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 nearly _insensible_ in 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 of _me_?' exclaimed Miss Woodville, detaining
her--'_I_ am ruined--ruined for ever!'
'Not so,' replied Mrs Pemberton, 'thou art _saved_,--saved, I trust, for
_ever_--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, saying
she 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
her _death-bed_.--You, you must go _without_ me.'
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.