be checked by seeing her tears. But it had already received a check from the presence of Mrs Mowbray, of whose superior abilities Mrs Woodville was so much in awe, that, concluding her daughter could not bear to hear her nonsense, the old lady smiled kindly on her when with a look of tender anxiety she hastened to her bedside, and then, holding her hand, composed herself to sleep.

In a few days more, she breathed her last on the supporting arm of Adeline; and lamented in her dying moments, that she had nothing valuable in money to leave, in order to show Adeline how sensible she was of her affectionate attentions: 'but you are an only child,' she added, 'and all your mother has will be yours.'

'No doubt,' observed Mrs Mowbray eagerly; and her mother died contented.

Chapter III

At this period Adeline's ambition had led her to form new plans, which Mrs Woodville's death left her at liberty to put in execution. Whenever the old lady reminded her that she was no genius, Adeline had felt as much degraded as if she had said that she was no conjuror; and though she was too humble to suppose that she could ever equal her mother, she was resolved to try to make herself more worthy of her, by imitating her in those pursuits and studies on which were founded Mrs Mowbray's pretensions to superior talents.

She therefore made it her business to inquire what those studies and pursuits were; and finding that Mrs Mowbray's noted superiority was built on her passion for abstruse speculations, Adeline eagerly devoted her leisure hours to similar studies: but, unfortunately, these new theories, and these romantic reveries, which only served to amuse Mrs Mowbray's fancy, her more enthusiastic daughter resolved to make conscientiously the rules of her practice. And while Mrs Mowbray expended her eccentric philosophy in words, as Mr Shandy did his grief, Adeline carefully treasured up hers in her heart, to be manifested only by its fruits.

One author in particular, by a train of reasoning captivating though sophistical, and plausible though absurd, made her a delighted convert to his opinions, and prepared her young and impassioned heart for the practice of vice, by filling her mind, ardent in the love of virtue, with new and singular opinions on the subject of moral duty. On the works of this writer Adeline had often heard her mother descant in terms of the highest praise; but she did not feel herself so completely his convert on her own conviction, till she had experienced the fatal fascination of his style, and been conveyed by his bewitching pen from the world as it is, into a world as it _ought_ to be.

This writer, whose name was Glenmurray, amongst other institutions, attacked the institution of marriage; and after having elaborately pointed out its folly and its wickedness, he drew so delightful a picture of the superior purity, as well as happiness, of an union cemented by no ties but those of love and honour, that Adeline, wrought to the highest pitch of enthusiasm for a new order of things, entered into a solemn compact with herself to act, when she was introduced into society, according to the rules laid down by this writer.

Unfortunately for her, she had no opportunity of hearing these opinions combated by the good sense and sober experience of Dr Norberry then their sole visitant; for at this time the American war was the object of attention to all Europe: and as Mrs Mowbray, as well as Dr Norberry, were deeply interested in this subject, they scarcely ever talked on any other; and even Glenmurray and his theories were driven from Mrs Mowbray's remembrance by political tracts and the eager anxieties of a politician. Nor had she even leisure to observe, that while she was feeling all the generous anxiety of a citizen of the world for the sons and daughters of American independence, her own child was imbibing, through her means, opinions dangerous to her well-being as a member of any civilized society, and laying, perhaps, the foundation to herself and her mother of future misery and disgrace. Alas! the astrologer in the fable was but too like Mrs Mowbray!

But even had Adeline had an opportunity of discussing her new opinions with Dr Norberry, it is not at all certain that she would have had the power.

Mrs Mowbray was, if I may be allowed the expression, a showing-off woman, and loved the information which she acquired, less for its own sake than for the supposed importance which it gave her amongst her acquaintance, and the means of displaying her superiority over other women. Before she secluded herself from society in order to study education, she had been the terror of the ladies in the neighbourhood; since, despising small talk, she would always insist on making the gentlemen of her acquaintance (as much terrified sometimes as their wives) engage with her in some literary or political conversation. She wanted to convert every drawing-room into an arena for the mind, and all her guests into intellectual gladiators. She was often heard to interrupt two grave matrons in an interesting discussion of an accouchement, by asking them if they had read a new theological tract, or a pamphlet against the minister? If they softly expatiated on the lady-like fatigue of body which they had endured, she discoursed in choice terms on the energies of the mind; and she never received or paid visits without convincing the company that she was the most wise, most learned, and most disagreeable of companions.

But Adeline, on the contrary, studied merely from the love of study, and not with a view to shine in conversation; nor dared she venture to expatiate on subjects which she had often heard Mrs Woodville say were very rarely canvassed, or even alluded to, by women. She remained silent, therefore, on the subject nearest her heart, from choice as well as necessity, in the presence of Dr Norberry, till at length she imbibed the political mania herself, and soon found it impossible to conceal the interest which she took in the success of the infant republic. She therefore one day put into the doctor's hands some _bouts rimes_ which she had written on some recent victory of the American arms; exclaiming with a smile, 'I, too, am a politician!' and was rewarded by an exclamation of 'Why girl--I protest you are as clever as your mother!'

This unexpected declaration fixed her in the path of literary ambition: and though wisely resolved to fulfil, as usual, every feminine duty, Adeline was convinced that she, like her mother, had a right to be an author, a politician, and a philosopher; while Dr Norberry's praises of her daughter convinced Mrs Mowbray, that almost unconsciously she had educated her into a prodigy, and confirmed her in her intention of exhibiting herself and Adeline to the admiring world during the next season at Bath; for at Bath she expected to receive that admiration which she had vainly sought in London.

Soon after their marriage, Mr Mowbray had carried his lively bride to the metropolis, where she expected to receive the same homage which had been paid to her charms at the assize-balls in her neighbourhood. What then must have been her disappointment, when, instead of hearing as she passed, 'That is Miss Woodville, the rich heiress--or the great genius--or the great beauty'--or, 'That is the beautiful Mrs Mowbray,' she walked unknown and unobserved in public and in private, and found herself of as little importance in the wide world of the metropolis, as the most humble of her acquaintance in a country ball-room. True, she had beauty, but then it was unset-off by fashion; nay, more, it was eclipsed by unfashionable and tasteless attire; and her manner, though stately and imposing in an assembly where she was known, was wholly unlike the manners of the world, and in a London party appeared arrogant and offensive. Her remarks, too, wise as they appeared to her and Mr Mowbray, excited little attention,--as the few persons to whom they were known in the metropolis were wholly ignorant of her high pretensions, and knew not that they were discoursing with a professed genius, and the oracle of a provincial circle. Some persons, indeed, surprised at hearing from the lips of eighteen, observations on morals, theology, and politics, listened to her with wonder, and even attention, but turned away observing--

'Such things, 'tis true, are neither new nor rare, The only wonder is, how they got there:'

till at length, disappointed, mortified, and disgusted, Mrs Mowbray impatiently returned to Rosevalley, where in beauty, in learning, and in grandeur she was unrivalled, and where she might deal out her dogmas, sure of exciting respectful attention, however she might fail of calling for a more flattering tribute from her auditors. But in the narrower field of Bath she expected to shine forth with greater eclat than in London, and to obtain admiration more worthy of her acceptance than any which a country circle could offer. To Bath, therefore, she prepared to go; and the young heart of Adeline beat high with pleasure at the idea of mixing with that busy world which her fancy had often clothed in the most winning attractions.

But her joy, and Mrs Mowbray's was a little over-clouded at the moment of their departure, by the sight of Dr Norberry's melancholy countenance. What was to be, as they fondly imagined, their gain, was his loss, and with a full heart he came to bid them adieu.

For Adeline he had conceived not only affection, but esteem amounting almost to veneration; for she appeared to him to unite various and opposing excellencies. Though possessed of taste and talents for literature, she was skilled in the minutest details of housewifery and feminine occupations: and at the same time she bore her faculties so meekly, that she never wounded the self-love of any one, by arrogating to herself any superiority.

Such Adeline appeared to her excellent old friend; and his affection for her was, perhaps, increased by the necessity which he was under of concealing it at home. The praises of Mrs Mowbray and Adeline were odious to the ears of Mrs Norberry and her daughters,--but especially the praises of the latter,--as the merit of Adeline was so uniform, that even the eye of envy could not at that period discover any thing in her vulnerable to censure: and as the sound of her name excited in his family a number of bad passions and corresponding expressions of countenance, the doctor wisely resolved to keep his feelings, with regard to her, locked up in his own bosom.

But he persisted in visiting at the Park daily; and it is no wonder, therefore, that the loss, even for a few months, of the society of its inhabitants should by him be anticipated as a serious calamity.

'Pshaw!' cried he, as Adeline, with an exulting bound sprung after her mother into the carriage, 'how gay and delighted you are! though my heart feels sadly queer and heavy.'

'My dear friend,' cried Mrs Mowbray, 'I must miss your society wherever I go.'--'I wish you were going too,' said Adeline: 'I shall often think of you.' 'Pshaw, girl! don't lie,' replied Dr Norberry, swallowing a sigh as he spoke: 'you will soon forget an old fellow like me.'--'Then I conclude that you will soon forget us.'--'He! how! what! think so at your peril.'--'I must think so, as we usually judge of others by ourselves.'--'Go to--go, miss mal-a-pert.--Well, but, drive on, coachman--this taking leave is plaguey disagreeable, so shake hands and be off.'

They gave him their hands, which he pressed very affectionately, and the carriage drove on.

'I am an old fool,' cried the doctor, wiping his eyes as the carriage disappeared. 'Well: Heaven grant, sweet innocent, that you may return to me as happy and spotless as you now are!'

Mrs Mowbray had been married at a very early age, and had accepted in Mr Mowbray the first man who addressed her: consequently that passion for personal admiration, so natural to women, had in her never been gratified, nor even called forth. But seeing herself, at the age of thirty-eight, possessed of almost undiminished beauty, she recollected that her charms had never received that general homage for which nature intended them; and she who at twenty had disregarded, even to a fault, the ornaments of dress, was now, at the age of thirty-eight, eager to indulge in the extremes of decoration, and to share in the delights of conquest and admiration with her youthful and attractive daughter.

Attractive, rather than handsome, was the epithet best suited to describe Adeline Mowbray. Her beauty was the beauty of expression of countenance, not regularity of feature, though the uncommon fairness and delicacy of her complexion, the lustre of her hazel eyes, her long dark eye-lashes, and the profusion of soft light hair which curled over the ever-mantling colour of her cheek, gave her some pretensions to what is denominated beauty. But her own sex declared she was plain--and perhaps they were right--though the other protested against the decision--and probably they were right also: but women criticize in detail, men admire in the aggregate. Women reason, and men feel, when passing judgment on female beauty: and when a woman declares another to be plain, the chances are that she is right in her opinion, as she cannot, from her being a woman, feel the charm of that power to please, that 'something than beauty dearer,' which often throws a veil over the irregularity of features and obtains, for even a plain woman, from men at least, the appellation of pretty.

Whether Adeline's face were plain or not, her form could defy even the severity of female criticism. She was indeed tall, almost to a masculine degree; but such were the roundness and proportion of her limbs, such the symmetry of her whole person, such the lightness and gracefulness of her movements, and so truly feminine were her look and manner, that superior height was forgotten in the superior loveliness of her figure.

It is not to be wondered at, then, that Miss Mowbray was an object of attention and admiration at Bath, as soon as she appeared, nor that her mother had her share of flattery and followers. Indeed, when it was known that Mrs Mowbray was a rich widow, and Adeline dependent upon her, the mother became, in the eyes of some people, much more attractive than her daughter.

It was impossible, however, that, in such a place as Bath, Mrs Mowbray and Adeline could make, or rather retain, a general acquaintance. Their opinions on most subjects were so very different from those of the world, and they were so little conscious, from the retirement in which they lived, that this difference existed, or was likely to make them enemies, that not a day elapsed in which they did not shock the prejudices of some, and excite the contemptuous pity of others; and they soon saw their acquaintance coolly dropped by those who, as persons of family and fortune, had on their first arrival sought it with eagerness.

But this was not entirely owing to the freedom of their sentiments on politics, or on other subjects; but, because they associated with a well-known but obnoxious author;--a man whose speculations had delighted the inquiring but ignorant lover of novelty, terrified the timid idolater of ancient usages, and excited the regret of the cool and rational observer:--regret, that eloquence so overwhelming, powers of reasoning so acute, activity of research so praise-worthy, and a love of investigation so ardent, should be thrown away on the discussion of moral and political subjects, incapable of teaching the world to build up again with more beauty and propriety, a fabric, which they were perhaps, calculated to pull down: in short, Mrs Mowbray and Adeline associated with Glenmurray, that author over whose works they had long delighted to meditate, and who had completely led their imagination captive, before the fascination of his countenance and manners had come in aid of his eloquence.

