Adelaide eagerly tore open the important packet, and the first paper that presented itself was one directed to Mr. O'Sullivan, which, with inconceivable trepidation, she presented to him; but at the sight of the writing he dashed it from him with looks of fury—"Never will I read another from that detested hand, that last blasted my every hope of earthly happiness!" The priest seizing the letter, hurried him out of the room. "Unfortunate man!" exclaimed Adelaide; "Oh, why did I mention his daughter's name, after the warning I received from Colonel Desmond?" In an agony of mind not to be described, she attempted to read a letter addressed by her father to herself; but when it informed her of such of the particulars of his life as were necessary to explain her relationship to her present venerable protector, she was so bewildered, that she half despairingly pressed the letter to her heart, and silently implored a supporting power from above. When she had again composed her mind sufficiently to comprehend its contents, she was so stunned with surprise, that she had scarcely power to feel how happy she ought to be, as she repeated, "My grandfather! can it indeed be possible?" But she was roused to a painful sense of anxiety and acute perception of sorrow, when she came to the following paragraph, "Let it be your consolation, my beloved child, that all the happiness I have known since your angelic mother's death, has been your boon. Heaven permitted her to leave you to me, as a gift of love, as a pledge of its mercy. I bequeath that filial piety, which has been the solace of my existence, to her father, as a reparation for the loss of his daughter. For my sake he may be harsh to you, perhaps refuse to receive you; but pardon him, and, if he will permit you, soothe the sorrows of his old age; he has much to forgive your erring father." With indignation she now recollected how his letter had been received, and every softer feeling, every selfish consideration, was swallowed up in offended filial affection, as she thought, "Never will I accept of kindness from one, who could spurn me from resentment to my adored father!"
At that moment she heard O'Sullivan's step. Oh, who shall tell the tide of tumultuous thoughts that overwhelmed her soul, as his hand tremulously turned the lock of the door? 'twas but an instant—but how much of misery cannot the human heart suffer in this short earthly denomination of time!
He entered; and, as he approached, her heart seemed to die within her. At first she could not move, but gazed almost unconsciously on his face, and seeing there the mildness of grief, the benevolence of pity, the warmth of paternal love, she knelt at his feet in speechless emotion, whilst her looks, her attitude, implored his benediction. "Oh, may the God of mercy bestow those blessings on you, that were denied your mother!" He pressed her in his arms, and wept as he said, "My child, my beloved child, I have not lived these years of misery in vain! Bless you, bless you!" And now "joy and sorrow strove which should paint her goodliest. You have seen sunshine and rain at once—her smiles and tears were like a better May—those happy smiles, which played on her ripe lip, seemed not to know what guests were in her eyes, which parted thence as pearls from diamonds dropp'd."
When the thunder rolled and the lightning flashed, the anxious parent looked at his loved treasure, first fearfully, and then a happy smile seemed to say, "Thank God, here at least she is safe from every storm!" with that a closer embrace pressed her to his heart. "My father!" were the first words she attempted to articulate. "Adelaide," interrupted the old man, "whatever may have been his errors, you will, on reading that letter, easily believe I no longer resent them. I erred deeply, sinfully, in not receiving the prodigal son when he first implored my forgiveness; but passion blinded me, and I have been severely punished. I knew him not then! Oh! did he live now, my heart would warmly open to him." Adelaide was nearly suffocated with her sobs. O'Sullivan supported her to the window for air: for the elemental strife was now over, and the rushing torrents had ceased to fall. The rippling waters of the lake laughed in the beams of the sun, and softly rolled on their verdant banks. Every bough waved in the wanton air, and from bush and brake innumerable birds poured forth joyful melody. The cottage cur once more barked at the stranger, and the peaceful herds again grazed the green islets. Adelaide felt the composing power of the scene, and, drying her tears, read the letter she had received.
To Cornelius O'sullivan, Esquire.
