There is a joy in grief, when peace dwells in the breast of the sad, but sorrow wastes the mournful, and their days are few! They fall away like the flower on which the Sun looks in his strength, after the mildew has passed over it, and its head is heavy with the drops of night.

Croma.

Whilst Selina thus brilliantly moved in the gayest scenes of fashionable splendor, Adelaide Wildenheim, unknown, unnoticed, was endeavouring, in the calm retirement of the country, to acquire fortitude to support a weight of misfortune, by which a less firm mind would have been crushed, and which, from time and space, seemed but to gain increased momentum.

In the beginning of winter, each day to her had passed by but as the sad shade of its miserable anniversary; for, at that period, she had not even the consolation of seeing either Mr. or Mrs. Temple, and the inhabitants of Webberly House becoming hourly more repugnant to her feelings, she was insensibly falling a prey to that habitual depression of spirits, which is equally fatal to the mind and body of those who indulge in it; and which is indeed commonly but a refined name for discontent, or ill temper. Some trifling circumstances roused her to a sense of the state of her mind, and she immediately determined to struggle against it; resolving, as the best preliminary, to look her situation steadily in the face, and ascertain whether it was in her power to remedy it; well knowing, that if once convinced it was unavoidable, she should acquire strength to bear it, not only with resignation but cheerfulness. Though she but too acutely felt, that in losing a beloved parent, she had lost all that had formerly constituted the happiness of her existence; yet, in her rigid self-examination, she confessed she harboured more of repining sorrow at being deprived of this blessing, than of gratitude to Heaven for having so long enjoyed it; and acknowledged it was unworthy of a religious or a rational being, to convert the felicity of one period of life into a curse for the remainder by vain comparison. Turning therefore from the past, she accused herself of being too fastidious in her sentiments towards the companions of her present lot; and, with laudable self-delusion, endeavoured to think her dislike of Mrs. Sullivan and the Miss Webberlys unreasonable; and that from the affection of the charming little Caroline she derived a pleasure more than equivalent to the annoyances occasioned by her mother and sisters. But here the mother and sisters very naturally brought the brother to her mind, and with him a long train of reflections, which ended in her adopting the wise but simple plan, of laying her situation open to Mr. and Mrs. Temple, in order to consult them, as to the propriety of her quitting Webberly House at the expiration of her minority.

Young Webberly's attentions to Miss Wildenheim had, previous to his last visit to town, been unremitting; and no less marked was his mother's disapprobation of them, arising partly from interested motives, partly from the idea of Adelaide being the natural sister of Caroline; which made Mrs. Sullivan regard the prospect of her marrying her son with a sentiment little short of abhorrence. But these objections had but little weight with Mr. Webberly, who, when Selina was not present to awaken his vanity or his cupidity, found no counterpoise to his conceited passion, which was more piqued than restrained by the dignified simplicity of Miss Wildenheim's manners; and had she given him any encouragement, no remonstrance from his mother would have prevented his making the most explicit declaration of his attachment; for it was the practice of this amiable family, to set their mother at defiance, whenever she, in the slightest degree, interfered with their wishes. Adelaide's pride and sense of propriety equally prompted her desire to relieve Mrs. Sullivan from the presence of a person, who was evidently a cause of quarrel between her and her son; and therefore, when the Webberly family proposed visiting London, in the beginning of March, she wrote the subjoined letter to Mrs. Temple:—

Miss Wildenheim to Mrs. Temple.

My dear Mrs. Temple,

The kindness you and Mr. Temple have honoured me with encourages me, to apply to you for advice in a most embarrassing situation. I am sure your usual humanity will prompt you, to grant it to one who has, at present, no friend to resort to for counsel but yourself. If you will permit me, I will call upon you, and lay open to your view my situation and my wishes. But as it is not justice to a friend in asking advice to give but a half confidence, before you hear my plans, I ought to make you acquainted with all the circumstances regarding myself, that it is in my power to confide. Though all matters of business are best discussed viv voce, yet there are things it would be impossible to speak, and are sufficiently painful to write: such a distressing task it is the object of this letter to fulfil. My history is but short, and simple—all my happiness was centred in a beloved father; all my misery caused by his loss. Oh! Mrs. Temple, what grief can be compared to that desolation a daughter feels, when she is deprived of the parent, whom it has been the study of her whole life to please; when she first finds she has no filial duty to perform, no approving smile to look for!