Chapter IV

Frederic Glenmurray was a man of family, and of a small independent estate, which, in case he died without children, was to go to the next male heir; and to that heir it was certain it would go, as Glenmurray on principle was an enemy to marriage, and consequently not likely to have a child born in wedlock.

It was unfortunate circumstance for Glenmurray, that, with the ardour of a young and inexperienced mind, he had given his eccentric opinions to the world as soon as they were conceived and arranged,--as he, by so doing, prejudiced the world against him in so unconquerable a degree, that to him almost every door and heart was shut; and he by that means excluded from every chance of having the errors of his imagination corrected by the arguments of the experienced and enlightened--and corrected, no doubt, they would have been, for he had a mild and candid spirit, and mind open to conviction.

'I consider myself,' he used to say, 'as a sceptic, not as a man really certain of the truth of any thing which he advances. I doubt of all things, because I look upon doubt as the road to truth; and do but convince me what is the truth, and at what risk, whatever sacrifice, I am ready to embrace it.'

But, alas! neither the blamelessness of his life, nor even his active virtue, assisted by the most courteous manners, were deemed sufficient to counteract the mischievous tendency of his works; or rather, it was supposed impossible that his life could be blameless and his seeming virtues sincere:--and unheard, unknown, this unfortunate young man was excluded from those circles which his talents would have adorned, and forced to lead a life of solitude, or associate with persons unlike to him in most things, except in a passion for the bold in theory, and the almost impossible in practice.

Of this description of persons he soon became the oracle--the head of a sect, as it were; and those tenets which at first he embraced, and put forth more for amusement than from conviction, as soon as he began to suffer on their account, became as clear to him as the cross to the Christian martyr: and deeming persecution a test of truth, he considered the opposition made to him and his doctrines, not as the result of dispassionate reason striving to correct absurdity, but as selfishness and fear endeavouring to put out the light which showed the weakness of the foundation on which were built their claims to exclusive respect.

When Mrs Mowbray and Adeline first arrived at Bath, the latter had attracted the attention and admiration of Colonel Mordaunt, an Irishman of fortune, and an officer in the guards; and Adeline had not been insensible to the charms of the very fine person and engaging manners, united to powers of conversation which displayed an excellent understanding improved by education and reading. But Colonel Mordaunt was not a _marrying man_, as it is called: therefore, as soon as he began to feel the influence of Adeline growing too powerful for his freedom, and to observe that his attentions were far from unpleasing to her,--too honourable to excite an attachment in her which he resolved to combat in himself, he resolved to fly from the danger, which he knew he could not face and overcome; and after a formal but embarrassed adieu to Mrs Mowbray and Adeline, he suddenly left Bath.

This unexpected departure both surprised and grieved Adeline; but, as her feelings of delicacy were too strong to allow her to sigh for a man who, evidently, had no thoughts of sighing for her, she dismissed Colonel Mordaunt from her remembrance, and tried to find as much interest still in the ball-rooms, and the promenades, as his presence had given them: nor was it long before she found in them an attraction and an interest stronger than any which she had yet felt.

It is naturally to be supposed that Adeline had often wished to know personally an author whose writings delighted her as much as Glenmurray's had done, and that her fancy had often portrayed him: but though it had clothed him in a form at once pleasing and respectable,--still, from an idea of his superior wisdom, she had imagined him past the meridian of life, and not likely to excite warmer feelings than those of esteem and veneration: and such continued to be Adeline's idea of Glenmurray, when he arrived at Bath, having been sent thither by his physicians for the benefit of his health.

Glenmurray, though a sense of his unpopularity had long banished him from scenes of public resort in general, was so pleased with the novelties of Bath, that, though he walked wholly unnoticed except by the lovers of genius in whatsoever shape it showed itself, he frequented daily the pump-room, and the promenades; and Adeline had long admired the countenance and dignified person of this young and interesting invalid, without the slightest suspicion of his being the man of all others whom she most wished to see.

Nor had Glenmurray been slow to admire Adeline: and so strong, so irresistible was the feeling of admiration which she had excited in him, that, as soon as she appeared, all other objects vanished from his sight; and as women are generally quick-sighted to the effect of their charms, Adeline never beheld the stranger without a suffusion of pleasurable confusion on her cheek.

One morning at the pump-room, when Glenmurray, unconscious that Adeline was near, was reading the newspaper with great attention, and Adeline for the first time was looking at him unobserved, she heard the name of Glenmurray pronounced, and turned her head towards the person who spoke, in hopes of seeing Glenmurray himself; when Mrs Mowbray, turning round and looking at the invalid, said to a gentleman next her, 'Did you say, Sir, that that tall, pale, dark, interesting-looking young man is Mr Glenmurray, the celebrated author?'

'Yes, ma'am,' replied the gentleman with a sneer: 'that is Mr Glenmurray, the celebrated author.'

'Oh! how I should like to speak to him!' cried Mrs Mowbray.

'It will be no difficult matter,' replied her informant: 'the gentleman is always quite as much at leisure as you see him now; for _all_ persons have not the same taste as Mrs Mowbray.'

So saying, he bowed and departed, leaving Mrs Mowbray, to whom the sight of a great author was new, so lost in contemplating Glenmurray, that the sarcasm with which he spoke entirely escaped her observation.

Nor was Adeline less abstracted: she too was contemplating Glenmurray, and with mixed but delightful feelings.

'So then he is young and handsome too!' said she mentally: 'it is a pity he looks so _ill_,' added she _sighing_: but the sigh was caused rather by his looking so _well_--though Adeline was not conscious of it.

By this time Glenmurray had observed who were his neighbours, and the newspaper was immediately laid down.

'Is there any news to-day?' said Mrs Mowbray to Glenmurray, resolved to make a bold effort to become acquainted with him. Glenmurray, with a bow and a blush of mingled surprise and pleasure, replied that there was a great deal,--and immediately presented to her the paper which he had relinquished, setting chairs at the same time for her and Adeline.

Mrs Mowbray, however, only slightly glanced her eye over the paper:--her desire was to talk to Glenmurray; and in order to accomplish this point, and prejudice him in her favour, she told him how much she rejoiced in seeing an author whose works were the delight and instruction of her life. 'Speak, Adeline,' cried she, turning to her blushing daughter; 'do we not almost daily read and daily admire Mr Glenmurray's writings?'--'Yes, certainly,' replied Adeline, unable to articulate more, awed no doubt by the presence of so superior a being; while Glenmurray, more proud of being an author than ever, said internally, 'Is it possible that that sweet creature should have read and admired my works?'

But in vain, encouraged by the smiles and even by the blushes of Adeline, did he endeavour to engage her in conversation. Adeline was unusually silent, unusually bashful. But Mrs Mowbray made ample amends for her deficiency; and Mr Glenmurray, flattered and amused, would have continued to converse with her and look at Adeline, had he not observed the impertinent sneers and rude laughter to which conversing so familiarly with him exposed Mrs Mowbray. As soon as he observed this, he arose to depart; for Glenmurray was, according to Rochefoucault's maxim, so exquisitely selfish, that he always considered the welfare of others before his own; and heroically sacrificing his own gratification to save Mrs Mowbray and Adeline from further censure, he bowed with the greatest respect to Mrs Mowbray, sighed as he paid the same compliment to Adeline, and, lamenting his being forced to quit them so soon, with evident reluctance left the room.

'What an elegant bow he makes!' exclaimed Mrs Mowbray. Adeline had observed nothing but the sigh; and on that she did not choose to make any comment.

The next day Mrs Mowbray, having learned Glenmurray's address, sent him a card for a party at her lodgings. Nothing but Glenmurray's delight could exceed his astonishment at this invitation. He had observed Mrs Mowbray and Adeline, even before Adeline had observed him; and, as he gazed upon the fascinating Adeline, he had sighed to think that she too would be taught to avoid the dangerous and disreputable acquaintance of Glenmurray. To him, therefore, this mark of attention was a source both of consolation and joy. But, being well convinced that it was owing to her ignorance of the usual customs and opinions of those with whom she associated, he was too generous to accept the invitation, as he knew that his presence at a rout at Bath would cause general dismay, and expose the mistress to disagreeable remarks at least: but he endeavoured to make himself amends for his self-denial, by asking leave to wait on them when they were alone.

Chapter V

A day or two after, as Adeline was leaning on the arm of a young lady, Glenmurray passed them, and to his respectful bow she returned a most cordial salutation. 'Gracious me! my dear,' said her companion, 'do you know who that man is?'

'Certainly:--it is Mr Glenmurray.'

'And do you speak to him?'

'Yes:--why should I not?'

'Dear me! Why, I am sure! Why--don't you know what he is?'

'Yes, a celebrated writer, and a man of genius.'

'Oh, that may be, Miss Mowbray: but they say one should not notice him, because he is--'

'He is what?' said Adeline eagerly.

'I do not exactly know what; but I believe it is a French spy, or a Jesuit.'

'Indeed?' replied Adeline laughing. 'But I am used to have better evidence against a person than a _they say_ before I neglect an acknowledged acquaintance: therefore, with your leave, I shall turn back and talk a little to poor Mr Glenmurray.'

It so happened that _poor Mr Glenmurray_ heard every word of this conversation; for he had turned round and followed Adeline and her fair companion, to present to the former the glove which she had dropped; and as they were prevented from proceeding by the crowd on the parade, which was assembled to see some unusual sight, he, being immediately behind them, could distinguish all that passed; so that Adeline turned round to go in search of him before the blush of grateful admiration for her kindness had left his cheek.

'Then she seeks me because I am shunned by others!' said Glenmurray to himself. In a moment the world to him seemed to contain only two beings, Adeline Mowbray and Frederic Glenmurray; and that Adeline, starting and blushing with joyful surprise at seeing him so near her, was then coming in search of him!--of him, the neglected Glenmurray! Scarcely could he refrain catching the lovely and ungloved hand next him to his heart; but he contented himself with keeping the glove that he was before so eager to restore, and in a moment it was lodged in his bosom.

Nor could 'I can't think what I have done with my glove,' which every now and then escaped Adeline, prevail on him to own that he had found it. At last, indeed, it became unnecessary; for Adeline, as she glanced her eye towards Glenmurray, discovered it in the hiding-place: but, as delicacy forbade her to declare the discovery which she had made, he was suffered to retain his prize; though a deep and sudden blush which overspread his cheek, and a sudden pause which she made in her conversation, convinced Glenmurray that she had detected his secret. Perhaps he was not sorry--nor Adeline; but certain it is that Adeline was for the remainder of the morning more lost in reverie than ever her mother had been; and that from that day every one, but Adeline and Glenmurray, saw that they were mutually enamoured.

Glenmurray was the first of the two lovers to perceive that they were so; and he made the discovery with a mixture of pain and pleasure. For what could be the result of such an attachment? He was firmly resolved never to marry; and it was very unlikely that Adeline, though she had often expressed to him her approbation of his writings and opinions, should be willing to sacrifice everything to love, and become his mistress. But a circumstance took place which completely removed his doubts on this subject.

Several weeks had elapsed since the first arrival of the Mowbrays at Bath, and in that time almost all their acquaintances had left them one by one; but neither Mrs Mowbray nor Adeline had paid much attention to this circumstance. Mrs Mowbray's habits of abstraction, as usual, made her regardless of common occurrences; and to these were added the more delightful reverie occasioned by the attentions of a very handsome and insinuating man, and the influence of a growing passion. Mrs Mowbray, as we have before observed, married from duty, not inclination; and to the passion of love she had remained a total stranger, till she became acquainted at Bath with Sir Patrick O'Carrol. Yes; Mrs Mowbray was in love for the first time when she was approaching her fortieth year! and a woman is never so likely to be the fool of love, as when it assails her late in life, especially if a lover be as great a novelty to her as the passion itself. Though not, alas! restored to a second youth, the tender victim certainly enjoys a second childhood, and exhibits but too openly all the little tricks and _minaudieres_ of a love-sick girl, without the youthful appearance that in a degree excuses them. This was the case with Mrs Mowbray; and while, regardless of her daughter's interest and happiness, she was lost in the pleasing hopes of marrying the agreeable baronet, no wonder the cold neglect of her Bath associates was not seen by her.

Adeline, engrossed also by the pleasing reveries of a first love, was as unconscious of it as herself. Indeed she thought of nothing but love and Glenmurray; else, she could not have failed to see, that, while Sir Patrick's attentions and flatteries were addressed to her mother, his ardent looks and passionate sighs were all directed to herself.

Sir Patrick O'Carrol was a young Irishman, of an old family but an encumbered estate; and it was his wish to set his estate free by marrying a rich wife, and one as little disagreeable as possible. With this view he came to Bath; and in Mrs Mowbray he not only beheld a woman of large independent fortune, but possessed of great personal beauty, and young enough to be attractive. Still, though much pleased with the wealth and appearance of the mother, he soon became enamoured of the daughter's person; and had he not gone so far in his addresses to Mrs Mowbray as to make it impossible she should willingly transfer him to Adeline, and give her a fortune at all adequate to his wants, he would have endeavoured honourably to gain her affections, and entered the lists against the favoured Glenmurray.

