The Father and Daughter 9

The Father and Daughter 9

This money the generous girl had taken from that allowed her for

wedding-clothes, and felt more delight in relieving with it the wants

even of a guilty fellow-creature, than purchasing the most splendid

dress could have afforded her. And her present did more than she

expected; it relieved the mind of Agnes: she had taught herself to meet

without repining the assaults of poverty, but not to encounter with

calmness the scorn of the friends whom she loved.

 

But Caroline and her kindness soon vanished again from her mind, and the

idea of her father, and her scheme, took entire possession of it.--"But

it might not succeed; no doubt Mr. Seymour would be her enemy;--still he

had hinted that she might apply to the other governors:" and Fanny

having learnt that they were all to meet at the bedlam on business the

next day, she resolved to write a note, requesting to be allowed to

appear before them.

 

This note, Fanny, who was not acquainted with its contents, undertook to

deliver, and, to the great surprise of Agnes (as she expected that Mr.

Seymour would oppose it), her request was instantly granted. Indeed it

was he himself who urged the compliance.

 

There was not a kinder-hearted man in the world than Mr. Seymour; and in

his severity towards Agnes he acted more from what he thought his duty,

than from his inclination. He was the father of several daughters; and

it was his opinion that a parent could not too forcibly inculcate on the

minds of young women the salutary truth, that loss of virtue must be to

them the loss of friends. Besides, his eldest daughter Caroline was

going to be married to the son of a very severe, rigid mother, then on a

visit at the house; and he feared that, if he took any notice of the

fallen Agnes, the old lady might conceive a prejudice against him and

her daughter-in-law. Added to these reasons, Mr. Seymour was a very vain

man, and never acted in any way without saying to himself, "What will

the world say?" Hence, though his first impulses were frequently good,

the determinations of his judgement were often contemptible.

 

But, however satisfied Mr. Seymour might be with his motives on this

occasion, his feelings revolted at the consciousness of the anguish

which he had occasioned Agnes. He wished, ardently wished, that he had

dared to have been kinder: and when Caroline, who was incapable of the

meanness of concealing any action which she thought it right to perform,

told him of the gift which she had in person bestowed on Agnes, he could

scarcely forbear commending her conduct; and while he forbade any future

intercourse between them, he was forced to turn away his head to hide

the tear of gratified sensibility, and the smile of parental exultation:

nevertheless, he did not omit to bid her keep her own counsel, "for, if

your conduct were known," added he, "what would the world say?"

 

No wonder then, that, softened as he was by Agnes's application (though

he deemed the scheme wild and impracticable), and afraid that he had

treated her unkindly, he was pleased to have an opportunity of obliging

her, without injuring himself, and that her request to the governors was

strengthened by his representations: nor is it extraordinary that, alive

as he always was to the opinion of everyone, he should dread seeing

Agnes, after the reception which he had given her, more than she dreaded

to appear before the board.

 

Agnes, who had borrowed of Fanny the dress of a respectable

maid-servant, when summoned to attend the governors, entered the room

with modest but dignified composure, prepared to expect contumely, but

resolved to endure it as became a contrite heart.--But no contumely

awaited her.

 

In the hour of her prosperity she had borne her faculties so meekly, and

had been so careful never to humble any one by showing a consciousness

of superiority, that she had been beloved even more than she had been

admired; and hard indeed must the heart of that man have been, who could

have rejoiced that she herself was humbled.

 

A dead nay a solemn silence took place on her entrance. Every one

present beheld with surprise, and with _stolen_ looks of pity, the

ravages which remorse and anguish had made in her form, and the striking

change in her apparel: for every one had often followed with delight her

graceful figure through the dance, and gazed with admiration on the

tasteful varieties of her dress; every one had listened with pleasure

to the winning sound of her voice, and envied Fitzhenry the possession

of such a daughter. As they now beheld her, these recollections forcibly

occurred to them:--they agonized--they overcame them.--They thought of

their own daughters, and secretly prayed Heaven to keep them from the

voice of the seducer:--away went all their resolutions to receive Agnes

with that open disdain and detestation which her crime deserved; the

sight of her disarmed them; and not one amongst them had, for some

moments, firmness enough to speak. At last, "Pray sit down, Miss

Fitzhenry," said the president in a voice hoarse with emotion: "Here is

a chair," added another: and Mr. Seymour, bowing as he did it, placed a

seat for her near the fire.

 

Agnes, who had made up her mind to bear expected indignity with

composure, was not proof against unexpected kindness; and, hastily

turning to the window, she gave vent to her sensations in an agony of

tears. But, recollecting the importance of the business on which she

came, she struggled with her feelings; and on being desired by the

president to explain to the board what she wanted, she began to address

them in a faint and faltering voice: however, as she proceeded, she

gained courage, remembering that it was her interest to affect her

auditors, and make them enter warmly into her feelings and designs. She

told her whole story, in as concise a manner as possible, from the time

of her leaving Clifford to her rencontre with her father in the forest,

and his being torn from her by the keepers; and when she was unable to

go on, from the violence of her emotions, she had the satisfaction of

seeing that the tears of her auditors kept pace with her own. When her

narrative was ended, she proceeded thus:--

 

"I come now, gentlemen, to the reason why I have troubled you with this

narration.--From the impression which the sight of me made on my father,

I feel a certain conviction that, were I constantly with him, I might

in time be able to restore him to that reason of which my guilt had

deprived him. To effect this purpose, it is my wish to become a servant

in this house: if I should not succeed in my endeavours; I am so sure he

will have pleasure in seeing me, that I feel it my duty to be with him,

even on that account; and, if there be any balm for a heart and

conscience so wounded as mine, I must find it in devoting all my future

days to alleviate, though I cannot cure, the misery which I have

occasioned. And if," added she with affecting enthusiasm, "it should

please Heaven to smile on my endeavours to restore him to reason, how

exquisite will be my satisfaction in labouring to maintain him!"

