'What's female beauty—but an air divine,Thro' which the mind's all gentle graces shine?'
says one of our first poets: therefore, in Dr Young's opinion, madam,' continued Mordaunt, turning to Emma, 'you would have been a perfect beauty.'
This speech, so truly gratifying to the amiable girl to whom it was addressed, was a dagger in the heart of both the sisters. Nor was Emma's pleasure unalloyed by pain; for she feared that Mordaunt's attentions might become dangerous to her peace of mind, as she could not disguise to herself, that his visits at Mr Maynard's had been the chief cause of her reluctance to return to Scotland whenever their journey home was mentioned. For, always humble in her ideas of her own charms, Emma Douglas could not believe that Mordaunt would ever entertain any feeling for her at all resembling love, except when he fancied that she looked like Adeline.
But however unlikely it seemed that Mordaunt should become attached to her, and however resolved she was to avoid his society, certain it is that he soon found he could be happy in the society of no other woman, since to no other could he talk on the subject nearest his heart; and Emma, though blaming herself daily for her temerity, could not refuse to receive Mordaunt's visits: and her patient attention to his conversation, of which Adeline was commonly the theme, seemed to have a salutary effect on his wounded feelings.
But the time for their departure arrived, much to the joy of Mrs Wallington and her sister, who hoped when Emma was gone to have a chance of being noticed by Mordaunt.
What then must have been their confusion and disappointment, when Colonel Mordaunt begged to be allowed to attend the Douglases on their journey home, as he had never seen the Highlands, and wished to see them in such good company! Major Douglas and his charming wife gave a glad consent to this proposal: but Emma Douglas heard it with more alarm than pleasure; for, though her heart rejoiced at it, her reason condemned it.
A few days, however, convinced her apprehensive delicacy, that, if she loved Colonel Mordaunt, it was not without hope of a return.
Colonel Mordaunt declared that every day seemed to increase her resemblance to Adeline in expression and manner; and in conduct his reason told him that she was her superior; nor could he for a moment hesitate to prefer as a wife, Emma Douglas who had never erred, to Adeline who had.
Colonel Mordaunt felt, to borrow the words of a celebrated female writer,1that 'though it is possible to love and esteem a woman who has expiated the faults of her youth by a sincere repentance; and though before God and man her errors may be obliterated; still there exists one being in whose eyes she can never hope to efface them, and that is her lover or her husband.' He felt that no man of acute sensibility can be happy with a woman whose recollections are not pure: she must necessarily be jealous of the opinion which he entertains of her; and he must be often afraid of speaking, lest he utter a sentiment that may wound and mortify her. Besides, he was, on just grounds, more desirous of marrying a woman whom he 'admired, than one whom he forgave;' and therefore, while he addressed Emma, he no longer regretted Adeline.
In short, he at length ceased to talk of Emma's resemblance to Adeline, but seemed to admire her wholly for her own sake; and having avowed his attachment, and been assured of Emma's in return, by Major Douglas, he came back to England in the ensuing autumn, the happy husband of one of the best of women.
1:Madame de Stael,Recueil de Morceaux détachés, page 208.
We left Adeline preparing to address Mrs Mowbray and recommend her child to her protection:—but being deeply impressed with the importance of the task which she was about to undertake, she timidly put it off from day to day; and having convinced herself that it was her duty to endeavour to excite her husband to repentance, and make him acknowledge Editha as his legitimate child, she determined to write to him before she addressed her mother, and also to bid a last farewell to Colonel Mordaunt, whose respectful attachment had soothed some of the pangs which consciousness of her past follies had inflicted, and whose active friendship deserved her warmest acknowledgment. Little did she think the fatal effect which one instance of his friendly zeal in her cause had had on Berrendale; unconscious was she that the husband, whose neglect she believed to be intentional, great as were his crimes against her, was not guilty of the additional crime of suffering her to pine in poverty without making a single inquiry concerning her, but was convinced that both she and her child were no longer in existence.
In her letter to him, she conjured him by the love which healwaysbore Glenmurray, by the love heoncebore her, and by the remorse which he would sooner or later feel for his conduct towards her and her child, to acknowledge Editha to be his lawful heir, but to suffer her to remain under that protection to which she meant to bequeath her; and on these conditions she left him her blessing and her pardon.
The letter to Colonel Mordaunt was long, and perhaps diffuse: but Adeline was jealous of his esteem, though regardless of his love; and as he had known her while acting under the influence of a fatal error of opinion, she wished to show him that on conviction she had abandoned her former way of thinking, and was candid enough to own that she had been wrong.
'You, no doubt,' she said, 'are well acquainted with the arguments urged by different writers in favour of marriage. I shall therefore only mention the argument which carried at length full conviction tomymind, and conquered even my deep and heartfelt reverence for the opinions of one who long was, and ever will be, the dearest object of my love and regret. Buthe, had he lived, would I am sure have altered his sentiments; and had he been a parent, the argument I allude to, as it is founded on a consideration of the interest of children, would have found its way to his reason, through his affections.
'It is evident that on the education given to children must depend the welfare of the community; and, consequently, that whatever is likely to induce parents to neglect the education of their children must behurtfulto the welfare of the community. It is also certain, that though the agency of thepassionsbe necessary to the existence of all society, it is on the cultivation and influence of theaffectionsthat the happiness and improvement of social life depend.
'Hence it follows that marriage must be more beneficial to society in its consequences, than connexions capable of being dissolved at pleasure; because it has a tendency to call forth and exercise the affections, and control the passions. It has been said, that, were we free to dissolve at will a connexion formed by love, we should not wish to do it, as constancy is natural to us, and there is in all of us a tendency to form an exclusive attachment. But though I believe, from my own experience, that the few are capable of unforced constancy, and could love for life one dear and honoured object, still I believe that the many are given to the love of change;—that, in men especially, a new object can excite new passion; and, judging from the increasing depravity of both sexes, in spite of existing laws, and in defiance of shame,—I am convinced, that if the ties of marriage were dissolved, or it were no longer to be judged infamous to act in contempt of them, unbridled licentiousness would soon be in general practice. What, then, in such a state of society, would be the fate of the children born in it?—What would their education be? Parents continually engrossed in the enervating but delightful egotism of a new and happy love, lost in selfish indulgence, the passions awake, but the affections slumbering, and the sacred ties of parental feeling not having time nor opportunity to fasten on the heart,—their offspring would either die the victims of neglect, and the very existence of the human race be threatened; or, without morals or instruction, they would grow up to scourge the world by their vices, till the whole fabric of civilized society was gradually destroyed.
'On this ground, therefore, this strong ground, I venture to build my present opinion, that marriage is a wise and ought to be a sacred institution; and I bitterly regret the hour when, with the hasty and immature judgment of eighteen, and with a degree of presumption scarcely pardonable at any time of life, I dared to think and act contrary to this opinion and the reverend experience of ages, and became in the eyes of the world an example of vice, when I believed myself the champion of virtue.'
She then went on to express the following sentiments. 'You will think, perhaps, that I ought to struggle against the weakness which is hurrying me to the grave, and live for the sake of my child.—Alas! it is for her sake that I most wish to die.
'There are two ways in which a mother can be of use to her daughter: the one is by instilling into her mind virtuous principles, and by setting her a virtuous example: the other is, by being to her in her own person an awful warning, a melancholy proof of the dangers which attend a deviation from the path of virtue. But, oh! how jealous must a mother be of her child's esteem and veneration! and how could she bear to humble herself in the eyes of the beloved object, by avowing that she had committed crimes against society, however atoned for by penitence and sorrow! I can never, now, be a correct example for my Editha, nor could I endure to live to be a warning to her.—Nay, if I lived, I should be most probably a dangerous example to her; for I should be (on my death-bed I think I may be allowed the boast) respected and esteemed; while the society around me would forget my past errors, in the sincerity of my repentance.
'If then a strong temptation should assail my child, might she not yield to it from an idea that "one false step may be retrieved," and cite her mother as an example of this truth? while, unconscious of the many secret heart-aches of that repentant mother, unconscious of the sorrows and degradations she had experienced, she regarded nothing but the present respectability of her mother's life, and contented herself with hoping one day to resemble her.
