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.'

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.