But, as he wanted the mother's wealth, he resolved to pursue his advantage with her, and trust to some future chance for giving him possession of the daughter. In his dealings with men, Sir Patrick was a man of honour; in his dealings with women, completely the reverse: he considered them as a race of subordinate beings, and that if, like horses, they were well lodged, fed, and kept clean, they had no right to complain.

Constantly therefore did he besiege Mrs. Mowbray with his conversation, and Adeline with his eyes; and the very libertine gaze with which he often beheld her, gave a pang to Glenmurray which was but too soon painfully increased.

Sir Patrick was the only man of fashion who did not object to visit at Mrs. Mowbray's on account of her intimacy with Glenmurray; but he had his own private reasons for going thither, and continued to visit at Mrs Mowbray's though Glenmurray was generally there, and sometimes he and the latter gentleman were the whole of their company.

One evening they and two ladies were drinking tea at Mrs Mowbray's lodgings, when Mrs Mowbray was unusually silent and Adeline unusually talkative. Adeline scarcely ever spoke in her mother's presence, from deference to her abilities; and whatever might be Mrs Mowbray's defects in other respects, her conversational talents and her uncommon command of words were indisputable. But this evening, as I before observed, Adeline, owing to her mother's tender abstractions, was obliged to exert herself for the entertainment of the guests.

It so happened, also, that something was said by one of the party which led to the subject of marriage, and Adeline was resolved not to let so good an opportunity pass of proving to Glenmurray how sincerely she approved his doctrine on that subject. Immediately, with an unreserve which nothing but her ignorance of the world, and the strange education which she had received, could at all excuse, she began to declaim against marriage, as an institution at once absurd, unjust, and immoral, and to declare that she would never submit to so contemptible a form, or profane the sacred ties of love by so odious and unnecessary a ceremony.

This extraordinary speech, though worded elegantly and delivered gracefully, was not received by any of her hearers, except Sir Patrick, with any thing like admiration. The baronet, indeed, clapped his hands, and cried 'Bravo! a fine spirited girl, upon my word!' in a manner so loud, and so offensive to the feelings of Adeline, that, like the orator of old, she was tempted to exclaim, 'What foolish thing can I have said, that has drawn forth this applause?'

But Mrs Mowbray, though she could not help admiring the eloquence which she attributed to her example,--was shocked at hearing Adeline declare that her practice should be consonant to her theory; while Glenmurray, though Adeline had only expressed his sentiments, and his reason approved what she had uttered, felt his delicacy and his feelings wounded by so open and decided an avowal of her opinions, and intended conduct in consequence of them; and he was still more hurt, when he saw how much it delighted Sir Patrick, and offended the rest of the company; who, after a silence, the result of surprise and disgust, suddenly arose, and, coldly wishing Mrs Mowbray good night, left the house.

By Mrs Mowbray the cause of this abrupt departure was unsuspected: but Adeline, who had more observation, was convinced that she was the cause of it; and sighing deeply at the prejudices of the world, she sought to console herself by looking at Glenmurray, expecting to find in his eyes an expression of delight and approbation. To her great disappointment, however, his countenance was sad; while Sir Patrick, on the contrary, had an expression of impudent triumph in his look, which made her turn blushing from his ardent gaze, and indignantly follow her mother, who was then leaving the room.

As she passed him, Sir Patrick caught her hand rapturously to his lips (an action which made Glenmurray start from his chair), and exclaimed, 'Really you are the only honest little woman I ever knew! I always was sure that what you just now said was the opinion of all your sex, though they were so confounded coy they would not own it.'

'Own what Sir?' asked the astonished Adeline.

'That they thought marriage a cursed bore, and preferred leading the life of honour, to be sure.'

'The life of honour! What is that?' demanded Adeline, while Glenmurray paced the room in agitation.

'That life, my dear girl, which you mean to lead;--love and liberty with the man of your heart.'

'Sir Patrick,' cried Glenmurray impatiently, 'this conversation is--'

'Prodigiously amusing to me,' returned the baronet, 'especially as I never could hold it to a modest woman before.'

'Nor shall you now, Sir,' fiercely interrupted Glenmurray.

'Shall not, Sir?' vociferated Sir Patrick.

'Pray, gentlemen, be less violent,' exclaimed the terrified and astonished Adeline. 'I can't think what could offend you, Mr Glenmurray, in Sir Patrick's original observation: the life of honour appears to me a very excellent name for the pure and honourable union which it is my wish to form; and--'

'There; I told you so;' triumphantly interrupted Sir Patrick: 'and I never was better pleased in life:--sweet creature! at once so lovely, so wise, and so liberal!'

'Sir,' cried Glenmurray, 'this is a mistake: your life of honour and Miss Mowbray's are as different as possible; you are talking of what you are grossly ignorant of.'

'Ignorant! I ignorant! Look you, Mr Glenmurray, do you pretend to tell me I know not what the life of honour is, when I have led it so many times with so many different women?'

'How, Sir!' replied Adeline: 'many times? and with many different women? My life of honour can be led with one only.'

'Well, my dear soul, I only led it with one at a time.'

'O Sir! you are indeed ignorant of my meaning,' she rejoined: 'It is the individuality of an attachment that constitutes its purity; and--'

'Ba-ba-bu, my lovely girl! which has purity to do in the business?'

'Indeed, Sir Patrick,' meekly returned Adeline, 'I--'

'Miss Mowbray,' angrily interrupted Glenmurray, 'I beg, I conjure you to drop this conversation: your innocence is no match for--'

'For what, Sir?' furiously demanded Sir Patrick.

'Your licentiousness,' replied Glenmurray.

'Sir, I wear a sword,' cried the baronet.--'And I a cane,' said Glenmurray calmly, 'either to defend myself or chastise insolence.'

'Mr Glenmurray! Sir Patrick!' exclaimed the agitated Adeline: 'for my sake, for pity's sake desist!'

'For the present I will, madam,' faltered out Sir Patrick;--'but I know Mr Glenmurray's address, and he shall hear from me.'

'Hear from you! Why, you do not mean to challenge him? you can't suppose Mr Glenmurray would do so absurd a thing as fight a duel? Sir, he has written a volume to prove the absurdity of the custom.--No, no! you threaten his life in vain,' she added, giving her hand to Glenmurray; who, in the tenderness of the action and the tone of her voice, forgot the displeasure which her inadvertency had caused, and pressing her hand to his lips, secretly renewed his vows of unalterable attachment.

'Very well, madam,' exclaimed Sir Patrick in a tone of pique: 'then, so as Mr Glenmurray's life is safe, you care not what becomes of mine!'

'Sir,' replied Adeline, 'the safety of a fellow-creature is always of importance in my eyes.'

'Then you care for me as a fellow-creature only,' retorted Sir Patrick, 'not as Sir Patrick O'Carrol?--Mighty fine, truly, you dear ungrateful--' seizing her hand; which he relinquished, as well as the rest of his speech, on the entrance of Mrs Mowbray.

Soon after Adeline left the room, and Glenmurray bowed and retired; while Sir Patrick, having first repeated his vows of admiration to the mother, returned home to muse on the charms of the daughter, and the necessity of challenging the moral Glenmurray.

Sir Patrick was a man of courage, and had fought several duels: but as life at this time had a great many charms for him, he resolved to defer at least putting himself in the way of getting rid of it; and after having slept late in the morning, to make up for the loss of sleep in the night, occasioned by his various cogitations, he rose, resolved to go to Mrs Mowbray's, and if he had an opportunity, indulge himself in some practical comments on the singular declaration made the evening before by her lovely daughter.

Glenmurray meanwhile had passed the night in equal watchfulness and greater agitation. To fight a duel would be, as Adeline observed, contrary to his principles; and to decline one, irritated as he was against Sir Patrick, was repugnant to his feelings.

To no purpose did he peruse and re-peruse nearly the whole of his own book against duelling; he had few religious restraints to make him resolve on declining a challenge, and he felt moral ones of little avail: but in vain did he sit at home till the morning was far advanced, expecting a messenger from Sir Patrick;--no messenger came:--he therefore left word with his servant, that, if wanted, he might be found at Mrs Mowbray's, and went thither, in hopes of enjoying an hour's conversation with Adeline; resolving to hint to her, as delicately as he could, that the opinions which she had expressed were better confined, in the present dark state of the public mind, to a select and discriminating circle.

Chapter VI

Sir Patrick had reached Mrs Mowbray's some time before him, and had, to his great satisfaction, found Adeline alone; nor did it escape his penetration that her cheeks glowed, and her eyes sparkled with pleasure, at his approach.

But he would not have rejoiced in this circumstance, had he known that Adeline was pleased to see him merely because she considered his appearance as a proof of Glenmurray's safety; for, in spite of his having written against duelling, and of her confidence in his firmness and consistency, she was not quite convinced that the reasoning philosopher would triumph over the feeling man.

'You are welcome, Sir Patrick!' cried Adeline, as he entered, with a most winning smile: 'I am very glad to see you: pray sit down.'

The baronet, who, audacious as his hopes and intentions were, had not expected so kind a reception, was quite thrown off his guard by it, and catching her suddenly in his arms, endeavoured to obtain a still kinder welcome. Adeline as suddenly disengaged herself from him, and, with the dignity of offended modesty, desired him to quit the room, as, after such an insolent attempt, she could not think herself justified in suffering him to remain with her.

But her anger was soon changed into pity, when she saw Sir Patrick lay down his hat, seat himself, and burst into a long deliberate laugh.

'He is certainly mad!' she exclaimed; and, leaning against the chimney-piece, she began to contemplate him with a degree of fearful interest.

'Upon my soul! now,' cried the baronet, when his laugh was over, 'you do not suppose, my dear creature, that you and I do not understand one another! Telling a young fellow to leave the house on such occasions, means, in the pretty no meaning of your sex, "Stay, and offend again," to be sure.'

'He is certainly mad!' said Adeline, more confirmed than before in her idea of his insanity, and immediately endeavoured to reach the door: but in so doing she approached Sir Patrick, who, rather roughly seizing her trembling hand, desired her to sit down, and hear what he had to say to her. Adeline, thinking it not right to irritate him, instantly obeyed.

'Now, then, to open my mind to you,' said the baronet, drawing his chair close to hers: 'From the very first moment I saw you, I felt that we were made for one another; though, being bothered by my debts, I made up to the old duchess, and she nibbled the bait directly,--deeming my clean inches (six feet one, without shoes) well worth her dirty acres.'

'How dreadfully incoherent he is!' thought Adeline, not suspecting for a moment that, by the old duchess, he meant her still blooming mother.

'But, my lovely dear!' continued Sir Patrick, most ardently pressing her hand, 'so much have your sweet person, and your frank and liberal way of thinking, charmed me, that I here freely offer myself to you, and we will begin the life of honour together as soon as you please.'

Still Adeline, who was unconscious how much her avowed opinions, had exposed her to insult, continued to believe Sir Patrick insane; a belief which the wildness of his eyes confirmed. 'I really know not,--you surprise me, Sir Patrick,--I--'

'Surprise you, my dear soul! How could you expect anything else from a man of my spirit, after your honest declaration last night?--All I feared was, that Glenmurray should get the start of me.'

Adeline, though alarmed, bewildered, and confounded, had still recollection enough to know that, whether sane or insane, the words and looks of Sir Patrick were full of increasing insult. 'I believe, I think I had better retire', faltered out Adeline.

'Retire!--No, indeed,' exclaimed the baronet; rudely seizing her.

This outrage restored Adeline to her usual spirit and self-possession; and bestowing on him the epithet of 'mean-soul'd ruffian!' she had almost freed herself from his grasp, when a quick step was heard on the stairs, and the door was thrown open by Glenmurray. In a moment Adeline, bursting into tears, threw herself into his arms, as if in search of protection.

Glenmurray required no explanation of the scene before him: the appearance of the actors in it was explanation sufficient; and while with one arm he fondly held Adeline to his bosom, he raised the other in a threatening attitude against Sir Patrick, exclaiming as he did it, 'Base, unmanly villain!'

'Villain!' echoed Sir Patrick--'but it is very well--very well for the present--Good morning to you, sir!' So saying he hastily withdrew.

As soon as he was gone, Glenmurray for the first time declared to Adeline the ardent passion with which she had inspired him; and she, with equal frankness, confessed that her heart was irrevocably his.

From this interesting tete-a-tete Adeline was summoned to attend a person on business to her mother; and during her absence Glenmurray received a challenge from the angry baronet, appointing him to meet him that afternoon at five o'clock, about two miles from Bath. To this note, for fear of alarming the suspicions of Adeline, Glenmurray returned only a verbal message, saying he would answer it in two hours: but as soon as she returned he pleaded indispensable business; and before she could mention any fears respecting the consequences of what had passed between him and Sir Patrick, he had left the room, having, to prevent any alarm, requested leave to wait on her early the next day.

