Some weeks had elapsed since Oscar’s voluntary exile from Woodlawn, and sanguine as were the colonel’s hopes, he found without a stratagem they would not be realized, at least as soon as he expected: fertile in invention, he was not long in concerting one. He followed Adela one morning into the garden, and found her reading in the arbor; she laid aside the book at his entrance, and they chatted for some time on indifferent subjects. The colonel’s servant at last appeared with a large packet of letters, which he presented to his master, who, with a hesitating air, was about putting them into his pocket, when Adela prevented him:—"Make no ceremony, colonel,” said she, “with me; I shall resume my book till you have perused your letters.” The colonel bowed for her permission and began; her attention was soon drawn from her book by the sudden emotion he betrayed; he started, and exclaimed, “Oh heavens! what a wretch!” then, as if suddenly recollecting his situation, looked at Adela, appeared confused, stammered out a few inarticulate words, and resumed his letter; when finished, he seemed to put it into his pocket, but in reality dropped it at his feet for the basest purpose. He ran over the remainder of the letters, and rising, entreated Adela to excuse his leaving her so abruptly, to answer some of them. Soon after his departure, Adela perceived an open letter lying at her feet; she immediately took it up with an intention of returning to the house with it, when the sight of her own name, in capital letters, and in the well-known hand of Fitzalan, struck her sight; she threw the letter on the table; an universal tremor seized her; she would have given any consideration to know why she was mentioned in a correspondence between Belgrave and Fitzalan: her eye involuntarily glanced at the letter; she saw some words in it which excited still more strongly her curiosity; it could no longer be repressed; she snatched it up, and read as follows:—
TO COLONEL BELGRAVE.
You accuse me of insensibility to, what you call the matchless charms of Adela, an accusation I acknowledge I merit; but why, because I have been too susceptible to those of another, which in the fond estimation of a lover (at least), appear infinitely superior. The general’s offer was certainly a most generous and flattering one, and has gratified every feeling of my soul, by giving me an opportunity of sacrificing, at the shrine of love, ambition and self-interest; my disinterested conduct has confirmed me in the affections of my dear girl, whose vanity I cannot help thinking a little elevated by the triumph I have told her she obtained over Adela; but this is excusable indeed when we consider the object I relinquished for her. Would to heaven the general was propitious to your wishes; it would yield me much happiness to see you, my first and best friend, in possession of a treasure you have long sighed for. I shall, no doubt, receive a long lecture from you for letting the affair relative to Adela be made known, but faith, I could not resist telling my charmer. Heaven grant discretion may seal her lips; if not, I suppose I shall be summoned to formidable combat with the old general. Adieu! and believe me,
Dear colonel, ever yours,
Oscar Fitzalan.
“Wretch!” cried the agitated Adela, dropping the letter (which it is scarcely necessary to say was an infamous forgery) in an agony of grief and indignation, “is this the base return we meet for our wishes to raise you to prosperity? Oh! cruel Fitzalan, is it Adela—who thought you so amiable, and who never thoroughly valued wealth, till she believed it had given her the power of conducing to your felicity—whom you hold up as an object of ridicule for unfeeling vanity to triumph over?” Wounded pride and tenderness raised a whirl of contending passions in her breast; she sunk upon the bench, her head rested on her hand, and sighs and tears burst from her. She now resolved to inform Fitzalan she knew the baseness of his conduct, and sting his heart with keen reproaches: now resolved to pass it over in silent contempt. While thus fluctuating, the colonel softly advanced and stood before her: in the tumult of her mind she had quite forgot the probability of his returning, and involuntarily screamed and started at his appearance. By her confusion, she doubted not but he would suspect her of having perused the fatal letter. Oppressed by the idea, her head sunk on her bosom, and her face was covered with blushes. “What a careless fellow I am!” said the colonel, taking up the letter, which he then pretended to perceive; he glanced at Adela. “Curse it!” continued he, “I would rather have had all the letters read than this one.” He suspects me, thought Adela; her blushes faded, and she fell back on her seat, unable to support the oppressive idea of having acted against the rules of propriety. Belgrave