My father was not only the tenderest parent, but my sole instructor, and, in his fond love, condescended to be even my companion and friend. His image is the first object memory recurs to in my infant years; and I now feel, that to be enabled to practise his own lessons of resignation and fortitude, I must banish that image from my mind. The aid I might derive from employment is denied me; for every pursuit is inseparably associated with scenes I ought not now to think of. 'When I look up to Heaven thou art there; when I behold the earth, thou art there also!' My mother having died at Hamburgh the day I was born, this beloved father was the only parent I ever knew. He, though a German Baron, was both by birth and education English, being the son of a British peer. But some unfortunate circumstances, with which I am unacquainted, gave him an unconquerable aversion to his native country; and having, by the maternal line, inherited large possessions in Westphalia, he very early in life repaired to the continent, where he continued to reside, principally at Vienna, till I had attained my nineteenth year. About sixteen months ago, to my inexpressible astonishment, he adopted the sudden resolution of visiting England. His health, which had always in my recollection been delicate, had about that period rapidly declined, and I have the grief of thinking, that the journey to England shortened his life. The misery of this thought is still further aggravated by knowing, that he came to this country solely to accomplish my introduction to his family, with whom he had never maintained any intercourse or correspondence since the period of my birth. How little during the progress of our journey did I suspect its fatal termination! The usual tenderness and indulgence of my father's manner was, if possible, increased, and visions of the brightest joy occupied my mind. Our journey through France was the most delightful one we had ever undertaken. My father concealed the anguish of his own mind, and to divert my attention from observing it, spared neither pains nor expense to gratify every capricious fancy I formed. We remained a month at Paris waiting for letters from England, which were to direct our future proceedings, and during that time passed so rapidly from one public place to another, that we never had a moment's private conversation. At last my dear father received letters to inform him, that the late Mr. Sullivan, who had been his old friend and fellow-soldier, and whom I had known very well in my childish days at Vienna, waited at Dover to welcome us to England. This communication, the precursor of all my sorrow, was read by me with the most extravagant joy. When we landed at Dover, we also met Mr. Austin, my father's former law agent, and one of his sincerest friends. For two days I scarcely saw my father, as he was in constant consultation with the gentlemen I have mentioned. On the morning of the third, I was informed he had decided on resigning me to their care; that Mr. Sullivan would immediately introduce me to my relations, as Baron Wildenheim himself was under the unavoidable necessity of returning to France without delay. You may imagine my despair on receiving this fatal sentence:—the scenes that ensued are too dreadful for me to touch on. My beloved father's life fell a sacrifice to the agitation of his feelings. Oh, that I had died too! Pity me, dear Mrs. Temple, and excuse my writing any more. Nothing now remains, that I cannot tell you when we meet.

Ever sincerely and gratefully yours,
Adelaide Wildenheim.

The day after Mrs. Temple received the above letter, she called on Miss Wildenheim, and invited her to remain at the Parsonage, if she had any dislike to accompany Mrs. Sullivan to London; saying, in conclusion, "Mr. Temple told me the other day you looked so ill, he was afraid you would suffer from the journey; and desired I would make my best speech to induce you to stay with us. Indeed it would be an act of charity, for we have had so great a loss in the dear family at Deane Hall! If you will afford us the gratification of your society, we can at leisure discuss the subjects you wish to consult us upon, and you shall have my opinion; and, what is of much more value, Mr. Temple's, to the best of our judgment. You know not how sincerely we commiserate your misfortunes, nor what an interest we feel in your welfare." Adelaide gratefully accepted her friend's invitation, assuring her she felt convinced, that spending a little time at the Rectory would more effectually mitigate her grief, than any other probable occurrence. Mrs. Temple immediately applied for Mrs. Sullivan's permission, who gave it with a joy that defied concealment, as by this means what she supposed the only obstacle to her son's union with Miss Seymour would be removed; for whenever Adelaide was present, his interest and inclination were at constant variance.