As soon as Glenmurray reached his lodgings, he again revolved in his mind the propriety of accepting the challenge. 'How can I expect to influence others by my theories to act right, if my practice sets them a bad example?' But then again he exclaimed, 'How can I expect to have any thing I say attended to, when, by refusing to fight, I put it in the power of my enemies to assert I am a poltroon, and worthy only of neglect and contempt? No, no; I must fight:--even Adeline herself, especially as it is on her account, will despise me if I do not:'--and then, without giving himself any more time to deliberate, he sent an answer to Sir Patrick, promising to meet him at the time appointed.

But after he had sent it he found himself a prey to so much self-reproach, and after he had forfeited his claims to consistency of conduct, he felt himself so strongly aware of the value of it, that, had not the time of the meeting been near at hand, he would certainly have deliberated upon some means of retracting his consent to it.

Being resolved to do as little mischief as he could, he determined on having no second in the business; and accordingly repaired to the field accompanied only by a trusty servant, who had orders to wait his master's pleasure at a distance.

Contrary to Glenmurray's expectations, Sir Patrick also came unattended by a second; while his servant, who was with him, was, like the other, desired to remain in the back ground.

'I wish, Mr Glenmurray, to do every thing honourable,' said the baronet, after they had exchanged salutations: 'therefore, Sir, as I concluded you would find it difficult to get a second, I am come without one, and I _conclude_ that I _concluded_ right.--Aye, men of your principle can have but few friends.'

'And men of your practice ought to have none, Sir Patrick,' retorted Glenmurray: 'but, as I don't think it worth while to explain to you my reasons for not having a second, as I fear that you are incapable of understanding them, I must desire you to take your ground.'

'With all my heart,' replied his antagonist; and then taking aim, they agreed to fire at the same moment.

They did so; and the servants, hearing the report of the pistols, ran to the scene of action, and saw Sir Patrick bleeding in the sword-arm, and Glenmurray, also wounded, leaning against a tree.

'This is cursed unlucky,' said Sir Patrick coolly: 'you have disabled my right arm. I can't go on with this business at present; but when I am well again command me. Your wound, I believe, is as slight as mine; but as I can walk, and you cannot, and as I have a chaise, and you not, you shall use it to convey you and your servant home, and I and mine will go on foot.'

To this obliging offer Glenmurray was incapable of giving denial; for he became insensible from loss of blood, and with the assistance of his antagonist was carried to the chaise, and supported by his terrified servant, conveyed back to Bath.

It is not to be supposed that an event of this nature should be long unknown. It was soon told all over the city that Sir Patrick O'Carrol and Mr Glenmurray had fought a duel, and that the latter was dangerously wounded; the quarrel having originated in Mr Glenmurray's scoffing at religion, king, and constitution, before the pious and loyal baronet.

This story soon reached the ears of Mrs Mowbray, who, in an agony of tender sorrow, and in defiance of all decorum, went in person to call on her admired Sir Patrick; and Adeline, who heard of the affair soon after, as regardless of appearances as her mother, and more alarmed, went in person to inquire concerning her wounded Glenmurray.

By the time that she had arrived at his lodgings, not only his own surgeon but Sir Patrick's had seen him, as his antagonist thought it necessary to ascertain the true state of his wound, that he might know whether he ought to stay, or fly his country.

The account of both the surgeons was, however, so favourable, and Glenmurray in all respects so well, that Sir Patrick's alarms were soon quite at an end; and the wounded man was lying on a sofa, lost in no very pleasant reflections, when Adeline knocked at his door. Glenmurray at that very moment was saying to himself, 'Well;--so much for principle and consistency! Now, my next step must be to marry, and then I shall have made myself a complete fool, and the worst of all fools,--a man presuming to instruct others by his precepts, when he finds them incapable of influencing even his own actions.'

At this moment his servant came up with Miss Mowbray's compliments, and, if he was well enough to see her, she would come up and speak to him.

In an instant all his self-reproaches were forgotten; and when Adeline hung weeping and silent on his shoulder, he could not but rejoice in an affair which had procured him a moment of such heartfelt delight. At first Adeline expressed nothing but terror at the consequences of his wound, and pity for his sufferings; but when she found that he was in no danger, and in very little pain, the tender mistress yielded to the severe monitress, and she began to upbraid Glenmurray for having acted not only in defiance of her wishes and principles, but of his own; of principles laid down by him to the world in the strongest point of view, and in a manner convincing to every mind.

'Dearest Adeline, consider the provocation,' cried Glenmurray:--'a gross insult offered to the woman I love!'

'But who ever fought a duel without provocation, Glenmurray? If provocation be a justification, your book was unnecessary; and did not you offer an insult to the understanding of the woman you love, in supposing that she could be obliged to you for playing the fool on her account?'

'But I should have been called a coward had I declined the challenge; and though I can bear the world's hatred, I could not its contempt:--I could not endure the loss of what the world calls honour.'

'Is it possible,' rejoined Adeline, 'that I hear the philosophical Glenmurray talking thus, in the silly jargon of a man of the world?'

'Alas! I am a man, not a philosopher, Adeline!'

'At least be a sensible one;--consistent I dare not now call you. But have you forgotten the distinction which, in your volume on the subject of duels, you so strongly lay down between real and apparent honour? In which of the two classes do you put the honour of which, in this instance, you were so tenacious? What is there in common between the glory of risking the life of a fellow-creature, and testimony of an approving conscience?'

'An excellent observation that of yours, indeed, my sweet monitress,' said Glenmurray.

'An observation of mine; It is your own,' replied Adeline: 'but see, I have the book in my muff; and I will punish you for the badness of your practice, by giving you a dose of your theory.'

'Cruel girl!' cried Glenmurray, 'I am not ordered a sleeping draught!'

Adeline was however resolved; and, opening the book, she read argument after argument with unyielding perseverance, till Glenmurray, who, like the eagle in the song, saw on the dart that wounded him his own feathers, cried 'Quarter!'

'But tell me, dear Adeline,' said Glenmurray, a little piqued at her too just reproofs, 'you, who are so severe on my want of consistency, are you yourself capable of acting up in every respect to your precepts?'

'After your weakness,' replied Adeline, smiling, 'it becomes me to doubt my own strength; but I assure you that I make it a scruple of conscience, to show by my conduct my confidence in the truth of my opinions.'

'Then, in defiance of the world's opinion, that opinion which I, you see, had not resolution to brave, you will be mine--not according to the ties of marriage, but with no other ties or sanction than those of love and reason?'

'I will,' said Adeline: 'and may He whom I worship' (raising her fine eyes and white arms to heaven) 'desert me when I desert you!'

Who that had seen her countenance and gesture at that moment, could have imagined she was calling on heaven to witness an engagement to lead a life of infamy? Rather would they have thought her a sublime enthusiast breathing forth the worship of a grateful soul.

It may be supposed that Glenmurray's heart beat with exultation at this confession from Adeline, and that he forgot, in the promised indulgence of his passion, those bounds which strict decorum required. But Glenmurray did her justice; he beheld her as she was--all purity of feeling and all delicacy; and, if possible, the slight favours by which true love is long contented to be fed, though granted by Adeline with more conscious emotion, were received by him with more devoted respect: besides, he again felt that mixture of pain with pleasure, on this assurance of her love, which he had experienced before. For he knew, though Adeline did not, the extent of the degradation into which the step which her conscience approved would necessarily precipitate her; and experience alone could convince him that her sensibility to shame, when she was for the first time exposed to it, would not overcome her supposed fortitude and boasted contempt of the world's opinion, and change all the roses of love into the thorns of regret and remorse.

And could he who doted on her;--he, too, who admired her as much for her consummate purity as for any other of her qualities;--could he bear to behold this fair creature, whose open eye beamed with the consciousness of virtue, casting her timid glances to the earth, and shrinking with horror from the conviction of having in the world's eye forfeited all pretensions to that virtue which alone was the end of her actions! Would the approbation of her own mind be sufficient to support her under such a trial, though she had with such sweet earnestness talked to him of its efficacy! These reflections had for some time past been continually occurring to him, and now they came across his mind blighting the triumphs of successful passion:--nay, but from the dread of incurring yet more ridicule, on account of the opposition of his practice to his theory, and perhaps the indignant contempt of Adeline, he could have thrown himself at her feet, conjuring her to submit to the degradation of being a wife.

But, unknown to Glenmurray, perhaps, another reason prompted him to desire this concession from Adeline. We are never more likely to be in reality the slaves of selfishness, than when we fancy ourselves acting with most heroic disinterestedness.--Egotism loves a becoming dress, and is always on the watch to hide her ugliness by the robe of benevolence. Glenmurray thought that he was willing to marry Adeline merely for _her_ sake! but I suspect it was chiefly for _his_. The true and delicate lover is always a monopolizer, always desirous of calling the woman of his affections his own: it is not only because he considers marriage as a holy institution that the lover leads his mistress to the altar; but because it gives him a right to appropriate the fair treasure to himself,--because it sanctions and perpetuates the dearest of all monopolies, and erects a sacred barrier to guard his rights,--around which, all that is respectable in society, all that is most powerful and effectual in its organization, is proud and eager to rally.

But while Glenmurray, in spite of his happiness, was sensible to an alloy of it, and Adeline was tenderly imputing to the pain of his wound the occasionally mournful expression of his countenance, Adeline took occasion to declare that she would live with Glenmurray only on condition that such a step met with her mother's approbation.

'Then are my hopes for ever at an end,' said Glenmurray:--'or,--or' (and spite of himself his eyes sparkled as he spoke)--'or we must submit to the absurd ceremony of marriage.'

'Marriage!' replied the astonished Adeline: 'can you think so meanly of my mother, as to suppose her practice so totally opposite to her principles, that she would require her daughter to submit to a ceremony which she herself regards with contempt?--Impossible. I am sure, when I solicit her consent to my being yours, she will be pleased to find that her sentiments and observations have not been thrown away on me.'

Glenmurray thought otherwise: however, he bowed and was silent; and Adeline declared that, to put an end to all doubt on the subject, she would instantly go in search of Mrs Mowbray and propose the question to her: and Glenmurray, feeling himself more weak and indisposed than he chose to own to her, allowed her, though reluctantly, to depart.

Chapter VII

Mrs Mowbray was but just returned from her charitable visit when Adeline entered the room. 'And pray, Miss Mowbray, where have you been?' she exclaimed, seeing Adeline with her hat and cloak on.

'I have been visiting poor Mr Glenmurray,' she replied.

'Indeed!' cried Mrs Mowbray: 'and without my leave! and pray who went with you?'

'Nobody, ma'am.'

'Nobody!--What! visit a man alone at his lodgings, after the education which you have received!'

'Indeed, madam,' replied Adeline meekly, 'my education never taught me that such conduct was improper; nor, as you did the same this afternoon, could I have dared to think it so.'

'You are mistaken, Miss Mowbray,' replied her mother: 'I did not do the same; for the terms which I am upon with Sir Patrick made my visiting him no impropriety at all.'

'If you think I have acted wrong,' replied Adeline timidly, 'no doubt I have done so; though you were quite right in visiting Sir Patrick, as the respectability of your age and character, and Sir Patrick's youth, warranted the propriety of the visit:--but, surely the terms which I am upon with Mr Glenmurray--'

'The terms which you are upon with Mr Glenmurray! and my age and character! what can you mean?' angrily exclaimed Mrs Mowbray.

'I hope, my dear mother,' said Adeline tenderly, 'that you had long ere this guessed the attachment which subsists between Mr Glenmurray and me;--an attachment cherished by your high opinion of him and his writings; but which respect has till now made me hesitate to mention to you.'

'Would to heaven!' replied Mrs Mowbray, 'that respect had made you for ever silent on the subject! Do you suppose that I would marry my daughter to a man of small fortune,--but more especially to one who, as Sir Patrick informs me, is shunned for his principles and profligacy by all the world?'

'To what Sir Patrick says of Mr Glenmurray I pay no attention,' answered Adeline; 'nor are you, my dear mother, capable, I am sure, of being influenced by the prejudices of the world.--But you are quite mistaken in supposing me so lost to consistency, and so regardless of your liberal opinions and the books which we have studied, as to think of _marrying_ Mr Glenmurray.'

'Grant me patience!' cried Mrs Mowbray; 'why, to be sure you do not think of living with him _without_ being married?'

'Certainly, madam; that you may have the pleasure of beholding one union founded on rational grounds and cemented by rational ties.'

'How!' cried Mrs Mowbray, turning pale. 'I!--I have pleasure in seeing my daughter a kept mistress!--You are mad, quite mad.--_I_ approve such unhallowed connexions!'

