'But I cannot live, I cannot live,' again replied Glenmurray; 'and when I die, what will become of you?'
'I care not,' cried Adeline: 'if I lose you, may the same grave receive us!'
'But it will not, my dearest:—grief does not kill; and, entailed as my estate is, I have nothing to leave you: and though richly qualified to undertake the care of children, in order to maintain yourself, your unfortunate connexion, and singular opinions, will be an eternal bar to your being so employed. O Adeline! these cutting fears, these dreadful reflections, are indeed the bitterness of death: but there is one way of alleviating my pangs.'
'Name it,' replied Adeline with quickness.
'But you must promise then to hear me with patience.—Had I been able to live through my illness, I should have conjured you to let me endeavour to restore you to your place in society, and consequently to your usefulness, by making you my wife: and young, and I may add innocent and virtuous, as you are, I doubt not but the world would at length have received you into its favour again.'
'But you must, you will, you shall live,' interrupted Adeline, 'and I shall be your happy wife.'
'Not mine' replied Glenmurray, laying an emphasis on the last word.
Adeline started, and, fixing her eyes wildly on his, demanded what he meant.
'I mean,' replied he, 'to prevail on you to make my last moments happy, by promising, some time hence, to give yourself a tender, a respectable, and a legal protector.'
'O Glenmurray!' exclaimed Adeline, 'and can you insult my tenderness for you with such a proposal? If I can even survive you, do you think that I can bear to give you a successor in my affection? or, how can you bear to imagine that I shall?'