Adeline sighed. She could not say, as she had formerly done, 'and you are all to me.' The image of her mother, happy as the wife of a man she loved, could not long rival Glenmurray; but the image of her mother, disgraced and wretched, awoke all the habitual but dormant tenderness of years; every feeling of filial gratitude revived in all its force; and, even while leaning on the shoulder of her lover, she sighed to be once more clasped to the bosom of her mother.
Glenmurray felt the change, but, though grieved, was not offended:—'I shall die in peace,' he cried, 'if I can but see you restored to your mother's affection, even though the surrender of my happiness is to be the purchase.'
'You shall die in peace!' replied Adeline shuddering. The phrase was well-timed, though perhaps undesignedly so. Adeline clung close to his arm, her eyes filled with tears, and all the way to the inn she thought only of Glenmurray with an apprehension which she could not conquer.
'What do you mean to do now?' said Glenmurray.
'Write to Dr Norberry. I think he will at least have humanity enough to let me know where to find my mother.'
'No doubt; and you had better write directly.'
Adeline took up her pen. A letter was written,—and as quickly torn. Letter succeeded to letter; but not one of them answered her wishes. The dark hour arrived, and the letter remained unwritten.
'It is too soon to ring for candles,' said Glenmurray, putting his arm round her waist and leading her to the window. The sun was below the horizon, but the reflection of his beams still shone beautifully on the surrounding objects. Adeline, reclining her cheek on Glenmurray's arm, gazed in silence on the scene before her: when the door suddenly opened, and a gentleman was announced. It was now so dark that all objects were indistinctly seen, and the gentleman had advanced close to Adeline before she knew him to be Dr Norberry: and before she could decide how she should receive him, she felt herself clasped to his bosom with the affection of a father.
Surprised and affected, she could not speak; and Glenmurray had ordered candles before Adeline had recovered herself sufficiently to say these words, 'After your conduct on the beach, I little expected this visit.'
'Pshaw!' replied the doctor: 'when a man out of regard to society has performed a painful task, surely he may be allowed, out of regard to himself, to follow the dictates of his heart.—I obeyed my head when I passed you so cavalierly, and I thought I should never have gone through my task as I did;—but then for the sake of my daughters, I gave a gulp, and called up a fierce look. But I told madam that I meant to call on you, and she insisted, very properly, that it should be in the dark hour.'