The Father and Daughter 7

The Father and Daughter 7

Agnes sighed deeply.

 

"I lost my own father," continued she, "last winter, and a hard trial it

was, to be sure; but then it consoled me to think I made his end

comfortable. Besides, my conscience told me that, except here and there,

I had always done my duty by him, to the best of my knowledge."

 

Agnes started from her seat, and walked rapidly round the room.

 

"He smiled on me," resumed her kind hostess, wiping her eyes, "to the

last moment; and just before the breath left him, he said, 'Good child!

good child!' O! it must be a terrible thing to lose one's parents when

one has not done one's duty to them!"

 

At these words Agnes, contrasting her conduct and feelings with those of

this artless and innocent woman, was overcome with despair, and seizing

a knife that lay by her endeavoured to put an end to her existence; but

the cottager caught her hand in time to prevent the blow, and his wife

easily disarmed her, as her violence instantly changed into a sort of

stupor: then throwing herself back on the bed on which she was sitting,

she lay with her eyes fixt, and incapable of moving.

 

The cottager and his wife now broke forth into __EXPRESSION__s of wonder and

horror at the crime which she was going to commit, and the latter taking

little Edward from the lap of her daughter, held it towards

Agnes:--"See," cried she, as the child stretched forth its little arms

to embrace her,--"unnatural mother! would you forsake your child?"

 

These words, assisted by the caresses of the child himself, roused Agnes

from her stupor.--"Forsake him! Never, never!" she faltered out: then,

snatching him to her bosom, she threw herself back on a pillow which the

good woman had placed under her head; and soon, to the great joy of the

compassionate family, both mother and child fell into a sound sleep. The

cottager then repaired to his daily labour, and his wife and children

began their household tasks; but ever and anon they cast a watchful

glance on their unhappy guest, dreading lest she should make a second

attempt on her life.

 

The sleep of both Agnes and her child was so long and heavy, that night

was closing in when the little boy awoke, and by his cries for food

broke the rest of his unhappy mother.

 

But consciousness returned not with returning sense;--Agnes looked

around her, astonished at her situation. At length, by slow degrees, the

dreadful scenes of the preceding night and her own rash attempt burst on

her recollection; she shuddered at the retrospect, and, clasping her

hands, together, remained for some moments in speechless prayer:--then

she arose; and, smiling mournfully at sight of her little Edward eating

voraciously the milk and bread that was set before him, she seated

herself at the table, and tried to partake of the coarse but wholesome

food provided for her. As she approached, she saw the cottager's wife

remove the knives. This circumstance forcibly recalled her rash action,

and drove away her returning appetite.--"You may trust me now," she

said; "I shrink with horror from my wicked attempt on my life, and

swear, in the face of Heaven, never to repeat it: no,--my only wish now

is, to live and to suffer."

 

Soon after, the cottager's wife made an excuse for bringing back a knife

to the table, to prove to Agnes her confidence in her word; but this

well-meant attention was lost on her,--she sat leaning on her elbow, and

wholly absorbed in her own meditations.

 

When it was completely night, Agnes arose to depart.--"My kind friends,"

said she, "who have so hospitably received and entertained a wretched

wanderer, believe me I shall never forget the obligations which I owe

you, though I can never hope to repay them; but accept this (taking her

last half-guinea from her pocket) as a pledge of my inclination to

reward your kindness. If I am ever rich you shall--" Here her voice

failed her, and she burst into tears.

 

This hesitation gave the virtuous people whom she addressed an

opportunity of rejecting her offers.--"What we did, we did because we

could not help it," said the cottager.--"You would not have had me see a

fellow-creature going to kill soul and body too, and not prevent it,

would you?"--"And as to saving the child," cried the wife, "am I not a

mother myself, and can I help feeling for a mother? Poor little thing!

it looked so piteous too, and felt so cold!"

 

Agnes could not speak; but still, by signs she tendered the money to

their acceptance.--"No, no," resumed the cottager, "keep it for those

who may not be willing to do you a service for nothing:"--and Agnes

reluctantly replaced the half-guinea. But then a fresh source of

altercation began; the cottager insisted on seeing Agnes to the town,

and she insisted on going by herself: at last she agreed that he should

go with her as far as the street where her friends lived, wait for her

at the end of it, and if they were not living, or were removed, she was

to return, and sleep at the cottage.

 

Then, with a beating heart and dejected countenance, Agnes took her

child in her arms, and, leaning on her companion, with slow and unsteady

steps she began to walk to her native place, once the scene of her

happiness and her glory, but now about to be the witness of her misery

and her shame.

 

As they drew near the town, Agnes saw on one side of the road a new

building, and instantly hurried from it as fast as her trembling limbs

could carry her.--"Did you hear them?" asked the cottager.--"Hear whom?"

said Agnes.--"The poor creatures," returned her companion, "who are

confined there. That is the new bedlam, and--Hark! what a loud scream

that was!"

 

Agnes, unable to support herself, staggered to a bench that projected

from the court surrounding the building, while the cottager, unconscious

why she stopped, observed it was strange that she should like to stay

and hear the poor creatures--For his part, he thought it shocking to

hear them shriek, and still more so to hear them laugh--"for it is so

piteous," said he, "to hear those laugh who have so much reason to cry."

