The Father and Daughter 16

The Father and Daughter 16

"It is time to go home," said Agnes to him just as the day began to

close in; and Fitzhenry immediately walked to the door which led into

the house, and, finding it locked, looked surprised: then, turning to

Agnes, he asked her if she had not the key in her pocket; and on her

telling him that that was not his home, he quitted the house evidently

with great distress and reluctance, and was continually looking back at

it, as if he did not know how to believe her.

 

On this little circumstance poor Agnes lay ruminating the whole night

after, with joyful expectation; and she repaired to the garden at

day-break, with a gardener whom she hired, to make the walks look as

much as possible as they formerly did. But they had omitted to tie up

some straggling flowers;--and when Agnes, Fanny and the cottager,

accompanied Fitzhenry thither the next evening, though he seemed

conscious of the improvement that had taken place, he was disturbed at

seeing some gilliflowers trailing along the ground; and suddenly turning

to Agnes he said, "Why do you not bind up these?"

 

To do these little offices in the garden, and keep the parterre in

order, was formerly Agnes's employment. What delight, then, must these

words of Fitzhenry, so evidently the result of an association in his

mind between her and his daughter, have excited in Agnes! With a

trembling hand and a glowing cheek she obeyed; and Fitzhenry, with

manifest satisfaction, saw her tie up every straggling flower in the

garden, while he eagerly followed her and bent attentively over her.

 

At last, when she had gone the whole round of the flower-beds, he

exclaimed, "Good girl! good girl!" and putting his arms round her waist,

suddenly kissed her cheek.

 

Surprise, joy, and emotion difficult to be defined, overcame the

irritable frame of Agnes, and she fell senseless to the ground. But the

care of Fanny soon recovered her again;--and the first question that she

asked was, how her father (whom she saw in great agitation running round

the garden) behaved when he saw her fall.

 

"He raised you up," replied Fanny, "and seemed so distressed! he would

hold the salts to your nose himself, and would scarcely suffer me to do

anything for you: but, hearing you mutter 'Father! dear father!' as you

began to come to yourself, he changed colour, and immediately began to

run round the garden, as you now see him."

 

"Say no more, say no more, my dear friend," cried Agnes; "it is enough.

I am happy, quite happy;--it is clear that he knew me;--and I have again

received a father's embrace!--Then his anxiety too while I was ill!--Oh!

there is no doubt now that he will be quite himself in time."

 

"Perhaps he may," replied Fanny;--"but----"

 

"But! and perhaps!" cried Agnes pettishly;--"I tell you he will, he

certainly will recover; and those are not my friends who doubt it." So

saying, she ran hastily forward to meet Fitzhenry, who was joyfully

hastening towards her, leaving Fanny grieved and astonished at her

petulance. But few are the tempers proof against continual anxiety and

the souring influence of still renewed and still disappointed hope; and

even Agnes, the once gentle Agnes, if contradicted on this one subject,

became angry and unjust.

 

But she was never conscious of having given pain to the feelings of

another, without bitter regret and an earnest desire of healing the

wound which she had made; and when, leaning on Fitzhenry's arm, she

returned towards Fanny, and saw her in tears, she felt a pang severer

than that which she had inflicted, and said every thing that affection

and gratitude could dictate, to restore her to tranquillity again. Her

agitation alarmed Fitzhenry; and, exclaiming "Poor thing!" he held the

smelling-bottle, almost by force, to her nose, and seemed terrified lest

she was going to faint again.

 

"You see, you see!" said Agnes triumphantly to Fanny; and Fanny, made

cautious by experience, declared the conviction that her young lady must

know more of all matters than she did.

 

But month after month elapsed, and no circumstances of a similar nature

occurred to give new strength to the hopes of Agnes; however, she had

the pleasure to see that Fitzhenry not only seemed to be attached to

her, but pleased with little Edward.

 

She had indeed taken pains to teach him to endeavour to amuse her

father,--but sometimes she had the mortification of hearing, when fits

of loud laughter from the child reached her ear, "Edward was only

laughing at grandpapa's odd faces and actions, mamma:" and having at

last taught him that it was wicked to laugh at such things, because his

grandfather was not well when he distorted his face, her heart was

nearly as much wrung by the pity which he expressed; for, whenever these

occasional slight fits of phrensy attacked Fitzhenry, little Edward

would exclaim, "Poor grandpapa! he is not well now;--I wish we could

make him well, mamma!" But, on the whole, she had reason to be tolerably

cheerful.

 

Every evening, when the weather was fine, Agnes, holding her father's

arm, was seen taking her usual walk, her little boy gamboling before

them; and never, in their most prosperous hours, were they met with

curtsies more low, or bows more respectful, than on these occasions; and

many a one grasped with affectionate eagerness the meagre hand of

Fitzhenry, and the feverish hand of Agnes; for even the most rigid

hearts were softened in favour of Agnes, when they beheld the ravages

which grief had made in her form, and gazed on her countenance, which

spoke in forcible language the sadness yet resignation of her mind. She

might, if she had chosen it, have been received at many houses where she

had formerly been intimate; but she declined it, as visiting would have

interfered with the necessary labours of the day, with her constant

attention to her father, and with the education of her child. "But when

my father recovers," said she to Fanny, "as he will be pleased to find

that I am not deemed wholly unworthy of notice, I shall have great

satisfaction in visiting with him."