'Believe me, that were it possible for me to choose between life and death, for my child's sake, the choice would be the latter. Now, when she shall see in my mournful and eventful history, written as it has been by me in moments of melancholy leisure, that all my sorrows were consequent on one presumptuous error of judgment in early youth, and shall see a long and minute detail of the secret agonies which I have endured, those agonies wearing away my existence, and ultimately hurrying me to an untimely grave; she will learn that the woman who feels justly, yet has been led even into the practice of vice, however she may be forgiven by others, can never forgive herself; and though she may dare to lift an eye of hope to that Being who promises pardon on repentance, she will still recollect with anguish the fair and glorious course which she might have run: and that, instead of humbly imploring forbearance and forgiveness, she might have demanded universal respect and esteem.
'True it is, that I did not act in defiance of the world's opinion, from any depraved feeling, or vicious inclinations: but the world could not be expected to believe this, since motives are known only to our own hearts, and the great Searcher of hearts: therefore, as far as example goes, I was as great a stumbling-block to others as if the life I led had been owing to the influence of lawless desires; and society was right in making, and in seeing, no distinction between me and any other woman living in an unsanctioned connexion.
'But methinks I hear you say, that Editha might never be informed of my past errors. Alas! wretched must that woman be whose happiness and respectability depend on the secrecy of others! Besides, did I not think the concealment of crime in itself a crime, how could I know an hour of peace while I reflected that a moment's malice, or inadvertency, in one of Editha's companions might cause her to blush at her mother's disgrace?—that, while her young cheek was flushed perhaps with the artless triumphs of beauty, talent, and virtue, the parent who envied me, or the daughter who envied her might suddenly convert her joy into anguish and mortification, by artfully informing her, with feigned pity for my sorrows and admiration of my penitence, that I had once been adisgraceto that family of which I was now the pride?—No—even if I were not for ever separated in this world from the only man whom I ever loved with passionate and well-founded affection, united for life to the object of my just aversion, and were I not conscious (horrible and overwhelming thought!) of having by my example led another into the path of sin,—still, I repeat it, for my child's sake I should wish to die, and should consider, not early death, but lengthened existence, as a curse.'
So Adeline reasoned and felt in her moments of reflection: but the heart had sometimes dominion over her; and as she gazed on Editha, and thought that Mrs Mowbray might be induced to receive her again to her favour, she wished even on any terms to have her life prolonged.
Having finished her letter to Colonel Mordaunt and Berrendale, she again prepared to write to her mother; a few transient fears overcoming every now and then those hopes of success in her application, which, till she took up her pen, she had so warmly encouraged.
Alas! little did she know how erroneously for years she had judged of Mrs Mowbray. Little did she suspect that her mother had long forgiven her; had pined after her; had sought, though in vain, to procure intelligence of her; and was then wearing away her existence in solitary woe, a prey to self-reproach, and to the corroding fear that her daughter, made desperate by her renunciation of her, had, on the death of Glenmurray, plunged into a life of shame, or sunk, broken-hearted, into the grave! for not one of Adeline's letters had ever reached Mrs Mowbray; and the mother and daughter had both been the victims of female treachery and jealousy.
Mrs Mowbray, as soon as she had parted with Adeline for the last time, had dismissed all her old servants, the witnesses of her sorrows and disgrace, and retired to her estate in Cumberland,—an estate where Adeline had first seen the light, and where Mrs Mowbray had first experienced the transport of a mother. This spot was therefore ill calculated to banish Adeline from her mother's thoughts, and to continue her seclusion from her affections.
On the contrary, her image haunted Mrs Mowbray:—whithersoever she went, she still saw her in an attitude of supplication; she still heard the plaintive accents of her voice;—and often did she exclaim, 'My child, my child! wretch that I am! must I never see thee more!'
These ideas increased to so painful a degree, that, finding her solitude insupportable, she invited an orphan relation in narrow circumstances to take up her abode with her.
This young woman, whose ruling passion was avarice, and whose greatest talent was cunning, resolved to spare no pains to keep the situation which she had gained, even to the exclusion of Adeline, should Mrs Mowbray be weak enough to receive her again. She therefore intercepted all the letters which were in or like Adeline's hand-writing; and having learnt to imitate Mrs Mowbray's, she enclosed them in a blank cover to Adeline, who, thinking the direction was written in her mother's hand, desisted, as the artful girl expected she would do, from what appeared to her a hopeless application.
And she exulted in her contrivance;—when Mrs Mowbray, on seeing in a magazine that Glenmurray was dead, (full a year after his decease,) bursting into a passion of tears, protested that she would instantly invite Adeline to her house.
'Yes,' cried she, 'I can do so without infringement of my oath.—She is disgraced in the eye of the world by her connexion with Glenmurray, and she is wretched in love; nay, more so, perhaps, than I have been; and I can, I will invite her to lose the remembrance of her misfortunes in my love!'
Thus did her ardent wish to be re-united to Adeline deceive her conscience; for by the phrase 'wretched in love,' she meant, forsaken by the object of her attachment,—and that Adeline had not been: therefore her oath remained in full force against her. But where could she seek Adeline? Dr Norberry could, perhaps, give her this information; and to him she resolved to write—though he had cast her from his acquaintance: 'but her pride,' as she said, 'fell with her fortunes;' and she scrupled not to humble herself before the zealous friend of her daughter. But this letter would never have reached him, had not her treacherous relation been ill at the time when it was written.
Dr Norberry had recovered the illness of which Adeline supposed him to have died: but as her letter to him, to which she received no answer, alluded to the money transaction between her and Mrs Norberry; and as she commented on the insulting expressions in Mrs Norberry's note, that lady thought proper to suppress the second letter as well as the first; and when the doctor, on his recovery, earnestly demanded to know whether any intelligence had been received of Miss Mowbray, Mrs Norberry, with pretended reluctance, told him that she had written to him in great distress, while he was delirious, to borrow money; that she had sent her ten pounds, which Adeline had returned, reproaching her for her parsimony, and saying that she had found a friend who would not suffer her to want.
'But did you tell her that you thought me in great danger?'
'I did.'
'Why, what, woman! did she not, after that, write to know how I was?'
'Never.'
'I could not have thought it of her!' answered the doctor—who could not but believe this story for the sake of his own peace, as it was less destructive to his happiness to think Adeline in fault, than his wife or children guilty of profligate falsehood: he therefore, with a deep sigh, begged Adeline's name might never be mentioned to him again; and though he secretly wished to hear of her welfare, he no longer made her the subject of conversation.
But Mrs Mowbray's letter recalled her powerfully both to his memory and affections, while, with many a deep-drawn sigh, he regretted that he had no possible means of discovering where she was;—and with a heavy heart he wrote the following letter, which Miss Woodville, Mrs Mowbray's relation, having first contrived to open and read it, ventured to give into her hands, as it contained no satisfactory information concerning Adeline.
'I look on the separation of my mother and me in this world to be eternal,' said the poor dear lost Adeline to me, the last time we met. 'You do!' replied I: 'then, poor devil! how miserable will your mother be when her resentment subsides!—Well, when that time comes, I may, perhaps see her again,' added I, with a queer something rising in my throat as I said it, and your poor girl blessed me for the kind intention.—(Pshaw! I have blotted the paper: at my years it is a shame to be so watery-eyed.) Well,—the time above-mentioned is come—you are miserable, you are repentant—and you ask me to forget and forgive.—I do forget, I do forgive: some time or other, too, I will tell you so in person; and were the lost Adeline to know that I did so, she would bless me for the act, as she did before for the intention. But, alas! where she is, what she is, I know not, and have not any means of knowing. To say the truth, her conduct to me and mine has been odd, not to say wrong. But, poor thing! she is either dead or miserable, and I forgive her:—so I do you, as I said before, and the Lord give you all the consolation which you so greatly need!Yours once more,In true kindness of spirit,James Norberry.'
