Adeline Mowbray Part 36

'By no means.' interrupted Adeline, understanding what he was going to say: 'to BEAR and FORBEAR I believe to be the grand secret of happiness, and that it ought to be the great study of life: therefore, whatever would enable married persons to separate on the slightest quarrel or disgust, would make it so much the less necessary for us to learn this important lesson; a lesson so needful in order to perfect the human character, that I believe the difficulty of divorce to be one of the greatest blessings of society.'

'What can have so completely changed your opinions on this subject?'

replied Colonel Mordaunt.

'Not my own experience,' returned Adeline; 'for the painful situations in which I have been placed, I might attribute, not to the fallacy of the system on which I have acted, but to those existing prejudices in society which I wish to see destroyed.'

'Then, to what else is the change in your sentiments to be attributed?'

'To a more serious, unimpa.s.sioned, and unprejudiced view of the subject than I had before taken: at present I am not equal to expatiate on matters so important: however, some time or other, perhaps, I may make known to you my sentiments on them in a more ample manner: but I have, I trust, said enough to lead you to conclude, that though Mr Berrendale's conduct to me has been atrocious, and that you are in many respects ent.i.tled to my grat.i.tude and thanks, you and I must henceforward be strangers to each other.'

Colonel Mordaunt, little expecting such a total overthrow to his hopes, was, on receiving it, choked with contending emotions; and his broken sentences and pale cheek were sufficiently expressive of the distress which he endured. But I shall not enter into a detail of all he urged in favour of his pa.s.sion; nor the calm, dignified, manner in which Adeline replied. Suffice that, at last, from a sort of intuitive knowledge of the human heart, as it were, which persons of quick talent and sensibilities possess however defective their experience, Adeline resolved to try to soothe the self-love which she had wounded, knowing that self-love is scarcely to be distinguished in its effects from love itself; and that the agony of disappointed pa.s.sion is always greater when it is inflicted by the coldness or falsehood of the beloved object, than when it proceeds from parental prohibition, or the cruel separation enjoined by conscious poverty. She therefore told Colonel Mordaunt that he was once very near being the first choice of her heart: when she first saw him, she said, his person, and manners, and attentions, had so strongly prepossessed her in his favour, that he himself, by ceasing to see and converse with her, could alone have saved her from the pain of a hopeless attachment.

'In pity, spare me,' cried Mordaunt, 'the contemplation of the happiness I might have enjoyed!'

'But you know you were not a marrying-man, as it is called; and forgive me if I say, that men who can on system suppress the best feelings of their nature, and prefer a course of libertine indulgence to a virtuous connexion, at that time of life when they might become happy husbands and fathers, with the reasonable expectation of living to see their children grown up to manhood, and superintending their education themselves--such men, Colonel Mordaunt, deserve, in the decline of life, to feel that regret and that self-condemnation which you this moment antic.i.p.ate.'

'True--too true!' replied the colonel; 'but, for mercy's sake, torture me no more.'

'I would not probe where I did not intend to make a cure,' replied Adeline.

'A cure!--what mean you!'

'I mean to induce you, ere it be yet too late, to endeavour to form a virtuous attachment, and to unite yourself for life with some amiable young woman who will make you as happy as I would have endeavoured to make you, had it been my fortunate lot to be yours: for, believe me, Colonel Mordaunt,' and her voice faltered as she said it, 'had _he_, whom I still continue to love with unabated tenderness, though years have elapsed since he was taken from me,--had he bequeathed me to you on his death-bed, the reluctance with which I went to the altar would have been more easily overcome.'

Saying this, she suddenly left the room, leaving Colonel Mordaunt surprised, gratified, and his mind struggling between hopes and fears; for Adeline was not conscious that she imparted hope as well as consolation by the method which she pursued; and though she sent Savanna to tell the colonel she could see him no more that evening, he departed in firm expectation that Adeline would not have resolution to forbid him to see her again.

In this, however, he was mistaken; Adeline had learnt the best of all lessons, distrust of her own strength:--and she resolved to put it out of her power to receive visits which a regard to propriety forbade, and which might injure her reputation, if not her peace of mind. Therefore, as soon as Colonel Mordaunt was gone, she summoned Savanna, and desired her to proceed to business.

'What!' cried the delighted mulatto, 'are we going to prosecu ma.s.sa?'

'No,' replied Adeline, 'we are going into the country: I am come to a determination to take no legal steps in this affair, but leave Mr Berrendale to the reproaches of his own conscience.'

'A fiddle's end!' replied Savanna, 'he have no conscience, or he no leave you: better get him hang, if you can; den you marry de colonel.'

'I had better hang the father of my child, had I, Savanna?'

'Oh! no, no, no, no,--me forget dat.'

'But I do not, nor can I even bear to disgrace the father of Editha: therefore, trusting that I can dispose of her, and secure her interest better than by forcing her father to do her justice, and b.a.s.t.a.r.dize the poor innocent whom his wife will soon bring into the world, I am going to bury myself in retirement, and live the short remainder of my days unknowing and unknown.'

CHAPTER XXII

Savanna was going to remonstrate, but the words 'short remainder of my days' distressed her so much, that tears choked her words; and she obeyed in silence her mistress's orders to pack up, except when she indulged in a few exclamations against her lady's cruelty in going away without taking leave of Colonel Mordaunt, who, sweet gentleman, would break his heart at her departure, especially as he was not to know whither she was going. A postchaise was at the door the next morning at six o'clock; and as Adeline had not much luggage, having left the chief part of her furniture to be divided between the mistresses of her two lodgings, in return for their kind attention to her and her child, she took an affectionate leave of her landlady, and desired the post-boy to drive a mile on the road before him: and when he had done so, she ordered him to go on to Barnet; while the disappointed mulatto thanked G.o.d that the tawny boy was gone to Scotland with his protectress, as it prevented her having the mortification of leaving him behind her, as well as the colonel.--'O had I such a lover,' cried she, (her eyes filling with tears,) 'me never leave him, nor he me!' and for the first time she thought her angel-lady hard-hearted.