'My dearest mother,' replied Adeline, 'your agitation terrifies me,--but indeed what I say is strictly true; and see here, in Mr Glenmurray's book, the very passage which I so often have heard you admire.' As she said this, Adeline pointed to the passage; but in an instant Mrs Mowbray seized the book and threw it on the fire.

Before Adeline had recovered her consternation Mrs Mowbray fell into a violent hysteric; and long was it before she was restored to composure. When she recovered she was so exhausted that Adeline dared not renew the conversation; but leaving her to rest, she made up a bed on the floor in her mother's room, and passed a night of wretchedness and watchfulness,--the first of the kind which she had ever known.--Would it had been the last!

In the morning Mrs Mowbray awoke, refreshed and calm; and, affected at seeing the pale cheek and sunk eye of Adeline, indicative of a sleepless and unhappy night, she held out her hand to her with a look of kindness; Adeline pressed it to her lips, as she knelt by the bed-side, and moistened it with tears of regret for the past and alarm for the future.

'Adeline, my dear child,' said Mrs Mowbray in a faint voice, 'I hope you will no longer think of putting a design in execution so fraught with mischief to you, and horror to me. Little did I think that you were so romantic as to see no difference between amusing one's imagination with new theories and new systems, and acting upon them in defiance of common custom, and the received usages of society. I admire the convenient trousers and graceful dress of the Turkish women; but I would not wear them myself, lest it should expose me to derision.'

'Is there no difference,' thought Adeline, 'between the importance of a dress and an opinion!--Is the one to be taken up, and laid down again, with the same indifference as the other!' But she continued silent, and Mrs Mowbray went on.

'The poetical philosophy which I have so much delighted to study, has served me to ornament my conversation, and make persons less enlightened than myself wonder at the superior boldness of my fancy, and the acuteness of my reasoning powers;--but I should as soon have thought of making this little gold chain round my neck fasten the hall-door, as act upon the precepts laid down in those delightful books. No; though I think all they say is true, I believe the purity they inculcate too much for this world.'

Adeline listened in silent astonishment and consternation. Conscience, and the conviction of what is right, she then for the first time learned, were not to be the rule of action; and though filial tenderness made her resolve never to be the mistress of Glenmurray, she also resolved never to be his wife, or that of any other man; while, in spite of herself, the great respect with which she had hitherto regarded her mother's conduct and opinions began to diminish.

'Would to heaven, my dear mother,' said Adeline, when Mrs Mowbray had done speaking, 'that you had said all this to me ere my mind had been indelibly impressed with the truth of these forbidden doctrines; for now my conscience tells me that I ought to act up to them!'

'How!' exclaimed Mrs Mowbray, starting up in her bed, and in a voice shrill with emotion, 'are you then resolved to disobey me, and dishonour yourself?'

'Oh! never, never!' replied Adeline, alarmed at her mother's violence, and fearful of a relapse. 'Be but the kind affectionate parent that you have ever been to me; and though I will never marry out of regard to my own principles, I will also never contract any other union, out of respect to your wishes,--but will lead with you a quiet, if not a _happy_ life; for never, never can I forget Glenmurray.'

'There speaks the excellent child I always thought you to be!' replied Mrs Mowbray; 'and I shall leave it to time and good counsels to convince you, that the opinions of a girl of eighteen, as they are not founded on long experience, may possibly be erroneous.'

Mrs Mowbray never made a truer observation; but Adeline was not in a frame of mind to assent to it.

'Besides,' continued Mrs Mowbray, 'had I ever been disposed to accept of Mr Glenmurray as a son-in-law, it is very unlikely that I should be so now; as the duel took place not only, I find, from the treasonable opinions which he put forth, but from some disrespectful language which he held concerning me.'

'Who could dare to invent so infamous a calumny!' exclaimed Adeline.

'My authority is unquestionable, Miss Mowbray; I speak from Sir Patrick himself.'

'Then he adds falsehood to his other villanies!' returned Adeline, almost inarticulate with rage:--'but what could be expected from a man who could dare to insult a young woman under the roof of her mother with his licentious addresses?'

'What mean you?' cried Mrs Mowbray, turning pale.

'I mean that Sir Patrick yesterday morning insulted me by the grossest familiarities, and--'

'My dear child,' replied Mrs Mowbray laughing, 'that is only the usual freedom of his manner; a manner which your ignorance of the world led you to mistake. He did not mean to insult you, believe me, I am sure that, spite of his ardent passion for me, he never, even when alone with me, hazarded any improper liberty.'

'The ardent passion which he feels for you, madam!' exclaimed Adeline, turning pale in her turn.

'Yes, Miss Mowbray! What, I suppose you think me too old to inspire one!--But, I assure you, there are people who think the mother handsomer than the daughter!'

'No doubt, dear mother, every one ought to think so,--and would to heaven Sir Patrick were one of those! But he, unfortunately--'

'Is of that opinion,' interrupted Mrs Mowbray angrily: 'and to convince you--so tenderly does he love me, and so fondly do I return his passion, that in a few days I shall become his wife.'

Adeline, on hearing this terrible information, fell insensible on the ground. When she recovered she saw Mrs Mowbray anxiously watching by her, but not with that look of alarm and tenderness with which she had attended her during her long illness; that look which was always present to her graceful and affectionate remembrance. No; Mrs Mowbray's eye was cast down with a half-mournful, half-reproachful, and half-fearful expression, when it met that of Adeline.

The emotion of anguish which her fainting had evinced was a reproach to the proud heart of Mrs Mowbray, and Adeline felt that it was so; but when she recollected that her mother was going to marry a man who had so lately declared a criminal passion for herself, she was very near relapsing into insensibility. She however struggled with her feelings, in order to gain resolution to disclose to Mrs Mowbray all that had passed between her and Sir Patrick. But as soon as she offered to renew the conversation, Mrs Mowbray sternly commanded her to be silent; and insisting on her going to bed, she left her to her own reflections, till wearied and exhausted she fell into a sound sleep: nor, as it was late in the evening when she awoke, did she rise again till the next morning.

Mrs Mowbray entered her room as she was dressing and inquired how she did, with some kindness.

'I shall be better, dear mother, if you will but hear what I have to say concerning Sir Patrick,' replied Adeline, bursting into tears.

'You can say nothing that will shake my opinion of him, Miss Mowbray,' replied her mother coldly: 'so I advise you to reconcile yourself to a circumstance which it is not in your power to prevent.' So saying, she left the room: and Adeline, convinced that all she could say would be vain, endeavoured to console herself, by thinking that, as soon as Sir Patrick became the husband of her mother, his wicked designs on her would undoubtedly cease; and that, therefore, in one respect, that ill-assorted union would be beneficial to her.

Sir Patrick, meanwhile, was no less sanguine in his expectations from his marriage. Unlike the innocent Adeline, he did not consider his union with the mother as a necessary check to his attempts on the daughter; but, emboldened by what to him appeared the libertine sentiments of Adeline, and relying on the opportunities of being with her, which he must infallibly enjoy under the same roof in the country, he looked on her as his certain prey. Though he believed Glenmurray to be at that moment preferred to himself, he thought it impossible that the superior beauty of his person should not, in the end, have its due weight: as a passion founded in esteem, and the admiration of intellectual beauty, could not, in his opinion, subsist: besides, Adeline appeared in his eyes not a deceived enthusiast, but a susceptible and forward girl, endeavouring to hide her frailty under fine sentiments and high-sounding theories. Nor was Sir Patrick's inference an unnatural one. Every man of the world would have thought the same; and on very plausible grounds.

Chapter VIII

As Sir Patrick was not 'punctual as lovers to the moment sworn', Mrs Mowbray resolved to sit down and write immediately to Glenmurray; flattering herself at the same time, that the letter which was designed to confound Glenmurray would delight the tender baronet;--for Mrs Mowbray piqued herself on her talents for letter-writing, and was not a little pleased with an opportunity of displaying them to a celebrated author. But never before did she find writing a letter so difficult a task. Her eager wish of excelling deprived her of the means; and she who, in a letter to a friend or relation, would have written in a style at once clear and elegant, after two hours' effort produced the following specimen of the obscure, the pedantic, and affected.--

'Sir,

'The light which cheers and attracts, if we follow its guidance, often leads us into bogs and quagmires:--Verbum sapienti. Your writings are the lights, and the practice to which you advise my deluded daughter is the bog and quagmire. I agree with you in all you have said against marriage;--I agree with the savage nations in the total uselessness of clothing; still I condescend to wear clothes, though neither becoming nor useful, because I respect public opinion; and I submit to the institution of marriage for reasons equally cogent. Such being my sentiments, Sir, I must desire you never to see my daughter more. Nor could you expect to be received with open arms by me, whom the shafts of your ridicule have pierced, though warded off by the shield of love and gallantry;--but for this I thank you! Now shall I possess, owing to your baseness, at once a declared lover and a tried avenger; and the chains of Hymen will be rendered more charming by gratitude's having blown the flame, while love forged the fetters.

'But with your writings I continue to amuse my imagination.--Lovely is the flower of the nightshade, though its berry be poison. Still shall I admire and wonder at you as an author, though I avoid and detest you as a man.

'Editha Mowbray.'

This letter was just finished when Sir Patrick arrived, and to him it was immediately shown.

'Heh! what have we here?' cried he laughing violently as he perused it. 'Here you talk of being pierced by shafts which were warded off. Now, had I said that, it would have been called a bull. As to the concluding paragraph--'

'O! that, I flatter myself,' said Mrs Mowbray, 'will tear him with remorse.'

'He must first understand it,' cried Sir Patrick: 'I can but just comprehend it, and am sure it will be all botheration to him.'

'I am sorry to find such is your opinion,' replied Mrs Mowbray; 'for I think that sentence the best written of any.'

'I did not say it was not fine writing,' replied the baronet, 'I only said it was not to be understood.--But, with your leave, you shall send the letter, and we'll drop the subject.'

So said, so done, to the great satisfaction of Sir Patrick, who felt that it was for his interest to suffer the part of Mrs Mowbray's letter which alluded to Glenmurray's supposed calumnies against her to remain obscurely worded, as he well knew that what he had asserted on this subject was wholly void of foundation.

Glenmurray did not receive it with equal satisfaction. He was indignant at the charge of having advised Adeline to become his mistress rather than his wife; and as so much of the concluding passage as he could understand seemed to imply that he had calumniated her mother, to remain silent a moment would have been to confess himself guilty: he therefore answered Mrs Mowbray's letter immediately. The answer was as follows:--

'Madam,

'To clear myself from the charge of having advised Miss Mowbray to a step contrary to the common customs, however erroneous, of society at this period, I appeal to the testimony of Miss Mowbray herself; and I here repeat to you the assurance which I made to her, that I am willing to marry her when and where she chooses. I love my system and my opinions, but the respectability of the woman of my affections _more_. Allow me, therefore, to make you a little acquainted with my situation in life:

'To you it is well known, madam, that wealth, honours, and titles have no value in my eyes; and that I reverence talents and virtues, though they wear the garb of poverty, and are born in the most obscure stations. But you, or rather those who are so fortunate as to influence your determinations, may consider my sentiments on this subject as romantic and absurd. It is necessary, therefore, that I should tell you, as an excuse in their eyes for presuming to address your daughter, that, by the accident of birth, I am descended from an ancient family, and nearly allied to a noble one; and that my paternal inheritance, though not large enough for splendour and luxury, is sufficient for all the purposes of comfort and genteel affluence. I would say more on this subject, but I am impatient to remove from your mind the prejudice which you seem to have imbibed against me. I do not perfectly understand the last paragraph in your letter. If you will be so kind as to explain it to me, you may depend on my being perfectly ingenuous: indeed, I have no difficulty in declaring, that I have neither encouraged a feeling, nor uttered a word, capable of giving the lie to the declaration which I am now going to make--That I am,

'With respect and esteem,

'Your obedient servant,

'F. Glenmurray.'

This letter had an effect on Mrs Mowbray's feelings so much in favour of Glenmurray, that she was almost determined to let him marry Adeline. She felt that she owed her some amends for contracting a marriage so suddenly, and without either her knowledge or approbation; and she thought that, by marrying her to the man of her heart, she should make her peace both with Adeline and herself. But, unfortunately, this design, as soon as it began to be formed, was communicated to Sir Patrick.

'So then!' exclaimed he, 'you have forgotten and forgiven the impertinent things which the puppy said! things which obliged me to wear this little useless appendage in a sling thus (pointing to his wounded arm).'

'O! no, my dear Sir Patrick! But though what Mr Glenmurray said might alarm the scrupulous tenderness of a lover, perhaps it was a remark which might only suit the sincerity of a friend. Perhaps, if Mr Glenmurray had made it to me, I should have heard it with thanks, and with candour have approved it.'