'I look on the separation of my mother and me in this world to be eternal,' said the poor dear lost Adeline to me, the last time we met. 'You do!' replied I: 'then, poor devil! how miserable will your mother be when her resentment subsides!—Well, when that time comes, I may, perhaps see her again,' added I, with a queer something rising in my throat as I said it, and your poor girl blessed me for the kind intention.—(Pshaw! I have blotted the paper: at my years it is a shame to be so watery-eyed.) Well,—the time above-mentioned is come—you are miserable, you are repentant—and you ask me to forget and forgive.—I do forget, I do forgive: some time or other, too, I will tell you so in person; and were the lost Adeline to know that I did so, she would bless me for the act, as she did before for the intention. But, alas! where she is, what she is, I know not, and have not any means of knowing. To say the truth, her conduct to me and mine has been odd, not to say wrong. But, poor thing! she is either dead or miserable, and I forgive her:—so I do you, as I said before, and the Lord give you all the consolation which you so greatly need!
Yours once more,
In true kindness of spirit,James Norberry.'
This letter made Mrs Mowbray's wounds bleed afresh, at the same time that it destroyed all her expectations of finding Adeline; and the only hope that remained to cheer her was, that she might perhaps, if yet alive, write sooner or later, to implore forgiveness, but month after month elapsed, and no tidings of Adeline reached her despairing mother.
She then put an advertisement in the paper, so worded that Adeline, had she seen it, must have known to whom it alluded; but it never met her eyes, and Mrs Mowbray gave herself up to almost absolute despair; when accident introduced her to a new acquaintance, whose example taught her patience, and whose soothing benevolence bade her hope for happier days.
One day as Mrs Mowbray, regardless of a heavy shower, and lost in melancholy reflections, was walking with irregular steps on the road to Penrith, with an unopened umbrella in her hand, she suddenly raised her eyes from the ground, and beheld a Quaker lady pursued by an over-driven bullock, and unable any longer to make an effort to escape its fury. At this critical moment Mrs Mowbray, from a sort of irresistible impulse, as fortunate in its effects as presence of mind, yet scarcely perhaps to be denominated such, suddenly opened her umbrella; and, approaching the animal, brandished it before his eyes. Alarmed at this unusual appearance, he turned hastily and ran towards the town, where she saw that he was immediately met and secured.
'Thou hast doubtless saved my life,' said the Quaker, grasping Mrs Mowbray's hand with an emotion which she vainly tried to suppress; 'and I pray that thine may be blest!'
Mrs Mowbray returned the pressure of her hand, and burst into tears; overcome with joy for having saved a fellow-creature's life; with terror, which she was now at leisure to feel for the danger to which she had herself been exposed; and with mournful emotion from the consciousness how much she needed the blessing which the grateful Quaker invoked on her head.
'Thou tremblest even more than I do,' observed the lady, smiling, but seeming ready to faint; 'I believe we had better, both of us, sit down on the bank; but it is so wet that perhaps we may as well endeavour to reach my house, which is only at the end of yon field.' Mrs Mowbray bowed her assent; and, supporting each other, they at length arrived at a neat white house, to which the Quaker cordially bade her welcome.
'It was but this morning,' said Mrs Mowbray, struggling for utterance, 'that I called upon Death to relieve me from an existence at once wretched and useless.' Here she paused:—and her new acquaintance, cordially pressing her hand, waited for the conclusion of her speech;—'but now,' continued Mrs Mowbray, 'I revoke, and repent my idle and vicious impatience of life. I have probably saved your life, and something like enjoyment now seems to enliven mine.'
'I suspect,' replied the lady, 'that thou hast known deep affliction; and I rejoice that at this moment, and in so providential a manner, I have been introduced to thy acquaintance:—for I too have known sorrow, and the mourner knows how to speak comfort to the heart of the mourner. My name is Rachel Pemberton; and I hope that when I know thy name, and thy story, thou wilt allow me to devote to thy comfort some hours of the existence which thou hast preserved.' She then hastily withdrew, to pour forth in solitude the breathings of devout gratitude:—while Mrs Mowbray, having communed with her own thoughts, felt a glow of unwonted satisfaction steal over her mind; and by the time Mrs Pemberton returned, she was able to meet her with calmness and cheerfulness.
'Thou knowest my name,' said Mrs Pemberton as she entered, seating herself by Mrs Mowbray, 'but I have yet to learn thine.'
'My name is Mowbray,' she replied sighing deeply.
'Mowbray!—The lady of Rosevalley in Gloucestershire; and the mother of Adeline Mowbray?' exclaimed Mrs Pemberton.
'What of Adeline Mowbray? What of my child?' cried Mrs Mowbray, seizing Mrs Pemberton's hand. 'Blessed woman! tell me,—Do you indeed know her?—can you tell me where to find her?'
'I will tell thee all that I know of her,' replied Mrs Pemberton in a faltering voice; 'but thy emotion overpowers me.—I—I was once a mother, and I can feel for thee.' She then turned away her head to conceal a starting tear; while Mrs Mowbray, in incoherent eagerness, repeated her questions, and tremblingly awaited her answer.
'Is she well? Is she happy?—say but that!' she exclaimed, sobbing as she spoke.
'She was well and contented when I last heard from her,' replied Mrs Pemberton calmly.
'Heard from her? Then she writes to you! Oh, blessed, blessed woman! show me her letters, and tell me only that she has forgiven me for all my unkindness to her—' As she said this, Mrs Mowbray threw her arms round Mrs Pemberton, and sunk half-fainting on her shoulder.
'I will tell thee all that has ever passed between us, if thou wilt be composed,' gravely answered Mrs Pemberton; 'but this violent expression of thy feelings is unseemly and detrimental.'
'Well—well—I will be calm,' said Mrs Mowbray; and Mrs Pemberton began to relate the interview which she had with Adeline at Richmond.
'How long ago did this take place?' eagerly interrupted Mrs Mowbray.
'Full six years.'
'Oh, God!' exclaimed she, impatiently,—'Six years! By this time then she may be dead—she may—'
'Thou art incorrigible, I fear,' said Mrs Pemberton, 'but thou art afflicted, and I will bear with thy impatience:—sit down again and attend to me, and thou wilt hear much later intelligence of thy daughter.'
'How late?' asked Mrs Mowbray with frantic eagerness;—and Mrs Pemberton, overcome with the manner in which she spoke, could scarcely falter out, 'Within a twelvemonth I have heard of her.'
'Within a twelvemonth!' joyfully cried Mrs Mowbray: but, recollecting herself, she added mournfully—'but in that time what—what may not have happened!'
'I know not what to do with thee nor for thee,' observed Mrs Pemberton; 'but do try, I beseech thee, to hear me patiently!'
Mrs Mowbray then re-seated herself; and Mrs Pemberton informed her of Adeline's premature confinement at Richmond; of her distress on Glenmurray's death, and of her having witnessed it.
'Ah! you acted a mother's part—you did what I ought to have done,' cried Mrs Mowbray, bursting into tears,—'but, go on—I will be patient.'
Yet that was impossible; for, when she heard of Adeline's insanity, her emotions became so strong that Mrs Pemberton, alarmed for her life, was obliged to ring for assistance.
When she recovered,—'Thou hast heard the worst now,' said Mrs Pemberton, 'and all I have yet to say of thy child is satisfactory.'
She then related the contents of Adeline's first letter, informing her of her marriage:—and Mrs Mowbray, clasping her hands together, blessed God that Adeline was become a wife. The next letter Mrs Pemberton read informed her that she was the mother of a fine girl.
'A mother!' she exclaimed, 'Oh, how I should like to see her child!'—But at the same moment she recollected how bitterly she had reviled her when she saw her about to become a mother, at their last meeting; and, torn with conflicting emotions, she was again insensible to aught but her self-upbraidings.
'Well—but where is she now? where is the child? and when did you hear from her last?' cried she.
'I have not heard from her since,' hesitatingly replied Mrs Pemberton.
'But can't you write to her?'
'Yes;—but in her last letter she said she was going to change her lodgings, and would write again when settled in a new habitation.'
