Adeline Mowbray Part 40

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 advertis.e.m.e.nt 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 a.s.sent; 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 grat.i.tude:--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 Gloucesters.h.i.+re; 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 pa.s.sed 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, G.o.d!' 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 a.s.sistance.

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 G.o.d 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.