The Father and Daughter 11

The Father and Daughter 11

"No," replied Fanny, "I only repine at your misery. Dear me! she

is a sweet young lady, to be sure, but no more to be compared to

you----"--"Hush! Fanny: 'tis I who am now not to be compared to

her:--remember, my misery is owing to my guilt."--"It is not the less

to be repined at on that account," replied Fanny.

 

To this remark, unconsciously severe, Agnes with a sigh assented; and,

unable to continue the conversation in this strain, she again asked

whether Fanny did not think she ought to congratulate the generous

Caroline. "By all means," replied Fanny: but before she answered, Agnes

had determined that it would be kinder in her not to damp the joy of

Caroline by calling to her mind the image of a wretched friend. "True,"

she observed, "it would gratify my feelings to express the love and

gratitude I bear her, and my self-love would exult in being recollected

by her with tenderness and regret, even in the hour of her bridal

splendour; but the gratification would only be a selfish one, and

therefore I will reject it."

 

Having formed this laudable resolution, Agnes, after trying to compose

her agitated spirits by playing with her child, who was already idolized

by the faithful Fanny, bent her steps as usual to the cell of her

father. Unfortunately for Agnes, she was obliged to pass the house of

Mr. Seymour, and at the door she saw the carriages waiting to convey the

bride and her train to the country seat of her mother-in-law. Agnes

hurried on as fast as her trembling limbs could carry her; but, as she

cast a hasty glance on the splendid liveries, and the crowd gazing on

them, she saw Mr. Seymour bustling at the door, with all the pleased

consequence of a happy parent in his countenance; and not daring to

analyse her feelings, she rushed forward from the mirthful scene, and

did not stop again till she found herself at the door of the bedlam.

 

But when there, and when, looking up at its grated windows, she

contemplated it as the habitation of her father--so different to that of

the father of Caroline--and beheld in fancy the woe-worn, sallow face of

Fitzhenry, so unlike the healthy, satisfied look of Mr. Seymour--"I

can't go in, I can't see him to-day," she faintly articulated, overcome

with a sudden faintness--and, as soon as she could recover her strength,

she returned home; and, shutting herself up in her own apartment, spent

the rest of the day in that mournful and solitary meditation that

"maketh the heart better."

 

It would no doubt have gratified the poor mourner to have known, that,

surrounded by joyous and congratulating friends, Caroline sighed for the

absent Agnes, and felt the want of her congratulations--"Surely she will

write to me!" said she mentally, "I am sure she wishes me happy; and one

of my greatest pangs at leaving my native place is, the consciousness

that I leave her miserable."

 

The last words that Caroline uttered, as she bade adieu to the

domestics, were, "Be sure to send after me any note or letter that may

come." But no note or letter from Agnes arrived; and had Caroline known

the reason, she would have loved her once happy friend the more.

 

The next day, earlier than usual, Agnes went in quest of her father. She

did not absolutely flatter herself that he had missed her the day

before, still she did not think it _impossible_ that he _might_. She

dared not, however, ask the question; but, luckily for her, the keeper

told her, unasked, that Fitzhenry was observed to be restless, and

looking out of the door of his cell frequently, both morning and

evening, as if expecting somebody; and that at night, as he was going to

bed, he asked whether the lady had not been there.

 

"Indeed!" cried Agnes, her eyes sparkling with pleasure--"Where is

he?--Let me see him directly." But, after the first joyful emotion which

he always showed at seeing her had subsided, she could not flatter

herself that his symptoms were more favourable than before.

 

The keeper also informed her that he had been thrown into so violent a

raving fit, by the agitation he felt at parting with her the last time

she was there, that she must contrive to slip away unperceived whenever

she came: and this visit having passed away without any thing material

occurring, Agnes contrived to make her escape unseen.

 

On her return she repeated to Fanny several times, with a sort of

pathetic pleasure, the question her father had asked--"He inquired

whether the lady had not been there;--think of that, Fanny:" while so

incoherent was her language and so absent were her looks, that Fanny

again began to fear her afflictions had impaired her reason.

 

After staying a few days with the new-married couple, Mr. Seymour

returned home, Caroline having, before he left her, again desired him to

be the friend of the penitent Agnes whenever he heard her unpityingly

attacked; and an opportunity soon offered of gratifying his daughter's

benevolence, and his own.

 

Mr. Seymour was drinking tea in a large party, when a lady, to whose

plain, awkward, uninteresting daughters the once beautiful, graceful and

engaging Agnes had formerly been a powerful rival, said, with no small

share of malignity, "So!--fine impudence indeed!--I hear that good for

nothing minx, Fitzhenry's daughter, is come to town: I wonder for my

part she dares show her face here----But the assurance of these

creatures is amazing."

 

"Aye, so it is," echoed from one lady to another. "But this girl must be

a hardened wretch indeed," resumed Mrs. Macfiendy, the first speaker: "I

suppose her fellow is tired of her, and she will be on the town

soon----"

 

"In the church-yard rather," replied Mr. Seymour, whom a feeling of

resentment at these vulgar __EXPRESSION__s of female spite had hitherto

kept silent:--"Miss Fitzhenry has lost all power of charming the eye

of the libertine, and even the wish;--but she is an object whom the

compassionate and humane cannot behold, or listen to, without the

strongest emotion."

