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.
CHAPTER XXVIII
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.