The letter was as follows:—
'You have made a pretty fool of me, deluded but still dear girl! for you have made me believe in forebodings. You may remember with what a full heart I bade you adieu, and I recollect what a devilish queer sensation I had when the park-gates closed on your fleet carriage. I almost swore at the postillions for driving so fast, as I wished to see you as long as I could; and now I protest that I believe I was actuated by a foreboding that at that house, and on that spot, I should never behold you again. (Here a tear had fallen on the paper, and the word, 'again' was nearly blotted out.) Dear, lost Adeline, I prayed for you too! I prayed that you might return as innocent and happy as you left me. Heaven have mercy on us! who should have thought it?—But this is nothing to the purpose, and I suppose you think you have done nought but what is right and clever.'
He then proceeded to inform Adeline, who had written to him to implore his mediation between her and her mother, 'that the latter had sent express for him on finding, by the hasty scrawl which came the day after Adeline's departure from the farm-house, that she had eloped, and who was the companion of her flight; that he found her in violent agitation, as Sir Patrick, stung to madness at the success of his rival, had with an ingenuousness worthy a better cause avowed to her his ardent passion for her daughter, his resolution to follow the fugitives, and by every means possible separate Adeline from her lover; and that, after having thanked Lady O'Carrol for her great generosity to him, he had taken his pistols, mounted his horse, attended by his groom also well armed, and vowed that he would never return unless accompanied by the woman whom he adored.'
'No wonder therefore,' continued the doctor, 'that I was an unsuccessful advocate for you,—especially as I was not inclined to manage the old bride's self-love; for I was so provoked at her folly in marrying the handsome profligate, that, if she had not been in distress, I never meant to see her again. But, poor silly you! she suffers enough for her folly, and so do you;—for, her affections and her self-love being equally wounded by Sir Patrick's confession, you are at present the object of her aversion. To you she attributes all the misery of having lost the man on whom she still dotes; and when she found from your last letter to me that you are not the wife but the mistress of Glenmurray, (by the bye, your letter to her from Lisbon she desires me to return unopened,) and that the child once her pride is become her disgrace, she declared her solemn resolution never to see you more, and to renounce you for ever—(Terrible words, Adeline, I tremble to write them.) But a circumstance has since occurred which gives me hopes that she may yet forgive, and receive you on certain conditions. About a fortnight after Sir Patrick's departure, a letter from Ireland, directed to him in a woman's hand, arrived at the Pavilion. Your mother opened it, and found it was from a wife of her amiable husband, whom he had left in the north of Ireland, and who, having heard of his second marriage, wrote to tell him that, unless he came quickly back to her, she would prosecute him for bigamy, as he knew very well that undoubted proofs of the marriage were in her possession. At first this new proof of her beautiful spouse's villany drove your mother almost to phrensy, and I was again sent for; but time, reflection, and perhaps my arguments, convinced her, that to be able to free herself from this rascal for ever, and consequently her fortune, losing only the ten thousand pounds which she had given him to pay his debts, was in reality a consoling circumstance. Accordingly, she wrote to the real Lady O'Carrol, promising to accede quietly to her claim, and wishing that she would spare her and herself the disgrace of a public trial; especially as it must end in the conviction of Sir Patrick. She then, on hearing from him that he had traced you to Falmouth, and was going to embark for Lisbon when the wind was favourable, enclosed him a copy of his wife's letter, and bade him an eternal farewell!—But be not alarmed lest this insane profligate should overtake and distress you. He is gone to his final account. In his hurry to get on board, overcome as he was with the great quantity of liquor which he had drunk to banish care, he sprung from the boat before it was near enough to reach the vessel; his foot slipped against the side, he fell into the water, and, going under the ship, never rose again. I leave you to imagine how the complicated distresses of the last three months, and this awful climax to them, have affected your mother's mind; even I cannot scold her, now, for the life of me: she is not yet, I believe, disposed in your favour; but were you here, and were you to meet, it is possible that, forlorn, lonely, and deserted as she now feels, the tie between you might be once more cemented; and much as I resent your conduct, you may depend on my exertions.—O Adeline, child of my affection, why must I blush to subscribe myself
'Your sincere friend,
'J. N.?'
Words cannot describe the feelings of anguish which this letter excited in Adeline: nor could she make known her sensations otherwise than by reiterated requests to be allowed to set off for England directly—requests to which Glenmurray, alarmed for her intellects, immediately assented. Therefore, leaving a hasty note for the Douglases, they soon bade farewell to Perpignan; and after a long laborious journey, but a short passage, they landed at Brighton.
It was a fine evening; and numbers of the gay and fashionable of both sexes were assembled on the beach, to see the passengers land. Adeline and Glenmurray were amongst the first: and while heartsick, fatigued, and melancholy, Adeline took the arm of her lover, and turned disgusted from the brilliant groups before her, she saw, walking along the shore, Dr Norberry, his wife, and his two daughters.
Instantly, unmindful of every thing but the delight of seeing old acquaintances, and of being able to gain some immediate tiding of her mother, she ran up to them: and just as they turned round, she met them, extending her hand in friendship as she was wont to do.—But in vain;—no hand was stretched out to meet hers, nor tongue nor look proclaimed a welcome to her; Dr Norberry himself coldly touched his hat, and passed on, while his wife and daughters looked scornfully at her, and, without deigning to notice her, pursued their walk.
Astonished and confounded, Adeline had not power to articulate a word; and had not Glenmurray caught her in his arms, she would have fallen to the ground.
'Then now I am indeed an outcast! even my oldest and best friend renounces me,' she exclaimed.
'But I am left to you,' cried Glenmurray.