Again Mrs Mowbray paced the room in wild and violent distress: but her sorrows at length yielded to the gentle admonitions and soothings of Mrs Pemberton, who bade her remember, that when she rose in the morning she had not expected the happiness and consolation which she had met with that day; and that a short time might bring forth still greater comfort.
'For,' said Mrs Pemberton, 'I can write to the house where she formerly lodged, and perhaps the person who keeps it can give us intelligence of her.'
On hearing this, Mrs Mowbray became more composed, and diverted her sorrow by a thousand fond inquiries concerning Adeline, which none but a mother could make, and none but a mother could listen to with patience.
While this conversation was going on, a knock at the door was heard, and Miss Woodville entered the room in great emotion; for she had heard, on the road, that a mad bullock had attacked a lady; and also that Mrs Mowbray, scarcely able to walk, had been led into the white house in the field by the road side.
Miss Woodville was certainly as much alarmed as she pretended to be: but there was a somewhat in the expression of her alarm which, though it gratified Mrs Mowbray, was displeasing to the more penetrating Mrs Pemberton. She could not indeed guess that Miss Woodville's alarm sprung merely from apprehension lest Mrs Mowbray should die before she had provided for her in her will: yet, notwithstanding, she felt that her expressions of concern and anxiety had no resemblance to those of real affection; and in spite of her habitual candour, she beheld Miss Woodville with distrust.
But this feeling was considerably increased on observing, that when Mrs Mowbray exultingly introduced her, not only as the lady whose life she had been the means of preserving, but as the friend and correspondent of her daughter, she evidently changed colour; and, in spite of her habitual plausibility, could not utter a single coherent sentence of pleasure or congratulation:—and it was also evident, that, being conscious of Mrs Pemberton's regarding her with a scrutinizing eye, she was not easy till, on pretence of Mrs Mowbray's requiring rest after her alarm, she had prevailed on her to return home.
But she could not prevent the new friends from parting with eager assurances of meeting again and again; and it was agreed between them, that Mrs Pemberton should spend the next day at the Lawn.
Mrs Pemberton, who is thus again introduced to the notice of my readers, had been, as well as Mrs Mowbray, the pupil of adversity. She had been born and educated in fashionable life; and she united to a very lovely face and elegant form, every feminine grace and accomplishment.
When she was only eighteen, Mr Pemberton, a young and gay Quaker, fell in love with her; and having inspired her with a mutual passion, he married her, notwithstanding the difference of their religious opinions, and the displeasure of his friends. He was consequently disowned by the society: but being weaned by the happiness which he found at home from those public amusements which had first lured him from the strict habits of his sect, he was soon desirous of being again admitted a member of it; and in process of time he was once more received into it; while his amiable wife, having no wish beyond her domestic circle, and being disposed to think her husband's opinions right, became in time a convert to the same profession of faith, and exhibited in her manners the rare union of the easy elegance of a woman of the world with the rigid decorum and unadorned dress of a strict Quaker.
But in the midst of her happiness, and whilst looking forward to a long continuance of it, a fever, caught in visiting the sick bed of a cottager, carried off her husband, and next two lovely children; and Mrs Pemberton would have sunk under the stroke, but for the watchful care and affectionate attentions of the friend of her youth, who resided near her, and who, in time, prevailed on her to receive with becoming fortitude and resignation the trials which she was appointed to undergo.
During this season of affliction, as we have before stated, she became a minister in the Quaker society: but at the time of her meeting Adeline at Richmond, she had been called from the duties of her public profession to watch over the declining health of her friend and consoler, and to accompany her to Lisbon.
There, during four long years, she bent over her sick couch, now elated with hope, and now sunk into despondence; when, at the beginning of the fifth year, her friend died in her arms, and she returned to England, resolved to pass her days, except when engaged in active duties, on a little estate in Cumberland, bequeathed to her by her friend on her death-bed. But ill health and various events had detained her in the west of England since her return; and she had not long taken possession of her house near Penrith, when she became introduced in so singular a manner to Mrs Mowbray's acquaintance—an acquaintance which would, she hoped, prove of essential service to them both; and as soon as her guest departed, Mrs Pemberton resolved to inquire what character Mrs Mowbray bore in the neighbourhood, and whether her virtues at all kept pace with her misfortunes.
Her inquiries were answered in the most satisfactory manner; as, fortunately for Mrs Mowbray, with the remembrance of her daughter had recurred to her that daughter's benevolent example. She remembered the satisfaction which used to beam from Adeline's countenance when she returned from her visits to the sick and the afflicted; and she resolved to try whether those habits of charitable exertion which could increase the happiness of the young and light-hearted Adeline, might not have power to alleviate the sorrows of her own drooping age, and broken joyless heart.
'Sweet are the uses of adversity!'—She who, while the child of prosperity, was a romantic, indolent theorist, an inactive speculator, a proud contemner of the dictates of sober experience, and a neglecter of that practical benevolence which can in days produce more benefit to others than theories and theorists can accomplish in years—this erring woman, awakened from her dreams and reveries, to habits of useful exertion, by the stimulating touch of affliction, was become the visitor of the sick, the consoler of the sorrowful, the parent of the fatherless, while virtuous industry looked up to her with hope; and her name, like that of Adeline in happier days, was pronounced with prayers and blessings.
But, alas! she felt that blessing could reach her only in the shape of her lost child: and though she was conscious of being useful to others, though she had the satisfaction of knowing that she had but the day before been the means of preserving a valuable life, she met Mrs Pemberton, when she arrived at the Lawn, with a countenance of fixed melancholy, and was at first disposed to expect but little success from the project of writing to Adeline's former lodgings in order to inquire.
The truth was, that Miss Woodville had artfully insinuated the improbability of such an inquiry's succeeding; and, though Mrs Mowbray had angrily asserted her hopes when Miss Woodville provokingly asserted herfears, the treacherous girl's insinuations had sunk deeply into her mind, and Mrs Pemberton saw, with pain and wonder, an effect produced of which the cause was wholly unseen. But she at length succeeded in awakening Mrs Mowbray's hopes; and in a letter written by Mrs Pemberton to the mistress of the house whence Adeline formerly dated, she enclosed one to her daughter glowing with maternal tenderness, and calculated to speak peace to her sorrows.
These letters were sent, as soon as written, to the post by Mrs Mowbray's footman; but Miss Woodville contrived to meet him near the post-office, and telling him she would put the letter in the receiver, she gave him a commission to call at a shop in Penrith for her, at which she had not time to call herself.
Thus was another scheme for restoring Adeline to her afflicted mother frustrated by the treachery of this interested woman; who, while Mrs Pemberton and Mrs Mowbray looked anxiously forward to the receipt of an answer from London, triumphed with malignant pleasure in the success of her artifice.—But, spite of herself, she feared Mrs Pemberton, and was not at all pleased to find that, till the answer from London could arrive, that lady was to remain at the Lawn.
She contrived, however, to be as little in her presence as possible; for, contrary to Mrs Pemberton's usual habits, she felt a distrust of Miss Woodville, which her intelligent eye could not help expressing, and which consequently alarmed the conscious heart of the culprit. Being left therefore, by Miss Woodville's fears, alone with Mrs Mowbray, she drew from her, at different times, ample details of Adeline's childhood, and the method which Mrs Mowbray had pursued in her education.
'Ah! 'tis as I suspected,' interrupted Mrs Pemberton during one of these conversations. 'Thy daughter'sfaultsoriginated in thee! her education was cruelly defective.'
'No!' replied Mrs Mowbray with almost angry eagerness, 'whatever my errors as a mother have been, and for the rash marriage which I made I own myself culpable in the highest degree, I am sure that I paid the greatest attention to my daughter's education. If you were but to see the voluminous manuscript on the subject, which I wrote for her improvement—'
'But where was thy daughter; and how was she employed during the time that thou wert writing a book by which to educate her?'
Mrs Mowbray was silent: she recollected that, while she was gratifying her own vanity in composing her system of education, Adeline was almost banished her presence; and, but for the humble instruction of her grandmother, would, at the age of fifteen, have run a great risk of being both an ignorant and useless being.
