“The modest virtues mingled in her eyes, Still on the ground dejected, darting all
Their humid beams into the opening flowers.
Or when she thought—
Of what her faithless fortune promised once,
They, like the dewy star
Of evening, shone in tears.”—Thomson.
Adela, on the death of her father, was taken by Belgrave to England, though the only pleasure he experienced in removing her was derived from the idea of wounding her feelings, by separating her from Mrs. Marlowe, whom he knew she was tenderly attached to. From his connections in London, she was compelled to mix in society—compelled, I say, for the natural gayety of her soul was quite gone, and that solitude, which permitted her to brood over the remembrance of past days, was the only happiness she was capable of enjoying. When the terrors of Belgrave drove him from the kingdom, he had her removed to Woodhouse, to which, it may be remembered, he had once brought Amanda, and from which the imperious woman who then ruled was removed; but the principal domestic was equally harsh and insolent in her manner, and to her care the unfortunate Adela was consigned, with strict orders that she should not be allowed to receive any company, or correspond with any being. Accustomed from her earliest youth to the greatest tenderness, this severity plunged her in the deepest despondency, and life was a burden she would gladly have resigned. Her melancholy, or rather her patient sweetness, at[Pg 574] least softened the flinty nature of her governante, and she was permitted to extend her walks beyond the gardens, to which they had hitherto been confined; but she availed herself of this permission only to visit the church-yard belonging to the hamlet, whose old yew-trees she had often seen waving from the windows. Beneath their solemn gloom she loved to sit, while evening closed around her; and in a spot sequestered from every human eye, weep over the recollection of that father she had lost, that friend she was separated from. She remained in the church-yard one night beyond her usual hour. The soft beams of the moon alone prevented her from being involved in darkness, and the plaintive breathings of a flute from the hamlet just stole upon her ear. Lost in sadness, her head resting upon her hand, she forgot the progress of time, when suddenly she beheld a form rising from a neighboring grave. She started up, screamed, but had no power to move. The form advanced to her. It was the figure of a venerable man, who gently exclaimed, “Be not afraid!” His voice dissipated the involuntary fears of Adela: but still she trembled so much she could not move. “I thought,” cried he, gazing on her, “this place had been alone the haunt of wretchedness and me.” “If sacred to sorrow,” exclaimed Adela, “I well may claim the privilege of entering it.” She spoke involuntarily, and her words seemed to affect the stranger deeply. “So young,” said he; “it is melancholy, indeed; but still the sorrows of youth are more bearable than those of age, because, like age it has not outlived the fond ties, the sweet connections of life.” “Alas!” cried Adela unable to repress her feelings, “I am separated from all I regarded.” The stranger leaned pensively against a tree for a few minutes, and then again addressed her: “’Tis a late hour,” said he; “suffer me to conduct you home, and also permit me to ask if I may see you here to-morrow night? Your youth, your manner, your dejection, all interest me deeply. The sorrows of youth are often increased by imagination. You will say that nothing can exceed its pains; ’tis true, but it is a weakness to yield to them—a weakness which, from a sensible mind, will be eradicated the moment it hears of the real calamities of life. Such a relation I can give you if you meet me to-morrow night in this sad, this solitary spot—a spot I have visited every closing evening, without ever before meeting a being in it.”
