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.'
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
her _fears_, 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's _faults_ originated 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?'