'Forgive me, friend Mowbray,' resumed Mrs Pemberton, aware in some measure of what was passing in Mrs Mowbray's mind—'forgive me if I venture to observe, that till of late years a thick curtain of self-love seems to have been dropped between thy heart and maternal affection. It is now, and now only, that thou hast learned to feel like a true and affectionate mother!'
'Perhaps you are right,' replied Mrs Mowbray mournfully, 'still, I always meant well; and hoped that my studies would conduce to the benefit of my child.'
'So they might, perhaps, to that of thy second, third, or fourth child, hadst thou been possessed of so many; but, in the meanwhile, thy first-born must have been fatally neglected. A child's education begins almost from the hour of its birth; and the mother who understands her task, knows that the circumstances which every moment calls forth, are the tools with which she is to work in order to fashion her child's mind and character. What would you think of the farmer who was to let his fields lie fallow for years, while he was employed in contriving a method of cultivating land to increase his gains ten-fold?'
'But I did not suffer Adeline's mind to lie fallow.—I allowed her to read, and I directed her studies.'
'Thou didst so; but what were those studies? and didst thou acquaint thyself with the deductions which her quick mind formed from them? No—thou didst not, as parents should do, inquire into the impressions made on thy daughter's mind by the books which she perused. Prompt to feel, and hasty to decide, as Adeline was, how necessary was to her the warning voice of judgment and experience!'
'But how could I imagine that a girl so young should dare to act, whatever her opinions might be, in open defiance of the opinions of the world?'
'But she had not lived in the world; therefore, scarcely knew how repugnant to it her opinions were; nor, as she did not mix in general society, could she care sufficiently for its good opinion, to be willing to act contrary to her own ideas of right, rather than forfeit it: besides, thou ownest that thou didst openly profess thy admiration of the sentiments which she adopted; nor, till they were confirmed irrevocably hers, didst thou declare, that to act up to them was, in thy opinion, vicious. And then it was too late: she thought thy timidity, and not thy wisdom, spoke, and she set thee the virtuous example of acting up to the dictates of conscience. But Adeline and thou are both the pupils of affliction and experience; and I trust that, all your errors repented of, you will meet once more to expiate your past follies by your future conduct.'
'I hope so too,' meekly replied Mrs Mowbray, whose pride had been completely subdued by self-upbraidings and distress: 'Oh! when—when will an answer arrive from London?'
Alas! day after day elapsed, and no letter came; but while Mrs Mowbray was almost frantic with disappointment and anxiety, Mrs Pemberton thought that she observed in Miss Woodville's countenance a look of triumphant malice, which ill accorded with the fluent expressions of sympathy and regret with which she gratified her unsuspicious relation, and she determined to watch her very narrowly; for she thought it strange that Adeline, however she might respect her mother's oath, should never, in the bitterness of her sorrows, have unburthened her heart by imparting them to her: one day, when, as usual, the post had been anxiously expected, and, as usual, had brought no letter from London concerning Adeline; and while Miss Woodville was talking on indifferent subjects with ill suppressed gaiety, though Mrs Mowbray, sunk into despondence, was lying on the sofa by her; Mrs Pemberton suddenly exclaimed—'There is only one right way of proceeding, friend Mowbray,—thou and I must go to London, and make our inquiries in person, and then we shall have a great chance of succeeding.' As she said this, she looked steadfastly at Miss Woodville, and saw her turn very pale, while her eye was hastily averted from the penetrating glance of Mrs Pemberton; and when she heard Mrs Mowbray, in a transport of joy, declare that they had better set off that very evening,—unable to conceal her terror and agitation, she hastily left the room.
Mrs Pemberton instantly followed her into the apartment to which she had retired, and the door of which she had closed with much violence. She found her walking to and fro, and wringing her hands, as if in agony. On seeing Mrs Pemberton, she started, and sinking into a chair, she complained of being very ill, and desired to be left alone.
'Thou art ill, and thy illness is of the worst sort, I fear,' replied Mrs Pemberton; 'but I will stay, and be thy physician.'
'You, my physician?' replied Miss Woodville, with fury in her looks; 'You?'
'Yes—I—I see that thou art afraid lest Adeline should be restored to her paternal roof.'
'Who told you so, officious, insolent woman?' returned Miss Woodville.
'Thy own looks—but all this is very natural in thee: thou fearest that Adeline's favour should annihilate thine.'
'Perhaps I do,' cried Miss Woodville, a little less alarmed, and catching at this plausible excuse for her uneasiness; 'for, should I be forced to leave my cousin's house, I shall be reduced to comparative poverty and solitude again.'
'But why shouldest thou be forced to leave it? Art thou not Adeline's friend?'
'Ye—yes,' faltered out Miss Woodville.
'But it is uncertain whether we can find Adeline—still we shall be very diligent in our inquiries; yet it is so strange that she should never have written to her mother, if alive, that perhaps—'
'Oh, I dare say she is dead,' hastily interrupted Miss Woodville.
'Has she been dead long, thinkest thou?'
'No—not long—not above six months, I dare say.'
'No!—Hast thou any reason then for knowing that she was alive six months ago?' asked Mrs Pemberton, looking steadily at Miss Woodville, as she spoke.
'I?—Lord—no—How should I know?' she replied, her lip quivering, and her whole frame trembling.
'I tell thee how.—Art thou not conscious of having intercepted letters from thy cousin to her relenting parent?'
Mrs Pemberton had scarcely uttered these words, when Miss Woodville fell back nearlyinsensiblein her chair—a proof that the accusation was only too well founded. As soon as she recovered, Mrs Pemberton said, with great gentleness, 'Thou art ill,—ill indeed, but, as I suspected, thy illness is of the mind; there is a load of guilt on it; throw it off then by a full confession, and be the sinner that repenteth.'
In a few moments Miss Woodville, conscious that her emotion had betrayed her, and suspecting that Mrs Pemberton had by some means or other received hints of her treachery, confessed that she had intercepted and destroyed letters from Adeline to her mother; and also owned, to the great joy of Mrs Pemberton, that Adeline's last letter, the letter in which she informed Mrs Mowbray, that all the conditions were then fulfilled, without which alone she had sworn never to forgive her, had arrived only two months before; and that it was dated from such a street, and such a number, in London.
'My poor friend will be so happy!' said Mrs Pemberton; and, her own eyes filling with tears of joy, she hastened to find Mrs Mowbray.
'But what will become ofme?' exclaimed Miss Woodville, detaining her—'Iam ruined—ruined for ever!'
'Not so,' replied Mrs Pemberton, 'thou artsaved,—saved, I trust, forever—Thou hast confessed thy guilt, and made all the atonement now in thy power. Go to thine own room, and I will soon make known to thee thy relation's sentiments towards thee.'
So saying, she hastened to Mrs Mowbray, whom she found giving orders, with eager impatience, to have post horses sent for immediately.
'Then thou art full of expectation, I conclude, from the event of our journey to town?' said Mrs Pemberton, smiling.
'To be sure I am,' replied Mrs Mowbray.
'And so am I,' she answered,—'for I think that I know the present abode of thy daughter.'
Mrs Mowbray started—her friend's countenance expressed more joy and exultation than she had ever seen on it before; and, almost breathless with new hope, she seized her hand and conjured her to explain herself.
The explanation was soon given; and Mrs Mowbray's joy, in consequence of it, unbounded.
'But what is thy will,' observed Mrs Pemberton, 'with regard to thy guilty relation?'
'I cannot—cannot see her again now, if ever;—and she must immediately leave my house.'
'Immediately?'
'Yes,—but I will settle on her a handsome allowance; for my conscience tells me, that, had I behaved like a mother to my child, no one could have been tempted to injure her thus,—I put this unhappy woman into a state of temptation, and she yielded to it:—but I feel only too sensibly, that no one has been such an enemy to my poor Adeline as I have been; nor, conscious of my own offences towards her, dare I resent those of another.'
'I love, I honour thee for what thou hast now uttered,' cried Mrs Pemberton with unusual animation.—'I see that thou art now indeed a Christian; such are the breathings of a truly contrite spirit; and, verily, she who can so easily forgive the crimes of others may hope to have her own forgiven.'