For some miles they proceeded in silence, for Adeline was too much engrossed to speak; and the little Editha, being fast asleep in the mulatto's arms, did not draw her mother out of the reverie into which she had fallen.

'And where now?' said the mulatto, when the chaise stopped.

'To the next stage on the high north road.' And on they went again; nor did they stop, except for refreshments, till they had travelled thirty miles; when Adeline, worn out with fatigue, staid all night at the inn where the chaise stopped, and the next morning they resumed their journey, but not their silence. The mulatto could no longer restrain her curiosity; and she begged to know whither they were going, and why they were to be buried in the country?

Adeline, sighing deeply, answered, that they were going to live in c.u.mberland; and then sunk into silence again, as she could not give the mulatto her true reasons for the plan that she was pursuing without wounding her affectionate heart in a manner wholly incurable. The truth was, that Adeline supposed herself to be declining: she thought that she experienced those dreadful languors, those sensations of internal weakness, which, however veiled to the eye of the observer, speak in forcible language to the heart of the conscious sufferer. Indeed, Adeline had long struggled, but in vain, against feelings of a most overwhelming nature; amongst which, remorse and horror, for having led by her example and precepts an innocent girl into a life of infamy, were the most painfully predominant: for, believing Mary Warner's a.s.sertion when she saw her at Mr Langley's chambers, she looked upon that unhappy girl's guilt as the consequence of her own; and mourned, incessantly mourned, over the fatal errors of her early judgment, which had made her, though an idolater of virtue, a practical a.s.sistant to the cause of vice. When Adeline imagined the term of her existence to be drawing nigh, her mother, her obdurate but still dear mother, regained her wonted ascendancy over her affections; and to her, the approach of death seemed fraught with satisfaction. For that parent, so long, so repeatedly deaf to her prayers, and to the detail of those sufferings which she had made one of the conditions of her forgiveness, had promised to see and to forgive her on her _death-bed_; and her heart yearned, fondly yearned, for the moment when she should be pressed to the bosom of a relenting parent.

To c.u.mberland, therefore, she was resolved to hasten, and into the very neighbourhood of Mrs Mowbray; while, as the chaise wheeled them along to the place of their destination, even the prattle of her child could not always withdraw her from the abstraction into which she was plunged, as the scenes of her early years thronged upon her memory, and with them the recollection of those proofs of a mother's fondness, for a renewal of which, even in the society of Glenmurray, she had constantly and despondingly sighed.

As they approached Penrith, her emotion redoubled, and she involuntarily exclaimed--'Cruel, but still dear, mother, you little think your child is so near!'

'Heaven save me!' cried Savanna; 'are we to go and be near dat woman?'

'Yes,' replied Adeline. 'Did she not say she would forgive me on my death-bed?'

'But you not there yet, dear missess,' sobbed Savanna; 'you not there of long years!'

'Savanna,' returned Adeline, 'I should die contented to purchase my mother's blessing and forgiveness.'

Savanna, speechless with contending emotions, could not express by words the feeling of mixed sorrow and indignation which overwhelmed her; but she replied by putting Editha in Adeline's arms; then articulating with effort, 'Look there!' she sobbed aloud.

'I understand you,' said Adeline, kissing away the tears gathering in Editha's eyes, at sight of Savanna's distress: 'but perhaps I think my death would be of more service to my child than my life.'

'And to me too, I suppose,' replied Savanna reproachfully. 'Well,--me go to Scotland; for no one love me but the tawny boy.'

'You will stay and close my eyes first, I hope!' observed Adeline mournfully.

In a moment Savanna's resentment vanished. 'Me will live and die vid you,' she replied, her tears redoubling, while Adeline again sunk into thoughtful silence.

As soon as they reached Penrith, Adeline inquired for lodgings out of the town, on that side nearest to her mother's abode; and was so fortunate, as she esteemed herself, to procure two apartments at a small house within two miles of Mrs Mowbray's.

'Then I breathe once more the same air with my mother!' exclaimed Adeline as she took possession of her lodging. 'Savanna, methinks I breathe freer already!'

'Me more choked,' replied the mulatto, and turned sullenly away.

'Nay, I--I feel so much better, that to-morrow I will--I will take a walk,' said Adeline hesitatingly.

'And where?' asked Savanna eagerly.

'Oh, to-night I shall only walk to bed,' replied Adeline smiling; and with unusual cheerfulness she retired to rest.

The next morning she arose early; and being informed that a stile near a peasant's cottage commanded a view of Mrs Mowbray's house, she hired a man and cart to convey her to the bottom of the hill, and with Editha by her side she set out to indulge her feelings by gazing on the house which contained her mother.

When they alighted, Editha gaily endeavoured to climb the hill, and urged her mother to follow her; but Adeline, rendered weak by illness and breathless by emotion, felt the ascent so difficult, that no motive less powerful than the one which actuated her could have enabled her to reach the summit.

At length, however, she did reach it:--and the lawn before Mrs Mowbray's white house, her hay-fields, and the running stream at the bottom of it, burst in all their beauty on her view.--'And this is my mother's dwelling!' exclaimed Adeline: 'and there was I born: and near here--'

shall I die, she would have added, but her voice failed her.

'Oh! what a pretty house and garden!' cried Editha in the unformed accents of childhood;--'how I should like to live there!'