Adeline Mowbray; or, The Mother and Daughter. Amelia Opie

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      'What mean you?' cried Mrs. Mowbray, turning pale.

      'I mean that Sir Patrick yesterday morning insulted me by the grossest familiarities, and—'

      'My dear child,' replied Mrs. Mowbray laughing, 'that is only the usual freedom of his manner; a manner which your ignorance of the world led you to mistake. He did not mean to insult you, believe me, I am sure that, spite of his ardent passion for me, he never, even when alone with me, hazarded any improper liberty.'

      'The ardent passion which he feels for you, madam!' exclaimed Adeline, turning pale in her turn.

      'Yes, Miss Mowbray! What, I suppose you think me too old to inspire one!—But, I assure you, there are people who think the mother handsomer than the daughter!'

      'No doubt, dear mother, every one ought to think so—and would to heaven Sir Patrick were one of those! But he, unfortunately—'

      'Is of that opinion,' interrupted Mrs. Mowbray angrily: 'and to convince you—so tenderly does he love me, and so fondly do I return his passion, that in a few days I shall become his wife.'

      Adeline, on hearing this terrible information, fell insensible on the ground. When she recovered she saw Mrs. Mowbray anxiously watching by her, but not with that look of alarm and tenderness with which she had attended her during her long illness; that look which was always present to her graceful and affectionate remembrance. No; Mrs. Mowbray's eye was cast down with a half-mournful, half-reproachful, and half-fearful expression, when it met that of Adeline.

      The emotion of anguish which her fainting had evinced was a reproach to the proud heart of Mrs. Mowbray, and Adeline felt that it was so; but when she recollected that her mother was going to marry a man who had so lately declared a criminal passion for herself, she was very near relapsing into insensibility. She however struggled with her feelings, in order to gain resolution to disclose to Mrs. Mowbray all that had passed between her and Sir Patrick. But as soon as she offered to renew the conversation, Mrs. Mowbray sternly commanded her to be silent; and insisting on her going to bed, she left her to her own reflections, till wearied and exhausted she fell into a sound sleep: nor, as it was late in the evening when she awoke, did she rise again till the next morning.

      Mrs. Mowbray entered her room as she was dressing and inquired how she did, with some kindness.

      'I shall be better, dear mother, if you will but hear what I have to say concerning Sir Patrick,' replied Adeline, bursting into tears.

      'You can say nothing that will shake my opinion of him, Miss Mowbray,' replied her mother coldly: 'so I advise you to reconcile yourself to a circumstance which it is not in your power to prevent.' So saying, she left the room: and Adeline, convinced that all she could say would be vain, endeavoured to console herself, by thinking that, as soon as Sir Patrick became the husband of her mother, his wicked designs on her would undoubtedly cease; and that, therefore, in one respect, that ill-assorted union would be beneficial to her.

      Sir Patrick, meanwhile, was no less sanguine in his expectations from his marriage. Unlike the innocent Adeline, he did not consider his union with the mother as a necessary check to his attempts on the daughter; but, emboldened by what to him appeared the libertine sentiments of Adeline, and relying on the opportunities of being with her, which he must infallibly enjoy under the same roof in the country, he looked on her as his certain prey. Though he believed Glenmurray to be at that moment preferred to himself, he thought it impossible that the superior beauty of his person should not, in the end, have its due weight: as a passion founded in esteem, and the admiration of intellectual beauty, could not, in his opinion, subsist: besides, Adeline appeared in his eyes not a deceived enthusiast, but a susceptible and forward girl, endeavouring to hide her frailty under fine sentiments and high-sounding theories. Nor was Sir Patrick's inference an unnatural one. Every man of the world would have thought the same; and on very plausible grounds.

CHAPTER VIII

       Table of Contents

      As Sir Patrick was not 'punctual as lovers to the moment sworn', Mrs. Mowbray resolved to sit down and write immediately to Glenmurray; flattering herself at the same time, that the letter which was designed to confound Glenmurray would delight the tender baronet;—for Mrs. Mowbray piqued herself on her talents for letter-writing, and was not a little pleased with an opportunity of displaying them to a celebrated author. But never before did she find writing a letter so difficult a task. Her eager wish of excelling deprived her of the means; and she who, in a letter to a friend or relation, would have written in a style at once clear and elegant, after two hours' effort produced the following specimen of the obscure, the pedantic, and affected.—

       'Sir,

      'The light which cheers and attracts, if we follow its guidance, often leads us into bogs and quagmires:—Verbum sapienti. Your writings are the lights, and the practice to which you advise my deluded daughter is the bog and quagmire. I agree with you in all you have said against marriage;—I agree with the savage nations in the total uselessness of clothing; still I condescend to wear clothes, though neither becoming nor useful, because I respect public opinion; and I submit to the institution of marriage for reasons equally cogent. Such being my sentiments, Sir, I must desire you never to see my daughter more. Nor could you expect to be received with open arms by me, whom the shafts of your ridicule have pierced, though warded off by the shield of love and gallantry;—but for this I thank you! Now shall I possess, owing to your baseness, at once a declared lover and a tried avenger; and the chains of Hymen will be rendered more charming by gratitude's having blown the flame, while love forged the fetters.

      'But with your writings I continue to amuse my imagination.—Lovely is the flower of the nightshade, though its berry be poison. Still shall I admire and wonder at you as an author, though I avoid and detest you as a man.

      'Editha Mowbray.'

      This letter was just finished when Sir Patrick arrived, and to him it was immediately shown.

      'Heh! what have we here?' cried he laughing violently as he perused it. 'Here you talk of being pierced by shafts which were warded off. Now, had I said that, it would have been called a bull. As to the concluding paragraph—'

      'O! that, I flatter myself,' said Mrs. Mowbray, 'will tear him with remorse.'

      'He must first understand it,' cried Sir Patrick: 'I can but just comprehend it, and am sure it will be all botheration to him.'

      'I am sorry to find such is your opinion,' replied Mrs. Mowbray; 'for I think that sentence the best written of any.'

      'I did not say it was not fine writing,' replied the baronet, 'I only said it was not to be understood.—But, with your leave, you shall send the letter, and we'll drop the subject.'

      So said, so done, to the great satisfaction of Sir Patrick, who felt that it was for his interest to suffer the part of Mrs. Mowbray's letter which alluded to Glenmurray's supposed calumnies against her to remain obscurely worded, as he well knew that what he had asserted on this subject was wholly void of foundation.

      Glenmurray did not receive it with equal satisfaction. He was indignant at the charge of having advised Adeline to become his mistress rather than his wife; and as so much of the concluding passage as he could understand seemed to imply that he had calumniated her mother, to remain silent a moment would have been to confess himself guilty: he therefore answered Mrs. Mowbray's letter immediately. The answer was as follows:—

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