Mrs Pemberton then hastened to speak hope and comfort to the mind of the penitent offender, while Mrs Mowbray ran to meet her servant, who, to her surprise, was returning without horses, for none were to be procured; and Mrs Mowbray saw herself obliged to delay her journey till noon the next day, when she was assured of having horses from Penrith. But when, after a long and restless night, she arose in the morning, anticipating with painful impatience the hour of her departure, Mrs Pemberton entered her room, and informed her that she had passed nearly all the night at Miss Woodville's bed-side, who had been seized with a violent delirium at one o'clock in the morning, and in her ravings was continually calling on Mrs Mowbray, and begging to see her once more.
'I will see her directly,' replied Mrs Mowbray, without a moment's hesitation; and hastened to Miss Woodville's apartment, where she found the medical attendant whom Mrs Pemberton had sent for just arrived. He immediately declared the disorder to be an inflammation on the brain, and left them with little or no hope of her recovery.
Mrs Mowbray, affected beyond measure at the pathetic appeals for pardon addressed to her continually by the unconscious sufferer, took her station at the bed-side; and, hanging over her pillow, watched for the slightest gleam of returning reason, in order to speak the pardon so earnestly implored: and while thus piously engaged, the chaise that was to convey her and her friend to London, and perhaps to Adeline, drove up to the gate.
'Art thou ready?' said Mrs Pemberton, entering the room equipped for her journey.
At this moment the poor invalid reiterated her cries for pardon, and begged Mrs Mowbray not to leave her without pronouncing her forgiveness.
Mrs Mowbray burst into tears; and though sure that she was not even conscious of her presence, she felt herself almost unable to forsake her:—still it was in search of her daughter that she was going—nay, perhaps, it was to her daughter that she was hastening; and, as this thought occurred to her, she hurried to the door of the chamber,sayingshe should be ready in a moment.
But the eye of the phrensied sufferer followed her as she did so, and in a tone of unspeakable agony she begged, she entreated that she might not be left to die in solitude and sorrow, however guilty she might have been.—Then again she implored Mrs Mowbray to speak peace and pardon to her drooping soul; while, unable to withstand these solicitations, though she knew them to be the unconscious ravings of the disorder, she slowly and mournfully returned to the bed-side.
'It is late,' said Mrs Pemberton—'we ought ere now to be on the road.'
'How can I go, and leave this poor creature in such a state?—But then should we find my poor injured child at the end of the journey! Such an expectation as that!—'
'Thou must decide quickly,' replied Mrs Pemberton gently.
'Decide! Then I will go with you.—Yet still should Anna recover her senses before her death, and wish to see me, I should never forgive myself for being absent—it might soothe the anguish of her last moments to know how freely I pardon her.—No, no:—after all, if pleasure awaits me, it is only delaying it a few days; and this, this unhappy girl is on herdeath-bed.—You, you must gowithoutme.'
As she said this, Mrs Pemberton pressed her hand with affectionate eagerness, and murmured out in broken accents, 'I honour thy decision, and may I return with comfort to thee!'
'Yet though I wish you to go,' cried Mrs Mowbray, 'I grieve to expose you to such fatigue and trouble in your weak state of health, and—'
'Say no more,' interrupted Mrs Pemberton, 'I am only doing my duty; and reflect on my happiness if I am allowed to restore the lost sheep to the fold again!'—So saying she set off on her journey, and arrived in London only four days after Adeline had arrived in Cumberland.
Mrs Pemberton drove immediately to Adeline's lodgings, but received the same answer as Colonel Mordaunt had received; namely, that she was gone no one knew whither. Still she did not despair of finding her: she, like the Colonel, thought that a mulatto, a lady just recovered from the small-pox, and a child, were likely to be easily traced; and having written to Mrs Mowbray, owning her disappointment, but bidding her not despair, she set off on her journey back, and had succeeded in tracing Adeline as far as an inn on the high North road,—when an event took place which made her further inquiries needless.
Adeline, after several repeated trials, succeeded in writing the following letter to her mother:—
'Dearest of Mothers,'When this letter reaches you, I shall be no more; and however I may hitherto have offended you, I shall then be able to offend you no longer; and that child, whom you bound yourself by oath never to see or forgive but on the most cruel of conditions while living, dead you may perhaps deign to receive to your pardon and your love.—Nay, my heart tells me that you will do more,—that you will transfer the love which you once felt for me, to my poor helpless orphan; and in full confidence that you will be this indulgent, I bequeath her to you with my dying breath.—O! look on her, my mother, nor shrink from her with disgust, although you see in her my features; but rather rejoice in the resemblance, and fancy that I am restored to you pure, happy, and beloved as I once was.—Yes, yes,—it will be so: I have known a great deal of sorrow—let me then indulge the little ray of pleasure that breaks in upon me when I think that you will not resist my dying prayer, but bestow on my child the long arrears of tenderness due to me.'Yes, yes, you will receive, you will be kind to her; and by so doing you will make me ample amends for all the sorrow which your harshness caused me when we met last.—That was a dreadful day! How you frowned on me! I did not think you could have frowned so dreadfully—but then I was uninjured by affliction, unaltered by illness. Were you to see me now, you would not have the heart to frown on me: and yet my letters being repeatedly returned, and even the last unnoticed and unanswered, though it told you that even on your own conditions I could now claim your pardon, for that I had been "wretched in love," and had experienced "the anguish of being forsaken, despised, and disgraced in the eye of the world," proves but too surely that the bitterness of resentment is not yet passed!—But on mydeath-bedyou promised to see and forgive me—and I am there, my mother!! Yet will I not claim that promise;—I will not weaken, by directing it towards myself, the burst of sorrow, of too late regret, of self-upbraidings, and long-restrained affection, which must be directed towards my child when I am not alive to profit by it. No:—though I would give worlds to embrace you once more, for the sake of my child I resign the gratification.'Oh, mother! you little think that I saw you, only a few days ago, from the stile by the cottage which overlooks your house: you were walking with a lady, and my child was with me (my Editha, for I have called her after you.) You seemed, methought, even cheerful, and I was so selfish that I felt shocked to think I was so entirely forgotten by you; for I was sure that if you thought of me you could not be cheerful. But your companion left you; and then you looked so very sad, that I was wretched from the idea that you were then thinking too much of me, and I wished you to resume your cheerfulness again.'Iwas not cheerful, and Editha by her artless prattle wounded me to the very soul.—She wished, she said, to live in that sweet house, and asked why she should not live there?Icouldhave told her why, but dared not do it; but I assured her, and do not for mercy's sake prove that assurance false! that sheshouldlive thereone day.'"But when—when?" she asked.'"When I am in my grave,"' replied I: and, poor innocent! throwing herself into my arms with playful fondness, she begged me to go to my grave directly. I feel but too sensibly that her desire will soon be accomplished.'But must I die unblest by you? True, I am watched by the kindest of human beings! but then she is not my mother—that mother, who, with the joys of my childhood and my home, is so continually recurring to my memory. Oh! I forget all your unkindness, my mother, and remember only your affection. How I should like to feel your hand supporting my head, and see you perform the little offices which sickness requires!—And must I never, never see you more? Yes! you will come, I am sure you will: but come, come quickly, or I shall die without your blessing.'I have had a fainting fit—but I am recovered, and can address you again.—Oh! teach my Editha to be humble, teach her to be slow to call the experience of ages contemptible prejudices; teach her no opinions that can destroy her sympathies with general society, and make her an alien to the hearts of those amongst whom she lives.'Be above all things careful that she wanders not in the night of scepticism. But for the support of religion, what, amidst my various sorrows, what would have become ofme?'There is something more that I would say. Should my existence be prolonged even but a few days, I shall have to struggle with poverty as well as sickness; and the anxious friend (I will not call her servant) who is now my all of earthly comfort, will scarcely have money sufficient to pay me the last sad duties; and I owe her, my mother, a world of obligation! She will make my last moments easy, andyoumust reward her. From her you will receive this letter when I am no more, and to your care and protection I bequeath her. She is—my eyes grow dim, and I must leave off for the present.'
