The Father and Daughter 5

The Father and Daughter 5

So saying he departed, secure, from the inclemency of the weather and

darkness of the night, that Agnes would not venture to go away before

the morning, and resolved to return very early in order to prevent her

departure, if her threatened resolution were any thing more than the

frantic __EXPRESSION__s of a disappointed woman. Besides, he knew that at

that time she was scantily supplied with money, and that Mrs. Askew

dared not furnish her with any for the purpose of leaving him.

 

But he left not Agnes, as he supposed, to vent her sense of injury in

idle grief and inactive lamentation; but to think, to decide, and to

act.--What was the rigour of the night to a woman whose heart was torn

by all the pangs which convictions, such as those which she had lately

received, could give? She hastily therefore wrapped up her sleeping boy

in a pélisse, of which in a calmer moment she would have felt the want

herself, and took him in her arms: then, throwing a shawl over her

shoulders, she softly unbarred the hall door, and before the noise could

have summoned any of the family she was already out of sight.

 

So severe was the weather, that even those accustomed to brave in ragged

garments the pelting of the pitiless storm shuddered, as the freezing

wind whistled around them, and crept with trembling knees to the

wretched hovel that awaited them. But the winter's wind blew unfelt by

Agnes: she was alive to nothing but the joy of having escaped from a

villain, and the faint hope that she was hastening to obtain, perhaps, a

father's forgiveness.

 

"Thank Heaven!" she exclaimed, as she found herself at the rails along

the Green Park,--"the air which I breathe here is uncontaminated by his

breath!" when, as the watchman called half-past eleven o'clock, the

recollection that she had no place of shelter for the night occurred to

her, and at the same instant she remembered that a coach set off at

twelve from Piccadilly, which went within twelve miles of her native

place. She therefore immediately resolved to hasten thither, and, either

in the inside or on the outside, to proceed on her journey as far as her

finances would admit of, intending to walk the rest of the way. She

arrived at the inn just as the coach was setting off, and found, to her

great satisfaction, one inside place vacant.

 

Nothing worth mentioning occurred on the journey. Agnes, with her veil

drawn over her face, and holding her slumbering boy in her arms, while

the incessant shaking of her knee and the piteous manner in which she

sighed gave evident marks of the agitation of her mind, might excite in

some degree the curiosity of her fellow-travellers, but gave no promise

of that curiosity being satisfied, and she was suffered to remain

unquestioned and undisturbed.

 

At noon the next day the coach stopped, for the travellers to dine, and

stay a few hours to recruit themselves after their labours past, and to

fortify themselves against those yet to come. Here Agnes, who as she

approached nearer home became afraid of meeting some acquaintance,

resolved to change her dress, and to equip herself in such a manner as

should, while it screened her from the inclemency of the weather, at the

same time prevent her being recognised by any one. Accordingly she

exchanged her pélisse, shawl, and a few other things, for a man's great

coat, a red cloth cloak with a hood to it, a pair of thick shoes, and

some yards of flannel in which she wrapped up her little Edward; and,

having tied her straw bonnet under her chin with her veil, she would

have looked like a country-woman drest for market, could she have

divested herself of a certain delicacy of appearance and gracefulness

of manner, the yet uninjured beauties of former days.

 

When they set off again she became an outside passenger, as she could

not afford to continue an inside one; and covering her child up in the

red cloak which she wore over her coat, she took her station on the top

of the coach with seeming firmness, but a breaking heart.

 

Agnes expected to arrive within twelve miles of her native place long

before it was dark, and reach the place of her destination before

bed-time, unknown and unseen: but she was mistaken in her expectations:

for the roads had been rendered so rugged by the frost, that it was late

in the evening when the coach reached the spot whence she was to

commence her walk; and by the time she had eaten her slight repast, and

furnished herself with some necessaries to enable her to resist the

severity of the weather, she found that it was impossible for her to

reach her long-forsaken home before day-break.

 

Still she was resolved to go on:--to pass another day in suspense

concerning her father, and her future hopes of his pardon, was more

formidable to her than the terrors of undertaking a lonely and painful

walk. Perhaps too, Agnes was not sorry to have a tale of hardship to

narrate on her arrival at the house of her nurse, whom she meant to

employ as mediator between her and her offended parent.

 

His child, his penitent child, whom he had brought up with the utmost

tenderness, and screened with unremitting care from the ills of

life, returning, to implore his pity and forgiveness, on foot, and

unprotected, through all the dangers of lonely paths, and through the

horrors of a winter's night, must, she flattered herself, be a picture

too affecting for Fitzhenry to think upon without some commiseration;

and she hoped he would in time bestow on her his _forgiveness_;--to be

admitted to his presence, was a favour which she dared not presume

either to ask or expect.

 

But, in spite of the soothing expectation which she tried to encourage,

a dread of she knew not what took possession of her mind.--Every moment

she looked fearfully around her, and, as she beheld the wintry waste

spreading on every side, she felt awe-struck at the desolateness of her

situation. The sound of a human voice would, she thought, have been

rapture to her ear; but the next minute she believed that it would

have made her sink in terror to the ground.--"Alas!" she mournfully

exclaimed, "I was not always timid and irritable as I now feel;--but

then I was not always guilty:--O my child! would I were once more

innocent like thee!" So saying, in a paroxysm of grief she bounded

forward on her way, as if hoping to escape by speed from the misery of

recollection.

