The Father and Daughter 17

The Father and Daughter 17

While he was gone into the stable, for the third time, to see whether

the horses were not sufficiently refreshed to go on, a waiter came in to

ask Lady Mountcarrol's commands, and at that moment the funeral passed

the window. The waiter (who was the very servant that at Mr. Seymour's

had refused to shut the door against Agnes) instantly turned away his

head, and burst into tears. This excited her ladyship's curiosity; and

she drew from him a short but full account of Agnes and her father.

 

He had scarcely finished his story when Lord Mountcarrol came in, saying

that the carriage was ready; and no sooner had his bride begun to relate

to him the story which she had just heard, than he exclaimed in a voice

of thunder, "It is as false as hell, madam! Miss Fitzhenry and her child

both died years ago." Then rushing into the carriage, he left Lady

Mountcarrol terrified and amazed at his manner. But when she was seating

herself by his side, she could not help saying that it was impossible

for a story to be false, which all the people in the inn averred to be

true; and, as he did not offer to interrupt her, she went through the

whole story of Agnes and her sufferings; but before she could proceed to

comment on them, the procession, returning from church, crossed the road

in which they were going, and obliged the postillions to stop.

 

Foremost came the little Edward, with all his mother's beauty in his

face. "Poor little orphan!" said Lady Mountcarrol, giving a tear to the

memory of Agnes: "See, my lord, what a lovely boy!" As she spoke, the

extreme elegance of the carriage attracted Edward's attention: and

springing from Fanny's hand, who in vain endeavoured to hold him back,

he ran up to the door to examine the figures on the pannel. At that

instant Lord Mountcarrol opened the door, lifted the child into the

chaise, and, throwing his card of address to the astonished mourners,

ordered the servants to drive on as fast as possible.

 

They did so in despite of Mr. Seymour and others, for astonishment had

at first deprived them of the power of moving; and the horses, before

the witnesses of this sudden and strange event had recovered their

recollection, had gone too far to allow themselves to be stopped.

 

The card with Lord Mountcarrol's name explained what at first had

puzzled and confounded as well as alarmed them; and Fanny, who had

fainted at sight of his lordship, because she knew him, altered as he

was, to be Edward's father, and the bane of Agnes, now recovering

herself, conjured Mr. Seymour to follow him immediately, and tell him

that Edward was bequeathed to her care.

 

Mr. Seymour instantly ordered post horses, and in about an hour after

set off in pursuit of the ravisher.

 

But the surprise and consternation of Fanny and the rest of the

mourners, was not greater than that of Lady Mountcarrol at sight of her

lord's strange conduct. "What does this outrage mean, my lord?" she

exclaimed in a faltering voice; "and whose child is that?"--"It is _my

child_, madam," replied he; "and I will never resign him but with life."

Then pressing the astonished boy to his bosom, he for some minutes

sobbed aloud,--while Lady Mountcarrol, though she could not help feeling

compassion for the agony which the seducer of Agnes must experience at

such a moment, was not a little displeased and shocked at finding

herself the wife of that Clifford, whose name she had so lately heard

coupled with that of villain.

 

But her attention was soon called from reflections so unpleasant by the

cries of Edward, whose surprise at being seized and carried away by a

stranger now yielded to terror, and who, bursting from Lord Mountcarrol,

desired to go back to his mamma, Fanny, and Mr. Seymour.

 

"What! and leave your own father, Edward?" asked his agitated

parent.--"Look at me,--I am your father;--but I suppose, your mother, as

well she might, taught you to hate me?"--"My mamma told me it was wicked

to hate any body: and I am sure I have no papa: I had a grandpapa, but

he is gone to heaven along with my mamma, Fanny says, and she is my

mamma now." And again screaming and stamping with impatience, he

insisted on going back to her.

 

But at length, by promises of riding on a fine horse, and of sending for

Fanny to ride with him, he was pacified. Then with artless readiness he

related his mother's way of life, and the odd ways of his grandpapa: and

thus, by acquainting Lord Mountcarrol with the sufferings and the

virtuous exertions of Agnes, he increased his horror of his own conduct,

and his regret at not having placed so noble-minded a woman at the head

of his family. But whence arose the story of her death he had yet to

learn.

 

In a few hours they reached the seat which he had acquired by his second

marriage; and there too, in an hour after, arrived Mr. Seymour and the

husband of Fanny.