One fine evening in March, the Webberly family commenced their journey to London, and stopping as they drove past the Parsonage, left Miss Wildenheim to the care of its friendly owners. Mrs. Temple and her children were setting out on their evening walk, and Adelaide, begging she might not disappoint the little folks, joined them in their ramble with the utmost delight. It would be difficult to say, whether the mother or children were most pleased to see her—the latter joyfully recollected her skill in story-telling and singing; and Mrs. Temple, feeling most sensibly the want of her accustomed intercourse at Deane Hall, would have welcomed a much less agreeable guest, and therefore received her young friend with even greater pleasure than usual. The whole party walked long enough in a brisk blowing wind, to make them relish, on their return, a blazing fire, and a tea-table rather more substantially provided, than is commonly to be seen in more modish families.

When the children went to bed, Mr. Temple, saying he had letters to write for the next morning's post, retired to his study, in order to give Adelaide an opportunity of opening her heart to his wife. "Come, my dear Adele," said Mrs. Temple, "neither you nor I shall be comfortable, till we have had this conversation, that I see hangs so heavily on your mind. Tell me what it is that distresses you, my love, and, if possible, we will find a remedy for it."

Adelaide, with as much composure as she could command, informed Mrs. Temple, that during the short period Mr. Sullivan survived her father, though he treated her with great kindness, yet he had taken no steps to fulfil the promise he had given of introducing her to her family. Immediately on his death, Mr. Austin came to Webberly House, and expressing his regrets that circumstances rendered it impossible for him to receive her into his own family, as he was on the point of taking an invalide daughter to the Madeiras, advised her nominating Mrs. Sullivan her guardian in conjunction with himself. Adelaide, abhorring all clandestine proceedings, earnestly solicited Mr. Austin's permission, to inform Mrs. Sullivan for what purpose she was placed under her late husband's protection. To this he consented only in part, refusing his sanction to this lady's being acquainted with the name of Miss Wildenheim's noble relations; charging her, on the contrary, to conceal it carefully from all the world till she came of age, as he feared her claims would meet with decided opposition from part of her family, and little support from any; and informing her, that a premature disclosure might ruin her future prospects; and that law proceedings would be more costly, and less efficacious, while she was a minor, than when she could act directly for herself. In pursuance, therefore, of this advice, Adelaide, with the reservation of this one point, told Mrs. Sullivan all the particulars she knew of herself and her father; and in so doing, went through a series of interrogations of the most distressing nature, as Mrs. Sullivan, having little delicacy of feeling herself, was really almost unconscious of the wounds she inflicted on that of others. After deliberating a few days, she, as has been before mentioned, consented to accept the proposed guardianship; and Mr. Austin immediately proceeding to the Madeiras, his ward was therefore temporarily deprived of his protection or advice. After relating these particulars, Adelaide endeavoured to explain to Mrs. Temple her reasons for wishing to leave Webberly House; and in executing this unpleasant task, was much embarrassed between the necessity of doing herself justice, by showing she was not actuated by any unreasonable whims or caprices, and her respect for the laws of hospitality, which made her regard as sacred the transactions of any family she domesticated with. But, indeed, she seldom thought, and never said, the worst the actions of those she associated with would warrant. However, Mrs. Temple was one of those who could understand À demi-mot, without waiting for a harassing detail sufficient to satisfy a court of law, and often listened to rather from a love of slander than of justice. "I am well aware," continued Adelaide, "that the reception I shall meet with from my relations very much depends on the respectability of the manner, in which I first present myself to their notice. The moment I am of age, Mrs. Sullivan may, and probably will, withdraw her protection from me; for she has lately hinted once or twice, that she much regretted having ever granted it. I therefore think the most advisable course for me to pursue is, to write her a polite letter, conveying my thanks for the asylum she has hitherto granted me, but expressing my doubts of its being agreeable to her longer to continue it: requesting, if my surmises are well founded, that she will have the goodness to seek an eligible home for me; or," continued she, looking mournfully at Mrs. Temple, "permit me to apply to my only friend to aid me in the search: but that, if on mature deliberation she can satisfy her mind, that she really does wish my continuing to reside with her, I shall prefer doing so to domesticating myself in another family, till I can ascertain whether my own will receive me; but that, when this point is once decided, either for or against me, I do not mean to trespass further on her hospitality. And now, my dear Mrs. Temple, this is the subject, on which I am so anxious to obtain your opinion and that of Mr. Temple. I know not what apology to make for having so long trespassed on your patience by this tedious recital." Mrs. Temple begged to consult her husband, before she expressed her own ideas, as she feared to trust to her unassisted judgment on a point of so much importance. But before she left the room, she took up a volume of Patronage, and laughingly pointed out to Adelaide's notice the following passage:—"You will never be a heroine—What a stupid uninteresting heroine you will make! You will never get into any entanglements, never have any adventures; or, if kind fate should, propitious to my prayer, bring you into some charming difficulties, even then we could not tremble for you, or enjoy all the luxury of pity, because we should always know, that you would be so well able to extricate yourself,—so certain to conquer, or,—not die—but endure."