'My sweet soul!' replied Sir Patrick, 'you may be as candid and amiable as ever you please, but, 'by St. Patrick!' never shall Sir Patrick O'Carrol be father-in-law to the notorious and infamous Glenmurray--that subverter of all religion and order, and that scourge of civilized society!'

So saying, he stalked about the room; and Mrs Mowbray, as she gazed on his handsome person, thought it would be absurd for her to sacrifice her own happiness to her daughter's, and give up Sir Patrick as her husband in order to make Glenmurray her son. She therefore wrote another letter to Glenmurray, forbidding him any further intercourse with Adeline, on any pretence whatever; and delayed not a moment to send him her final decision.

'That is acting like the sensible woman I took you for,' said Sir Patrick: 'the fellow has now gotten his quietus, I trust, and the dear little Adeline is reserved for happier fate. Sweet soul! you do not know how fond she will be of me! I protest that I shall be so kind to her, it will be difficult for people to decide which I love best, the daughter or the mother.'

'But I hope _I_ shall always know, Sir Patrick,' said Mrs Mowbray gravely.

'You!--O yes, to be sure. But I mean that my fatherly attentions shall be of the warmest kind. But now do me the favour of telling me what hour tomorrow I may appoint the clergyman to bring the license?'

The conversation that followed, it were needless and tedious to describe. Suffice, that eight o'clock the next morning was fixed for the marriage; and Mrs Mowbray, either from shame or compassion, resolved that Adeline should not accompany her to church, nor even know of the ceremony till it was over.

Nor was this a difficult matter. Adeline remained in her own apartment all the preceding day, endeavouring, but in vain, to reconcile herself to what she justly termed the degradation of her mother. She felt, alas! the most painful of all feelings, next to that of self-abasement, the consciousness of the abasement of one to whom she had all her life looked up with love and veneration. To write to Glenmurray while oppressed by such contending emotions she knew to be impossible; she therefore contented herself with sending a verbal message, importing that he should hear from her the next day: and poor Glenmurray passed the rest of that day and the night in a state little better than her own.

The next morning Adeline, who had not closed her eyes till daylight, woke late, and from a sound but unrefreshing sleep. The first object she saw was her maid, smartly dressed, sitting by her bed-side; and she also saw that she had been crying.

'Is my mother ill, Evans?' she exclaimed.

'O! no, Miss Adeline, quite well,' replied the girl, sighing.

'But why are you so much dressed?' demanded Adeline.

'I have been out,' answered the maid.

'Not on unpleasant business?'

'That's as it may be,' she cried, turning away; and Adeline, from delicacy, forebore to press her further.

''Tis very late--is it not?' asked Adeline, 'and time for me to rise!'

'Yes, miss--I believe you had better get up.'

Adeline immediately rose.--'Give me the dark gown I wore yesterday,' said she.

'I think, miss, you had better put on your new white one,' returned the maid.

'My new white one!' exclaimed Adeline, astonished at an interference so new.

'Yes, miss--I think it will be taken kinder, and look better.'

At these words Adeline's suspicions were awakened. 'I see, Evans,' she cried, 'you have something extraordinary to tell me:--I partly guess; I,--my mother--' Here, unable to proceed, she lay down on the bed which she had just quitted.

'Yes, Miss Adeline--'tis very true; but pray compose yourself, I am sure I have cried enough on your account, that I have.'

'What is true, my good Evans?' said Adeline faintly.

'Why, miss, my lady was married this morning to Sir Patrick O'Carrol!--Mercy on me, how pale you look! I am sure I wish the villain was at the bottom of the sea, so I do.'

'Leave me,' said Adeline faintly, struggling for utterance.

'No--that I will not,' bluntly replied Evans; 'you are not fit to be left; and they are rejoicing below with Sir Pat's great staring servant. But, for my part, I had rather stay here and cry with you than laugh with them.'

Adeline hid her face in the pillow, incapable of further resistance, and groaned aloud.

'Who should ever have thought my lady would have done so!' continued the maid.--'Only think, miss! they say, and I doubt it is too true, that there have been no writings, or settlements, I think they call them, drawn up; and so Sir Pat have got all, and he is over head and ears in debt, and my lady is to pay him out on't!

At this account, which Adeline feared was a just one, as she had seen no preparations for a wedding going on, and had observed no signs of deeds, or any thing of the kind, she started up in an agony of grief--'Then has my mother given me up, indeed!' she exclaimed, clasping her hands together, 'and the once darling child may soon be a friendless outcast!'

'You want a friend, Miss Adeline!' said the kind girl, bursting into tears.--'Never, while I live, or any of my fellow-servants.' And Adeline, whose heart was bursting with a sense of forlornness and abandonment, felt consoled by the artless sympathy of her attendant; and, giving way to a violent flood of tears, she threw her arms round her neck, and sobbed upon her bosom.

Having thus eased her feelings, she recollected that it was incumbent on her to exert her fortitude; and that it was a duty which she owed her mother not to condemn her conduct openly herself, nor suffer any one else to do it in her presence: still, at that moment, she could not find in her heart to reprove the observations by which, in spite of her sense of propriety, she had been soothed and gratified; but she hastened to dress herself as became a bridal dinner, and dismissed, as soon as she could, the affectionate Evans from her presence. She then walked up and down her chamber, in order to summon courage to enter the drawing-room.--'But how strange, how cruel it was,' said she, 'that my mother did not come to inform me of this important event herself!'

In this respect, however, Mrs Mowbray had acted kindly. Reluctant, even more than she was willing to confess to her own heart, to meet Adeline alone, she had chosen to conclude that she was still asleep, and had desired she might not be disturbed; but soon after her return from church, being assured that she was in a sound slumber, she had stolen to her bed-side and put a note under her pillow, acquainting her with what had passed: but this note Adeline in her restlessness had, with her pillow, pushed on the floor, and there unseen it had remained. But, as Adeline was pacing to and fro, she luckily observed it; and, by proving that her mother had not been so very neglectful of her, it tended to fortify her mind against the succeeding interview. The note began:--

'My dearest child! to spare you, in your present weak state, the emotion which you would necessarily feel in attending me to the altar, I have resolved to let the ceremony be performed unknown to you. But, my beloved Adeline, I trust that your affection for me will make you rejoice in a step, which you may, perhaps, at present disapprove, when convinced that it was absolutely necessary to my happiness, and can, in no way, be the means of diminishing yours.

'I remain

'Your ever affectionate mother.'

'She loves me still then!' cried Adeline, shedding tears of tenderness, 'and I accused her unjustly.--O my dear mother, if this event should indeed increase your happiness, never shall I repine at not having been able to prevent it.' And then, after taking two or three hasty turns round the room, and bathing her eyes to remove in a degree the traces of her tears, she ventured into the drawing-room.

But the sight of her mother seated by Sir Patrick, his arm encircling her waist, in that very room which had so lately witnessed his profligate attempts on herself, deprived her of the little resolution which she had been able to assume, and pale and trembling she sunk speechless with emotion on the first chair near her.

Mrs Mowbray, or, as we must at present call her, Lady O'Carrol, was affected by Adeline's distress, and, hastening to her, received the almost fainting girl in her arms; while even Sir Patrick, feeling compassion for the unhappiness which he could more readily understand than his bride, was eager to hide his confusion by calling for water, drops, and servants.

'I want neither medicine nor assistance now,' said Adeline, gently raising her head from her mother's shoulder: 'the shock is over, and I shall, I trust, behave in future with proper self-command.'

'Better late than never,' muttered Lady O'Carrol, on whom the word _shock_ had not made a pleasant impression; while Sir Patrick, approaching Adeline, exclaimed, 'If you have not self-command, Miss Mowbray, it is the only command which you cannot boast; for your power of commanding others no one can dispute, who has ever had the happiness of beholding you.'

So saying, he took her hand; and, as her mother's husband, claimed the privilege of saluting her,--a privilege which Adeline, though she almost shrunk with horror from his touch, had _self-command_ enough not to deny him: immediately after he claimed the same favour from his bride; and they resumed their position on the sofa.

But so embarrassing was the situation of all parties that no conversation took place; and Adeline, unable any longer to endure the restraint to which she was obliged, rose, to return to her own room, in order to hide the sorrow which she was on the point of betraying, when her mother in a tone of reproach exclaimed, 'It grieves me to the soul, Miss Mowbray, to perceive that you appear to consider as a day of mourning the day which I consider as the happiest of my life.'

'Oh! my dearest mother!' replied Adeline, returning and approaching her, 'it is the dread of your deceiving yourself, only, that makes me sad at a time like this: if this day in its consequences prove a happy one--'

'And wherefore should you doubt that it will, Miss Mowbray?'

'Miss Mowbray, do you doubt my honour?' cried Sir Patrick hastily.

Adeline instantly fixed her fine eyes on his face with a look which he knew how to interpret, but not how to support: and he cast his to the ground with painful consciousness.

She saw her triumph, and it gave her courage to proceed:--'O sir!' she cried, 'it is in your power to convert all my painful doubts into joyful certainties; make but my mother happy, and I will love and bless you ever.--Promise me, sir,' she continued, her enthusiasm and affection kindling as she spoke, 'promise me to be kind and indulgent to her;--she has never known contradiction; she has been through life the darling object of all who surrounded her; the pride of her parents, her husband, and her child: neglect, injury, and unkindness she would inevitably sink under: and I conjure you (here she dropped on her knees and extended her arms in an attitude of entreaty) by all your hopes of happiness hereafter, to give her reason to continue to name this the happiest day of her life.'

Here she ceased, overcome by the violence of her emotions; but continued her look and attitude of entreaty, full of such sweet earnestness, that the baronet could hardly conceal the variety of feelings which assailed him; amongst which, passion for the lovely object before him predominated. To make a jest of Adeline's seriousness he conceived to be the best way to conceal what he felt; and while Mrs Mowbray, overcome with Adeline's expressions of tenderness, was giving way to them by a flood of tears, and grasping in both hers the clasped hands of Adeline, he cried, in an ironical tone,--'You are the most extraordinary motherly young creature that I ever saw in my life, my dear girl! Instead of your mother giving the nuptial benediction to you, the order of nature is reversed, and you are giving it to her. Upon my word I begin to think, seeing you in that posture, that you are my bride begging a blessing of mamma on our union, and that I ought to be on my knees too.'

So saying, he knelt beside Adeline at Lady O'Carrol's feet, and in a tone of mock solemnity besought her to bless both her affectionate children: and as he did this, he threw his arm round the weeping girl, and pressed her to his bosom. This speech, and this action, at once banished all self-command from the indignant Adeline, and in an instant she sprung from his embrace; and forgetting how much her violence must surprise, if not alarm and offend, her mother, she rushed out of the room, and did not stop till she had reached her own chamber.

When there, she was alarmed lest her conduct should have occasioned both pain and resentment to Lady O'Carrol; and it was with trembling reluctance that she obeyed the summons to dinner; but her fears were groundless. The bride had fallen into one of her reveries during Sir Patrick's strange speech, from which she awakened only at the last words of it, viz. 'affectionate children:' and seeing Sir Patrick at her feet, with a very tender expression on his face, and hearing the words 'affectionate children,' she conceived that he was expressing his hopes of their being blest with progeny, and that a selfish feeling of fear at such a prospect had hurried Adeline out of the room. She was therefore disposed to regard her daughter with pity, but not with resentment, when she entered the dinner-room, and Adeline's tranquillity in a degree returned: but when she retired for the night she could not help owning to herself, that that day, her mother's wedding day, had been the most painful of her existence--and she literally sobbed herself to sleep.

The next morning a new trial awaited her; she had to write a final farewell to Glenmurray. Many letters did she begin, many did she finish, and many did she tear; but recollecting that the longer she delayed sending him one, the longer she kept him in a state of agitating suspense, she resolved to send the last written, even though it appeared to her not quite so strong a transcript of her feelings as the former ones. Whether it was so or not, Glenmurray received it with alternate agony and transport;--with agony because it destroyed every hope of Adeline's being his,--and with transport, because every line breathed the purest and yet most ardent attachment, and convinced him that, however long their separation, the love of Adeline would experience no change.

Many days elapsed before Glenmurray could bear any companion but the letter of Adeline; and during that time she was on the road with the bride and bridegroom to a beautiful seat in Berkshire, called the Pavilion, hired by Sir Patrick, the week before his marriage, of one of his profligate friends. As the road lay through a very fine country, Adeline would have thought the journey a pleasant one, had not the idea of Glenmurray ill and dejected continually haunted her. Sir Patrick appeared to be engrossed by his bride, and she was really wholly wrapt up in him; and at times the beauties of the scenery around had power to engage Adeline's attention: but she immediately recollected how much Glenmurray would have participated in her delight, and the contemplation of the prospect ended in renewed recollections of him.

