The Father and Daughter 8

The Father and Daughter 8

Agnes then returned to Fanny, who was still standing by the door,

wondering who had knocked at so late an hour, and displeased at

being kept so long in the cold.--"Will you admit me, Fanny, and

give me shelter for the night?" said Agnes in a faint and broken

voice.--"Gracious Heaven! who are you?" cried Fanny, starting back. "Do

you not know me?" she replied, looking earnestly in her face.--Fanny

again started; then, bursting into tears, as she drew Agnes forward, and

closed the door--"O God! it is my dear young lady!"--"And are you sorry

to see me?" replied Agnes.--"Sorry!" answered the other--"Oh, no! but to

see you thus!--O! my dear lady, what you must have suffered! Thank

Heaven my poor mother is not alive to see this day!"

 

"And is she dead?" cried Agnes, turning very faint, and catching hold of

a chair to keep her from falling. "Then is the measure of my affliction

full: I have lost my oldest and best friend!"--"I am not dead," said

Fanny respectfully.--"Excellent, kind creature!" continued Agnes, "I

hoped so much alleviation of my misery from her affection."--"Do you

hope none from mine?" rejoined Fanny in a tone of reproach:--"Indeed, my

dear young lady, I love you as well as my mother did, and will do as

much for you as she would have done. Do I not owe all I have to you? and

now that you are in trouble, perhaps in want too--But no, that cannot

and shall not be," wringing her hands and pacing the room with frantic

violence: "I can't bear to think of such a thing. That ever I should

live to see my dear young lady in want of the help which she was always

so ready to give!"

 

Agnes tried to comfort her: but the sight of her distress

notwithstanding was soothing to her, as it convinced her that she was

still dear to one pure and affectionate heart.

 

During this time little Edward remained covered up so closely that Fanny

did not know what the bundle was that Agnes held in her lap: but when

she lifted up the cloak that concealed him, Fanny was in an instant

kneeling by his side, and gazing on him with admiration. "Is it--is

it--" said Fanny with hesitation--"It is my child," replied Agnes,

sighing; and Fanny lavished on the unconscious boy the caresses which

respect forbade her to bestow on the mother.

 

"Fanny," said Agnes, "you say nothing of your husband?"--"He is dead,"

replied Fanny with emotion.--"Have you any children?"--"None."--"Then

will you promise me, if I die, to be a mother to this child?"--Fanny

seized her hand, and, in a voice half choked by sobs, said, "I promise

you."--"Enough," cried Agnes; then holding out her arms to her humble

friend, Fanny's respect yielded to affection, and, falling on Agnes's

neck, she sobbed aloud.

 

"My dear Fanny," said Agnes, "I have a question to ask, and I charge you

to answer it truly."--"Do not ask me, do not ask me, for indeed I dare

not answer you," replied Fanny in great agitation. Agnes guessed the

cause, and hastened to tell her that the question was not concerning her

father, as she was acquainted with his situation already, and proceeded

to ask whether her elopement and ill conduct had at all hastened the

death of her nurse, who was in ill health when she went away.--"Oh no,"

replied Fanny; "she never believed that you could be gone off willingly,

but was sure you was spirited away; and she died expecting that you

would some day return, and take the law of the villain: and no doubt

she was right, (though nobody thinks so now but me,) for you were always

too good to do wrong."

 

Agnes was too honourable to take to herself the merit which she did not

deserve: she therefore owned that she was indeed guilty; "nor should I,"

she added, "have dared to intrude myself on you, or solicit you to let

me remain under your roof, were I not severely punished for my crime,

and resolved to pass the rest of my days in solitude and labour."--"You

should not presume to intrude yourself on me!" replied Fanny--"Do not

talk thus, if you do not mean to break my heart."--"Nay, Fanny,"

answered Agnes, "it would be presumption in any woman who has quitted

the path of virtue to intrude herself, however high her rank might be,

on the meanest of her acquaintance whose honour is spotless. Nor would

I thus throw myself on your generosity were I not afraid that, if I were

to be unsoothed by the presence of a sympathizing friend, I should sink

beneath my sorrows, and want resolution to fulfill the hard task which

my duty enjoins me."

 

I shall not attempt to describe the anguish of Fanny when she thought of

her young lady, the pride of her heart, as she used to call her, being

reduced so low in the world, nor the sudden bursts of joy to which she

gave way the next moment when she reflected that Agnes was returned,

never perhaps to leave her again.

 

Agnes wore away great part of the night in telling Fanny her mournful

tale, and in hearing from her a full account of her father's sufferings,

bankruptcy, and consequent madness. At day-break she retired to

bed,--not to sleep, but to ruminate on the romantic yet in her eyes

feasible plan which she had formed for the future;--while Fanny, wearied

out by the violent emotions which she had undergone, sobbed herself to

sleep by her side.

 

The next morning Agnes did not rise till Fanny had been up some time;

and when she seated herself at the breakfast-table, she was surprised to

see it spread in a manner which ill accorded with her or Fanny's

situation. On asking the reason, Fanny owned she could not bear that her

dear young lady should fare as she did only, and had therefore provided

a suitable breakfast for her.--"But you forget," said Agnes, "that if I

remain with you, neither you nor I can afford such breakfasts as

these."--"True," replied Fanny mournfully; "then you must consider this

as only a welcome, madam."--"Aye," replied Agnes, "the prodigal is

returned, and you have killed the fatted calf." Fanny burst into tears;

while Agnes, shocked at having excited them by the turn which she

unguardedly gave to her poor friend's attention, tried to sooth her into

composure, and affected a gaiety which she was far from feeling.