flew to support her: “Loveliest of women!” he exclaimed, and with all the softness he could assume, “what means this agitation?” “I have been suddenly affected,” answered Adela, a little recovering, and, rising, she motioned to return to the house. “Thus,” answered the colonel, “you always fly me; but go, Miss Honeywood; I have no right, no attraction, indeed, to detain you: yet, be assured,” and he summoned a tear to his aid, while he pressed her hand to his bosom, “a heart more truly devoted to you than mine you can never meet; but I see the subject is painful, and again I resume the rigid silence you have imposed on me; go, then, most lovely and beloved, and since I dare not aspire to a higher, allow me, at least, the title of your friend.” “Most willingly,” said Adela, penetrated by his gentleness. She was now tolerably recovered, and he prevailed on her to walk instead of returning to the house; she felt soothed by his attention; his insidious tongue dropped manna; he gradually stole her thoughts from painful recollections; the implicit respect he paid her will flattered her wounded pride, and her gratitude was excited by knowing he resented the disrespectful mention of her name in Fitzalan’s letter; in short, she felt esteem and respect for him—contempt and resentment for Oscar. The colonel was too penetrating not to discover her sentiments, and too artful not to take advantage of them. Had Adela, indeed, obeyed the real feelings of her heart, she would have declared against marrying; but pride urged her to a step which would prove to Fitzalan his conduct had not affected her. The general rejoiced at obtaining her consent, and received a promise that for some time she should not be separated from him. The most splendid preparations were made for the nuptials; but though Adela’s resentment remained unabated, she soon began to wish she had not been so precipitate in obeying it; an involuntary repugnance rose in her mind against the connection she was about forming, and honor alone kept her from declining it forever: her beloved friend, Mrs. Marlowe, supported her throughout the trying occasion, and, in an inauspicious hour, Adela gave her hand to the perfidious Belgrave.
About a fortnight after her nuptials, she heard from some of the officers of Oscar’s illness; she blushed at his name. “Faith,” cried one of them, “Mrs. Marlowe is a charming woman; it is well he got into such snug quarters: I really believe elsewhere he would have given up the ghost.” “Poor fellow,” said Adela, sighing heavily, yet without being sensible of it. Belgrave rose, he caught her eye, a dark frown lowered on his brow, and he looked as if he would pierce into the recesses of her heart: she shuddered, and for the first time, felt the tyranny she had imposed upon herself. As Mrs. Marlowe chose to be silent on the subject, she resolved not to mention it to her; but she sent every day to invite her to Woodlawn, expecting by this to hear something of Oscar; but she was disappointed. At the end of a fortnight, Mrs. Marlowe made her appearance; she looked pale and thin. Adela gently reproved her for her long absence, trusting this would oblige her to allege the reason of it; but no such thing. Mrs. Marlowe began to converse on indifferent subjects; Adela suddenly grew peevish, and sullenly sat at her work.
In a few days after Mrs. Marlowe’s visit, Adela, one evening immediately after dinner, ordered the carriage to the cottage; by this time she supposed Oscar had left it, and flattered herself, in the course of conversation, she should learn whether he was perfectly recovered ere he departed. Proposing to surprise her friend, she stole by a winding path to the cottage, and softly opened the parlor door; but what were her feelings, when she perceived Oscar sitting at the fireside with Mrs. Marlowe, engaged in a deep conversation! She stopped, unable to advance. Mrs. Marlowe embraced and led her forward. The emotions of Oscar were not inferior to Adela’s. He attempted to rise, but could not. A glance from the expressive eyes of Mrs. Marlowe, which seemed to conjure him not to yield to a weakness which would betray his real sentiments to Adela, somewhat reanimated him. He rose, and tremblingly approached her. “Allow me, madam,” cried he, “to——" The sentence died unfinished on his lips; he had not power to offer congratulations on an event which had probably destroyed the happiness of Adela, as well as his own. “Oh! a truce with compliments,” said Mrs. Marlowe, forcing herself to assume a cheerful air; “prithee, good folks, let us be seated, and enjoy, this cold evening, the comforts of a good fire.” She forced the trembling, the almost fainting, Adela to take some wine, and by degrees the flutter of her spirits and Oscar’s abated, but the sadness of their countenances, the anguish of their souls, increased. The cold