 

"No, to be sure," replied Mrs. Macfiendy bridling--"the girl had always

a plausible tongue of her own--and as to her beauty, I never thought

that was made for lasting.--What then you have seen her, Mr. Seymour? I

wonder that you could condescend to _look_ at such trash."

 

"Yes, madam, I have seen, and heard her too;--and if heart-felt misery,

contrition, and true penitence, may hope to win favour in the sight of

God, and expiate past offences, 'a ministering angel might this frail

one be, though we lay howling.'"

 

"I lie howling, indeed!" screamed out Mrs. Macfiendy: "Speak for

yourself, if you please, Mr. Seymour! for my part, I do not expect,

when I go to another world, to keep such company as Miss Fitzhenry."

 

"If with the same measure you mete, it should be meted to you again,

madam," replied Mr. Seymour, "I believe there is little chance

in another world that you and Miss Fitzhenry will be visiting

acquaintance." Then, bespeaking the attention of the company, he gave

that account of Agnes, her present situation, and her intentions for the

future, which she gave the governors; and all the company, save the

outrageously virtuous mother and her daughters, heard it with as much

emotion as he felt in relating it.--Exclamations of "Poor unfortunate

girl! what a pity she should have been guilty!--But, fallen as she is,

she is still Agnes Fitzhenry," resounded through the room.

 

Mrs. Macfiendy could not bear this in silence; but with a cheek pale,

nay livid with malignity, and in a voice sharpened by passion, which at

all times resembled the scream of a pea-hen, she exclaimed, "Well, for

my part, some people may do any thing, yet be praised up to the skies;

other people's daughters would not find such mercy. Before she went off,

it was Miss Fitzhenry this, and Miss Fitzhenry that,--though other

people's children could perhaps do as much, though they were not so fond

of showing what they could do."

 

"No," cried one of the Miss Macfiendys, "Miss Fitzhenry had courage

enough for any thing."

 

"True, child," resumed the mother; "and what did it end in? Why, in

becoming a--what I do not choose to name."

 

"Fie, madam, fie!" cried Mr. Seymour: "Why thus exult over the fallen?"

 

"Oh! then you do allow her to be fallen?"

 

"She is fallen indeed, madam," said Mr. Seymour; "but, even in her

proudest hour, Miss Fitzhenry never expressed herself towards her erring

neighbours with unchristian severity;--but set you an example of

forbearance, which you would do well to follow."

 

"She set _me_ an example!" vociferated Mrs. Macfiendy--"she indeed! a

creature!--I will not stay, nor shall my daughters, to hear such immoral

talk. But 'tis as I said--some people may do any thing--for, wicked as

she is, Miss Fitzhenry is still cried up as something extraordinary, and

is even held up as an example to modest women."

 

So saying, she arose; but Mr. Seymour rose also, and said, "There is no

necessity for _your_ leaving the company, madam, as I will leave it: for

I am tired of hearing myself so grossly misrepresented. No one abhors

more than I do the crime of Miss Fitzhenry; and no one would more

strongly object, for the sake of other young women, to her being again

received into general company: but, at the same time, I will always be

ready to encourage the penitent by the voice of just praise; and I feel

delight in reflecting that, however the judges of this world may be fond

of condemning her, she will one day appeal from them to a merciful and

long-suffering judge."

 

Then, bowing respectfully to all but Mrs. Macfiendy, he withdrew, and

gave her an opportunity of remarking that Mr. Seymour was mighty warm in

the creature's defence. She did not know he was so interested about

her; but she always thought him a _gay man_, and she supposed _Miss

Fitzhenry_, as he called her, would be glad to take up with any thing

_now_.

 

This speech, sorry am I to say, was received with a general and

complaisant smile, though it was reckoned unjust; for there are few who

have virtue and resolution enough to stand forward as champions for an

absent and calumniated individual, if there be any thing ludicrous in

the tale against him;--and the precise, careful, elderly Mr. Seymour,

who was always shrinking from censure like a sensitive plant from the

touch, accused by implication of being the private friend of the

youthful Agnes, excited a degree of merry malice in the company not

unpleasant to their feelings.

 

But, in spite of the efforts of calumny, the account Mr. Seymour had

given of Agnes and her penitence became town talk; and, as it was

confirmed by the other governors, every one, except the ferociously

chaste, was eager to prevent Agnes from feeling pecuniary distress, by

procuring her employment.

 

Still she was not supplied with work as fast as she executed it; for,

except during the hours which she was allowed to spend with her father,

she was constantly employed; and she even deprived herself of her

accustomed portion of rest, and was never in bed before one, or after

four.

 

In proportion as her business and profits increased, were her spirits

elevated; but the more she gained, the more saving she became: she

would scarcely allow herself sufficient food or clothing; and, to the

astonishment of Fanny, the once generous Agnes appeared penurious, and a

lover of money. "What does this change mean, my dear lady?" said Fanny

to her one day.--"I have my reasons for it," replied Agnes coldly; then

changed the subject: and Fanny respected her too much to urge an explanation.