 

"Now then to my first task," said Agnes, rising as soon as she had

finished her breakfast: "I am going to call on Mr. Seymour; you say he

lives where he formerly did."--"To call on Mr. Seymour!" exclaimed

Fanny; "O my dear madam, do not go near him, I beseech you! He is a very

severe man, and will affront you, depend upon it."--"No matter,"

rejoined Agnes; "I have deserved humiliation, and will not shrink from

it: but his daughter Caroline, you know, was once my dearest friend, and

she will not suffer him to trample on the fallen: besides, it is

necessary that I should apply to him in order to succeed in my

scheme."--"What scheme?" replied Fanny.--"You would not approve it,

Fanny, therefore I shall not explain it to you at present; but, when I

return, perhaps I shall tell you all."--"But you are not going so soon?

not in day-light, surely?--If you should be insulted!"

 

Agnes started with horror at this proof which Fanny had unguardedly

given, how hateful her guilt had made her in a place that used to echo

with her praises;--but, recovering herself, she said that she should

welcome insults as part of the expiation which she meant to perform.

"But if you will not avoid them for your own sake, pray, pray do for

mine," exclaimed Fanny. "If you were to be ill used, I am sure I should

never survive it: so, if you must go to Mr. Seymour's, at least oblige

me in not going before dark:"--and, affected by this fresh mark of her

attachment, Agnes consented to stay.

 

At six o'clock in the evening, while the family was sitting round the

fire, and Caroline Seymour was expecting the arrival of her lover, to

whom she was to be united in a few days, Agnes knocked at Mr. Seymour's

door, having positively forbidden Fanny to accompany her. Caroline,

being on the watch for her intended bridegroom, started at the sound;

and though the knock which Agnes gave did not much resemble that of an

impatient lover, "still it might be he--he might mean to surprise her;"

and, half opening the parlour door, she listened with a beating heart

for the servant's answering the knock.

 

By this means she distinctly heard Agnes ask whether Mr. Seymour was at

home. The servant started, and stammered out that he believed his master

was within,--while Caroline springing forward exclaimed, "I know that

voice:--O yes! it must be she!"--But her father, seizing her arm,

pushed her back into the parlour, saying, "I also know that voice, and I

command you to stay where you are."--Then going up to Agnes, he desired

her to leave his house directly, as it should be no harbour for

abandoned women and unnatural children.

 

"But will you not allow it to shelter for one moment the wretched and

the penitent?" she replied.--"Father, my dear, dear father!" cried

Caroline, again coming forward, but was again driven back by Mr.

Seymour, who, turning to Agnes, bade her claim shelter from the man for

whom she had left the best of parents; and desiring the servant to shut

the door in her face, he re-entered the parlour, whence Agnes distinctly

heard the sobs of the compassionate Caroline.

 

But the servant was kinder than the master, and could not obey the

orders which he had received.--"O madam! Miss Fitzhenry, do you not

know me?" said he. "I once lived with you; have you forgotten little

William? I shall never forget you; you were the sweetest-tempered young

lady----That ever I should see you thus!"

 

Before Agnes could reply, Mr. Seymour again angrily asked why his orders

were not obeyed; and Agnes, checking her emotion, besought William to

deliver a message to his master. "Tell him," said she, "all I ask of him

is, that he will use his interest to get me the place of servant in the

house, the bedlam I would say, where----he will know what I mean," she

added, unable to utter the conclusion of the sentence:--and William, in

a broken voice, delivered the message.

 

"O my poor Agnes!" cried Caroline passionately:--"A servant! she a

servant and in such a place too!"--William adding in a low voice, "Ah!

miss! and she looks so poor and wretched!"

 

Meanwhile Mr. Seymour was walking up and down the room hesitating how to

act; but reflecting that it was easier to forbid any communication with

Agnes than to check it if once begun, he again desired William to shut

the door against her. "You must do it yourself, then," replied William,

"for I am not hard-hearted enough;"--and Mr. Seymour, summoning up

resolution, told Agnes that there were other governors to whom she might

apply, and then locked the door against her himself;--while Agnes slowly

and sorrowfully turned her steps towards the more hospitable roof of

Fanny. She had not gone far, however, when she heard a light footstep

behind her, and her name pronounced in a gentle, faltering voice.

Turning round she beheld Caroline Seymour, who, seizing her hand,

forced something into it, hastily pressed it to her lips, and, without

saying one word, suddenly disappeared, leaving Agnes motionless as a

statue, and, but for the parcel she held in her hand, disposed to think

that she was dreaming.--Then, eager to see what it contained, she

hastened back to Fanny, who heard with indignation the reception which

she had met from Mr. Seymour, but on her knees invoked blessings on the

head of Caroline; when on opening the parcel she found that it contained

twenty guineas inclosed in a paper, on which was written, but almost

effaced with tears, "For my still dear Agnes:--would I dare say more!"