Adeline Mowbray Part 41

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 a.s.surances 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 fas.h.i.+onable 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 pa.s.sion, 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 amus.e.m.e.nts 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 fort.i.tude 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 pa.s.s her days, except when engaged in active duties, on a little estate in c.u.mberland, 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 p.r.o.nounced 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 a.s.serted her hopes when Miss Woodville provokingly a.s.serted 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 ma.n.u.script 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 pa.s.sing 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 circ.u.mstances which every moment calls forth, are the tools with which she is to work in order to fas.h.i.+on 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?'

CHAPTER XXVII

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.'