 

Agnes was now arrived at the beginning of a forest, about two miles in

length, and within three of her native place. Even in her happiest days

she never entered its solemn shade without feeling a sensation of

fearful awe; but now that she entered it, leafless as it was, a

wandering wretched outcast, a mother without the sacred name of wife,

and bearing in her arms the pledge of her infamy, her knees smote each

other, and, shuddering as if danger were before her, she audibly

implored the protection of Heaven.

 

At this instant she heard a noise, and, casting a startled glance into

the obscurity before her, she thought she saw something like a human

form running across the road. For a few moments she was motionless

with terror; but, judging from the swiftness with which the object

disappeared that she had inspired as much terror as she felt, she

ventured to pursue her course. She had not gone far when she again

beheld the cause of her fear; but hearing, as it moved, a noise like the

clanking of a chain, she concluded that it was some poor animal which

had been turned out to graze.

 

Still, as she gained on the object before her, she was convinced it was

a man that she beheld; and, as she heard the noise no longer, she

concluded that it had been the result of fancy only: but that, with

every other idea, was wholly absorbed in terror when she saw the figure

standing still, as if waiting for her approach.--"Yet why should I

fear?" she inwardly observed: "it may be a poor wanderer like myself,

who is desirous of a companion;--if so, I shall rejoice in such a

rencontre."

 

As this reflection passed her mind, she hastened towards the stranger,

when she saw him look hastily around him, start, as if he beheld at a

distance some object that alarmed him, and then, without taking any

notice of her, run on as fast as before. But what can express the horror

of Agnes when she again heard the clanking of a chain, and discovered

that it hung to the ankle of the stranger!--"Surely he must be a

felon," murmured Agnes:--"O my poor boy! perhaps we shall both be

murdered!--This suspense is not to be borne: I will follow him, and meet

my fate at once."--Then, summoning all her remaining strength, she

followed the alarming fugitive.

 

After she had walked nearly a mile further, and, as she did not

overtake him, had flattered herself that he had gone in a contrary

direction, she saw him seated on the ground, and, as before, turning his

head back with a sort of convulsive quickness; but as it was turned from

her, she was convinced that she was not the object which he was seeking.

Of her he took no notice; and her resolution of accosting him failing

when she approached, she walked hastily past, in hopes that she might

escape him entirely.

 

As she passed, she heard him talking and laughing to himself, and

thence concluded that he was not a felon, but a _lunatic_ escaped from

confinement. Horrible as this idea was, her fear was so far overcome

by pity, that she had a wish to return, and offer him some of the

refreshment which she had procured for herself and child, when she heard

him following her very fast, and was convinced by the sound, the

dreadful sound of his chain, that he was coming up to her.

 

The clanking of a fetter, when one knows that it is fastened round

the limbs of a fellow-creature, always calls forth in the soul, of

sensibility a sensation of horror: what then, at this moment, must have

been its effect on Agnes, who was trembling for her life, for that of

her child, and looking in vain for a protector around the still, solemn

waste! Breathless with apprehension, she stopped as the maniac gained

upon her, and, motionless and speechless, awaited the consequence of his

approach.

 

"Woman!" said he in a hoarse, hollow tone,--"Woman! do you see them? Do

you see them?"--"Sir! pray what did you say, sir?" cried Agnes in a tone

of respect, and curtsying as she spoke,--for what is so respectful as

fear?--"I can't see them," resumed he, not attending to her, "I have

escaped them! Rascals! cowards! I have escaped them!" and then he jumped

and clapped his hands for joy.

 

Agnes, relieved in some measure from her fears, and eager to gain the

poor wretch's favour, told him that she rejoiced at his escape from the

rascals, and hoped that they would not overtake him: but while she spoke

he seemed wholly inattentive, and, jumping as he walked, made his fetter

clank in horrid exultation.

 

The noise at length awoke the child, who, seeing a strange and

indistinct object before him, and hearing a sound so unusual, screamed

violently, and hid his face in his mother's bosom.

 

"Take it away! take it away!" exclaimed the maniac,--"I do not like

children."--Agnes, terrified at the thought of what might happen, tried

to sooth the trembling boy to rest, but in vain; the child still

screamed, and the angry agitation of the maniac increased.--"Strangle

it! strangle it!" he cried--"do it this moment, or----"

 

Agnes, almost frantic with terror, conjured the unconscious boy, if he

valued his life, to cease his cries; and then the next moment she

conjured the wretched man to spare her child: but, alas! she spoke to

those incapable of understanding her,--a child and a madman!--The

terrified boy still shrieked, the lunatic still threatened; and,

clenching his fist, seized the left arm of Agnes, who with the other

attempted to defend her infant from his fury; when, at the very moment

that his fate seemed inevitable, a sudden gale of wind shook the

leafless branches of the surrounding trees; and the madman, fancying

that the noise proceeded from his pursuers, ran off with his former

rapidity.

 

Immediately the child, relieved from the sight and the sound which

alarmed it, and exhausted by the violence of its cries, sunk into a

sound sleep on the throbbing bosom of its mother. But, alas! Agnes knew

that this was but a temporary escape:--the maniac might return, and

again the child might wake in terrors:--and scarcely had the thought

passed her mind when she saw him coming back; but, as he walked slowly, the noise was not so great as before.