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 my
_death-bed_ you 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.
'_I_ was 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? _I
could_ have told her why, but dared not do it; but I assured
her, and do not for mercy's sake prove that assurance false!
that she _should_ live there _one 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 of _me_?
'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, and _you_ must 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, his _parental_ distress, 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.'