 

Lord Mountcarrol expected this visit, and received them courteously;

while Mr. Seymour was so surprised at seeing the once healthy and

handsome Clifford changed to an emaciated valetudinarian, and carrying

in his face the marks of habitual intemperance, that his indignation was

for a moment lost in pity. But recovering himself, he told his lordship

that he came to demand justice for the outrage which he had committed,

and in the name of the friend to whom Miss Fitzhenry had, in case of her

sudden death, bequeathed her child, to insist on his being restored to

her.

 

"We will settle that point presently," replied Lord Mountcarrol; "but

first I conjure you to tell me all that has happened since we parted, to

her whose name I have not for years been able to repeat, and whom, as

well as this child, I have also for years believed dead."

 

"I will, my lord," answered Mr. Seymour; "but I warn you, that if you

have any feeling it will be tortured by the narration."

 

"If I have any feeling!" cried his lordship: "but go on, sir; from you,

sir--from you, as--as _her friend_, I can bear any thing."

 

Words could not do justice to the agonies of Lord Mountcarrol, while Mr.

Seymour, beginning with Agnes's midnight walk to ----, went through a

recital of her conduct and sufferings, and hopes and anxieties, and

ended with the momentary recovery and death-scene of her father.

 

But when Lord Mountcarrol discovered that Agnes supposed his not

making any inquiries concerning her or the child proceeded from brutal

indifference concerning their fate, and that, considering him as a

monster of inhumanity, she had regarded him not only with contempt,

but abhorrence, and seemed to have dismissed him entirely from her

remembrance, he beat his breast, he cast himself on the floor in frantic

anguish, lamenting, in all the bitterness of fruitless regret, that

Agnes died without knowing how much he loved her, and without suspecting

that, while she was supposing him unnaturally forgetful of her and her

child, he was struggling with illness, caused by her desertion, and

with a dejection of spirits which he had never, at times, been able to

overcome; execrating at the same time the memory of his father, and

Wilson, whom he suspected of having intentionally deceived him.

 

To conclude--Pity for the misery and compunction of Lord Mountcarrol,

and a sense of the advantages both in education and fortune that would

accrue to little Edward from living with his father, prevailed on Mr.

Seymour and the husband of Fanny to consent to his remaining where he

was;--and from that day Edward was universally known as his lordship's

son,--who immediately made a will bequeathing him a considerable

fortune.

 

Lord Mountcarrol was then sinking fast into his grave, the victim of his

vices, and worn to the bone by the corroding consciousness that Agnes

had died in the persuasion of his having brutally neglected her.--That

was the bitterest pang of all! She had thought him so vile, that she

could not for a moment regret him!

 

His first wife he had despised because she was weak and illiterate, and

hated because she had brought him no children. His second wife was too

amiable to be disliked; but, though he survived his marriage with her

two years, she also failed to produce an heir to the title. And while he

contemplated in Edward the mind and person of his mother, he was almost

frantic with regret that he was not legally his son; and he cursed the

hour when with short-sighted cunning he sacrificed the honour of Agnes

to his views of family aggrandizement.

 

But, selfish to the last moment of his existence, it was a consciousness

of his own misery, not of that which he had inflicted, which prompted

his __EXPRESSION__s of misery and regret; and he grudged and envied Agnes

the comfort of having been able to despise and forget him.

 

* * * * *

 

Peace to the memory of Agnes Fitzhenry!--and may the woman who, like

her, has been the victim of artifice, self-confidence, and temptation,

like her endeavour to regain the esteem of the world by patient

suffering, and virtuous exertion; and look forward to the attainment of

it with confidence!--But may she whose innocence is yet secure, and

whose virtues still boast the stamp of chastity, which can alone make

them current in the world, tremble with horror at the idea of listening

to the voice of the seducer, lest the image of a father, a mother, a

brother, a sister, or some other fellow-being, whose peace of mind has

been injured by her deviation from virtue, should haunt her path through

life; and she who might, perhaps, have contemplated with fortitude the

wreck of her own happiness, be doomed to pine with fruitless remorse at

the consciousness of having destroyed that of another.--For where is

the mortal who can venture to pronounce that his actions are of

importance to no one, and that the consequences of his virtues or his

vices will be confined to himself alone