Adeline had now a companion in her occasional walks;—Glenmurray insisted on her walking, and insisted on Berrendale's accompanying her. In these tête-à-têtes Adeline unburthened her heart, by telling Berrendale of the agony she felt at the idea of losing Glenmurray; and while drowned in tears she leaned on his arm, she unconsciously suffered him to press the hand that leaned against him; nor would she have felt it a freedom to be reproved, had she been conscious that he did so. But these trifling indulgences were fuel to the flame that she had kindled in the heart of Berrendale; a flame which he saw no guilt in indulging, as he looked on Glenmurray's death as certain, and Adeline would then be free.
But though Adeline was perfectly unconscious of his attachment, Glenmurray had seen it even before Berrendale himself discovered it; and he only waited a favourable opportunity to make the discovery known to the parties. All he had as yet ventured to say was, 'Charles, my Adeline is an excellent nurse!—You would like such as one during your fits of the gout;' and Berrendale had blushed deeply while he assented to Glenmurray's remarks, because he was conscious that, while enumerating Adeline's perfections, he had figured her to himself warming his flannels, and leaning tenderly over his gouty couch.
One day, while Adeline was reading to Glenmurray, and Berrendale was attending not to what she read, but to the beauty of her mouth while reading, the nurse came in, and said that 'a mulatto woman wished to speak to Miss Mowbray.'
'Show her up,' immediately cried Glenmurray; 'and if her little boy is with her, let him come too.'
In vain did Adeline expostulate—Glenmurray wished to enjoy the mulatto's expressions of gratitude; and, in spite of all she could say, the mother and child were introduced.
'So!' cried the mulatto, (whose looks were so improved that Adeline scarcely knew her again,) 'So! me find you at last; and, please God! we not soon part more.' As she said this, she pressed the hem of Adeline's gown to her lips with fervent emotion.
'Not part from her again!' cried Glenmurray, 'What do you mean, my good woman?'
'Oh! when she gave tree guinea for me, me tought she mus be rich lady, but now dey say she be poor, and me mus work for her.'
'And who told you I was poor?'
'Dat cross man where you live once—he say you could not pay him, and you go away—and he tell me that your love be ill; and me so sorry, yet so glad! for my love be well aden, and he have good employ; and now I can come and serve you, and nurse dis poor gentleman, and all for nothing but my meat and drink; and I know dat great fat nurse have gold wages, and eat and drink fat beside,—I knowd her well.'