His venerable looks, his gentle, his pathetic manner, affected Adela inexpressibly. She gazed on him with emotions somewhat similar to those with which she used to contemplate the mild features of her father. “I will meet you,” cried she, “but[Pg 575] my sorrows are not imaginary.” She refused to let him attend her home; and in this incident there was something affecting and romantic, which soothed and engrossed the mind. She was punctual the next evening to the appointed hour. The stranger was already in the church-yard. He seated her at the head of the grave from which she had seen him rise the preceeding night, and which was only distinguished from the others by a few flowering shrubs planted round it, and began his promised narrative. He had not proceeded far ere Adela began to tremble with emotion—as he continued it increased. At last, suddenly catching his hand with wildness, she exclaimed, “She lives—the wife so bitterly lamented still lives, a solitary mourner for your sake. Oh, never! never did she injure you as you suppose. Oh, dear, inestimable Mrs. Marlowe, what happiness to the child of your care, to think that through her means you will regain the being you have so tenderly regretted—regain him with a heart open to receive you.” The deep convulsive sobs of her companion now pierced her ear. For many minutes he was unable to speak—at last, raising his eyes, “Oh, Providence! I thank Thee,” he exclaimed; “again shall my arms fold to my heart its best beloved object. Oh, my Fanny, how have I injured thee! Learn from me,” he continued, turning to Adela, “oh! learn from me never to yield to rashness. Had I allowed myself time to inquire into the particulars of my wife’s conduct; had I resisted, instead of obeying, the violence of passion, what years of lingering misery should I have saved us both! But tell me where I shall find my solitary mourner, as you call her?” Adela gave him the desired information, and also told him her own situation. “The wife of Belgrave!” he repeated; “then I wonder not,” continued he, as if involuntarily, “at your sorrows.” It was, indeed, to Howel, the unfortunate father of Juliana, the regretted husband of Mrs. Marlowe, that Adela had been addressing herself. He checked himself, however, and told her that the being, by whose grave they sat, had been hurried, through the villany of Belgrave, to that grave. Adela told him of the prohibition against her writing; but at the same time assured him, ere the following night, she would find an opportunity of writing a letter, which he should bring to Mrs. Marlowe, who by its contents would be prepared for his appearance, as it was to be sent in to her. But Adela was prevented from putting her intention into execution by an event as solemn as unexpected.
The ensuing morning she was disturbed from her sleep by a violent noise in the house, as of people running backwards and[Pg 576] forwards in confusion and distress. She was hurrying on her clothes to go and inquire into the occasion of it, when a servant rushed into the room, and in a hasty manner told her that Colonel Belgrave was dead. Struck with horror and amazement, Adela stood petrified, gazing on her. The maid repeated her words, and added that he had died abroad, and his remains were brought over to Woodhouse for interment, attended by a French gentleman, who looked like a priest. The various emotions which assailed the heart of Adela at this moment were too much for her weak frame, and she would have fallen to the floor but for the maid. It was some time ere she recovered her sensibility, and when she did regain it, she was still so agitated as to be unable to give those directions, which the domestics, who now looked up to her in a light very different from they had hitherto done, demanded from her. All she could desire was that the steward should pay every respect and attention to the gentleman who had attended the remains of his master, and have every honor that was due shown to those remains. To suppose she regretted Belgrave would be unnatural; but she felt horror, mingled with a degree of pity, for his untimely fate at the idea of his dying abroad, without one connection, one friend near him. His last moments were indeed more wretched than she could conceive. Overwhelmed with terror and grief, he had quitted England—terror at the supposition of a crime which in reality he had not committed, and grief for the fate of Amanda. He sought to lose his horrors in inebriety; but this, joined to the agitations of his mind, brought on a violent fever by the time he had landed at Calais, in the paroxysms of which, had the attendants understood his language, they would have been shocked at the crimes he revealed. His senses were restored a short time before he died: but what excruciating anguish, as well as horror, did he suffer from their restoration! He knew from his own feelings, as well as from the looks of his attendants, that his last moments were approaching: and the recollection of past actions made him shudder at those moments. Oh, Howel! now were you amply avenged for all the pangs he made you suffer. Now did the pale image of your shrouded Juliana seem to stand beside his bed reproaching his barbarity. Every treacherous action now rose to view, and, trembling, he groaned with terror at the spectres which a guilty conscience raised around him. Death would have been a release, could he have considered it an annihilation of all existence; but that future world he had always derided, that world was opening in all its awful horrors to his view. Already he saw himself be[Pg 577]fore its sacred Judge, surrounded by the accusing spirits of those he had injured. He desired a clergyman to be brought to him. A priest was sent for. Their faiths were different, but still, as a man of God, Belgrave applied to him for an alleviation of his tortures. The priest was superstitious, and ere he tried to comfort he wished to convert; but scarcely had he commenced the attempt ere the wretched being before him clasped his hands together, in a strong convulsion, and expired. The English servant who attended Belgrave informed the people of the hotel of his rank and fortune, and the priest offered to accompany his remains to England. He was, by the direction of Adela, who had not resolution to see him, amply rewarded for his attention: and in two days after their arrival at Woodhouse, the remains of Belgrave were consigned to their kindred earth. From a sequestered corner of the church-yard Howel witnessed his interment. When all had departed, he approached the grave of his daughter—"He is gone!” he exclaimed; “my Juliana, your betrayer is gone; at the tribunal of his God he now answers for his cruelty to you. But, oh! may he find mercy from that God; may He pardon him, as in this solemn moment I have done—my enmity lives not beyond the grave.”