 

To be brief:--Another year elapsed, and Agnes still hoped; and Fitzhenry

continued the same to every eye but hers:--she every day fancied that

his symptoms of returning reason increased, and no one of her friends

dared to contradict her. But in order, if possible, to accelerate his

recovery, she had resolved to carry him to London, to receive the best

advice that the metropolis afforded, when Fitzhenry was attacked by an

acute complaint which confined him to his bed. This event, instead of

alarming Agnes, redoubled her hopes. She insisted that it was the crisis

of his disorder, and expected that health and reason would return

together. Not for one moment therefore would she leave his bedside; and

she would allow herself neither food nor rest, while with earnest

attention she gazed on the fast sinking eyes of Fitzhenry, eager to

catch in them an __EXPRESSION__ of returning recognition.

 

One day, after he had been sleeping some time, and she, as usual, was

attentively watching by him, Fitzhenry slowly and gradually awoke; and,

at last, raising himself on his elbow, looked round him with an

__EXPRESSION__ of surprise, and, seeing Agnes, exclaimed, "My child! are

you there? Gracious God! is this possible?"

 

Let those who have for years been pining away life in fruitless

expectation, and who see themselves at last possessed of the

long-desired blessing, figure to themselves the rapture of Agnes--"He

knows me! He is himself again!" burst from her quivering lips,

unconscious that it was too probable that restored reason was here the

forerunner of dissolution.

 

"O my father!" she cried, falling on her knees, but not daring to look

up at him--"O my father, forgive me, if possible!--I have been guilty,

but I am penitent."

 

Fitzhenry, as much affected as Agnes, faltered out, "Thou art restored

to me,--and God knows how heartily I forgive thee!" Then raising her to

his arms, Agnes, happy in the fullfilment of her utmost wishes, felt

herself once more pressed to the bosom of the most affectionate of

fathers.

 

"But surely you are not now come back?" asked Fitzhenry. "I have seen

you before, and very lately?"--"Seen me! O yes!" replied Agnes with

passionate rapidity;--"for these last five years I have seen you daily;

and for the last two years you have lived with me, and I have worked to

maintain you!"--"Indeed!" answered Fitzhenry:--"but how pale and thin

you are! you have worked too much:--Had you no _friends_, my child?"

 

"O yes! and, guilty as I have been, they pity, nay, they respect me, and

we may yet be happy! as Heaven restores you to my prayers!--True, I have

suffered much; but this blessed moment repays me;--this is the only

moment of true enjoyment which I have known since I left my home and

you!"

 

Agnes was thus pouring out the hasty effusions of her joy, unconscious

that Fitzhenry, overcome with affection, emotion, and, perhaps,

sorrowful recollections, was struggling in vain for utterance;--at

last,--"For so many years--and I knew you not!--worked for me;--attended

me!----Bless, bless her, Heaven!" he faintly articulated; and worn out

with illness, and choaked with contending emotions, he fell back on his

pillow, and expired!

 

That blessing, the hope of obtaining which alone gave Agnes courage to

endure contumely, poverty, fatigue, and sorrow, was for one moment her

own, and then snatched from her for ever!--No wonder, then, that, when

convinced her father was really dead, she fell into a state of

stupefaction, from which she never recovered;--and, at the same time,

were borne to the same grave, the Father and Daughter.

 

* * * * *

 

The day of their funeral was indeed a melancholy one:--They were

attended to the grave by a numerous procession of respectable

inhabitants of both sexes,--while the afflicted and lamenting poor

followed mournfully at a distance. Even those who had distinguished

themselves by their violence against Agnes at her return, dropped a tear

as they saw her borne to her long home. Mrs. Macfiendy forgot her beauty

and accomplishments in her misfortunes and early death; and the mother

of the child who had fled from the touch of Agnes, felt sorry that she

had ever called her the wickedest woman in the world.

 

But the most affecting part of the procession was little Edward

as chief mourner, led by Fanny and her husband, in all the happy

insensibility of childhood, unconscious that he was the pitiable hero

of that show, which, by its novelty and parade, so much delighted

him,--while his smiles, poor orphan! excited the tears of those around

him.

 

Just before the procession began to move, a post-chariot and four, with

white favours, drove into the yard of the largest inn in the town. It

contained Lord and Lady Mountcarrol, who were married only the day

before, and were then on their way to her ladyship's country seat.

 

His lordship, who seemed incapable of resting in one place for a minute

together, did nothing but swear at the postillions for bringing them

that road, and express an earnest desire to leave the town again as fast as possible.