'Dearest of Mothers,
'When this letter reaches you, I shall be no more; and however I may hitherto have offended you, I shall then be able to offend you no longer; and that child, whom you bound yourself by oath never to see or forgive but on the most cruel of conditions while living, dead you may perhaps deign to receive to your pardon and your love.—Nay, my heart tells me that you will do more,—that you will transfer the love which you once felt for me, to my poor helpless orphan; and in full confidence that you will be this indulgent, I bequeath her to you with my dying breath.—O! look on her, my mother, nor shrink from her with disgust, although you see in her my features; but rather rejoice in the resemblance, and fancy that I am restored to you pure, happy, and beloved as I once was.—Yes, yes,—it will be so: I have known a great deal of sorrow—let me then indulge the little ray of pleasure that breaks in upon me when I think that you will not resist my dying prayer, but bestow on my child the long arrears of tenderness due to me.
'Yes, yes, you will receive, you will be kind to her; and by so doing you will make me ample amends for all the sorrow which your harshness caused me when we met last.—That was a dreadful day! How you frowned on me! I did not think you could have frowned so dreadfully—but then I was uninjured by affliction, unaltered by illness. Were you to see me now, you would not have the heart to frown on me: and yet my letters being repeatedly returned, and even the last unnoticed and unanswered, though it told you that even on your own conditions I could now claim your pardon, for that I had been "wretched in love," and had experienced "the anguish of being forsaken, despised, and disgraced in the eye of the world," proves but too surely that the bitterness of resentment is not yet passed!—But on mydeath-bedyou promised to see and forgive me—and I am there, my mother!! Yet will I not claim that promise;—I will not weaken, by directing it towards myself, the burst of sorrow, of too late regret, of self-upbraidings, and long-restrained affection, which must be directed towards my child when I am not alive to profit by it. No:—though I would give worlds to embrace you once more, for the sake of my child I resign the gratification.
'Oh, mother! you little think that I saw you, only a few days ago, from the stile by the cottage which overlooks your house: you were walking with a lady, and my child was with me (my Editha, for I have called her after you.) You seemed, methought, even cheerful, and I was so selfish that I felt shocked to think I was so entirely forgotten by you; for I was sure that if you thought of me you could not be cheerful. But your companion left you; and then you looked so very sad, that I was wretched from the idea that you were then thinking too much of me, and I wished you to resume your cheerfulness again.
'Iwas not cheerful, and Editha by her artless prattle wounded me to the very soul.—She wished, she said, to live in that sweet house, and asked why she should not live there?Icouldhave told her why, but dared not do it; but I assured her, and do not for mercy's sake prove that assurance false! that sheshouldlive thereone day.
'"But when—when?" she asked.
'"When I am in my grave,"' replied I: and, poor innocent! throwing herself into my arms with playful fondness, she begged me to go to my grave directly. I feel but too sensibly that her desire will soon be accomplished.
'But must I die unblest by you? True, I am watched by the kindest of human beings! but then she is not my mother—that mother, who, with the joys of my childhood and my home, is so continually recurring to my memory. Oh! I forget all your unkindness, my mother, and remember only your affection. How I should like to feel your hand supporting my head, and see you perform the little offices which sickness requires!—And must I never, never see you more? Yes! you will come, I am sure you will: but come, come quickly, or I shall die without your blessing.
'I have had a fainting fit—but I am recovered, and can address you again.—Oh! teach my Editha to be humble, teach her to be slow to call the experience of ages contemptible prejudices; teach her no opinions that can destroy her sympathies with general society, and make her an alien to the hearts of those amongst whom she lives.
'Be above all things careful that she wanders not in the night of scepticism. But for the support of religion, what, amidst my various sorrows, what would have become ofme?
'There is something more that I would say. Should my existence be prolonged even but a few days, I shall have to struggle with poverty as well as sickness; and the anxious friend (I will not call her servant) who is now my all of earthly comfort, will scarcely have money sufficient to pay me the last sad duties; and I owe her, my mother, a world of obligation! She will make my last moments easy, andyoumust reward her. From her you will receive this letter when I am no more, and to your care and protection I bequeath her. She is—my eyes grow dim, and I must leave off for the present.'
On the very evening in which Adeline had written this address to her mother, Mrs Mowbray had received Mrs Pemberton's letter; and as Miss Woodville had been interred that morning, she felt herself at liberty to join Mrs Pemberton in her search after Adeline. While various plans for this purpose presented themselves to her mind, and each of them was dismissed in its turn as fruitless or impracticable,—full of these thoughts she pensively walked along the lawn before her door, till sad and weary she leaned on a little gate at the bottom of it; which, as she did so, swung slowly backwards and forwards, responsive as it were to her feelings.
But, as she continued to muse, and to recall the varied sorrows of her past life, the gate on which she leaned began to vibrate more quickly; till, unable to bear the recollections which assailed her, she was hastening with almost frantic speed towards the house, when she saw a cottager approaching, to whose sick daughter and helpless family she had long been a bountiful benefactress.
'What is the matter, John?' cried Mrs Mowbray, hastening forward to meet him—'you seem agitated.'
'My poor daughter, madam;' replied the man, bursting into tears.
At the sight of his distress, hisparentaldistress, Mrs Mowbray sighed deeply, and asked if Lucy was worse.
'I doubt she is dying,' said the afflicted father.
'Heaven forbid!' exclaimed Mrs Mowbray, throwing her shawl over her shoulders; 'I will go and see her myself.'
'What, really?—But the way is so long, and the road is so miry?'
'No matter—I must do my duty.'
'God bless you, and reward you!' cried the grateful father—'that is so like you! Lucy said you would come!'
Mrs Mowbray then filled a basket with medicine and refreshments, and set out on her charitable visit.
She found the poor girl in a very weak and alarming state; but the sight of her benefactress, and the tender manner in which she supported her languid head, and administered wine and other cordials to her, insensibly revived her; and while writhing under the feelings of an unhappy parent herself, Mrs Mowbray was soothed by the blessings of the parent whom she comforted.
At this moment they were alarmed by a shriek from a neighbouring cottage, and a woman who was attending on the sick girl ran out to inquire into the cause of it.
She returned, saying that a poor sick young gentlewoman, who lodged at the next house, was fallen back in a fit, and they thought she was dead.
'A young gentlewoman,' exclaimed Mrs Mowbray, 'at the next cottage!' rising up.
'Aye sure,' cried the woman, 'she looks like a lady for certain, and she has the finest child I ever saw.'
'Perhaps she is not dead,' said Mrs Mowbray:—'let us go see.'
Little did Mrs Mowbray think that it was her own child whom she was hastening to relieve; and that, while meditating a kind action, recompense was so near.
Adeline, while trying to finish her letter to her mother, had scarcely traced a few illegible lines, when she fell back insensible on her pillow; and at the moment of Mrs Mowbray's entering the cottage, Savanna, who had uttered the shriek which had excited her curiosity, had convinced herself that she was gone for ever.
The woman who accompanied Mrs Mowbray entered the house first; and opening a back chamber, low-roofed, narrow, and lighted only by one solitary and slender candle, Mrs Mowbray, beheld through the door the lifeless form of the object of her solicitude, which Savanna was contemplating with loud and frantic sorrow.
'Here is a lady come to see what she can do for your mistress,' cried the woman, while Savanna turned hastily round:—'Here she is—here is good Madam Mowbray.'
'Madam Mowbray!' shrieked Savanna, fixing her dark eyes on Mrs Mowbray, and raising her arm in a threatening manner as she approached her: then snatching up the letter which lay on the bed,—'Woman!' she exclaimed, grasping Mrs Mowbray's arm with frightful earnestness, 'read that—'tis for you!'
Mrs Mowbray, speechless with alarm and awe, involuntarily seized the letter—but scarcely had she read the first words, when uttering a deep groan she sprung forward, to clasp the unconscious form before her, and fell beside it equally insensible.
But she recovered almost immediately to a sense of her misery; and while, in speechless agony, she knelt by the bed-side, Savanna, beholding her distress, with a sort of dreadful pleasure exclaimed, 'Ah! have you at last learn to feel?'