Adela now sent for Howel; and, after their first emotions had subsided, informed him she meant immediately to return to Ireland. The expectation of her doing so had alone prevented his going before. They accordingly commenced their journey the ensuing day, and in less than a week reached the dear and destined spot so interesting to both. They had previously settled on the manner in which the discovery should be revealed to Mrs. Marlowe, and Adela went alone into her cottage. Sad and solitary, as Mrs. Marlowe said in her letter to Oscar, did Adela find her in her parlor; but it was a sadness which vanished the moment she beheld her. With all the tenderness of a mother she clasped Adela to her breast, and, in the sudden transports of joy and surprise, for many minutes did not notice her dress; but when she did observe it, what powerful emotions did it excite in her breast! Adela, scarcely less agitated than she was, could not for many minutes relate all that had happened. At last the idea of the state in which she had left Howel made her endeavor to compose herself. Mrs. Marlowe wept while she related her sufferings; but when she mentioned Howel, surprise suspended her tears—a surprise, increased when she began the story; but when she came to that part where she herself had betrayed such emotion while[Pg 578] listening to Howel, Mrs. Marlowe started and turned pale. “Your feelings are similar to mine,” said Adela; “at this period I became agitated. Yes,” she continued, “it was at this period I laid my trembling hand on his, and exclaimed, she lives!” “Merciful Heaven!” cried Mrs. Marlowe, “what do you mean?” “Oh, let me now,” cried Adela, clasping her arms round her, “repeat to you the same expression. He lives! that husband, so beloved and regretted, lives!” “Oh, bring him to me!” said Mrs. Marlowe, in a faint voice; “let me behold him while I have reason myself to enjoy the blessing.” Adela flew from the room. Howel was near the door. He approached, he entered the room, he tottered forward, and in one moment was at the feet and in the arms of his wife, who, transfixed to the chair, could only open her arms to receive him. The mingled pain and pleasure of such a reunion, cannot be described. Both, with tears of grateful transport, blessed the Power which had given such comfort to their closing days. “But, my children,” exclaimed Mrs. Marlowe, suddenly, “ah! when shall I behold my children? Why did not they accompany you? Ah! did they deem me then unworthy of bestowing a mother’s blessing?” Howel trembled and turned pale. “I see,” said Mrs. Marlowe, interpreting his emotion, “I am a wife, but not a mother.” Howel, recovering his fortitude, took her hand and pressed it to his bosom. “Yes,” he replied, “you are a mother; one dear, one amiable child remains, Heaven be praised!” He paused, and a tear fell to the memory of Juliana. “But Heaven,” he resumed, “has taken the other to its eternal rest. Inquire not concerning her at present, I entreat; soon will I conduct you to the grave; there will I relate her fate, and together will we mourn it. Then shall the tears that never yet bedewed her grave, the precious tears of a mother, embalm her sacred dust.” Mrs. Marlowe wept, but she complied with her husband’s request. She inquired, in a broken voice, about her son, and the knowledge of his happiness gradually cheered her mind.
Adela consented to stay that night in the cottage; but the next day she determined on going to Woodlawn. To think she should again wander through it, again linger in the walks she had trodden with those she loved, gave to her mind a melancholy pleasure. The next morning, attended by her friend, she repaired to it, and was inexpressibly affected by reviewing scenes endeared by the tender remembrance of happier hours. The house, from its closed windows, appeared quite neglected and melancholy, as if pleasure had forsaken it with the poor de[Pg 579]parted general. Standard, his favorite horse, grazed in the lawn; and beside him, as if a secret sympathy endeared them to each other, stood the dog that had always attended the general in his walks. It instantly recollected Adela, and running to her licked her hand, and evinced the utmost joy. She patted him on the head, while her tears burst forth at the idea of him who had been his master. The transports of the old domestics, particularly of the gray-headed butler, at her unexpected return, increased her tears. But when she entered the parlor, in which her father usually sat, she was quite overcome, and motioning with her hand for her friends not to mind her, she retired to the garden. There was a little romantic root-house at the termination of it, where she and Oscar had ............