 

To this plan, it is to be supposed, the governors saw more objection

than Agnes did; but, though they rejected the idea of her being a

servant in the house, they were not averse to giving her an opportunity

of making the trial which she desired, if it were only to alleviate her

evident wretchedness; and, having consulted the medical attendants

belonging to the institution, they ordered that Agnes should be

permitted two hours at a time, morning and evening, to see Fitzhenry.

And she, who had not dared to flatter herself that she should obtain so

much, was too full of emotion to show, otherwise than by incoherent

__EXPRESSION__s and broken sentences, her sense of the obligation.

 

"Our next care," observed the president, "must be, as friends of your

poor father, to see what we can do for your future support."--"That,

sir, I shall provide for myself," replied Agnes; "I will not eat the

bread of idleness, as well as of shame and affliction, and shall even

rejoice in being obliged to labour for my support, and that of my

child,--happy, if, in fulfilling well the duties of a mother, I may make

some atonement for having violated those of a daughter."

 

"But, Miss Fitzhenry," answered the president, "accept at least

some assistance from us till you can find means of maintaining

yourself."--"Never, never," cried Agnes: "I thank you for your kindness,

but I will not accept it: nor do I need it. I have already accepted

assistance from one kind friend, and merely because I should, under

similar circumstances, have been hurt at having a gift of mine refused:

but allow me to say that, from the wretchedness into which my guilt has

plunged me, nothing hence-forward but my industry shall relieve me."

 

So saying, she curtsied to the gentlemen, and hastily withdrew, leaving

them all deeply affected by her narrative, and her proposed expiatory

plan of life, and ready to grant her their admiration, should she have

resolution to fulfill her good intentions, after the strong impression

which the meeting with her father in the forest had made on her mind

should have been weakened by time and occupation.

 

Agnes hastened from the governors' room to put in force the leave which

she had obtained, and was immediately conducted to Fitzhenry's cell. She

found him with his back to the door, drawing with a piece of coal on the

wall. As he did not observe her entrance, she had an opportunity of

looking over his shoulder, and she saw that he had drawn the shape of a

coffin, and was then writing on the lid the name of Agnes.

 

A groan which involuntarily escaped her made him turn round: at sight of

her he started, and looked wildly as he had done in the forest: then

shaking his head and sighing deeply, he resumed his employment, still

occasionally looking back at Agnes; who, at length overcome by her

feelings, threw herself on the bed beside him, and burst into tears.

 

Hearing her sobs, he immediately turned round again, and patting her

cheek as he had done on their first meeting, said, "Poor thing! poor

thing!" and fixing his eyes steadfastly on her face while Agnes turned

towards him and pressed his hand to her lips, he gazed on her as before

with a look of anxious curiosity; then, turning from her, muttered to

himself, "She is dead, for all that."

 

Soon after, he asked her to take a walk with him; adding, in a whisper,

"We will go find her grave;" and taking her under his arm, he led her to

the garden, smiling on her from time to time, as if it gave him pleasure

to see her; and sometimes laughing, as if at some secret satisfaction

which he would not communicate. When they had made one turn round the

garden, he suddenly stopped, and began singing--"Tears such as tender

fathers shed," that affecting song of Handel's, which he used to delight

to hear Agnes sing: "I can't go on," he observed, looking at Agnes; "can

you?" as if there were in his mind some association between her and that

song; and Agnes, with a bursting heart, took up the air where he left

off.

 

Fitzhenry listened with restless agitation; and when she had finished,

he desired her to sing it again. "But say the words first," he added:

and Agnes repeated----

 

"Tears such as tender fathers shed

Warm from my aged eyes descend,

For joy, to think, when I am dead,

My son will have mankind his friend."

 

"No, no," cried Fitzhenry with quickness, "'for joy to think, when I am

dead, Agnes will have mankind her friend.' I used to sing it so; and so

did she when I bade her. Oh! she sung it so well!--But she can sing it

no more now, for she is dead; and we will go look for her grave."

 

Then he walked hastily round the garden, while Agnes, whom the words of

this song, by recalling painful recollections, had almost deprived of

reason, sat down on a bench, nearly insensible, till he again came to

her, and, taking her hand, said in a hurried manner, "You will not

leave me, will you?" On her answering No, in a very earnest and

passionate manner, he looked delighted; and saying "Poor thing!" again

gazed on her intently; and again Agnes's hopes that he would in time

know her returned.----"Very pale, very pale!" cried Fitzhenry the next

moment, stroking her cheek; "and _she_ had such a bloom!--Sing again:

for the love of God, sing again:"--and in a hoarse, broken voice Agnes

complied. "She sung better than you," rejoined he when she had

done:--"so sweet, so clear it was!--But she is gone!" So saying, he

relapsed into total indifference to Agnes, and every thing around him--and again her new-raised hopes vanished.