 

Agnes had not power to interrupt him, and he went on:--"This house was

built by subscription; and it was begun by a kind gentleman of the name

of Fitzhenry, who afterwards, poor soul, being made low in the world by

losses in trade, and by having his brain turned by a good-for-nothing

daughter, was one of the first patients in it himself."--Here Agnes, to

whom this recollection had but too forcibly occurred already, groaned

aloud. "What, tired so soon?" said her companion: "I doubt you have not

been used to stir about--you have been too tenderly brought up. Ah!

tender parents often spoil children, and they never thank them for it

when they grow up neither, and often come to no good besides."

 

Agnes was going to make some observations wrung from her by the

poignancy of self-upbraiding, when she heard a loud cry as of one in

agony: fancying it her father's voice, she started up, and stopping her

ears, ran towards the town so fast that it was with difficulty that the

cottager could overtake her. When he did so, he was surprised at the

agitation of her manner.--"What, I suppose you thought they were coming

after you?" said he. "But there was no danger--I dare say it was only

an unruly one whom they were beating."--Agnes, on hearing this,

absolutely screamed with agony: and seizing the cottager's arm, "Let us

hasten to the town," said she in a hollow and broken voice, "while I

have strength enough left to carry me thither." At length they entered

its walls, and the cottager said, "Here we are at last.--A welcome home

to you, young woman."--"Welcome! and home to me!" cried Agnes wildly--"I

have no home now--I can expect no welcome! Once indeed----" Here,

overcome with recollections almost too painful to be endured, she turned

from him and sobbed aloud, while the kind-hearted man could scarcely

forbear shedding tears at sight of such mysterious, yet evidently real,

distress.

 

In happier days, when Agnes used to leave home on visits to her distant

friends, anticipation of the welcome she should receive on her return

was, perhaps, the greatest pleasure that she enjoyed during her absence.

As the adventurer to India, while toiling for wealth, never loses sight

of the hope that he shall spend his fortune in his native land,--so

Agnes, whatever company she saw, whatever amusements she partook of,

looked eagerly forward to the hour when she should give her expecting

father and her affectionate companions a recital of all that she had

heard and seen. For, though she had been absent a few weeks only, "her

presence made a little holiday," and she was received by Fitzhenry with

delight too deep to be expressed; while, even earlier than decorum

warranted, her friends were thronging to her door to welcome home the

heightener of their pleasures, and the gentle soother of their sorrows;

(for Agnes "loved and felt for all:" she had a smile ready to greet the

child of prosperity, and a tear for the child of adversity)--As she was

thus honoured, thus beloved, no wonder the thoughts of home, and of

returning home, were wont to suffuse the eyes of Agnes with tears of

exquisite pleasure; and that, when her native town appeared in view, a

group of expecting and joyful faces used to swim before her sight,

while, hastening forward to have the first glance of her, fancy used to

picture her father!----Now, dread reverse! after a _long_ absence, an

absence of years, she was returning to the same place, inhabited by the

same friends: but the voices that used to be loud in pronouncing her

welcome, would now be loud in proclaiming indignation at her sight; the

eyes that used to beam with gladness at her presence, would now be

turned from her with disgust; and the fond father, who used to be

counting the moments till she arrived, was now----I shall not go

on----suffice, that Agnes felt, to "her heart's core," all the

bitterness of the contrast.

 

When they arrived near the place of her destination, Agnes stopped, and

told the cottager that they must part.--"So much the worse," said the

good man: "I do now know how it is, but you are so sorrowful, yet so

kind and gentle, somehow, that both my wife and I have taken a liking to

you:--you must not be angry, but we cannot help thinking you are not one

of us, but a lady, though you are so disguised and so humble;--but

misfortune spares no one, you know."

 

Agnes, affected and gratified by these artless __EXPRESSION__s of good will,

replied, "I have, indeed, known better days...."--"And will again, I

hope with all my heart and soul," interrupted the cottager with great

warmth.--"I fear, not," replied Agnes, "my dear worthy friend."--"Nay,

young lady," rejoined he, "my wife and I are proper to be your servants,

not friends."--"You are my friends, perhaps my only friends," returned

Agnes mournfully: "perhaps there is not, at this moment, another hand in

the universe that would not reject mine, or another tongue that would

not upbraid me."--"They must be hard-hearted wretches, indeed, who could

upbraid a poor woman for her misfortunes," cried the cottager: "however,

you shall never want a friend while I live. You know I saved your life;

and somehow, I feel therefore as if you belonged to me. I once saved one

of my pigeons from a hawk, and I believe, were I starving, I could not

now bear to kill the little creature; it would seem like eating my own

flesh and blood--so I am sure I could never desert you."--"You have not

yet heard my story," replied Agnes: "but you shall know who I am soon;

and then, if you still feel disposed to offer me your friendship, I

shall be proud to accept it."

 

The house to which Agnes was hastening was that of her nurse, from whom

she had always experienced the affection of a mother, and hoped now to

receive a temporary asylum; but she might not be living--and, with a

beating heart, Agnes knocked at the door. It was opened by Fanny, her

nurse's daughter, the play-fellow of Agnes's childhood.--"Thank Heaven!"

said Agnes, as she hastened back to the cottager, "I hope I have, at

least, one friend left;" and telling him he might go home again, as she was almost certain of shelter for the night, the poor man shook her heartily by the hand, prayed God to bless her, and departed.