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 expressions 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.
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!"
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.