The misery I feel at this moment is not less, than that which rent my heart when last I addressed you. Time has but made the remembrance of my beloved Rose dearer, more afflicting to my soul; and her child, who for nineteen years has been my only earthly happiness, I now resign, as the sole reparation I can make, to Heaven and to you, for the errors of that guilty course, which have not been expiated by years of misery and penitence. I once again implore your forgiveness for all the sufferings I have occasioned you. Oh, my God! what a wreck of happiness I have made for myself and others! I have been a misfortune to all connected with me. What a stab must I not give to my daughter's heart, when I tell her we part to meet no more! What tears of bitter anguish will she not shed, when she hears the recital of those misdeeds, so degrading to the memory of the father, whom she fondly thinks the first of human beings! Yet the misery of her mind on hearing my errors would be felicity compared to the anguish mine has endured, when, for her sake, I have undergone the martyrdom of her praises. My lovely child!—Had you seen the happy smiles, the endearing caresses, with which she bid me good night, but a few minutes ago, and known the despair of my soul, as I thought, never shall I behold that unclouded smile again; but once more hear those words, you would say, the forfeit of his guilt is paid; and lament for the unfortunate being you have hitherto cursed. By every sacred name, by the memory of her sainted mother, by the agonies of a wretched father, I conjure you, protect, cherish, and console my child. All that a parent's heart could wish, all that the daughter of Rose should be, she is—and we part for ever. I shall not survive to have my miserable days cheered by the affection, with which I know you will treat the inheritor of the virtues of your beloved Rose, but my last moments will be brightened by the joyous hope——
"Enclosed you will find papers written at a calmer moment, for the benefit of Adelaide—pardon him you once called son. As you value your eternal hopes, I charge you to be kind to my child. She has never offended you; her mother's form is renewed in hers; her mother's virtues perpetuated in her mind. Say not that Rose exists no more—in Adelaide she is again restored to your arms."
Adelaide had wept, when there was something of consolation, of tenderness, in her emotions. But now her anguish admitted not of tears; the universe presented but one idea to her mind—the agony of her father's soul when his hand traced the words her eyes rested on. O'Sullivan addressed her in accents of the tenderest affection; she answered him but by that bitter smile, with which misery sometimes loves to make her devoted victims confess her empire. He was alarmed by her fixed looks, and said, "Rouse yourself, Adelaide; I will leave you to compose your agitated feelings, but not in solitude: come with me to the companion of many a sad moment." He opened an inner door, and grasping her hand with convulsive earnestness, said, "There is your mother's portrait; and at the foot of that altar she daily poured forth her grateful thanksgivings. There the supplications of her father daily ascend to the throne of grace." He hurried away, and Adelaide long and fervently prayed in a spot so hallowed. Her tears again flowed, as she turned to gaze on the resemblance of that form, which had never blessed her conscious sight, and mournfully exclaimed, "Both, both lost to me!"
Rose had been drawn as Astarte inscribing her lover's name on the sand. The dejected expression of her heavenly countenance sadly contrasted the brilliant beauty of her youthful charms. Was it the melancholy of Astarte the painter's art depicted? or had the fair being, whose form he traced, been already struck by the hand of sorrow? O'Sullivan's grief was daily renewed as his heart whispered, "Not thus my child looked under this roof.—So soon was all her innocent gaiety gone?"
Adelaide was so absorbed by the ideas which rose in her mind, that she did not perceive the entrance of nurse, who came to perform her diurnal task of dressing the altar, and who standing behind her, now said, "That's the picture, dear, that Mr. Mordaunt sent his honour from London, six months after Miss Rose married him—an unlucky day that same! And a black-hearted false man he was, to leave my sweet angel, and run away wid another woman." Fire flashed from Adelaide's eye; the indignation which deprived her of utterance was expressed in her whole figure. Nurse awed, and as it were fascinated, by a look from which she could not withdraw her gaze, stared at her for a second or two, and then evidently terrified, exclaimed, "The blessed powers presarve me!—Who are you?—What are you? You're the very moral of Miss Rose! What brings you in her room this day of the year? No mortal has ever darkened the door since she died but myself and his honour. You're like enough to be her fetch, come in the storm to take him away from us. I pray God I may die first," continued she, weeping bitterly: "my heart was broke when I lost my sweet child. I trust in his mercy I haven't lived on these weary years, to drag my ould bones to his grave!"
"Dear, dear nurse," said Adelaide, kissing her affectionately, smiles and tears struggling for mastery in her eyes, "I'm not come to take him away from you, but to make you both happy—I'm your own Rose's daughter." The old woman set up a shout of joy, and kissed her, and hugged her, and drew back to a little distance, resting her hands on Adelaide's shoulders to look at her from time to time, saying, "The very moral of her! the very moral of her! Her daughter! You wouldn't be so mischievous as to make an ould body crazy? It's not joking you are, jewel?"