Chapter IX

At length they arrived at the place of their destination; and Sir Patrick, warmly embracing his bride, bade her welcome to her new abode; and immediately approaching Adeline, he bestowed on her an embrace no less cordial:--or, to say the truth, so ardent seemed the welcome, even to the innocent Adeline, that she vainly endeavoured to persuade herself that, as her father-in-law, Sir Patrick's tenderness was excusable.

Spite of her efforts to be cheerful she was angry and suspicious, and had an indistinct feeling of remote danger; which though she could not define even to herself, it was new and painful to her to experience. But as the elastic mind of eighteen soon rebounds from the pressure of sorrow, and forgets in present enjoyment the prospect of evil, Adeline gazed on the elegant apartment she was in with joyful surprise; while, through folding doors on either side of it, she beheld a suite of rooms, all furnished with a degree of tasteful simplicity such as she had never before beheld: and through the windows, which opened on a lawn that sloped to the banks of a rapid river, she saw an amphitheatre of wooded hills, which proved that, how great soever had been the efforts of art to decorate their new habitation, the hand of Nature had done still more to embellish it; and all fear of Sir Patrick was lost in gratitude for his having chosen such a retirement.

With eager curiosity Adeline hurried from room to room; admired in the western apartments the fine effect of the declining sun shining through rose-coloured window curtains; gazed with delight on the statues and pictures that every where met the eye, and reposed with unsuspecting gaiety on the couches of eider down which were in profusion around. Every thing in the house spoke it to be the temple of Pleasure: but the innocent Adeline and her unobservant mother saw nothing but elegant convenience in an abode in which the disciples of Epicurus might have delighted; and while AEolian harps in the windows, and perfumes of all kinds, added to the enchantment of the scene, the bride only beheld in the choice of the villa a proof of her husband's desire of making her happy; and Adeline sighed for virtuous love and Glenmurray, as all that was wanting to complete her fascination.

Sir Patrick, meanwhile, was not blind to the impressions made on Adeline by the beauty of the spot which he had chosen, though he was far from suspecting the companion she had pictured to herself as most fitted to enjoy and embellish it; and pleased because she was pleased, and delighted to be regarded by her with such unusual looks of complacency, he gave himself up to his natural vivacity; and Adeline passed a merry, if not a happy, evening with the bride and bridegroom.

But the next morning she arose with the painful conviction as fresh as ever on her mind, that day would succeed to day; and yet she should not behold Glenmurray: and that day would succeed to day, and still should she see O'Carrol, still be exposed to his noisy mirth, to his odious familiarities, which, though she taught herself to believe they proceeded merely from the customs of his country, and the nearness of their relationship, it was to her most painful to endure.

Her only resource, therefore, from unpleasant thoughts was reading; and she eagerly opened the cases of books in the library, which were unlocked. But, on taking down some of the books, she was disappointed to find none of the kind to which she had been accustomed. Mrs Mowbray's peculiar taste had led her, as we have before observed, to the perusal of nothing but political tracts, systems of philosophy, and Scuderi's and other romances. Scarcely had the works of our best poets found their way to her library; and novels, plays, and works of a lighter kind she was never in the habit of reading herself, and consequently had not put in the hands of her daughter. Adeline had, therefore, read Rousseau's _Contrat Social_, but not his _Julie_; Montesquieu's _Esprit des Loix_, but not his _Lettres Persanes_; and had glowed with republican ardour over the scenes of Voltaire's _Brutus_, but had never had her mind polluted by the pages of his romances.

Different had been the circumstances, and consequently the practice, of the owner of Sir Patrick's new abode. Of all Rousseau's works, he had in his library only the _New Heloise_ and his _Confessions_; of Montesquieu, none but the glowing letters above-mentioned; and while Voltaire's chaste and moral tragedies were excluded, his profligate tales attracted the eye by the peculiar elegance of their binding, while dangerous French novels of all descriptions met the view under the downy pillows of the inviting sofas around, calculated to inflame the fancy and corrupt the morals.

But Adeline, unprepared by any reading of the kind to receive and relish the poison contained in them, turned with disgust from pages so uncongenial to her feelings; nor did her eye dwell delighted on any of the stores which the shelves contained.

Disappointment in her hopes of finding amusement in reading, Adeline had recourse to walking; and none of the beautiful scenes around remained long unexplored by her. In her rambles she but too frequently saw scenes of poverty and distress, which ill contrasted with the beauty of the house which she inhabited; scenes, which even a small portion of the money expended there in useless decoration would have entirely alleviated: and they were scenes, too, which Adeline had been accustomed to relieve. The extreme of poverty in the cottage did not disgrace, on the Mowbray estate, the well-furnished mansion-house; but Adeline, as we have observed before, was allowed to draw on her mother for money sufficient to prevent industrious labour from knowing the distress of want.

'And why should I not draw on her here for money for the same purposes?' cried Adeline to herself, as she beheld one spectacle of peculiar hardships.--'Surely my mother is not dependent on her husband? and even if she were, Sir Patrick has not a hard heart, and will not refuse my prayer': and therefore, promising the sufferers instant relief, she left them, saying she should soon reach the Pavilion and be back again; while the objects of her bounty were silent with surprise at hearing that their relief was to come from the Pavilion, a place hitherto closed to the solicitations of poverty, though ever open to the revels and the votaries of pleasure.

Adeline found her mother alone; and with a beating heart and a flushed cheek, she described the scene which she had witnessed, and begged to be restored to her old office of almoner on such occasions.

'A sad scene, indeed, my dear Adeline!' replied the bride in evident embarrassment, 'and I will speak to Sir Patrick about it.'

'Speak to Sir Patrick, madam! cannot you follow the impulse of humanity without consulting him?'

'I can't give the relief you ask without his assistance,' replied her mother; 'for, except a guinea or so, I have no loose cash about me for my own uses.--Sir Patrick's benevolence has long ago emptied his purse, and I gladly surrendered mine to him.'

'And shall you in future have no money for the purposes of charity but that you must claim from Sir Patrick?' asked Adeline mournfully.

'O dear! yes,--I have a very handsome allowance settled on me; but then at present he wants it himself (Adeline involuntarily clasped her hands together in an agony, and sighed deeply.) But, however, child,' added the bride, 'as you seem to make such a point of it, take this guinea to the cottage you mention, _en attendant_!'

Adeline took the guinea: but it was very insufficient to pay for medical attendance, to discharge the rent due to a clamorous landlord, and to purchase several things necessary for the relief of the poor sufferers: therefore she added another guinea to it, and, not liking to relate her disappointment, sent the money to them, desiring the servant to say that she would see them the next morning, when she resolved to apply to Sir Patrick for the relief which her mother could not give; feeling at the same time the mournful conviction, that she herself, as well as her mother, would be in future dependent on his bounty.

Though disposed to give way to mournful reflections on her own account, Adeline roused herself from the melancholy abstraction into which she was falling, by reflecting that she had still to plead the cause of the poor cottagers with Sir Patrick; and hearing he was in the house, she hastened to prefer her petition.

Sir Patrick listened to her tone of voice, and gazed on her expressive countenance with delight; but when she had concluded her narration a solitary half-guinea was all he bestowed on her, saying, 'I am never roused to charity by the descriptions of others; I must always see the distress which I am solicited to relieve.'

'Then go with me to the cottage,' exclaimed Adeline; but to her great mortification he only smiled, bowed, and disappeared: and when he returned to supper, Adeline could scarcely prevail on herself to look at him without displeasure, and could not endure the unfeeling vivacity of his manner.

Mortified and unhappy, she next morning went to the cottage, reluctant to impart to its expecting inhabitants the ill success she had experienced. But what was her surprise when they came out joyfully to meet her, and told her that a gentleman had been there that morning very early, had discharged their debts, and given them a sum of money for their future wants!

'His name, his name?' eagerly inquired Adeline: but that they said he refused to give; and as he was in a horseman's large coat, and held a hankerchief to his face, they were sure they should not know him again.

A pleasing suspicion immediately came across Adeline's mind that this benevolent unknown might be Glenmurray: and the idea that he was perhaps unseen hovering round her, gave her one of the most exquisite feelings which she had ever known. But this agreeable delusion was soon dissipated by one of the children's giving her a card which the kind stranger had dropped from his pocket; and this card had on it 'Sir Patrick O'Carrol.'

At first it was natural for her to be hurt and disappointed at finding that her hopes concerning Glenmurray had no foundation in truth; but her benevolence, and indeed regard for her mother's happiness as well as her own, led her to rejoice in this unexpected proof of excellence in Sir Patrick.--He had evidently proved that he loved to do good by stealth, and had withdrawn himself even from her thanks.

In a moment, therefore, she banished from her mind every trace of his unworthiness. She had done him injustice, and she sought refuge from the remorse which this consciousness inflicted on her, by going into the opposite extreme. From that hour, indeed, her complaisance to his opinions, and her attentions to him, were so unremitting and evident, that Sir Patrick's passion became stronger than ever, and his hopes of a return to it seemed to be built on a very strong foundation.

Adeline had given all her former suspicions to the wind; daily instances of his benevolence came to her knowledge, and threw such a charm over all he said and did, that even the familiarity in his conduct, look, and manner towards her, appeared to her now nothing more than the result of the free manners of his countrymen:--and she sometimes could not help wishing Sir Patrick to be known to, and intimate with, Glenmurray. But the moment was now at hand that was to unveil the real character of Sir Patrick, and determine the destiny of Adeline.

One day Sir Patrick proposed taking his bride to see a beautiful _ferme ornee_ at about twelve miles' distance; and if it answered the expectations which he had formed of it, they were determined to spend two or three days in the neighbourhood to enjoy the beauty of the grounds;--in that case he was to return in the evening to the Pavilion, and drive Adeline over the next morning to partake in their pleasure.

To this scheme both the ladies gladly consented, as it was impossible for them to suspect the villainous design which it was intended to aid.

The truth was, that Sir Patrick, having, as he fondly imagined, gained Adeline's affections, resolved to defer no longer the profligate attempt which he had long meditated; and had contrived this excursion in order to insure his wife's absence from home, and a tete-a-tete with her daughter.

At an early hour the curricle was at the door, and Sir Patrick, having handed his lady in, took leave of Adeline. He told her that he should probably return early in the evening, pressed her hand more tenderly than usual, and, springing into the carriage, drove off with a countenance animated with expected triumph.

Adeline immediately set out on a long walk to the adjoining villages, visited the cottages near the Pavilion, and, having dined at an early hour, determined to pass the rest of the day in reading, provided it was possible for her to find any book in the house proper for her perusal.

With this intention she repaired to an apartment called the library, but what in these times would be denominated a _boudoir_, and this, even in Paris, would have been admired for its voluptuous elegance.--On the table lay several costly volumes, which seemed to have been very lately perused by Sir Patrick, as some of them were open, some turned down at particular passages: but as soon as she glanced her eye over their contents, Adeline indignantly threw them down again; and, while her cheek glowed with the blush of offended modesty she threw herself on a sofa, and fell into a long and mournful reverie on the misery which awaited her mother, in consequence of her having madly dared to unite herself for life to a young libertine, who could delight in no other reading but what was offensive to good morals and to delicacy. Nor could she dwell upon this subject without recurring to her former fears for herself; and so lost was she in agonizing reflections, that it was some time before she recollected herself sufficiently to remember that she was guilty of an indecorum, in staying so long in an apartment which contained books that she ought not even to be suspected of having had an opportunity to peruse.

Having once entertained this consciousness, Adeline hastily arose, and had just reached the door when Sir Patrick himself appeared at it. She started back in terror when she beheld him, on observing in his countenance and manner evident marks not only of determined profligacy, but of intoxication. Her suspicions were indeed just. Bold as he was in iniquity, he dared not in a cool and sober moment put his guilty purpose in execution; and he shrunk with temporary horror from an attempt on the honour of the daughter of his wife, though he believed that she would be a willing victim. He had therefore stopped on the road to fortify his courage with wine; and, luckily for Adeline, he had taken more than he was aware of; for when, after a vehement declaration of the ardour of his passion, he dared irreverently to approach her, Adeline, strong in innocence, aware of his intention, and presuming on his situation, disengaged herself from his grasp with ease; and pushing him with violence from her, he fell with such force against the brass edge of one of the sofas, that, stunned and wounded by the fall, he lay bleeding on the ground. Adeline involuntarily was hastening to his assistance: but recollecting how mischievous to her such an exertion of humanity might be, she contented herself with ringing the bell violently to call the servants to his aid. Then, in almost frantic haste, she rushed out of the house, ran across the park, and when she recovered her emotion she found herself, she scarcely knew how, sitting on a turf seat by the road side.

'What will become of me!' she wildly exclaimed: 'my mother's roof is no longer a protection to me;--I cannot absent myself from it without alleging a reason for my conduct, which will ruin her peace of mind for ever. Wretch that I am! whither can I go, and where can I seek for refuge?'