'But is she, is sheindeedgone?' cried Mrs Mowbray, 'is therenohope?' and instantly seizing the cordial which she had brought with her, assisted by the woman, she endeavoured to force it down the throat of Adeline.
Their endeavours were for some time vain: at length however, she exhibited signs of life, and in a few minutes more she opened her sunk eye, and gazed unconsciously around her.
'My God! I thank you!' exclaimed Mrs Mowbray, falling on her knees; while Savanna, laying her mistress's head on her bosom, sobbed with fearful joy.
'Adeline! my child, my dear, dear child!' cried Mrs Mowbray, seizing her clammy hand.
That voice, those words which she had so long wished to hear, though hopeless of ever hearing them again, seemed to recall the fast fading recollection of Adeline: she raised her head from Savanna's bosom, and, looking earnestly at Mrs Mowbray, faintly smiled, and endeavoured to throw herself into her arms,—but fell back again exhausted on the pillow.
But in a few minutes she recovered so far as to be able to speak; and while she hung round her mother's neck, and gazed upon her with eager and delighted earnestness, she desired Savanna to bring Editha to her immediately.
'Will you, will you—,' said Adeline, vainly trying to speak her wishes, as Savanna put the sleeping girl in Mrs Mowbray's arms: but she easily divined them; and, clasping her to her heart, wept over her convulsively—'She shall be dear to me as my own soul!' said Mrs Mowbray.
'Then I die contented,' replied Adeline.
'Die!' exclaimed Mrs Mowbray hastily: 'no, you must not, shall not die; you must live to see me atone for—'
'It is in vain,' said Adeline faintly. 'I bless God that he allows me to enjoy this consolation—say that you forgive me.'
'Forgive you! Oh, Adeline! for years have I forgiven and pined after you; but a wicked woman intercepted all your letters; and I thought you were dead, or had renounced me for ever.'
'Indeed!' cried Adeline. 'Oh! had I suspected that!'
'Nay more, Mrs Pemberton is now in London, in search of you, in order to bring you back to happiness!' As Mrs Mowbray said this, Savanna, drawing near, took her hand and gently pressed it.
Adeline observed the action, and seeing by it that Savanna's heart relented towards her mother, said, 'I owe that faithful creature more than I can express; but to your care I bequeath her.'
'I will love her as my child,' said Mrs Mowbray, 'and behave to her better than I did to—'
'Hush!' cried Adeline, putting her hand to Mrs Mowbray's lips.
'But youshalllive! I will send for Dr Norberry; you shall be moved to my house, and all will be well—all our past grief be forgotten,' returned Mrs Mowbray with almost convulsive eagerness.
Adeline faintly smiled, but repeated that every hope of that kind was over, but that her utmost wish has gratified in seeing her mother, and receiving her full forgiveness.
'But you must live for my sake!' cried Mrs Mowbray: 'and for mine,' sobbed out Savanna.
'Could you not be moved to my house?' said Mrs Mowbray. 'There every indulgence and attention that money can procure shall be yours. Is this a place,—is this poverty—this—' Here her voice failed her, and she burst into tears.
'Mother, dearest mother,' replied Adeline, 'I see you, I am assured of your love again, and I have not a want beside. Still, I could like, I could wish, to be once more under aparent's roof.'
In a moment, the cottager who was present, and returning with usury to Mrs Mowbray's daughter the anxious interest which she had taken in his, proposed various means of transporting Adeline to the Lawn; a difficult and a hazardous undertaking: but the poor invalid was willing to risk the danger and the fatigue; and her mother could not but indulge her. At length the cottager, as it was for thegeneral benefactress, having with care procured even more assistance than was necessary, Adeline was conveyed on a sort of a litter, along the valley, and found herself once more in the house of her mother; while Savanna, sharing in the joy which Adeline's countenance expressed, threw herself on Mrs Mowbray's neck, and exclaimed, 'Now I forgive you!'
'Mother, dear mother,' cried Adeline, after having for some minutes vainly endeavoured to speak—'I am so happy! no more an outcast, but under my mother's roof!—Nay, I even think Icanlive now,' added she with a faint smile.
Had Adeline risen from her bed in complete health and vigour, she would scarcely have excited more joy in her mother, and in Savanna, than she did by this expression.
'Can live!' cried Mrs Mowbray, 'O! you shall, you must live.' And an express was sent off immediately to Dr Norberry too, who was removed to Kendal, to be near his elder daughter, lately married in the neighbourhood.
Dr Norberry arrived in a few hours. Mrs Mowbray ran out to meet him; but a welcome died on her tongue, and she could only speak by her tears.
'There, there, my good woman, don't be foolish,' replied he: 'it is very silly to blubber, you know: besides, it can do no good,' giving her a kiss, while the tears trickled down his rough cheek. 'So, the lost sheep is found?'
'But, O! she will be lost again,' faltered Mrs Mowbray; 'I doubt nothing can save her!'
'No!' cried the old man, with a gulp, 'no! not my coming so many miles on purpose?—Well, but where is she?'
'She will see you presently, but begged to be excused for a few minutes.' 'You see,' said he, 'by my dress, what has happened,' gulping as he spoke. 'I have lost the companion of thirty years!—and—and—' here he paused, and after an effort went on to say, that his wife in her last illness had owned that she had suppressed Adeline's letters, and had declared the reason of it—'But, poor soul!' continued the doctor, 'it was the only sin against me, I believe, or any one else, that she ever committed—so I forgave her: and I trust that God will.'
Soon after they were summoned to the sick room, and Dr Norberry beheld with a degree of fearful emotion, which he vainly endeavoured to hide under a cloak of pleasantry, the dreadful ravages which sorrow and sickness had made in the face and form of Adeline.
'So, here you are at last!' cried he, trying to smile while he sobbed audibly, 'and a pretty figure you make, don't you?—But we have you again, and we will not part with you so soon, I can tell you (almost starting as the faint but rapid pulse met his fingers)—that is, I mean,' added he, 'unless it please God.' Mrs Mowbray and Savanna, during this speech, gazed on his countenance in breathless anxiety, and read in it a confirmation of their fears. 'But who's afraid?' cried the doctor, forcing a laugh, while his tone and his looks expressed the extreme of apprehension, and his laugh ended in a sob.
Mrs Mowbray turned away in a sort of desperate silence; but the mulatto still kept her penetrating eye fixed upon him, and with a look so full of woe!
'I'll trouble you, mistress, to take those formidable eyes of yours off my face,' cried the doctor pettishly; 'for I can't stand their inquiry!—But who the devil are you?'
'She is my nurse, my consoler, and my friend,' said Adeline.
'Then she is mine of course,' cried the doctor, 'though she has a terrible stare with her eyes:—but give me your hand, mistress. What is your name?'
'Me be name Savanna,' replied the mulatto; 'and me die and live wid my dear mistress,' she added, bursting into tears.
'Pshaw!' cried the doctor, 'I can't bear this—here I came as a physician, and these blubberers melt me down into an old woman. Adeline, I must order all these people out of the room, and have you to myself, or I can do nothing.'
He was obeyed; and on inquiring into all Adeline's symptoms, he found little to hope and every thing to fear—'But your mind is relieved, and you have youth on your side; and who knows what good air, good food, and good nurses may do for you!'
'Not to mention a good physician,' added Adeline, smiling, 'and a good friend in that physician.'
'This it be to have money,' said Savanna, as she saw the various things prepared and made to tempt Adeline's weak appetite:—'poor Savanna mean as well—her heart make all these, but her hand want power.'
During this state of alarming suspense Mrs Pemberton was hourly expected, as she had written word that she had traced Adeline into Lancashire, and suspected that she was in her mother's neighbourhood.—It may be supposed that Mrs Mowbray, Adeline, and Savanna, looked forward to her arrival with eager impatience; but not so Dr Norberry—he said that no doubt she was a very good sort of woman, but that he did not like pretensions to righteousness over much, and had a particular aversion to a piece of formal drab-coloured morality.