formality, the distant reserve they both assumed, filled each with sorrow and regret. So pale, so emaciated, so woe-begone did Fitzalan appear, so much the son of sorrow and despair, that had he half murdered Adela, she could not at that moment have felt for him any other sentiments than those of pity and compassion. Mrs. Marlowe, in a laughing way, told her of the troubles she had had with him: “for which, I assure you,” said she, “he rewards me badly; for the moment he was enlarged from the nursery, he either forgot or neglected all the rules I had laid down for him. Pray do join your commands to mine, and charge him to take more care of himself.” “I would, most willingly,” cried Adela, “if I thought they would influence him to do so.” “Influence!” repeated Oscar, emphatically; “oh, heavens!” then starting up, he hurried to the window, as if to hide and to indulge his melancholy. The scene he viewed from it was dreary and desolate. It was now the latter end of autumn; the evening was cold, a savage blast howled from the hills, and the sky was darkened by a coming storm. Mrs. Marlowe roused him from his deep reverie. “I am sure,” said she, “the prospect you view from the window can have no great attractions at present.” “And yet,” cried he, “there is something sadly pleasing in it: the leafless trees, the fading flowers of autumn, excite in my bosom a kind of mournful sympathy; they are emblems to me of him whose tenderest hopes have been disappointed; but, unlike him, they, after a short period, shall again flourish with primeval beauty.” “Nonsense,” exclaimed Mrs. Marlowe; “your illness has affected your spirits; but this gloom will vanish long before my orchard reassumes its smiling appearance, and haply attracts another smart redcoat to visit an old woman.” “Oh! with what an enthusiasm of tenderness,” cried Oscar, “shall I ever remember the dear, though dangerous, moment I first entered this cottage!” “Now, no flattery, Oscar,” said Mrs. Marlowe; “I know your fickle sex too well to believe I have made a lasting impression; why, the very first fine old woman you meet at your ensuing quarters, will, I dare say, have similar praise bestowed on her.” “No,” replied he, with a languid smile; “I can assure you, solemnly, the impression which has been made on my heart will never be effaced.” He stole a look at Adela; her head sunk upon her bosom, and her heart began to beat violently. Mrs. Marlowe wished to change the subject entirely; she felt the truest compassion for the unhappy young couple, and had fervently desired their union; but since irrevocably separated, she wished to check any intimation of a mutual attachment, which now could answer no purpose but that of increasing their misery. She rung for tea, and endeavored by her conversation to enliven the tea-table; the effort however, was not seconded. “You have often,” cried she, addressing Adela, as they again drew their chairs round the fire, “desired to hear the exact particulars of my life; unconquerable feelings of regret hitherto prevented my acquiescing in your desire; but, as nothing better now offers for passing away the hours, I will, if you please, relate them.” “You will oblige me by so doing,” cried Adela; “my curiosity, you know, has been long excited.”
[CHAPTER XIII.]
“But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, And well my life shall pay; I’ll seek the solitude he sought, And stretch me where he lay.”—Goldsmith.
To begin, then, as they say in a novel, without further preface, I was the only child of a country curate, in the southern part of England, who, like his wife, was of a good, but reduced family. Contented dispositions and an agreeable neighborhood, ready on every occasion to oblige them, rendered them, in their humble situations, completely happy. I was the idol of both their hearts; every one told my mother I should grow up a beauty, and she, poor simple woman, believed the flattering tale. Naturally ambitious, and somewhat romantic, she expected nothing less than my attaining, by my charms, an elevated situation; to fit me to it, therefore, according to her idea, she gave me all the showy, instead of solid, advantages of education. My father being a meek, or rather an indolent man, submitted entirely to her direction; thus, without knowing the grammatical part of my own language, I was taught to gabble bad French by myself; and, instead of mending or making my clothes, to flourish upon catgut and embroider satin. I was taught dancing by a man who kept a cheap school for that purpose in the village; music I could not aspire to, my mother’s finances being insufficient to purchase an instrument; she was therefore obliged to content herself with my knowing the vocal part of that delightful science, and instructed me in singing a few old-fashioned airs, with a thousand graces, in her opinion at least.