Mrs. Temple, in the first spontaneous benevolence of her heart, had nearly been tempted to offer Adelaide an asylum at the Rectory, till her future line of life should be finally decided; but quickly recollecting what was due to Mr. Temple, repaired to his study, more for the purpose of suggesting it to him, than for that of stating her young friend's queries; which dispatching in as few words as possible, without further preparation, she proposed her own plan in the most abrupt manner possible; and as quickly read in his countenance his marked disapprobation of her inconsiderate project. "My dear Charlotte," said he, after a short pause, "the goodness of your heart makes you always so zealous to promote the happiness of others, that you quite forget your own. But, my love, you must respect the sanctuary of your domestic peace; it, like the Paradise of our first parents, admits of no intruder. I am inclined to believe Miss Wildenheim to be a most estimable young woman. The prudence and uprightness of her present proposition strengthens my former good opinion of her. As long as these impressions remain, I shall be happy to receive her occasionally as a visitor, and will most willingly do any thing to promote her welfare, short of domesticating her in this house. But, setting yourself out of the question, my dear Charlotte, do you think you would act justly towards your daughters (recollect Anna is now eleven years old), by introducing into the very bosom of your family a girl we have so superficial a knowledge of; and whose situation is so doubtful and extraordinary, and who may after all be but a foreign adventurer?" As Mr. Temple said this, his features wore an expression of unusual gravity. "Oh, James!" exclaimed his wife, "don't let your prudence make you unjust: go to her, and if you will impartially look on her ingenuous countenance, and observe her simple manners, you will never pronounce her a foreign adventurer. Besides, after knowing Mr. Austin so many years, can you suppose him capable of being an accomplice in a fraud?" "You are right, my dear Charlotte: I was most unjust," replied Mr. Temple, his brow relaxing from the austerity that had overcast it a moment before. "And I," said she, extending her hand with a smile of conciliating sweetness, "was equally imprudent." In this confession she was perfectly sincere; she hardly wished to dissuade her husband from his sage resolution; for he had convinced her judgment, though perhaps her feelings were yet unsubdued.

It may here be remarked, that there is something in the ties of relationship, which acts as a sort of necessity, and makes us excuse the faults, which a domestic scene displays in the most perfect characters. But it is far otherwise in friendship; and those who there court too great intimacy, resemble the man in the fable of the golden eggs, and often destroy in a day riches, that, by wise forbearance, might have lasted their lives.

Mr. Temple, on going up stairs to Adelaide, told her, that the line of conduct she had marked out for herself was the most proper she could adopt, giving it his unqualified approbation. He then proceeded to give her much sage advice, adding to it the most comforting assurances of support and protection. Adelaide poured forth her gratitude and her pleasure, with all the ardency of feelings long suppressed. Her spirits rose in proportion to their previous depression. She once more had the happiness of hearing a reverend voice address her in tones of approbation for her virtues, and of consolation for her distresses. Perhaps the evening of this anxious day was one of the happiest of her life.