At this moment, as she looked around in wild dismay, and raised her streaming eyes to heaven, she saw a man's face peeping from between the branches of a tree opposite to her, and observed that he was gazing on her intently. Alarmed and fluttered, she instantly started from her seat, and was hastening away, when the man suddenly dropped from his hiding-place, and, running after her, called her by her name, and conjured her to stop; while, with an emotion of surprise and delight, she recognized in him Arthur, the servant of Glenmurray!

Instantly, scarcely knowing what she did, she pressed the astonished Arthur's rough hand in hers; and by this action confused and confounded the poor fellow so much, that the speech which he was going to make faltered on his tongue.

'Oh! where is your master?' eagerly inquired Adeline.

'My master has sent you this, miss,' replied Arthur, holding out a letter, which Adeline joyfully received; and, spite of her intended obedience to her mother's will, Glenmurray himself could not have met with a more favourable reception, for the moment was a most propitious one to his love: nor, as it happened, was Glenmurray too far off to profit by it. On his way from Bath he went a few miles out of his road, in order, as he said, and perhaps as he thought, to pay a visit to an old servant of his mother's, who was married to a respectable farmer; but, fortunately, the farm commanded a view of the Pavilion, and Glenmurray could from his window gaze on the house that contained the woman of his affections.

But to return to Adeline, who, while hastily tearing open the letter, asked Arthur where his master was, and heard with indescribable emotion that he was in the neighbourhood.

'Here! so providentially!' she exclaimed, and proceeded to read the letter; but her emotion forbade her to read it entirely. She only saw that it contained banknotes; that Glenmurray was going abroad for his health; and, in case he should die there, had sent her the money which he had meant to leave her in his will,--lest she should be, in the meanwhile, any way dependent on Sir Patrick.

Numberless conflicting emotions took possession of Adeline's heart while the new proof of her lover's attentive tenderness met her view: and, as she contrasted his generous and delicate attachment with the licentious passion of her mother's libertine husband, a burst of uncontrollable affection for Glenmurray agitated her bosom; and, rendered superstitious by her fears, she looked on him as sent by Providence to save her from the dangers of her home.

'This is the second time,' cried she, 'that Glenmurray, as my guardian angel, has appeared at the moment when I was exposed to danger from the same guilty quarter! Ah! surely there is more than accident in this! and he is ordained to be my guide and my protector!'

When once a woman has associated with an amiable man the idea of protection, he can never again be indifferent to her: and when the protector happens to be the chosen object of her love, his power becomes fixed on a basis never to be shaken.

'It is enough,' said Adeline in a faltering voice, pressing the letter to her lips, and bursting into tears of grateful tenderness as she spoke: 'Lead me to your master directly.'

'Bless my heart! will you see him then, miss?' cried Arthur.

'See him?' replied Adeline--'see the only friend I now can boast?--But let us be gone this moment, lest I should be seen and pursued.'

Instantly, guided by Arthur, Adeline set off full speed for the farm-house, nor stopped till she found herself in the presence of Glenmurray!

'O! I am safe now!' exclaimed Adeline, throwing herself into his arms; while he was so overcome with surprise and joy that he could not speak the welcome which his heart gave her: and Adeline, happy to behold him again, was as silent as her lover. At length Glenmurray exclaimed:--

'Do we then meet again, Adeline!'

'Yes,' replied she; 'and we meet to part no more.'

'Do not mock me,' cried Glenmurray starting from his seat, and seizing her extended hand; 'my feelings must not be trifled with.'

'Nor am I a woman to trifle with them. Glenmurray, I come to you for safety and protection;--I come to seek shelter in your arms from misery and dishonour. You are ill, you are going into a foreign country: and from this moment look on me as your nurse, your companion;--your home shall be my home, your country my country!'

Glenmurray, too much agitated, too happy to speak, could only press the agitated girl to his bosom, and fold his arms round her, as if to assure her of the protection which she claimed.

'But there is not a moment to be lost,' cried Adeline: 'I may be missed and pursued: let us be gone directly.'

The first word was enough for Glenmurray: eager to secure the recovered treasure which he had thought for ever lost, his orders were given, and executed by the faithful Arthur with the utmost dispatch; and even before Adeline had explained to him the cause of her resolution to elope with him they were on their road to Cornwall, meaning to embark at Falmouth for Lisbon.

But Arthur, who was going to marry, and leave Glenmurray's service, received orders to stay at the farm till he had learned how Sir Patrick was: and having obtained the necessary information, he was to send it to Glenmurray at Falmouth. The next morning he saw Sir Patrick himself driving full speed past the farm; and having written immediately to his master, Adeline had the satisfaction of knowing that she had not purchased her own safety by the sufferings or danger of her persecutor, and the consequent misery of her mother.

Chapter X

But Glenmurray's heart needed no explanation of the cause of Adeline's elopement. She was with him--with him, as she said, for ever. True, she had talked of flying from misery and dishonour; but he knew they could not reach her in his arms,--not even dishonour according to the ideas of society,--for he meant to make Adeline legally his as soon as they were safe from pursuit, and his illness was forgotten in the fond transport of the present moment.

Adeline's joy was of a much shorter duration. Recollections of a most painful nature were continually recurring. True it was that it was no longer possible for her to reside under the roof of her mother: but was it necessary for her to elope with Glenmurray? the man whom she had solemnly promised her mother to renounce! Then, on the other side, she argued that the appearance of love for Glenmurray was an excuse sufficient to conceal from her deluded parent the real cause of her elopement.

'It was my sole alternative,' said she mentally:--'my mother must either suppose me an unworthy child, or know Sir Patrick to be an unworthy husband; and it will be easier for her to support the knowledge of the one than the other: then, when she forgives me, as no doubt she will in time, I shall be happy: but that I could never be, while convinced that I had made her miserable by revealing to her the wickedness of Sir Patrick.'

While this was passing in her mind, her countenance was full of such anxious and mournful expression, that Glenmurray, unable to keep silence any longer, conjured her to tell him what so evidently weighed upon her spirits.

'The difficulty that oppressed me is past,' she replied, wiping from her eyes the tears which the thought of having left her mother so unexpectedly, and for the first time, produced. 'I have convinced myself, that to leave home and commit myself to your protection was the most proper and virtuous step that I could take: I have not obeyed the dictates of love, but of reason.'

'I am very sorry to hear it,' said Glenmurray mournfully.

'It seems to me so very rational to love you,' returned Adeline tenderly, shocked at the sad expression of his countenance, 'that what seems to be the dictates of reason may be those of love only.'

To a reply like this, Glenmurray could only answer by close involvement not intelligible expressions of fondness to the object of them, which are so delightful to lovers themselves, and so uninteresting to other people: nay, so entirely was Glenmurray again engrossed by the sense of present happiness, that his curiosity was still suspended, and Adeline's story remained untold. But Adeline's pleasure was damped by painful recollections, and still more by her not being able to hide from herself the mournful consciousness that the ravages of sickness were but too visible in Glenmurray's face and figure, and that the flush of unexpected delight could but ill conceal the hollow paleness of his cheek, and the sunk appearance of his eyes.

Meanwhile the chaise rolled on,--post succeeded to post; and though night was far advanced, Adeline, fearful of being pursued, would not consent to stop, and they travelled till morning. But Glenmurray, feeling himself exhausted, prevailed on her, for his sake, to alight at a small inn on the road side near Marlborough.

There Adeline narrated the occurrences of the past day; but with difficulty could she prevail on herself to own to Glenmurray that she had been the object of such an outrage as she had experienced from Sir Patrick.

A truly delicate woman feels degraded, not flattered, by being the object of libertine attempts; and, situated as Adeline and Glenmurray now were, to disclose the insult which had been offered to her was a still more difficult task: but to conceal it was impossible. She felt that, even to him, some justification of her precipitate and unsolicited flight was necessary; and nothing but Sir Patrick's attempt could justify it. She, therefore, blushing and hesitating, revealed the disgraceful secret; but such was its effect on the weak spirits and delicate health of Glenmurray, that the violent emotions which he underwent brought on a return of his most alarming symptoms; and in a few hours Adeline, bending over the sick bed of her lover, experienced for the first time that most dreadful of feelings, fear for the life of the object of her affections.

Two days, however, restored him to comparative safety, and they reached a small and obscure village within a short distance from Falmouth, most conveniently situated. There they took up their abode, and resolved to remain till the wind should change, and enable them to sail for Lisbon.

In this retreat, situated in air as salubrious as that of the south of France, Glenmurray was soon restored to health, especially as happy love was now his, and brought back the health of which hopeless love had contributed to deprive him. The woman whom he loved was his companion and his nurse; and so dear had the quiet scene of their happiness become to them, that, forgetful there was still a danger of their being discovered, it was with considerable regret that they received a summons to embark, and saw themselves on their voyage to Portugal.

But before she left England Adeline wrote to her mother.

After a pleasant and short voyage the lovers found themselves at Lisbon; and Glenmurray, pursuant to his resolution, immediately proposed to Adeline, to unite himself to her by the indissoluble ties of marriage.

Nothing could exceed Adeline's surprise at this proposal: at first she could not believe Glenmurray was in earnest; but seeing that he looked not only grave but anxious, and as if earnestly expecting an answer, she asked him whether he had convinced himself that what he had written against marriage was a tissue of mischievous absurdity.

Glenmurray, blushing, with the conceit of an author replied 'that he still thought his arguments unanswerable.'

'Then, if you still are convinced your theory is good, why let your practice be bad? It is incumbent on you to act up to the principles that you profess, in order to give them their proper weight in society--else you give the lie to your own declarations.'

'But it is better for me to do that, than for you to be the sacrifice to my reputation.'

'I,' replied Adeline, 'am entirely out of the question: you are to be governed by no other law but your desire to promote general utility, and are not to think at all of the interest of an individual.'

'How can I do so, when that individual is dearer to me than all the world beside?' cried Glenmurray passionately.

'And if you but once recollect that you are dearer to me than all the world beside, you will cease to suppose that my happiness can be affected by the opinion entertained of my conduct by others.' As Adeline said this, she twisted both her hands in his arms so affectionately, and looked up in his face with so satisfied and tender an expression, that Glenmurray could not bear to go on with a subject which evidently drew a cloud across her brow; and hours, days, weeks, and months passed rapidly over their heads before he had resolution to renew it.

Hours, days, weeks, and months spent in a manner most dear to the heart and most salutary to the mind of Adeline!--Her taste for books, which had hitherto been cultivated in a partial manner, and had led her to one range of study only, was now directed by Glenmurray to the perusal of general literature; and the historian, the biographer, the poet, and the novelist, obtained alternately her attention and her praises.

In her knowledge of the French and Italian languages, too, she was now considerably improved by the instructions of her lover; and while his occasional illnesses were alleviated by her ever watchful attentions, their attachment was cemented by one of the strongest of all ties--the consciousness of mutual benefit and assistance.

Chapter XI

One evening, as they were sitting on a bench in one of the public walks, a gentleman approached them, whose appearance bespoke him to be an Englishman, though his sun-burnt complexion showed that he had been for years exposed to a more ardent climate than that of Britain.

As he came nearer, Glenmurray thought his features were familiar to him; and the stranger, starting with joyful surprise, seized his hand, and welcomed him as an old friend. Glenmurray returned his salutation with great cordiality, and recognized in the stranger, a Mr Maynard, an amiable man, who had gone to seek his fortune in India, and was returned a nabob, but with an irreproachable character.

'So, then,' cried Mr Maynard gaily, 'this is the elegant young English couple that my servant, and even the inn-keeper himself, was so loud in praise of! Little did I think the happy man was my old friend,--though no man is more deserving of being happy: but I beg you will introduce me to your lady.'

Glenmurray, though conscious of the mistake he was under, had not resolution enough to avow that he was not married; and Adeline, unaware of the difficulty of Glenmurray's situation, received Mr Maynard's salutation with the utmost ease, though the tremor of her lover's voice, and the blush on his cheek, as he said--'Adeline, give me leave to introduce to you Mr Maynard, an old friend of mine,'--were sufficient indications that the rencontre disturbed him.

In a few minutes Adeline and Mr Maynard were no longer strangers. Mr Maynard, who had not lived much in the society of well-informed women, and not at all in that of women accustomed to original thinking, was at once astonished and delighted at the variety of Adeline's remarks, at the playfulness of her imagination, and the eloquence of her expressions. But it was very evident, at length, to Mr Maynard, that in proportion as Adeline and he became more acquainted and more satisfied with each other, Glenmurray grew more silent and more uneasy. The consequence was unavoidable: as most men would have done on a like occasion, Mr Maynard thought Glenmurray was jealous of him.

But no thought so vexatious to himself, and so degrading to Adeline, had entered the confiding and discriminating mind of Glenmurray. The truth was